[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

"You and your resentment of knights... All because of that Elespeth Tameris, am I right?" Lilica's mouth twitched into a half grin as she teased Chara for her petty loathing of not only the Atvanian, but all she-knights, at this point. "I know that you are not that petty, Chara. Although I am curious as to why and how you Rigases and your allies manage to attract such anomalies to your company..." Of course, she was very much one of those anomalies, she knew well. But it was one that the celestial caster did not seem to mind; though that was more than likely for the fact that she was a rare exception.

The coy smile faded from her face at the serious inquiry regarding Vitali and his intentions with Haraldur. To be frank, what the necromancer might do if he came to the realization that he could not claim payment for his services was not something that she even wanted to consider, but the Rigas caster deserved an answer. It could ultimately affect them all. "I don't know." Lilica sighed, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I cannot predict his intentions. Though if his deal had nothing to do with the Rigases, it would not be logical to take out his ire on you and your kin... though I cannot promise that he would even adhere to reason."

Haraldur, though, might sooner wish he was dead than to deny Vitali his repayment, whatever it might be. She almost pitied the rogue mercenary.

Her gut twisted with near nausea when Chara inquired further, into her relationship with her half-brother, and she was tempted to change the subject or initiate another romp in the sheets to avoid answering. But the question was bound to come up again, at some point, and she could not avoid it forever. Best just to address it now and never mention it again.
"We share a biological father," Lilica murmured, looking indiscriminately uncomfortable. "I don't know how we found each other, eons later, for he must have been born long after me. He was the first person that I met on awakening from my decades-long slumber... and he tried to trick me. To rouse the harmful magic in me to meet his own goal. I actually thought he was trying to help me, but, I was wrong." She pressed her lips together in ire. "I was through with killing, but he made me kill... because I was foolish enough to trust him."

That had been the turning point of her despair. The realization that it was impossible to escape her nature, and she had never forgiven him for it. She probably never would.

But she was through with discussing her brother at that point, and gave herself over to Chara's kisses, a sigh escaping her lips as that burning electricity in her veins began to build anew. "What am I, a bard? I do not write on command," she teased, nipping at her lover's earlobe as her roaming hands cupped the celestial caster's ample breasts before they trailed down between her legs once again. Their back and forth rivalry for dominance would never cease to amuse her. "You are going to have to earn that kind of effort from me, miss Rigas."

The Eyraillian princess couldn't help but wonder if she had ever been strong, before this debilitating loss of her memory. No sooner did Haraldur take her into his arms, offering what he could (which was a warm embrace), the tears leaked anew from her eyes. Helpless but to accept the comfort he offered, she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist in turn. Had she been happy? Despite that her own life had been working against her in every possible way? If the mercenary said so, and sincerely, at that, she had no choice but to believe him. He might be the only friend she had.

"It is so difficult to imagine that possibility," she confessed, her voice unsteady and strained from crying, "given what I have remembered... It doesn't even appear as though I deserve mercy from life. Not for what I did to my brother, forsaking my kingdom in a big way in order to protect it in a small way." 

As soon as her tears subsided, the Skyknight offered Haraldur his personal space back, wiping her damp eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know what I would do without you here right now, Haraldur," she confessed, resting a hand upon his arm. "You are truly a saviour in more way that one." It was almost as though her recollection of the refugees had resurfaced at his very suggestion of them. She remembered their plight, and that Haraldur has been instrumental in their freedom. And now, he was crucial to her own freedom of her broken memories. Bringing her back to the person she was.

Later on, as the mercenary rested and she fought against the tumult of her intense memories that she had dredged up through Alster's mind-magic, she wondered at the rest of what her subconscious had locked away. What of Haraldur? How had they become such close friends, and what had spurred his loyalty to her?
Little did she realize that she would find out as soon as she fell asleep, and the friendly Rigas caster's face resurfaced, as if he were standing right in front of her.

"I will never forgive Elespeth for her egregious abandonment of a man she claims to love," Chara seethed, her face a travesty of Lilica's: half twisted and sour, well proving her own lover's point of her so-called pettiness. "And now, Alster is granting this Vega Sorde a disproportionate amount of his attention. He remained by the Eyraillan princess's bedside for days." She crossed her arms over her naked chest, shaking her head with an accompanying tsk noise. "Yes, I know his amended escape plans hinge on her wellness, and perhaps her situation parallels his own and he feels badly for it, but I cannot help but view his interest in her as some surrogate to his broken affections. Call me petty, but the Eyraillan princess has yet to impress me. Of all these anomalies, the thinning of blood and randy associations within our once pure family," she cocked her head to one side, viewing Lilica from a scrutinizing, albeit favorable angle, "you are by far the most pleasant." 

The subject meandered back to Lilica's nefarious half-brother, and she ceased her flirtatious row of teasing, listening to any and all intelligence that was available on the enigmatic necromancer. "Haraldur's arrest is sanctioned by Adalfieri. Who is to say that we, the Rigases, are not responsible for wrenching away Vitali's acquired boon? It is far easier to pay for the Eyraillan princess's resurrection, ourselves. Is he so stingy as not to relinquish his original bargain in favor of another, far better deal?"

But she silenced her words as Lilica, with wavering difficulty, touched upon her past relations with the man she had despised so much. She ceased all movements, stilling even her breath, and instantly regretted even asking the dark mage such a personal question that had dredged up such horrors of memory. Chara slowly trickled her hands up and down her lover's suddenly chilly arms, inviting her back to reality in slow, but tender actions. "That will not happen, anymore," she promised, enfolding Lilica in a complete, human-shaped cocoon. "And after this infernal war, you will never have to see him again. I will make certain I exile him from ever setting foot upon this land. Or we shall imprison him for the rest of his days, his magic drained, sealed away, and only his own self-congratulatory thoughts for company. For, he has made himself a powerful adversary," she said the word with such relish, enjoying the feel of power on her tongue, and allowing it to shiver its excitement all over her touch-sensitive body. It didn't take long for Lilica to rove her hands all over her, from earlobe to breast and down to the opening in her legs. She squealed at how cold that traveling hand felt upon the pinkest, most ripened section on her body. Seizing her wrist with a growl, Chara threw Lilica against the sheets, climbing atop her like a feline who had pounced upon her quarry. "No, Lilica," her smile was predatory as she closed the space between them and bit down on her lip, drawing blood. "It is my turn." 

Although Alster had, through no choice of his own, succumbed to slumber, he refused to allow his mind to replenish itself in dreamless inactivity. He would have more than enough time to sleep once he enacted the Serpent ritual, and sacrificed himself in the seal of his own blood. But now, even after narrowly escaping Vega's own subconscious detritus, and transferring, he was certain, a piece of her own lingering death into his soul, he fought through the debilitating fog and mist that demanded he release his own burdens from the waking world, and accept the welcome shroud of calm, lulling repose...

No! His protest rippled the fog, sloughing it away from his form with a forceful gust of wind. He stood upright in his dark dream, taking control of his thoughts, his space, the parameters through which he could work, who outside of himself that he sensed was sleeping, that was within reach...

He concentrated. Heard a familiar, languorous heartbeat, one that he had taken into himself, unintentionally, not so long ago. Vega had joined him in dream. He stepped through the thin fabric that separated his world from her own, and entered a black, featureless field, Vega standing in the center. With tentative steps, he approached the Eyraillan princess, casting twin light spells about them, for comfort and visibility. He smiled at her--though it did not reflect in his eyes. It was obvious the toll that was sapped from him during their last foray together, but he banished the consequences that as a result had pressed fangs into his constricting heart. It's not as if I've never felt such pain before, he reassured himself, and turned to address Vega.

"I'm sorry for worrying you," he told her, the twin spells floating from his hands and rotating about the fixed points of their figures. "I wasn't properly prepared, but that's no fault of yours at all. Don't think that it is. We are in dream, now," he explained, indicating the darkness of their surroundings. "Your dream. You can make this landscape whatever you so desire. My body is not yet ready to awaken, but that doesn't mean we still can't resume the restoration of your memories, using this plane as our venue. How about we focus our thoughts on something more joyous, Vega? What would you say makes you happy? Your roc, Aeriel? How about," he took a stab in the dark, "Haraldur? He must, after all, harbor a deep affection for you, to risk his life to see you safe and alive, and to offer you his necklace--a powerful talisman of protection." He held her hands, as he had done just earlier, and nodded. "Are you open to trying again?"

Lilica chose not to resist her lover's hungry touches and her lust to be in control, because Chara's dominance energized her. Every brush of her fingertips, tug of her teeth, caress of her lips and tongue sent fire through her cold skin, searing the most sensitive of places just as her own fingers had done to the celestial caster moments before. She was helpless to control her breathing and the soft moans that escaped her throat, helpless but to utter Chara's name whenever ot almost felt like too much, though the Rigas mage never let up--and she loved her all the more for it.

It was only after she had reached her peak and come crashing down not once, but twice, that the proud celestial caster finally let up her relentless, sensual assault, falling next to the dark mage, whose pale flesh was now tinted pink and warm in the aftermath of pleasure. Every nerve ending was sensitive and on edge, and even the lightest brush of Chara's fingers made her shiver and twitch, entirely spent in every way possible.

The Fallow Islands were far away... and it did not escape her attention that this could very well be the last time she surrendered to this kind of pleasure. The last time in a long time that she would relish the company of the woman who had, in every sense of the notion, changed her life forever...

If this was to be the last time until all of this war and mayhem saw some sort of resolution, then she wanted it to matter. Wanted to make it last. "Stay." The dark mage asked again, entwining her fingers through Chara's blonde locks, giving them a gentle tug. "Just tonight--please. One night that I do not have to be alone... your esteemed leader can surely allow you that. Allow us that, for all that you have done on his and Stella D'Mare's behalf." She pressed her lips to the Rigas caster's, a slow and lingering kiss that she hoped might persuade. "Please..."

"Trying... again?" Vega stared at the Rigas caster with disbelief and overwhelming gratitude, but also a good deal of hesitation. Not even twenty-four hours ago, Alster had single handedly helped her to recover a part of herself that she might otherwise not have accessed. Memories as old as she was, and although they had cut through her heart with the pain of her merciless reality, they were precious, had a part in sculpting her into the person she was--whoever that might be. She had yet to rediscover...
And, fortunately, she had that opportunity.

Biting her lower lip, the Skyknight looked down at Alster's hands, clasped around her own. "But, what will it do to you? If this is a dream... what if you don't wake up?" She couldn't live with herself, knew she wouldn't be able to if she ruined a life in order to regain her own. But Alster seemed so sure of himself... so convinced that he could help her and emerged unscathed. Convinced that whatever memories he dredged up this time around would not leave her sobbing and scarred, would not make her further question the meaning and significance of her own existence...

Pressing her mouth into a firm line, Vega Sorde closed her eyes, and reached deep into her heart for even a single shred of happiness...

She was young again. Barely into her teen years, and huddled up to a juvenile roc, whose feather shielded her from the heavy rainstorm overhead. It was nightfall, and all was cold and miserable in the late autumn air, but she was warm. Comfortable. Happy. There was no other place she'd have preferred to be, not even be it warm in her own bed... 

Except, the next thing she knew, she was warm in bed. But it was small, and crammed, and she was not the only one who occupied it. There was a man next to her, as naked as she was, his firm chest pressed up against her own, his skin so warm and his heart beating so fast. She reached up, brushed his brown locks from his face, and found warm, green eyes staring back at her. Eyes that she knew all too well, recognized in an instant. And if that were not enough to trigger her recollection, a pendant, round and simple, hung from his neck, piled in the crevice of his defined collar bone...

"It's you." A smile played on her lips, fingertips tracing his chiseled jaw. "You. I knew it had to be something to do with you... I remember."

She dared to close her eyes, just for a second--but when she opened them again, she was surrounded by the rays of dawn filtering through the windows of the infirmary. Haraldur was still asleep, his chest rising and falling gently in the embrace of slumber. But happiness, contrary to her dream, was not what struck her as she beheld the man with whom she knew she was in love.
Vega felt the tears trickle down her cheeks before she knew what they meant.

Chara lunged for Lilica, clawing and planting passionate kisses on every portion available to her, sampling her pink-swollen, supple flesh like a fine meal. She chewed, she licked, and she drank in the taste of her lover, heady and tangy and sanguine. Working her way from the top of her delicious entree, skimming away bits and morsels with a slow mindfulness, she finally made her way to the center of her dish, which she gobbled with wild abandon, no longer patient enough to savor every mouthfeel and sensation, as she had before. Once she ate her fill, she released Lilica and rolled over on the bed, her chest pounding but her stomach and tongue sated and satisfied. 

As she lay on her side, staring towards the paneled wall as she recuperated from their second round in the sheets, she twisted her head back in the direction of her chthonic lover, admiring how the throes of their passion had reduced the smaller woman into a raw, heaving, perspiring thing of beauty. Nascent and purple, slicked and shiny and as serene as a summer's night. She was warm, balmy breezes radiating from her skin, her breathing as melodious as a choral of crickets in the far distance. I love her, she thought, as she tenderly cupped the apple contours of Lilica's cheek. And thus, it was with this assertion on her mind that she, without hesitation, nodded at the request asked of her. 

"I shall stay," she whispered, returning the kiss with the same, deliberate gentleness as was offered to her. "You have me, Lilica...for the rest of the night. ....May it last longer than a second. May it last for a star's lifetime." Then, she grinned. "I, too, can spout trite poetry." 

Contrary to Vega, and her recollections of happiness as spurred on by Alster, Haraldur dreamt, but of nightmares. 

He was Forbanne, standing at attention among an unwavering sea of others just like him. They all sported the same tint of brown hair, the same olive green eyes, towered at the same intimidating height, carried themselves with the same earth-bound balance. He searched for his necklace, but it was missing. His neck was bare. Panic gripped his throat. 

A man who wore his facsimile turned his head and spoke, his pitch and timbre the same, rolling baritone. "We are all one. We stand as one. We fight as one. You," he said, and held up the necklace, which disintegrated in his hand, "do not matter. The name you have given yourself--Haraldur--that, too, will crumble under the boots of our collective. What holds you together, now, soldier?"

Haraldur watched the ashes of his necklace drift through the ever-broadening mass of Forbanne. The army spilled over the horizon, assimilating the landscape into the same, dull brown knolls, steel grasses, and flesh-colored mounds. He grasped for a hand-hold, searching for a surrogate on which to focus his fracturing mind and memory. But he only found his sword, pressing its welcome weight against his hip. He felt the metal wiring of the hilt in his palm, squeezed it for dear life, and took its comforts into himself, as the men of his like had done for the monochromatic landscape. 

Sword. Sword. Kill. We kill. We fight. We are as one.

He saw something dot the gray sky. A bird. It flapped its wings and flew overhead, revealing its massive size and a golden-hue that emblazoned all surroundings with a sunny-liquid vibrancy. He knew that creature to be called a roc. And upon the roc...

Upon the roc...

He opened his eyes, inviting the muffled tones of the infirmary to remind him of his actual bearings. He was still himself. Haraldur. And his necklace...

He reflexively reached for his throat, but felt no cooling chain and weight residing there. As in his dream, a drop of panic seized his muscles, and he sat up in bed with a swiftness that agitated the sutures that bound together the tear in his side. With a flinch, he scoured his vicinity, and spotted it there. His necklace--atop the table beside which Vega, who was awake and in bed, gazed in his direction, tears wavering in her troubled eyes. 

Then, he remembered, and he calmed himself into a more placid sitting position. "Vega," he said, dipping his head to his chest in greeting, "good morning. Are you--?" Her tears glimmered in the sunlight of the rising day, catching on the raise of her cheeks. "Have you remembered something else?"

Vega waited, quiet and unmoving for quite some time, until the sleeping man in the bed next to her stirred. Over an hour had passed between the time that she and Haraldur had both broken free of slumber, and the Skyknight had taken that time, that precious pause to consider what her dream had showed her. How was it that glimpses of happier times could render her so melancholy, so helpless? Not all had returned to her, but Sir Vega Sorde knew where her heart belonged, now, knew the crux of her identity. She had felt it in that distant memory of that moment with her roc, pressed close to the enormous avian's feathers as the two had taken to the sky, a complete unit in every sense of the word.
And she had felt it in the warmth of Haraldur's skin against her own, an embrace too intimate to exist between mere allies... Something that had felt so real, so grounding, so full of hope.

But then... If the mercenary had been such a stable source of her happiness, why had he failed to acknowledge any of it when she had awoken from her demi-coma? Why, instead, had he chosen to be so distant?

She still wasn't quite prepared for exactly what inquiries she intended to make, along with how she intended to make them, by the time Haraldur acknowledged her. "Good morning," she returned, rapidly wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, though the evidence of her upset had already been noted. His brow had been furrowed in his sleep, and Vega had also noticed the way his head had turned this way and that, as if he were amid a nightmare of some sort. Perhaps now was not the best time to bring up exactly what she had recalled, but if not now... when? And how could she trust any of his further input until this water between them was cleared of falsehoods and half-truths?
No, she had to know what happened--what existed between them, if anything had ever existed at all. The truth would not necessarily make her happy, but it would perhaps allow the rest of her fractured recollections fall into place, that she might fully regain her sense of self sooner than later.

"I... did. Not much, just a few things... happy things. But enough that it has offered me some perspective. Haraldur..." Inhaling through her nose, Vega turned, throwing her legs over her bed to face the mercenary, before expelling her breath in a rush. "I remembered what brought me happiness. One of those things was Aeriel--my roc. I can remember soaring upon her back, in leisure and in battle. We are a formidable team, the two of us, of that I am now certain... she defines me in so many ways." A soft smile played upo her pink lips, but it was not long for the world. "And I remembered... I remembered you, Haraldur." His name was like a wish on her lips, azure eyes rising from the floor to meet his of olive green. "I remember that... that you once held me. That we were content in one another presence, not as mere allies, but as... as something else. Am I wrong? If so, please tell me, but if I am not... then I need you to be truthful. Please, Haraldur."

He did not respond, merely holding her gaze with uncertainty... though it was all the answer that she required. She was not mistaken in feeling a connection to Haraldur, in feeling that there had been something between them. Because it had been there: but the question was... where had it gone? And why? "This isn't an interrogation," she added, her speech hurried and nervous. "It is not my intent to bully or guilt you into anything that you might not want anymore, even if it once... was. I suppose I... This is simply me, trying to understand what happened, why it happened. Surely I am not the only to to have suffered trauma from battle; what is it that you have suffered? What has caused you to deny that I... that we were something, even if only for a short period of time?"

Theat precious memory had conveyed such certainty that one another's arms had been the right place to be. For whatever reason, Haraldur had made her happy--and she could believe it. For the fact that the man's mere presence reassured her, led her like a beacon of hope through all of the fog that surrounded her. Could it have been that, between that memory and now, his feelings toward her had changed? Had she become too much of a burden with her amnesia, that he no longer felt he could depend on her as a strong equal? Or had he... merely lost interest? "I can hardly imagine what my life must have been like for so few of my memories to elicit such fond, peaceful feelings," she continued, a pitiful laugh escaping her lungs. "But that one of those memories featured you, in such an... intimate... setting, it... you must have had an impact on me. If I have done something to have changed your opinion of me, then please, inform me. But I want... I need the truth, Haraldur."

She looked at him with a familiarity such that she had not displayed since awakening from death. A slight, sighing exhale escaped from his mouth, as if he, too, was rising from his grave--or attempting to do so. He already knew her answer to his inquiries, without the utterance of a single word. She had remembered something. More specifically, she remembered him. 

Nodding with resignation, he shifted in his bed, opening his stance to her in preparation for what she was to reveal. Maybe he could catch her words with his untethered arms, volleying them away from his bedside and into nonexistence. But that would only delay the inevitable truth of the circumstances by which they had spent their time together, in a place so far away, so seemingly long ago, and in another life. For her, anyway. And as she began to unravel the spools of her gathering knowledge, displaying to him the different threads and colors that would eventually rework the tapestry of her memory, he again nodded with that mere, but lowering movement of defeat. He could no longer deny such an integral part of her past, though, through her revelations, it baffled him to learn of how much he had meant to the pariah princess of Eyraille. 

Why? Why did she view him with any worth beyond soldiering and stubborn survival? Why did she insist on elating him as a hero, a savior, when he had inflicted more harm than good in his varied life--especially to her? And why, lastly, did she take him as a lover, and wanted him so impudently? Was she so lonely, so desperate for a connection in the form of the familiar, that she latched on to him at the earliest sign of his reciprocity? Would anyone have sufficed, in the end? And if so...then surely, she could find someone else to replace him, once he was gone. 

"Yes," he began, speaking, at last, into the silence that she created just for him. He swung his feet to the floor, absorbing the solidity that propped him upright and deriving strength from his new stance. "We were together, Vega. But it was for so short of a time. I didn't think it would matter to the reclamation of your identity if I mentioned it. I was more concerned for your recovery, than of any fleeting fancy that passed between us. To avoid further confusion...I omitted that truth, yes." 

He wished to be holding fast to his necklace, or even to his sword. Anything that would steel him against her imploring gaze, would prepare him for uttering the wide span of the truth that he wanted never for her to hear. Alster told her, a few days before, and it reduced her to a state of near-catatonia. What good would repeating it do for her already broken mind? Worse yet, she would discover that it was him who was the catalyst behind all that currently plagued and tortured her, when she could have been drifting in a peaceable death, entombed and protected from the scourges of the physical, material world. That he so selfishly wrenched her from her fate, all because he could no longer endure the thought of losing another to the sweet arms of death...

But she had to know. He was unable to tiptoe away from the full brunt of his accountability. At least now, she would see him at face value, and would judge him and his appalling actions accordingly. He was on trial, and she, the one voice of condemnation, would offer up the punishment that he needed as penance for his nature-defying wrongs. 

He clasped his hands together and brought them to his face, breathing through the opening of his palms, as if he could extract an air of calm from what he had trapped between his fingers. Then, he lowered them to his lap, and stared at the floor. 

"It's all my doing," he whispered, but it carried, with a shivering finality, over to her bedside. "What happened. We were in the throes of battle, several days ago. You and your Skyknights fended off Messino's earth mages with aerial tactics and explosives provided to you by Tadasun. You were successful, but before retreating, you were speared through with branches and splinters shuttled into the air by the mages' magic. They shot you out of the sky, and you fell from your roc. When I finally reached you," he swallowed, his words constricting in his throat, "you were already dead. So I took you, and Aeriel, and we flew here, to Stella D'Mare, because," he wrung his hands together, "I knew someone. A...necromancer. And I..." he closed his eyes, "bargained for your life. He successfully coaxed you out of death, but upon awaking, your memories..." he shook his head, unable to finish his story.

"Forgive me, Vega," he said, trying to keep his voice at an even pitch. "I...damned you. That's why I..." Again, unable to complete his sentence, he opted instead for standing, though it hurt him to engage, owing to the strain of his injury. Shuffling over to her beside, he plucked his necklace from the end table and, as he tried to ignore the surging solace provided to him by the amulet, pressed it into her hands. "Please, stay safe. Stay protected. But if you no longer wish to live, and I will understand," his gentle touch lingered on her own, cupping her wrists as if they were porcelain, "let me be the one to kill you." 

As abruptly as he had marched to her side, he retreated, and turned his back to her, half-limping toward the infirmary doors."I'll be nearby," he almost croaked. "...If you need me."

His shoulders slumped and shuddered, fighting against the desire to give up, to give in....to finally surrender himself to the whims of the universe. Alas...his body, at least, was required by many, and still served a use, a purpose. And though he managed to throw himself into some semblance of a singular, functioning being, it was not enough. Unbidden, tears streamed down his face as he opened the doors and welcomed the searing light of morning.

So he had not lied; not exactly, but sometimes, partial truths could be just as bad, do just as much harm. Especially in the case of an amnesiac, who grasped for even the faintest threads of their past, the most insignificant glimpses of who she was. For he had been wrong in thinking that it would not contribute to her search for herself. Quite the contrary, it was only now that she had found traces of her own happiness that she could feel her roots begin to grow and thrive once again... but, somehow, it all felt stunted. All because Haraldur had not thought that it mattered. Had not thought that they mattered.

"So it is true. What I felt... when I awoke and saw your face, it wasn't... I was not mistaken, after all." A sense of great relief mingled with despair washed over Vega. At least she could trust her gut feelings, if they had come through for her before. "Even if.. whatever was between us was only brief, it must have mattered. What I felt, I... I can hardly describe what I felt, in that memory. But it was profound, and I was so... whole. It must have been different for you, I suppose..." Her cheeks flushed a shade of pink. What sort of pathetic, miserable life must she have led to have dervied such joy and fulfillment from what Haraldur very much described as a mere tryst? Was she truly so starved for affections, for validation and affirmation, that she had latched onto the first man to declare loyalty towards her and her country?
No, it did not feel that way. She now recalled the refugees, and the hero who had brought them salvation... Someone with whom she had fallen irrevocably in love a long time ago. Yet now, with her desires having finally come to fruition, she was certain that it had all been more than a passing fancy.

The trouble was in reciprocation--and the measure of importance. What had felt so sacred to her evidently did not resonate with the mercenary... and, as such, he had hoped to extinguish its existence by never telling her, had he seen things his way. At least, that was what Vega was able to dervive from his calm yet remorseful explanation.

Without more than a moment to digest this solemn fact, Haraldur then went on to further baffle her with a truth that she had never considered: one that involved the nature of her very life... and death. A necromancer... Ressurected. She had been dead, her life restored anew against the laws and wishes of nature... all because she had fallen in battle. Some extraordinary Skyknight I must be, she thought with a bitter taste on the back of her tongue, but she could not delude herself that the fact she had died was what bothered her the most. Quite the contrary, it was the fact that the mercenary had seen fit to fly her all the way to Stella D'Mare to see to it that she did not remain dead--to give her a chance after her battlefield folly.
Haraldur; he had not only saved her life, but was the reason she was alive now. Alive and well, and... discarded, by the man she was sure she loved.

"Damned me? Haraldur... what do you mean?" Vega furrowed her brow and rested a hand atop his. "How am I damned to be alive? My memories are scattered, but they are returning to me. Because of you. You brought my body to just the right place to restore my life, and among just the right people who can help me to restore my memories... So why hold such remorse? I am not upset with you, not in the least! I... I am grateful. More than grateful, I--"

But he was already on his feet, and making his way for the door, before she could finish, and her heart sank into her stomach. "Haraldur? Wait, please--" He was already gone, and she was alone, with only the unconscious Rigas caster and some ill healer behind a curtain for company... "I... don't understand..." The Eyraillian princess whispered to herself, toying with the pendant that he had given her. One sealed with a spell of protection against death... one that should have been hanging around his neck, not hers. He had saved her from death, and wished her a long life... but he did not want to be any part of it. "Why, Haraldur? Why would I want to die, for what you've done for me?" Tears trickling down her cheeks, she closed her eyes and clasped the pendant in the palm of her hand. If memories of happiness were all that she had, then she would cling to them... And so she returned to them, those blessed images dancing behind her eyelids, placating her and dulling the painful throb of a heart that felt very broken.

"Trouble in paradise, my friend? Why the long face?" Vitali, seemingly having emerged from nowhere, fell into step with Haraldur, hands clasped behind his back. "Nevermind the fact that I am certain the healers would be livid if they knew you were up and about with that wound that has yet to heal..." When the mercenary didn't respond, a dramatic frown touched the corners of the necromancer's lips. "Are you somehow unssatisfied with the services I rendered? I'll admit, amnesia is a rather annoying side-result, and emotional instability is not uncommon for the newly ressurected. But if you recall, I did have to cross the that tempermental border of dying and death to retrieve your beloved Skyknight, so you cannot put me entirely at fault... Or," Glancing at him sidelong, he arched a slender brow. "Is this about something else? You seem more reserved tha usual."

I'll always be loyal to you, Vega. Even if you think otherwise.

Though her words of response and ensuing reaction bolstered his spirits a bit, his confessions still weighed heavily against every joint of his aching body. The shock of his information needed time to adjust for Vega. Surely, once she understood the brunt of her ordeal, she would realize that he had done her a great disservice. She was meant to have died, to remain dead, and he impulsively toyed with a sacred, untouchable (so far as he previously believed) phenomenon. What untold damage could such a jarring transition from unbecoming to rebecoming render to Vega's soul? Would she learn to regret, to despise, her new chance at life as her memories settled her back into the throes of the material plane? For now, Vega focused only on their nascent relationship as the pinnacle of importance--as if nothing else in her life had mattered until he leaned forward and kissed her lips for the first time. Why was she so convinced that they belonged? That she was in love with him? 

He touched his own lips in memory, tracing the lines until his fingers tapered away and settled on the growing beard along his jaw. As he leaned against the outside wall of the infirmary, anchoring his wounded side against the slab of his marbleized crutch, he watched the hazy sunlight stream across the manicured grass in a half-trance. And what of me? he thought, wiping away the tears that marked his face. I'm casting her aside not because I want to be rid of her. I want to remain, and to learn...if what I feel for her in return is...love. 

The chiming of an external, disembodied voice about launched him from the wall in preparation to ward off the would-be aggressor. He had been so uncharacteristically preoccupied with his own musings that he failed to keep alert of his surroundings. Ignoring the flaring up of his wound, he spun towards the source of the sound, and regarded the necromancer standing before him with that cocksure smile that typified the range of his facial expressions. In response, Haraldur walled away his emotions and tried, with varying success, to eliminate the residual moisture that was splashed across his cheeks. His posture straightened as he adopted a firm, guarded mien about his appearance, betraying its previous trials with loss and shaken remorse. 

"All is well," he said, in a tone similar to a soldier reporting his findings to a superior officer. "With her, at least. She is beginning to remember certain specifics of her life. I only ask," he hesitated, "how is her soul? Does it remain in tact? Will it forever be affected by her foray with death?" 

Feet shuffling with some discomfort, he began to shift the subject to one that he meant to discuss with Vitali whenever he encountered him next--and that moment had arrived. "According to Alster," his voice lowered to a whisper, "the Rigas Head plans to turn me in to Andalarian authorities, as a distraction against their discovery of Eyraillan royalty on these grounds. If they apprehend me, I plan to go quietly--if it will help to ensure Sir Vega Sorde's identity remains a secret. I tell you this," he continued, "because I did not forget my end of our bargain. I'll find a way to escape once I know that she's seen safely back to Tadasun's camp with her roc. I've already risked much to bring her to life, and I plan to keep her alive." His eyes narrowed with uncompromising determination. "And that is not up for debate." 

It took all of Chara's willpower to stir from Lilica's bedside and bid her farewell that morning, for she did not know when they would next meet, and for how long. She met the baffled guards with a triumphant, makeup-mashed smile as she crossed through the threshold from apartment to hallway, and drifted along the corridors en route to her villa. Once there, she washed up and dressed in a more conservative ensemble--a tunic and slacks. She did not loiter for long in her quiet abode before heading back outside, upon which she learned from some gossips that Alster had collapsed from exhaustion just the other day and was unconscious at the infirmary. He was last seen beside the Eyraillan princess. Chara's lips pursed at the news, both from Alster's impudence and the trouble-arousing condition of Sir Vega Sorde. With a frustrated mutter beneath her breath, she shifted her trajectory mid-stride and threaded towards the infirmary, a building that did not cease in its status of housing patient after patient. Especially if his name was Alster Rigas. 

As she approached the double doors, she noticed the mercenary--Haraldur--speaking quietly with that most reviled man who Lilica--and she, by default--despised. She offered a glare, but said nothing as she pushed through the entrance and marched over to Alster's side, feeling his forehead and chiding him in loud, over-gorged notes, which echoed throughout the cavernous chambers. 

"Alster, you buffoon! How are you to be of sustained use to anyone if you so insist on pushing yourself to near-death with a regularity that should only be reserved for healthy bowel movements!? You are truly an asinine, piteous, self-sacrificing--"

She paused when she noticed a woman--that woman--watching her from a short distance away. Rising to her feet, Chara twisted towards the Eyraillan princess of which she harbored little positive opinion, and nodded with an obligatory sign of acknowledgement. 

"You must be Sir Vega Sorde," she said, entirely without interest. "Did this fatuous upstart," she waved to indicate Alster, "aid you in some manner? I do hope that he was successful; otherwise this new venture of his has been utterly pointless." Her ultramarine eyes seemed to reflect that last sentiment, as if expressing to the bedridden woman that she, too, was just as pointless.

Unidden, the necromancer snorted, making a point to roll his eyes as he shook his head at Haraldur's inquiry. "Her soul? Sir, I am a necromancer--not a healer of the Sybaia clan. I have no ability to peer through her flesh and bone and assess the state of her immortal soul." Lifting his shoulder in a shrug, he sighed, feigning a sort of remorse for his inability to help in that capacity. "She will resettle into herself in time; word has it that she has made good progress since emerging from her catatonia. I cannot see why her memory would not continue to improve, at this point, if there have not yet been further disruptions. In my experience, if a ressurection is to fail in some detrimental way, then she woud have deterioriated beyond help by now. So if it placates you, then I believe the worst is over, since she recovered from that worrisome catatonia." At that, he offered a contrived smile and patted the mercenary's arm, a decidedly patronizing gesture that was nothing personal towards the warrior.

"As for her touch with death... I can give you no direct answer that will pacify your concerns." Resuming his pace, Vitali turned his attention to the sky, as if it could clarify the answers that he could not. "Resurrection affects every being differently... The soul will remember its foray into death, that is inevitable, but it is unrelated its condition or health. Some dream of death every night, without fail, for the rest of their lives. Others may catch themselves recall glimpses of the abyss, or even recollections of their moment of death. In rarer cases..." He then paused, as if reconsidering what he wanted to say for a handful of seconds, and his face grew a tinge more solemn. "Sometimes, though very infrequently, the soul remains in touch with the land of the dead. That in and of itself brings about some unique qualities in the individual, and rare abilities, if they are able to temper the madness of their ears eternally ringing with the voices of th lost. But, I would not concern myself with your Skyknight suffering that possibility." He did not give a reason for why he thought as much, but the certainty of his tone came on strong--and the conversation soon shifted to something a good deal more crucial. 

Dark eyes averted from the sky and regarded the mercenary sidelong, a sort of shadow passing through them at Haraldur's very important disclosure. "So you are to be yet another sacrifical lamb to the Rigas agenda. I wish I could say that this does not surprise me; instead I am frustrated that I myself did not foresee this turn of events. Ah, well, no matter." And as if it were no more than a simple nuissance, a miniscule problem to be solved, and nothing at all of consequence. At Haraldur's inquisitive and somewhat frustrated glance, he offered a conspiratorial grin. "My dear friend, do not forget that I was once employed by Messino. I know Andalari's ins and outs and weaknesses. And, I happen to know a great deal more about that enchanted weaponry that they are employing than they do..." He paused to allow that to sink in, and then added, in case the man was slow and did not catch onto his meaning, "Let's just say, I am not concerned for your potential incarceration--nor should you be. After all..."

He stepped away from Haraldur, as if he suddenly tired of his company, he said without looking over his shoulder, "Sometimes being in my debt can be to your benefit. You should consider yourself very lucky, my friend." And, with a smile that Haraldur could not see, but likely heard in his tone, he added: "I am sure I will be seeing you soon." 

Currently unable to stomach the world of the waking, Vega drifted throughout the stages of sleep for some time after the mercenary departed, preferring the snippets of non-realities behind her eyelids than what awaited her (or rather, what neglected her) in consciousness. It was not a deep sleep, and her mind spun images both realsitic and fantastical, such that her unconscious mind sought to peg some as more memories. And perhaps they were, but she would never know--for who could confirm? Haraldur... she had not known him for as long as she had thought, and her brother, she now remembered, paid her so little heed that she would not have been the least bit surprised had he not even yet realized that she had been gone from her kingdom. Those memories, then, were for her to recover, and for her to trust in, based on those strong gut feelings that had brought her this far with and without help from a certain Rigas caster, but in the realm of dreams, reality and fantasy were one and the same, and with no grounding source, everything melded together in a blur of colours and voices and feelings that she could hardly interpret.

So the Eyraillian princess drifted helplessly in that sea of uncertainties until the harsh bellow of a voice awoke her with a start. Vega's breath caught in her throat as if she had been holding it and inhaled all too quickly...
A woman with long blonde hair and a harsh expression stood over the still unconscious form of Alster Rigas, scolding... or was it she was worrying for him? Given the unfriendly tone of her voice, contrasting with the brightness of her azure eyes, it was difficult to discern her feelings towards the young man and the actions that he had taken to aid a complete stranger and foreigner in so significant a way.
And, it appeared, that she had reserved similar sentiments for Vega, who she seemd to know almost instantly. At least the Skyknight was used to unfriendly sentiments--to her limite self-knowledge, at least. Resentment from a stranger did not resonate quite as harshly as it did from blood relatives and her own people.

"I am Vega. At least, that is what I have been told; so far, the opinion seems to hold firm," she offered a smile in acknowledgement of Chara's recognition of her identity. "Are you a relative of Alster's? He did help me... a great deal, in fact, although it seems to have been to his detriment." Her smile faded, replaced with a frown of concern as she laid eyes upon the sleeping Rigas caster in the bed next to her. "Were it not for him, I am not sure my amnesia would have begun to subside... Mind you, I am far from having returned to myself, but things have been slowly falling into place since his intervention. I owe him... well, I owe all of you a good deal, actually. I dread to imagine just what you are risking in having me here to recover..."

And the woman seemed none too happy for it; resentful, perhaps, that a stranger was putting her friends and home in danger. Vega did not blame her: the denizens of Stella D'Mare had every right to resent her for that very fact. And yet, it made her all the more grateful to those who still saw fit to lend a helping hand, in spite of that. Alster's camaraderie, especially, had left an impact on her. Particularly when the one friend she'd thought she'd had could not stomach the fact that he had torn her from the hands of death... "Will he be well?" Her eyes averted to Alster's sleeping form once again, and she pulled on her lower lip with her teeth. "He... he did insist on helping me. I suppose I could have refused, but..." But what? She was desperate to know who she was, despite the dangers it posed to a friendly host? And was it possible that this entiire venture had been completely pointless? After all, what could she, a deserter queen, an amnesiac, contribute other than being a burden?

"I won't forget this--what you and yours have done for me," she said at last, returning her gaze to her lap. "For what it is worth. I will see to it that Eyraille repays you to the best of its ability, whenever it finds a chance."

Suspicion clouded Haraldur's regard of the necromancer's words which, in their own superficial way, were meant to allay. It was not that he did not trust the expertise of a man who dealt in shades of death and curses. He just did not believe his sincerity. The more flowery Vitali's explanation, the more Haraldur's eyes narrowed. It felt so well-rehearsed, polished to a shine and pompous in presentation, that the mercenary believed he was watching an actor spouting his lines upon the stage. Performance or no, he did end up nodding along to the necromancer and his monologue, for his words, although high-flown, sounded reasonable, researched, and--most important--hopeful. Vega will recover, he thought, reaching for his necklace, only to find that it was absent. I have to believe that. 

"And if she regresses for a second time--will she be forever lost, despite her progress?" If his presence alone had such a lasting effect on the Eyraillan princess, he feared what his imprisonment might inflict upon her convalescence. If she really considered him an important person in her life, if he were to suddenly vanish, what would that cause for her, in her current, most vulnerable state? Trapped in a strange country, among an unsympathetic family of caster nobility, who else may hope to reach her? Alster was the best candidate, but he was the only candidate, and his involvement had already landed him in a partial coma. But she had not another soul to which she could turn. Even if he remained by her side, he doubted his ability to provide relief to the cuts lined all across her memory, when he only worsened her vacillating stability. She didn't deserve the heartache of his constant withdrawal, his retreating steps that added to their growing distance, or to the emptiness that he shared with her like a draught of ale already drunk dry. I'll only disappoint you, he once warned her...and so far, he proved it true. 

The necromancer's touch upon his arm felt like death itself, and reawakened him to their conversation, as if he, too, had been resurrected. He listened, with intrigue, to the symptoms related to the newly revived, and wondered if the necromancer spoke from an experience far beyond what he had observed in his own subjects. That last revelation of his--it sounded quite personal, but he cared not to pry. He only wanted assurances that the same fate would not befall Vega. "So the soul will not try to pull the resurrected back into death? The connection with her and the other realms--how are you certain that she won't suffer the voices of the dead, or worse?"

However, the subject transitioned to a more imperative concern, and Haraldur could not help but respond to Vitali's discourse with a frown and the crossing of his arms. Was the necromancer spurting yet more theatrics? Or did he have a method for exonerating him from incarceration? And if so--what did this added service mean for Haraldur's indentureship to the man? 

He wanted to ask, but by then, Vitali had retreated from their proximity, and began to wander away from the infirmary. He was not encouraged by the man's offhanded approach to news of his potential arrest, but at the very least, responsibility for his escape, or failure to escape, no longer fell on his hands alone. 

Feeling like he could not yet return to the infirmary, Haraldur remained standing against the building's facade, holding his side with one hand, and pressing at his temples, squeezing away all emotion with the other. 

Chara exhaled rather noisily once the out-of-commission princess began to speak. As expected, her mannerisms reflected those of that foolhardy Atvanian warrior, all grating politesse and head-bowing inferiority. Nothing like how royalty, much less a commander, should act. However, she was of a more forgiving mood, perhaps in part to her evening with Lilica, and responded with a slight incline of her head and a more thoughtful, levelheaded comparison between the two she-knights. She accepted the fact that the Skyknight was an amnesiac still fighting her way to recovery. And, despite this obvious observation, the woman appeared a little less...willing to please. Due to that very essential difference, Chara regarded Sir Vega Sorde as a mite more tolerable, and less insufferable, than Elespeth Tameris--as far as first impressions would reveal, anyway. 

"He is my cousin," she responded, sitting at Alster's bedside and brushing the hair out of his closed eyes, "through his father and mine. He is also my betrothed," though our hearts belong to outsiders, she was tempted to add, but that sordid truth was none of the foreigner's business, no matter how poor her memory. 

"Please spare me your groveling," she said, barely restraining an eye-roll. "Are you not Eyraillan royalty? Show some self-respect. Besides," she sighed, and stared at the sleeping man in question, "Alster is obsessed with overcompensating for his past misdeeds. You could not have stopped him, once he has made the decision to help another in need. I have since begun to accept that aspect of his character, though it is intensely infuriating. That, and he has an affinity for she-warriors," she snorted. "He would have helped you, regardless of the unrealistic expectations of his own morality, and whatever existential issues he faces daily. But he will awaken." He had better, she cursed in her head. "This is a recurring theme for him, as of late. He loves being useful--even if it plunges him into some in-between state, half-coma, or deep slumber." 

"Again," she shook her head at the Eyraillan's promise of recompense, "spare me your gratitude. I find it empty. Mere noise. The useless chatter of sparrows: all flourish, no substance. No, [i]this/i] is what I propose you do in exchange." She leaned forward on her makeshift seat, meeting Vega's gaze with narrowed intensity. "When you are all healed, and your mind in some semblance of continuity, you will be allowed to return to Tadasun's camp, upon your roc. Take him with you," she lowered her voice to a strained whisper as she jerked her head at the sleeping Alster. "He cannot stay at this estate. They want to contain him, to entrap him here, for nefarious purposes. He will ride with you, and you will help him to escape unseen, though I cannot imagine you will contribute much to anything resembling the clandestine. Be that as it may, you will do as I ask. ...Am I being made clear?"

"Cousin and betrothed," Vega repeated, knowing all too well the tendency of high status families to keep in close quarters so as not to dilute their blood with that of commoners. There had been a time when she, herself had been promised to one of her own cousins--who was no less than twenty years her senior. Needless to say, that prior engagement went to the wind as soon as her father passed away. As a way of conversation, she divulged this piece of memory that had come floating back to her. "If memory serves--and it may well not--I was once betrothed to one of my cousins. I do hope your intended union with Alster is far more favourable than that would have been."

Self-respect would be slow emerging for the Skyknight, that much Vega knew despite Chara's insistence, but the Rigas woman's request struck something in her that resonated with her fiery Sorde blood. "What do they call you, Rigas?" She asked, realizing that she did not know the woman's name who claimed her debt. "I have only as much self-respect currently as someone who has yet to remember themselves can have. But I do have enough dignity to not take demands from a stranger lightly." Her cool blue eyes looked Chara up and down, immediately recognizing her as someone who was used to getting exactly what she wanted. There was no point, then, in taking her slights personally.

But Alster... Him, she did wish to help, in return for helping her. Even if it meant a very different plan of action from what she had hoped. It is not as though Haraldur would agree to leave with me, anyway... Not for the reason that I would wish for, at least. This might very well be her only opportunity not to return all alone. "First, your expectations are too high," she continued with a shake of her head. "Rocs... if I remember correctly, are not beasts of stealth. You, here in Stella D'Mare... you are the magic users. Concealing me, my mount and your betrothed would fall upon your shoulders alone. That said..."

Vega trailed off, sparing another look at a wan yet peaceful Alster. Why his own home would conspire against him was well beyond her understanding, but she knew nothing of the politics of this besieged city, and could see no reason why this woman (who confirmed her name was Chara) would lie about so dire a situation. Looking back to the moderately harsh Rigas caster, she parted her lips to sigh. "I will comply only for my debt to Alster. If he is in danger, then I feel obligated to remove him from its source... although it will not be without risk, you realize. To both him and myself." The Skyknight met Chara's eyes with a glint of severity. "I do not know how long it will take my muscles to recall how to ride upon my roc. Though I will do my best, I cannot guarantee success... but, yes. It is a risk that I am willing to take. For his sake; and, yours, I suppose."

This might be good, she pondered. A fair distraction and redirection from thoughts of Haraldur... he was a stone that would not budge, no matter how her heart bled. Ensuring the safety of a new friend might just be enough to provide her with that deeper meaning and purpose that she so sought.

Elespeth tossed and turned next to Tivia's cot upon her blanket on the cold ground, finding it difficult as usual to achieve a truly comfortable position. Not that it mattered whether or not she was warm and her body cushioned by something other than coarse wool; when sleep came, it was fitful, and left her feeling wholly unrested. Since Andalari's assault on Tadasun, the Rigas caster had regressed a tad, crawling back into that shell that expelled daylight and social interaction, so the former knight figured she might as well keep an eye on the woman who was now the closest thing to a friend that she had in the encampment.

Inevitably, however, exhaustion took over, as it always did, and the dark canvas of Tivia's tent finally turned to something different behind her eyelids. Trees and forest surrounded the Atvanian knight, the buttery rays of dawn peeking through the trees and spotting the ground like spilled molten gold. She found herself laying upon soft grass, a warm, summer breeze rustling her tendrils of loose hair. This is peace, she thought to herself, trying to remember the last time she had felt any semblance of it...
And it had been even longer since she had last shared the moment with another.

"Alster..." She noticed the Rigas caster the moment she turned her head, his blonde hair glistening in the sun and his azure eyes capturing the light. It struck her as both a shock and a painful relief, a face that she had never dared to hope she would see again... And here he was, glowing and healthy like she remembered him in his prime. In their happiest moments.

Sitting up on her elbows, she leaned closer, just to ensure he wasn't some sort of mirage apparition. "What are... why are you here?" It wasn't until her voice caught in her throat, cutting off mid-sentence, that she realized the tears that streaked her cheeks. And she could not determine from which sentiment they stemmed.

A rather amused chuckle sprang out of Chara's lips. "Oh yes, our union is favorable, indeed," she said with a facetious flourish, though expressed in tones less bitter than in the past, when the subject of her betrothed's faithlessness was uttered with contempt and derision. "To all but ourselves. But that is where you and I find common ground, is it not?" She tilted her head and lowered her eyes to the necklace that the Eyraillan noble had wrapped around her fingers--a necklace she had once seen the mercenary sport. "You seem to be enamored by that Mollengardian peasant. Rest assured, it appears the attraction flows both ways." However, she was not able to elaborate before the unkempt roc-rider began to demonstrate a fire that not only erupted from her crown of red hair, but from within, as well. Chara folded her arms over her chest and listened to the woman's retort with a nod that did not immediately dismiss her as insipid or unworthy of response. This Eyraillan, indeed, seemed to harbor, though slight, an iota of decorum and poise, which had impelled her to defend against the defamation of her character. Thank the gods, Chara thought to herself. that she is not another fawning, servile adulator like that Atvanian scum.

"True enough. You do not know me," she checked her fingernails idly. "By my individual merits, I may seem a stranger to you, but by name, I am your benefactor. It is through the grace of the Rigas name that you are allowed a warm bed, the aid of our skilled healers, and our loyalty, which will ensure your return to Tadasun's camp. So," she blew against those very fingernails, "'Demands,' 'stranger,' ...call me what you will. But what you are, is indebted to us."

Rearranging Alster's sheets so that they were positioned just above his chest, Chara rose from his cot and stood before Vega, enjoying the height difference, which she lorded over the Skyknightwith a looming smile and arms akimbo. "I am glad we now share the same agenda, then. I, frankly, do not care if you fancy me at all, and your disregard of me does not wound my soul in the least. This goes far beyond petty squabbles. Believe it or not," her smile crinkled with amusement, "I am coming to you with open, humble hands. This request of mine--it is not only for Alster's safety, but for the safety of this entire city, and all of the denizens therein. Everyone who dwells on these grounds is affected, but removing Alster from the fray...it may improve our chances against preventing disaster."

By then, her face had shifted to accommodate a humble sheen, all crinkle lines fading from view. Even her hands, splayed upon her hips, drew forward, clasping together in an imitation of supplication. 

"You needn't worry about Alster. He is a gifted caster, and capable of shielding, stealth, offensive tactics, and whatever else will help you facilitate the flight upon your roc. He will make for more than just mere baggage--for he is a Rigas, and a Rigas is not some piddling commoner. Speaking of, I only hope, for your sake," she turned away from the woman to watch Alster's slumbering form, "that you make your proper goodbyes to that man--Haraldur." In case her message was too obvious of a warning against his imminent arrest, she added, "He would not be able to ride with you--is that correct?"

After dealing with Vega's memories of happiness, Alster floated for a while in the expanse of dark, seamless forever, using the opportunity to pull that oblivion over his head like a welcoming blanket, and recuperate. Already rejuvenated by a small measure, thanks to his experiences of joy alongside the Eyraillan knight, a knowingness blossoming in him at the sight of her arms and Haraldur's arms enfolded together, he already felt a certain lightness in his soul, which combated the wringing inside of himself. It twisted out droplets of remorse and sorrow, spilling and puddling around him, but no longer threatening to rise over his head and drown him alive. Now, his current state that refused to awaken to the waking world seemed more tolerable to him--more peaceful. 

This inevitable calm invariably led him down a corridor that warmed all of his senses with the prospect of what awaited him on the other side. He found the gateway that opened...to her. To Elespeth. In fact, he had opened it many a time, even after their blood bond severance and subsequent separation. Often, he wandered into her dreams, but only to watch from afar, and to influence her surroundings into those of solace, relief, and all-encompassing nature in its purest form. Only after he imagined a perfect idyll and sanctum for her bereaved soul would he then take his leave, never revealing himself to her, in fear that his presence would ruin her serenity of mind--and that she would reject his surreptitious methods by which he chose to heal her. They would never again be effective if she shut her mind to him. 

It was during this instance, after he willed the inception of towering conifers and whispering grasses, purple wildflowers and limpid skies, that she turned around--and took notice of him. 

His breath hitched in his throat, though he endeavored to make no noise. He saw her face, for the first time in months. Even in dream, her back was always turned, always in retreat, as if she felt his aura and was determined to flee, far far away from him. Each tendril of her chestnut hair stretched towards him in the breeze, and he yearned to reach for them with eager fingers. Her eyes were so green, reflected by the forest, and so lost, overbright with tears. The shock of her surprise, her confusion, pressed against his throat, threatening to throttle him until he could no longer breathe, let alone speak. 

"I--" he managed, head lowering in shame, to his feet, as he fought for words. "I...just wanted you to have nice dreams. I'm...I'm sorry, Elespeth. You weren't meant to--I'll go. I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes, shuttering away her tormented gaze, and willed himself to disappear.

Vega shook her head. She could not refute the extent to which she was so indebted to the Rigas family for what they were doing for her safety, and she owed them a boon for their kindness and services. Nonetheless... "If I wanted to split hairs, I could insist that I did not sign any sort of contract to yield to your precise terms. Nor have I asked you to let me stay, and should you ask me to leave at any point, I would do so." She only stated as much to push home that Chara was not dealing with some half-wit commoner, even if she was amnesiac, and she would not be intimidated or pressured. Nonetheless, making things difficult for herself but asserting her standing would benefit no one...

That, and there was something unmistakably desperate, behind this Rigas caster's proud countenance. She was not exaggerating or making false claims when she proclaimed humbleness; this was not a woman who begged for anything. And yet, she was dead set on ascertaining that Alster was safe, even if it meant asking politely and with humility--something to which Vega had a feeling she was not accustomed.
And she was right: their agendas were similar, and neither of them wanted harm to come to Alster.

"Listen; I am not an unreasonable person, and if you think Alster would be safer beyond the boundaries of Stella D'Mare... then I would like to help in every way that I possibly can. He is welcome to ride upon my roc with me..." Frankly, the Skyknight felt that she was holding together rather well, given the circumstances of awakening and discovering the man she loved wished distance between them... But as soon as Chara brought up Haraldur's name, she felt something shift inside of her. Something that ached and made her eyes sting and her throat constrict...

She cleared her voice before speaking, for fear that it would sound as broken as she felt. "That is not your concern," was all she said, pressing her lips together in a line, as she gripped Haraldur's pendant in her palm so hard that the edges almost cut her skin. "You did not come here to discuss Haraldur; let us then stay on topic." It was a moot point when the mercenary would well do as he pleased, and had no reason to return with her to Tadasun. Not if he felt that her sentiments for him were somehow holding her back. "When Alster awakens, let us discuss this plan together, and we will go from there."

"Alster." Elespeth spoke his name again, her breath catching in her throat. In that moment, those short-lived seconds, she forsook everything that she had said, forsook her decision to ever leave the Rigas caster's side and distance herself from the source of her broken heart. She wanted to forget about it all, and return to how they once were, entangled in one another's arms and feeling, for once, complete. She wanted it all, wanted it back, and rose to her feet to take it.

"I... Alster, I'm sorry," she breathed, reaching for him, yearning to touch his face, to know that he was real, that he was safe. But he kept his distance, a despondent look of remorse on his face. Frightened (and somehow, knowing) that she was about to lose him a second time, the Atvanian took a step forward. "Don't go. Alster, please..."

He vanished before she could finish speaking, and it was like he had never been there. Just as quickly, the peace of her beautiful sanctuary of a dream was broken. The sky turned dark, rain pelting to the ground with such force that it hurt, and she was soaked in mere seconds. "Why. Why... couldn't you just stay," she heard herself murmur aloud, as everything around her turned to mist, until she could no longer see the trees or know the sky from the ground, and the nothingness became suffocating, constricting, and she could neither move nor breathe--

The former knight awoke with a start, panting and sweating, her cheeks sleek with a salty mixture of tears and perspiration. "A dream... just a stupid dream," she muttered, angry that she let her expectations climb so high. That she dared to hope she would actually see him again...

In a fit of frustration, Elespeth balled up her blanket, tossed it against the side of the tent, and pulled her knees to her chest to muffle her sobbing.

With a haughty toss of her head, Chara's condescending smile returned, and her desire to heckle the Eyraillan princess increased with every heated word that seethed out of her mouth. "And how, praytell, would you have managed to refuse our aid, when you were incapacitated beyond the ability to make decisions for yourself? Also, you will find it difficult to simply leave, what with several layers of defense to break through and a war brewing over our heads. If even our own kin," she pointed to Alster, "cannot escape, what makes you think that you are so gifted to just up and leave?" A rush of fierce, yet simmering ire swam through her as she spoke, cracking in he air around them like the snapping of twigs. "So no, you would not do so, because you could not do so. And you would not know so, because, in spite of your amnesia, you do not understand the severity or the complexity of what currently faces us!" 

While this insolent woman seemed to have the gumption to challenge her rescuers and spew her ungratefulness all about their feet like bodily waste, she seemed to lack the intelligence or the diplomacy to realize that, in her current position, she could not afford to disturb her paper-thin alliances, lest they tear in twain and land her in a far more dangerous predicament--aside from an untimely death, of course. 

With a frustrated snort, she shook her hands to her sides and affixed Vega with a caustic eye. Now that she had been slighted, she was no longer interested in attempting a reasonable dialogue, and so latched on to more of Vega's flare-ups like kindling that craved to be lit ablaze. "Oh, but the mercenary is my concern. My entire family's concern," she volleyed, twisting her fingers through her hair. "He landed on our estate, disregarding the war, our boundaries, and our tenuous arrangements with Andalari--all so that you could be saved. If that is not dedication, may I rot in a hovel on the edge of town. Yours would be quite an inspiring story, had it not happened on our land, at the worst possible moment, and," she sniffed as if she smelled something sour, "if it did not end so bitterly."

She had said enough, and yanked at her hair to silence her ramblings, fearing that if she carried on, she'd admit news of a revelatory nature. Knowledge of Haraldur's appointed incarceration needed to remain far from Vega's ears in case the woman, who appeared afflicted by Chara's worst vice, responded with outrage, thus endangering her safety--and their own. She was certain that the Skyknight would not sit aside and allow such an injustice to pass. Alas, the Rigases needed her on their side, and the less she knew, the better. 

And perhaps I should begin by ceasing to antagonize her so, she thought, wearing on her lip with an inner sigh. 

But before she could act on such altruism, she heard a pained gasp from behind her, and whirled around to see Alster, awake and upright in his bed, chest heaving and his face streaked with tears. 

"Alster..." she returned to his bedside and sat beside him, gently taking his hands into her own before he could use them to scratch at his throat. 

He fought violently to free his hands, but she only tightened her hold and wrestled to maintain her grip until, finally, the distraught caster threw himself into Chara, weeping silently against her shoulder. 

"El...El..." His tremulous voice tried to pronounce the source of his sudden emotional fit, but Chara shushed him, and hugged him more tightly. 

"Sssh, Alster." She stroked his back in small, concentric circles. "Do not think. Just be present. Right now. Right here."

Ever since the last, bloody battle that destroyed half of camp, a good number of supplies, and hundreds of men, Tivia Rigas retreated inside of herself, and refused to return, even for food or water. Instead, she remained in a half-daze, curled up into the fetal position and staring at the world beyond, though she saw nothing but the cold-fire glaring of stars, and heard nothing but the plaintive shouts of millions. Nothing but incomprehensive noise flooded her bleeding ears, but she made no attempt to understand the high-pitched keening of troubling prophecies. 

She only noticed one entity outside of her thin gauze of nullity: Elespeth. Occasionally, Tivia would react to this other body that revolved around her like a celestial satellite. She remembered that she was a warrior, a previous knight of Atvany, and somehow, circumstances brought them together, however unlikely their partnership. Sometimes, Tivia grunted responses to the woman she knew as Elespeth, and sometimes, she would try to take the foreign objects presented to her, pressed with insistence into her hands and given the names of water, or rice, or bread. But she shook her head and instead would roll into a ball-shape upon a surface she did not know existed--for she was convinced that she floated weightlessly in space. 

Suddenly, from out of the universe, Tivia heard a cry. It did not bear the same otherworldly screech of the stars. In fact, it sounded terrestrial. Nearby. Human, almost. She tuned in to her more immediate surroundings, blinking around, reshaping her everything as she tried to pinpoint the source of the foreign sound. A room began to materialize. No, not quite a room. The walls were sliding diagonally, rippling from some disturbance outside. Inside, it was dark. A firmness touched her fingertips, but it was covered by a texture that was not altogether unpleasant. It bounced. It was springy. Soft. A comfort. 

Then, a shape appeared beside her. It moved all on its own, and breathed, and lived. It was not a star. It was someone like her. And it...it was the one to make that noise. 

The truth rushed into her lungs with a force that almost shredded them from within. Elespeth. The world. Tadasun. Camp. Rigas. Tivia Rigas. Crying. Sobbing. Pain.

Elespeth was in distress. That much she now knew. 

Slowly, she crawled over to the woman's proximity, stumbling a few times in her attempts to use limbs that were awkward, clunky, and unnecessary. Nonetheless, she reached the warrior woman, and folded a hand over her shoulder with an experimental weight. 

"Elespeth," she said, in a hoarse, uncertain timbre. It climbed, then dropped, then flitted around, forgetting how this vessel communicated, or how it delivered sound. "Tears...Hurt. Why...why do you hurt?"

This woman was a headache, with or without the trauma of amnesia, and the very route of this conversation-turned-argument had her massaging her temples with her fingertips. It went without saying that Vega was in no way fit to be diplomatic, especially when the sentiments of gratitude that she had initially expressed towards her esteemed saviours had been so readily discarded... She was tired and confused. She was angry and sad and felt pitifully helpless, lost, and pressured. And here this haughty, steadfast woman was detailing just how she was to repay the Rigas family...

And on top of that, she would not let the topic of Haraldur drop. "What do you want from me?" She half-sighed, half-groaned, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I have agreed to take your betrothed to safety. Why must I also be concerned with the path that Haraldur decides to take? He is a fighter and a survivor and... and he has, I believe, made it clear that he does not desire to have our paths cross any longer. Now that he knows I am alive and relatively well."

Her eyes stung with tears as she spoke the truth to herself aloud. That there had been something there, between herself and Haraldur, that had been interrupted and somehow perished in her foray into death... I might as well have remained dead, she couldn't help but think, on the realization that potentially one of the happiest things to ever befall her had extinguished with her life, in those moments when she had not existing among the living. "I will look out for Alster. But Haraldur... I can only repay one debt at a time. Unless he expresses otherwise, the best that I can do to appease his wishes is give him the distance that he so desires."

Both Vega's attention and Chara's were suddenly torn to the side, where Alster sat up, panting and coughing and struggling to articulate a word. His face was wet with tears, and he trembled, as if chilled to the bone. The Rigas woman was quick to act, scrambling to his side, and cooing words of soft encouragement and solace to him. Had she been this hysterical when she had awoken from some supposed catatonic state to which she had overheard people allude? At least he has someone, she thought with a modicum of reassurance. Alster would be all right; this hot-headed woman would make sure of it.

But there was no place in this moment for her. "Excuse me," she murmured, so quietly that she was near certain they wouldn't have heard her, and rose from her bed to quietly take her leave of the infirmary. It was not as though Alster was in any state to discuss plans; not right now. And Vega needed space and solitude.

A hand on her shoulder brought Elespeth out of her temporary hysteria. The tears still flowed, and her body shook with sobs, but she could recall where she was, and whose company she shared. "Tivia..." It was not only the first comfort that she had received since leaving Alster, but the first time that the wrecked Rigas woman had displayed any such altruistic kindness towards her. Tivia might have been more bearable than Chara (even in her unhinged state), but that did not necessarily make her more charitable. 

But she was all that Elespeth had.

"...I miss him." She confessed, her broken voice hardly above a whisper as tears streaked her cheeks. "Alster. I thought... leaving was the right decision. For both of us. But what if he is not alright? What if..." What ifs--there were just too many of them. When they had been present in the same city, the Atvanian warrior had at least been privy to his well-being, always knowing what sort of shape he was in, mentally and physically. But now, so far away, she had no such idea. And for all she knew, that very dream could have been his own, cowardly means of officially bidding her goodbye.

Through a blur of tears, she looked down at her palm, scarred as it was with their once-present blood bond. Something that had linked their souls on a psychic level, and had assured her without a doubt, no matter their distance, that even if he was not well, he was at least still alive. She didn't have that anymore. "I wish he had never severed our bond..." She confessed, in a short moment of vulnerability, before closing that hand into a trembling fist.

After Vitali's departure, Haraldur remained, as promised, close to the infirmary. He stationed himself by the double doors, appearing as quite the ludicrous guard, what with his lack of armor, weapons, and a patched up gash-wound that his hand had covered like a shield against further injury. But he wanted to stay in sight, in case his future jailers chose to locate him--or in case Vega required his services. Any service..unless it was as her companion. 

He had done, or was about to do, what he wished for since the death of Arina and her refugee group. He was martyring himself for the sake of another. And this another would remember him, would place a name to his deeds, had now possessed a most-cherished token of his, and...she loved him. Even if he, failing Vitali's assurances, did expire behind bars, or was delivered to the chopping block or the gallows, his life was never truly lost. 

He had once believed, before his venture to Stella D'Mare, that the dead should stay dead. It terrified him to know that the victims he had brutally murdered, or all who relied on his failed protection, would rise from their graves and drag him into a hellscape created to punish the manslayer in all means of torture best suited for the job. He would be run through many times with swords, arrows, and pikes, hacked to pieces, snapped in multiple places, suffocated, frozen, buried alive, gored and pulled apart and burned, again and again and again. He had killed many, and his long-listed punishments would take a while to exact. His only consolation against the likelihood of this scenario was that his victims had ceased to exist. They could not lay a hand to harm him, or speak their words of condemnation into his ears. Vega's revival, however, changed his perceptions. The dead could return, could breathe, could touch his face with fingers where, from beneath, a heartbeat pulsed. Death could blink her eyes, and shed tears, and interact with the living. Death became the living.

Could he ever separate them? The Vega of now, who had dematerialized into the void and had become less, only then to be forced into a whole, versus the Vega of yesterday, unmarred and ignorant of her terminus? Perhaps not. It was not like he was able stay long enough to find and sort out his true feelings on the matter. And even if he could...would he?

Beside him, the doors to the infirmary opened. Haraldur twisted his head toward the noise, only to meet the subject of his near-endless musings. He met Vega at the threshold, noting her stumbling gait, the embedded pain behind her bruised blue eyes, and his necklace, which she clutched like it was the only thing keeping her alive. He steadied her with his arms, and helped her out of the doorway, to outside.

"I said I would be nearby if you had need of me," he told her, supposing she would inquire about his sudden appearance. A heartbeat whirred beneath his touch. Her heartbeat. But he did not recoil. "Do you need anything, Vega?" Helpful but detached... It was all he could do. 

Tivia nodded, registering the fact that Elespeth spoke, that she understood what those words meant, and that in them throbbed a sorrow so profound, it pierced its way into her chest. She flinched from the phantom pain, but it had embedded itself with an ease that implied a sort of belonging, as if the arrow had always been lodged there, and there was a comfort in knowing that the hole inside of her was filled. 

She snuggled up against Elespeth, reveling in a presence that was brimming with feverish warmth and heaving, raw despair. It seemed more real than anything that had passed through her awareness in the last few days. She wanted to hold it, to stoke it, to accept it. And so she did. 

But while she listened, slowly regaining shades of her identity as Tivia, as a Rigas, as someone who was related to Alster, the subject of such palatable despair, she captured Elespeth's face, her eye overly luminous, wide, sparkling--as if another entity passed into her and had waved its greetings through the slat behind her gaze.

"Alster is recovering," she said, in a modulated voice that was less of her own than her bastardization of speech just moments before. She sounded confident, matter-of-fact, even when she expressed herself in a flat-lined drone. It rang and boomed in her bones, and rang and boomed in the tent, in spite of the poor acoustics. "He is doing well for himself, considering his circumstances. I sense his healing energy. It is strong. Like the sun reflected by a thousand mirrors. But it is turned in on himself. It burns him, but it replenishes those to whom it is directed." 

She took Elespeth's fist, forcing her palm open before running her fingers over the scar. "I sense this through your hand. The bond is not yet severed. It connects by mere sinews, but it holds firm. If you concentrate...you can feel him."

With a blink, the flash behind Tivia's eye departed, leaving her absolutely pallid and tremulous. Otherwise, she seemed...aware. Conscious, albeit confused. She touched her ears, and appeared unfazed, almost expectant, of the blood that stained her fingertips.

He had told her he would not be far, in case she was in need of his help in any form. And she had believed him. But Vega had not expected him to be quite so closeby, nearly in arms reach as he had merely taken up a guard-like position just beyond the infirmary doors. His strong arms steadied her unstable step, and she turned to him with tired bewilderment, surprised at his steadfast loyalty... and confused by it. Did he really mean to diminish their relationship to that of a nobleman and a servant? As someone who offered help where it was needed, but without any feeling behind it?
Truly, it was too much for her to bear.

"Did coming back... bringing me back to life, turn me into something else?" She asked him, eyes weary and pained. "Am I something other than what you remember? Did the best parts of me refuse to be resurrected along with my body, Haraldur?" Vega struggled to find something, anything, in the mercenary's warm, green eyes. Eyes that she could now recall had once regarded her with a fondness she had never known. With passion and validation and contentedness... as if, at one time, she had been exactly what he had needed, just as he had been precisely the missing piece of her otherwise difficult life. But whatever void she had filled for the mercenary must have been shaped differently than the way she had returned.
Why else, after all, would he so easily discard her and her affections?

Pressing her lips together, she nodded at his inquiry. "I do need something," she said at last, biting on her lower lip without really being aware of the nervous tic. "I need you to be happy, Haraldur. Whether or not I happen to be in the picture, though I... In my personal opinion, I feel that you are better off without obligation to Eyraille... and to me."

Pulling away, the Eyraillian princess put distance between herself and the mercenary, meeting his gaze with solemn eyes, and a sad smile. "Haraldur... I relieve you of your loyalty to Eyraille. And... to me. My kingdom and I... We have nothing to offer you. Nothing that..." Her voice caught in her throat then, so she stopped talking and cleared it in an attempt to compose herself. "You are a good man, and should you ever need anything from me or my kingdom... you are always welcome there. You do not need to prove devout loyalty to us to have our respect. I... I wish you well."

Before he could protest, she placed his necklace in his hands, and turned away. She did not know where she was going in this unfamiliar city, but only that she needed to get away.
Because the longer she spent, looking into Haraldur's green eyes... the more it hurt.

Something odd had befallen Tivia, as Elespeth pushed her confessions off of her chest, knowing that if anyone at all could tolerate her despair... then it was probably this Rigas caster. But her bleary gaze shifted from curious and confused to knowing, all in a matter of seconds. And when she spoke again, though it was her voice that passed her lips, she did not sound quite like herself. "Tivia?" The Atvanian warrior whispered, leaning closer to the stricken caster. "Are... you well? Is there anything that I can--"

Alster is recovering. The words, after her sleep-deprived mind managed to process them, settled a nauseating mixture of panic and relief deep in her gut. Recovering from what? What had happened to him in her absence, now that she was no longer present to look out for him? "Was he--is he in danger? Do you know what happened to him?" Elespeth's tone was desperate and hoarse. She yearned to be filled in on the details to which she had not been privy in what felt like so long, to know what to expect if she must fear the worst... "Tell me what you know, please... If there is anything that I can--"

The ruined Rigas caster was quick, however, to grab her hand and force her clenched fingers apart with surprising strength. She shivered as Tivia's finger traced the pink scar, whose electricity she hadn't felt in eons. Still there... so their bond had not been completely severed? It still existed, in spite of that harsh dream where Alster had very nearly (and unknowingly) killed her, some thread of it holding strong and refusing to yield...
Much like her love for him refused to yield, despite distance, despite war, and despite the reality that it seemed impossible for them to ever be together...

Before Tivia could divulge any more, the brightness faded from her intense gaze, and her shoulders slumped, as if something had just departed her body and mind. But the former knight was ready for whatever would result from this divination, and grabbed the edge of her blanket to dab at the caster's bleeding ears. "Tivia..." She pressed a sigh from her lungs, holding the poor woman's sagging form against her own. "I want you to be right. About the twin stars... that me and Alster are destined. I want to believe it..." Squeezing her eyes shut did nothing to prevent the heavy tears that flowed anew down her cheeks. "Please... please be right about this."

Haraldur loosened his hold until his palms merely grazed Vega's arms. She stabilized on her feet, and no longer needed his guidance to walk or stand. But her questions had anchored him in place, and the accompanying, blue-eyed stare had frozen him to the ground, leaving him doubly moored. 

"No," he said almost immediately, the word emphatic on his lips, though his expression did not change. He, too, wanted to believe that answer."You are still you, Vega. And you are still in recovery. You will have the time to regain what you have lost in memory. Once you do, you'll feel more like yourself, and not this 'something else' that you think you are." Though it was true--she was still the person he had known her as--he, unfortunately, could not look past where she had been, and the discomfort it dredged in him. It was possible that her soul was damaged: Vitali never gave him a clear answer and only chalked it up to the severity of the case, the patient's disposition, and the circumstances leading to her revival. Even if her soul remained in tact, to gaze into those expressive eyes and accept what he had done to her, when it would have been a mercy to let her sleep in death, was an near-paralyzing undertaking. She was a walking reminder of the afterlife, which he had always been able to partition away from the minutiae of his vocation, which hinged on ending lives. Lest he go mad, he could not dwell on where the dead went, or if they would rise again, cognizant and conscious and as autonomous as they were in life. It was not fair to her, but her return...it disturbed him. And that was what had changed. 

She, however, could still impact him, no matter how much he endorsed his reasons for withdrawing. His imminent incarceration, of course, being the main reason. But when she terminated their relationship, beyond that of their coupling, but also severing him from his obligations to Eyraille, something twisted up and shriveled from within. Made more severe by his contact with the necklace, which she had pooled back into his hand, he found it harder to maintain his mask of stoicism and indifference. Even though she claimed he was still welcome at her sky-top kingdom, he knew he had lost it forever. A place he wanted to claim as home. The refugees, Thora, Vega, who he had destroyed so badly that he could never show his face in Eyraille... All gone. Perhaps it was for the best, but he could not temper that something inside of him that had broken. The hope for a tomorrow that pumped even greater than his desire to die--it fell to pieces before his eyes. 

"I understand," he said, trying to control the melancholy that swam in his unsteadying voice. "I hope I have served you well." He gave her one last salute, fist to chest, and watched Vega as she retreated, her back to him. Closing his fingers over the necklace, he lowered his head to the ground. He did not give chase. He took his punishment with as much grace as he could muster. And when several Rigas guards came for him later, requesting that he follow them to Main House to 'answer a few questions,' he nodded in resignation, and accepted that punishment without fuss. 

The star was gone. Its presence had throbbed through her orifices until it felt like her blood would burst from her veins. Lucky that it had only trickled from her ears, the abused receptacle of her unwanted power. But, oddly, when the star blinked out of her mind, and her senses returned, she felt more put-together than she could remember. It was as if the alien visitor pulled from her some of her fugue, revitalizing her near-depleted stores of self-perception. She actually felt like one of the earth, and all sensations, great and small, returned to her. The soft grinding of her teeth, the slimy tracings of blood down her neck, and--Elespeth. Her haunting cries, the shine of tears that wet her face, her shrunken, hunched shoulders...

"I--no," she said, sounding drained and meek in juxtaposition to the force that propelled out of her mouth just moments ago. "I do not know. I am only under the impression, that his 'recovery,'" she pursed her lips, hesitant to share, "is from you. He was once in a state like mine, for a time. But," she hurried, "he is helping others. It has saved him, for now. That is all I...unfortunately, I cannot say more..." She began to mumble. "The star, it was swift, showed me only what my mortal eye could glimpse. And I did not see images, per say. It was as if this knowledge was implanted in me, but only so much, lest it would overwhelm me."

Taking the blanket from Elespeth, she applied pressure to her bleeding left ear, then transferred it to the right one, alternating between them in random order. "I believe it," she said, in an almost whisper. "How else can your bond still function if there is not some alternate link that closes your souls together? The bond is only a physical manifestation. The twin stars--they are the true representatives of it. The power source. The arbiters of your intertwining lives. But," she offered another blanket to Elespeth, and used it to wipe away her tears, "he is still in danger of death. Remember this. If you can--try to contact him through dream. Warn him. He is still within your reach. He always has been."

Did I do the right thing? Vega could not help but feel uncertain in her retreat from the dedicated merenary who had served her with such steadast loyalty. She couldn't be sure, but it had looked as though something akin to sadness had swam in his warm, green eyes at her formal dismissal... but she must have been mistaken. There had been something between them, yes, but it was something that Haraldur had decided to reonsider. Perhaps, before she had successfully been ressurected, he had thought it best to let go of any hopes with a future with the likes of a dead princess... And by the time she had escaped from the clutches of death and had drawn breath again, he had already resolved to move on.
She could not blame him for it. But it still eluded her as to why he would attempt to restore her life at all, if only to discard her once he was successful...

The Skyknight hugged herself against the chill of late autumn as she made her way upwards from the infirmary, earning both curious and suspicious glances from onlookers. It had not occurred to her that she would stand out as a foreigner quite so much, but in a close-knit city like Stella D'Mare, any unfamiliar face was probably easily detected. She shied away from prying eyes as soon as she realized this, and found herself a relatively populated communal area near a gushing fountain where others were too preoccupied with their own business to pay the Eyraillian soldier much heed.
The lack of attention came as a great relief, in a moment where Vega merely wished to be alone with her thoughts, evenv if those thoughts encompassed more sadness and nostalgia for a time that she had yet to full remember than anything else. But the solitude was rather short-lived when all of a sudden, everyone surrounding the whimsical fountain appeared to freeze and hold their breaths, as if hoping lack of movement would make them invisible to the Andilarian troops that passed. Vega followed suit, knowing that her presence here put not only her in danger, but all of Stella D'Mare, and wondered if word of her presence here had gotten out. Wondered if she was the one who they sought...

But the soldiers passed without a sidelong glance, and a whoosh swept through the small crowd as everyone exhaled the breaths they were holding. "This is beyond ridiculous," a regally-dressed man, standing straight with his arms folded, commented to no one in particular. "A prisoner in my own damn home is bad enough. And now I get to be on edge because they're on the prowl for some poor sod..."

"They're... looking for someone?" Vega dared to ask, capturing the man's attention with raised eyebrows. It was risky, engaging locals who did not necessarily welcome her here, but she needed to be in the know... "Do you know who?"

"Not exactly. Just word has it that they're hunting someone who is not supposed to be here." The man shrugged. "Doesn't mean they're inclined to act friendly to those of us who are legal citizens of this place, though I'll just be happy when they find who they want. Tensions are bad enough as it is... Who might you be, anyway? You're not a familiar face..."

"Thank you," The Eyraillian princess muttered with a nod of her head, before acting on the cue that she had better leave. Someone who was not supposed to be here... Andalari must have caught wind that she was among the denizens of Stella D'Mare. And if that was the case, where could she possibly hide, and how might she so much as make an attempt to escape with the Rigas caster? Suddenly, it all felt futile--like a suicide mission...
So Vega made the decision to hide within the expansive gardens for some time after, away from any living soul and afraid to make a sound. Hours passed, she grew hungry and thirsty and exhaustio began to creep up on her, and not a soul had passed by in search of an intruder. For the moment, she appeared to be safe... And she knew she could not hide forever.

Standing on achng knees, the Skyknight moved back through the gardens, retracing her footsteps to the best of her amnesiac ability as she made for the infirmary once more--and stopped dead in her tracks, taking cover behind a tall tree that was her saving grace.

She saw him before she notied them--Haraldur. Surrounded by Andalarian soldiers, hands shackled behind his back. Apprehended... in the hands of the enemy.
No. Vega had to resist the urge to scream his name, to scramble to wrench him from the hands of the Andalarian men. This wasnot supposed to happen; this was not how it was supposed to end. And she would not let it end this way. If the Rigases wanted her help so badly, then they would need to cooperate.

When she was too far from the men's field of vision, the Eyraillian princess dashed out from behind the concealment of bark and leaves--only to all but collide with a famiiar face. Before she could speak, Vega grasped Chara's shoulders, blue eyes wide and frantic and enraged. "What is going on?" She hissed, her grip strong for a woman who had been dead not too long ago. "We need to help him. If you want my cooperation in freeing your betrothed from this place, then you are going to help me free Haraldur. Am I being clear?" She echoed the Rigas woman's determined words from earlier, but the difference was her voice was leaden with quiet and heavy fury. If Chara did not think that the frail-looking foreigner was not a force to be recokened with, then she would have done well to reconsider in that moment--especially considering that she had knownn this would take place. She had known, and had not forewarned their Eyraillian guest. 

"No... no. It's all right. You did what you could... more than you should have." Still weeping, Elespeth sqeezed Tivia's shoulder, feeling wretched for demanding anything of the stricken caster. What right did she have to ask the woman to divine for her, especially when it wreaked such havoc on her fragile mind and body? "He is reocvering. That is all that matters, right? That he is well... I do not deserve to be concerned, otherwise." Not when she was the one to make the decision to leave him. Not when it had not been what he had intended or desires... And not while it had caused him further grief, after all that he had been through. She loved Alster... and she had no right to.

But Tivia still thought otherwise. Looking down at the scar on her palm, at the raised flesh that had once encompassed so much more, she tried to feel him, like she used to be able to. She yearned for that little spark of electricity that indicated a love other than her own, the hum of a heartbeat that was so far away, and yet so close. She imaged she could still feel them, but what was real and what was merely her own desires imposing on her desperate consciousness, she could not determine. Sniffling, she acccepted the blanket to dab at her tears, grateful for Tivia's lack of judgement for her emotional outburst; something she never would have expected of a Rigas. "I want to believe... I want it to be true," she murmured again, meeting Tivia's tired gaze.

"Tivia, I am not magically adept. However Alster manages to infiltrate dreams.... and however we used to manage to do so with one another, it was always on accident, never intentional." She confessed, feeling as though she was already a failure. "Tell me... how can I do it? How can I reacah him if he does not want to see me? I saw him for a moment--just a glimpse, though. He was there, in my dream, but... then he was gone. So quickly..." The Atvanian warrior shook her head. "Help me contact him--to warn him. If... if you are able."

It had only taken a few minutes for Chara to calm Alster, but it was enough time for that blasted Eyraillan princess to excuse herself from the infirmary, as if she could weave in and out as she pleased, without repercussions. Much though she wanted to run after Vega and block her escape, as it was far too risky for her to be seen by any estate-roving Andalarians, she ground her desires against her jaw, and instead stayed with Alster. She listened to his half-coherent rants, dried his wave of tears, massaged his shoulders, and, as gently as she could, urged his consciousness back to his surroundings. Nowadays, it was easier for her to guide him, since she had practice from the innumerable times he had regressed into feverish manias or long-stretching depressions since the Atvanian scum's departure. Mania was her more preferred condition for Alster; it seldom lasted long, and he usually regained his sense of self more often than during his depressive states, which were a numbing, dead, droning stupor. He was hard to reason with when he ceased to care or feel. Luckily, those instances became more scarce once he dedicated his time to Lilica. But Vega's arrival, curiously, coincided with his more troubling bouts with stress and panic.

As she had predicted--and hoped--Alster gave himself a running start, back into the realm of normalcy. Slapping his shoulders as her own non-verbal version of "Wake up, you dunderhead," Chara made to stand. 

"I must fetch Her Royal Highness before she wanders over a cliff," she explained, when he tilted his head at her in inquiry. "Or straight into the arms of Andalarian soldiers." 

Wobbly at first, Alster climbed to his feet, rubbing away the residue of his tears with the back of his hand. "I won't be far behind you," he said, meek but otherwise undisturbed. "Go. I'll catch up." 

She about opened her mouth to protest his involvement, but her forbiddance would nary stop even his pinky finger from twitching at her in defiance. "Very well. But exercise caution, lest you land yourself into yet another heavy slumber. Besides," she shrugged, "she cannot have traveled far." 

As she opened the double doors and sauntered outside, she noticed that Haraldur was absent from where she saw him last, seemingly guarding his station like a trained soldier. Suspicion mounted on her brow. Andalari. They are here. Unless the mercenary darted off somewhere, as well.

Seeing as the Eyraillan princess was unfamiliar with the territory, and locked inside a gated estate at the apex of a mountain, with nowhere to go but down and through magically and physically fortified parameters, searching for the missing princess did not worry her. However, before she could resume her search, she caught a small procession marching towards her periphery. In lieu of hiding, Chara planted herself beside the pathway, and nodded her greetings as the small Andalarian company ushered along their prisoner. Haraldur--hands shackled behind his back and dressed in the barest of essentials, which looked as nothing more than a burlap gunnysack. They all marched away from Main House, their hurried steps in no means merciful to the mercenary, who loped along from his yet-to-heal injury. The man's face was hardened, like slate, his eyes mere ghosts of the living. 

Chara bowed to the men as they crossed her on the road, expressing her sentiments to Andalari and thanking them for apprehending this "heinous criminal," from their 'most beauteous grounds.' They only grunted in agreement, muttered some half-hearted affirmations, and continued on their determinate course. As they skirted past her, however, she looked from behind--and saw the cursed Skyknight racing right to them! 

Whirling around on her toes, Chara intercepted the woman and knocked her off the path, into the nearby bushes.

"What are you doing?!" she whispered fiercely. "Do you want them to spot you? Your reanimated life, then, will all be in vain!" Though the wrenching of her shoulders pained her, Chara refused to move out of the fiery woman's way. "We cannot help him, lest you--and your kingdom--and us, the charitable Rigases--fall to Andalari's will and whims!" 

Despite her warnings, Vega still fought and struggled to break past Chara's persistent footing. Hands struggling from beneath the Eyraillan's grip, she rose one free of its binding and summoned a spell that would send shocks all through the madwoman's body...

But another spell ripped through the air in its place. Alster, hand outstretched, stepped forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

"I've erected a barrier around the both of you," he said, the invisible energy still bending the air around them. "Neither can leave unless I deactivate the spell." His voice was a calculated calm, an impressive contrast from mere moments ago. Though his eyes were still red and puffy, he held himself with a patient, yet firm air, as he looked at Chara, then honed his attention to Vega. 

"I had already warned him," he began, once Vega displayed signs of listening. "I told him that Andalari was to arrest him, for 'crimes against Rigas and Andalarian security.' They don't know that you were a passenger on the roc that he drove into our estate, and so see him as a rogue brigand. Haraldur accepted his sentence without a second thought," he continued, the celestial magic spurting from his fingertips like little white sparks. "He offered himself to them...to protect you. To ensure you remain alive, and have a safe route back to Tadasun, with your roc. If you go out there, and reveal yourself to them, his sacrifices will mean nothing. But this does not mean his death, Vega. The man is resourceful--and he has a powerful ally." Vitali won't let him die he thought, with a sour frown. "Return with us to the infirmary, Vega." With a hesitant flick of his wrist, the barrier around her and Chara vanished. "Once there, I'll tell you everything I know." 

Tivia, vestiges of her personality returning in messy, uneven clumps, twisted her face at Elespeth's strange admittance. "You do not deserve to be concerned? That sounds like another way of saying that you are not concerned. You either are or you are not. And you most definitely are. Your circumlocutory speech does you nor him any favors. What matters, right now, is that we make contact with him, and prevent his death. All else in terms of your relationship will make itself clear once you two speak to each other." 

Dropping her bloodied blanket to the floor, Tivia stretched towards the tin of water that Elespeth had placed by her side with the exhaustive effort to encourage her to drink. Now, with her lips cracked open and bleeding, and her throat so parched, her voice abraded against it like ground up rocks, she took a few thankful gulps, and only stopped because she feared her newfound zeal in the material world would cause her to choke. 

"You do not have to be magically adept, Elespeth. The two of you are connected. Before you sleep at night, call to him in your thoughts. Call to him until sleep calls back, and you fall into slumber. Mayhaps he will hear you, mayhaps he will not. But stuck as we are in this damned camp, how else can we succeed in contacting him? I'm afraid," she sighed, "unless the stars possess me or scream their demands into my ears until I am bloody deaf," she closed her hands over her knees, "I cannot aid you any further. In matters involving Alster--you are more capable of reaching him than anyone else I can possibly envisage. Do not undermine the power that you have over him. ...It will save him, but only if you quit slathering yourself in your debilitating doubt and remorse." She shook her head with slow, side-to-side motions. "You cannot proceed forward, or hope to help him, otherwise."

Something, all of a sudden, stood between her and her and the air surrounding her. Perplexed, Vega found herself pressing her hands against what felt like a wall of soft glass, effervescent yet impenetrable. It would not give, even when a feral growl escaped her throat and she pounded on it, throwing her weight into it with what feeble strength she could muster.
It only took a moment for the stricken Skyknight to realize the futility of it, however, as Alster's explanation echoed in her ears. And less than a moment for her rage to dissipate into a tear-jerking acceptance that there was, in fact, nothing she could do in that moment. Not for Haraldur.

With a sob, the Eyraillian princess fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands. "You knew," she accused, her chest heaving with shallow breaths as she wept. "You knew, and you... didn't tell me. And he knew and did not tell me... why? How could you do this?" Because they are afraid I will shatter, Vega answered her own question before it had fully formed on her lips. Because they think I am not strong and will keep me sheltered until they are satisfied with my improvement. And until then, they will have me do nothing but convalesce.

The worst of it was, she could not blame them. For were she in their position, she'd have done exactly the same thing...

"I just... it isn't supposed to be like this." Wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve, Vega pulled herself reluctantly to her feet. "I severed ties with him... so that he could feel free of obligation to me. Since he..." Since he has run out of love for me, she sighed. If he had ever had any love at all. "He is supposed to be better off, free of me. Not in the hands of a bloodthirsty enemy..."

But there was nothing to be done about it by complaining and wailing, and Alster was offering her the information that she desired--that she needed. And, as she was, the Eyraillian princess was in no way in any shape to go after the mercenary on her own and effectively help him escape. Besides, as the Rigas caster had said, Haraldur was resourceful, and a survivor. He would fine--for now.

Offering a shallow nod, the air shimmered around her as Alster brought down the invisible shields surrounding her and Chara. "...all right. I'll go with you." Came her quiet agreement, azure eyes no longer bright with fury, but rather dull, despondent. "But you have to promise to tell me everything you know... because I cannot leave Stella D'Mare until I know that Haraldur is safe. I will otherwise not rest a day in my life, wondering what could have befallen him..."

As Elias slept fitfully, alone in the infirmary, a quiet shadow in familiar robes passed the twin doors, and made their way over to his bed, so silent that nary a footstep echoed through the high-ceilinged building. Reaching his bed, they parted the curtains to look upon the wan and waxy figure, who drew laboured, wheezing breaths. Without a sound, they dipped a hand into their robe, withdrawing a smooth, flat stone, the size of their palm, that they then placed upon the semi-conscious Clematis healer's chest.

The stone, of its own purifying properties, drew the discomfort from the ravaged man's body, from his lungs to the ache in his bones. As it siphoned the pain, the cloudy-white grew darker and darker, until it reached opaque grey, at which point the quiet figure withdrew it. And smiled, when Elias opened his eyes.

"I contemplated whether or not I should return... it seems a good thing I did," Daphni announced, pocketing the stone once more. "I've merely soothed your ails for the time being; no invasive magic, I promise. You look as though you could use a reprieve from the pain..."

Noting how her eyes her robes, she decided she had better venture to explain. "My remaining Sybaian sisters found me after they fled Stella D'Mare, after that massacre... To make a long story short, they begged me to return to them. And in their deep need for guidance, and due to the gruesome circumstances that reduced our numbers so drastically... I now lead our sect."

Absently, she ran a hand across Elias's forehead, brushing damp tresses of hair away from skin, as she said, rather cheekily, "Apologies if you had wished to forget about me."

Alster accepted Vega's accusations with a silent sigh and a nod of admittance, but he resolved not to allow his accountability to overwhelm him. He could not hope to salvage any of his mistakes and misled actions by forever looking into the past and obsessing over them. That, too, would not help the distraught woman find any measure of peace or acceptance for what had befallen her. And for what he had failed to stop. 

"I knew," he affirmed, keeping his hand outstretched for a beat longer, in case she tried to attack or bolt. Then, he proffered that same hand to her in a bid for solidarity as he led her and Chara to his villa. It was a last minute decision but he thought his home was a more welcoming venue than the stale insides of a building that had been her prison cell just as much as it had been a place of sanctuary. He explained this to her, as well as their need for secrecy and stealth as they crossed over the grounds of the estate. He used magic to shield himself and Vega from view, as a deterrent against curious onlookers or the guards that were assigned to track his progress. Once they reached the front terrace and entered through the doors, Alster dispersed the spell, and offered Vega a seat in the vast living space while he fetched a bottle of wine, to make his upcoming confessions more palatable for her to swallow. 

"I knew," he repeated from earlier, as he poured her a goblet halfway full of the bright-red liquid. "I didn't tell you, for selfish reasons. And it...was not easy." Though he was not much of a wine drinker, he poured himself a little, as well, and swished it around in his glass. Chara took the remains of the bottle and dispensed of formalities, drinking straight from the source in one, long swig. Alster watched with a frown, but continued. "I've been in your position before. Someone I loved dearly...someone I still love," he shook away vestiges of his dream, of beholding Elespeth's tear-stricken face, before he threatened to break for a second time, "was once apprehended by the enemy." He chose not to specify the 'enemy' in question, or the special circumstances behind Elespeth's arrest out of fear of too much disclosure. "They planned to execute her for her crimes, and I risked my life and the lives of my family in order to free her from this fate. Going by my own experiences, I suspected you would plan to do the same for Haraldur, were you to know. But there was too much at stake, for everyone involved. Haraldur realized this, and knew that he was in an unavoidable position. I could not save him, Vega. Neither could Chara, or you, or himself. We are too closely watched, too high-profile to stage any kind of assault against an entire nation who knows our faces. In the past, I only succeeded because I had anonymity and insider information on my side. Not so in Andalari, where we, the Rigases, are prisoners within a prison. But," he took a small sip of his wine, "all is not lost for Haraldur."

"Do you know of the price that Haraldur had paid to bring you to life? Did he tell you?" Sensing a "no" in response, he nodded expectantly. "The necromancer, Vitali, the man who resurrected you, is much like a mercenary, himself. He demanded payment for his services, and in exchange, Haraldur offered his sword and he offered to kill. The terms of Haraldur's side of the agreement is to be determined at the necromancer's convenience. This man...he is not the sort to let an acquisition escape from his fingers. So I will speak with Vitali, Vega. And see what can be done. I'll also try to contact Haraldur through dream, and ascertain his condition and his whereabouts in the dungeons. Unfortunately," he took another sip of the slippery wine, but began to feel its effects too strongly and surrendered the rest to Chara, "we can't afford to wait around in Stella D'Mare for word of his immediate safety. The whole of this city, including him, is in even greater danger, if we don't act on stopping a primal force that lurks beneath our feet, which, if freed, will crumble this place to the ground. To do so," he stared at the floor, as if to search for the lurking threat he had mentioned, "I have to leave. My very presence feeds and sustains this destructive creature. You are my best chance at escape, Vega. Please," he turned her eyes, and his body to her, gripping her hands in his own, "it's imperative that I ride with you. We have to take advantage of what Haraldur afforded for us, however unbearable it may be to let him go."

"And you are not the only one who currently has a loved one imprisoned, "Chara muttered, her hostile gaze flashing at Vega. "She has been locked away for close to two months. I daresay your dutiful warrior can stand to endure his sentence for a short while longer."

Elias wavered in and out of consciousness, his breathing so pained and rattled, he could think of nothing more than the biting agony. Occasionally, his mind would offer him a reprieve, and he would fade into a black, numbing void, free of anything that represented life, but also free of all suffering. He was in this state, wholeheartedly accepting the deconstruction of his failing existence, ready to surrender to the abyss if the abyss would promise him providence. Salvation. No pain, no memory, no anything.

Then, the void cracked in two, allowing a brilliant shaft of light to saturate his sanctum. He batted away the glare, anticipating searing, endless pain, as the light tended to deliver, whenever it deigned to wrench him back to being. But this time, it radiated a soothing, healing pulse, a caress of wind that plucked him from the bottom and urged him through the opening of the void, which pulled apart at his entry, funneling him through a tunnel where colors splashed and then reorganized into pictures. When he reached the end, that picture, blurry at first, began forming into a figure. A human figure, with robes of a familiar color, which reflected off a familiar face, notable even in the dark. Elias coughed weakly, and opened his eyes wider, to ascertain her realness, her solidity.

"Daphni?" He croaked, his watery eyes threatening to lose the completeness of the vision before him. "I'd be convinced I was hallucinating, but..." he paused, listening to her truncated version of events, which inevitably led her back to Stella D'Mare. "Wait." He screwed his face up at her, his suspicion mounting. "This must be a hallucination. Your story makes not a lick of sense. How in all hells did you breach Stella D'Mare's security and Rigas security with all of the ease of some seasoned rogue? And do not get me started on your sudden 'promotion.' I," he shifted in his covers, to afford himself a better look at her, "call this nonsense. Trite. Cannot possibly exist in the realm of reality."

With numb legs and aching spirit, the Eyraillian princess allowed herself to be led to Alster's villa, which at least lent a change in scenery from the dull infirmary. The Rigases, it seemed, lived like Royals in their own right, with luxury and extravagance. And she suspected that Alster's dwelling rested on the cusp of modesty, compared someone with as great an air of importance as Chara. The gold-framed mirror in the annex struck a chord of familiarity in her, perhaps hearkening to something she had seen back in her own home in Eyraille--if she could truly call such a place home, unwelcoming and intolerant as it was...

Eyeing the wine bottle, she thought better than to drink, knowing that her mind and memories were already severely jeopardized. But she owed Alster the opportunity to explain, at the very least, and what he had to say did not soften the ache of knowing Haraldur was in danger, but it did buffer her hope that not all was lost for the mercenary. "He did that... for me? But why? Why would he go through all of that, restoring my life, just to decide he wishes to... move on?" She asked, that single question whose answer remained ever unclear. "Still, if Haraldur's bargain with the necromancer os what might possibly earn him his freedom... I only hope that the price of it does not come to too much."

Vega had all but forgotten about Alster's sullen and arrogant betrothed, who had taken more wine for herself than what was probably necessary. But when she opened her mouth again, the words that she confided stirred a seed of forgiveness in the Skyknight's heart. Turning to Chara, she let her gaze drop.

"I am sorry," she told her in earnest, remorseful for the hostility that she had shown to her earlier. "You're right; I am not alone in a state of pining or suffering. I want to help you--both of you, for whatever help I might be in this state. And if that means taking Alster with me, upon my roc, then consider it done. And..." She paused, considering, before raising her eyes to Chara. "Your imprisoned companion... If you can find a way to free her, and ensure spells of concealment, then I will return to Stella D'Mare for her, after I have ascertained Alster's safety... if you should so desire."

Daphni snorted. Even illness seemed not to diminish this stubborn man's cynicism towards her, as well as any other means of help that could possibly benefit him in some way...
On the other hand, she could not blame him. Stella D'Mare's security against outsiders had no less than doubled since she had taken her leave, following the massacre at the encampment. Even she considered the fact she had managed re-entry nothing less of a miracle, but then, she had seen miracles happen. In some cases, some would argue that she had, in fact, induced them.

Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, the Sybaian healer picked up a tin of water at the Clematis healer's bedside that looked to be entirely untouched. "You aren't hallucinating. I've diminished your fever a good deal, although you could perhaps be experiencing delirium due to dehydration, which would cause you to question your reality. Here." Raising the tin to his lips, she did not withdraw until she was satisfied that he had swallowed several mouthfuls. "I acknowledge your disbelief as a valid sentiment. But the fact remains that everything I am telling you is nothing short of the truth. You seem so far gone, I am actually surprised you are cognizant of the city's current state of affairs and defenses."

Replacing the cup on the table, she dipped the corner of Elias's blanket into what little remained of the water and dabbed at his forehead and pale cheeks. "It was a long shot, but I am acquainted with a defector from Andalari. He lent me the garb to sneak in along with the other troops returning from reconnaissance... No one here had really paid the Sybaia much heed. Should anyone ask questions, then as far as they know, I never left." A ghost of a smile curled the corners of her mouth, warm blue eyes temporarily meeting Elias's, which swam with fatigue and shadowed agony. "As for my promotion... I cannot say I really understand it, myself."

Daphni paused, when she thought she heard voices pass the infirmary, and only continued when she was certain they were alone--which she could tell by the fact that Elias's mixed emotions, as conveyed in his aura, were the only ones she could sense. "I refused, when my sisters first approached me with the desperate plea to rejoin them... several times, in fact." A sigh akin to one of remorse passed her full lips. "I did not want to be a part of the Sybaia, not only for what they had done to me, but because I felt as thought I was drowning in the practice. But I... traveling alone, I realized that I could not escape drowning. And that I could either suffer it alone, or in the presence of those who at least understand. And I wanted to make it worthwhile. So..."

Spreading her hands, she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Here I am, a deserter returned to the cause, for lack of any other defining purpose. And because I had a particular ally who I knew was in need of help... for whatever it is worth."

Alster's attentive eyes faded, shading over in memory as a result of Vega's earnest question. Why do we deny our hearts, reject our happiness and wall it all away? Why did he? Why...why did I?he thought, staring at his gloved hand where, beneath all his ritualistic rune carvings, his blood-oath scar seemed to flare in response--as if she was calling for him. He balled his hand into a weak fist and leaned back into his seat before returning his attention to Vega. "There can be any number of reasons, Vega. Perhaps he did so to further protect you, knowing that he faced imprisonment by Andalari and by the ties that bind him to the necromancer's will, and he didn't wish to involve you in such messy affairs, uncertain as to how it would end for him. I cannot say what Vitali will ask of him, but Haraldur, at least, has one fortunate ability, and it might save him from the necromancer's wrath, should he turn on him." He stared out at the terrace, beyond which the sky, purple and pink and vermilion, was bruising into night. "One, his necklace. You no longer seem to possess it, so I can only assume you've returned it to its owner. Its powerful magic will shield him from harm," though I don't know the extent to which it can protect him, or if the magic is beginning to wear, he thought silently. 

"But the ability of which I speak--magic resistance. Magic that physically damages or heals the body in a direct manner does not and cannot affect him. That's why the tear at his side is still mending, despite his access to healing magic. Psychic attacks are still able to penetrate his mind, yes, but I've traveled into his subconscious, and it's almost like a fortress. I only just managed to wriggle through its defenses. I don't know if he was always able to fend off magic, or if his latent talents were tweaked for this specific purpose, but it seems quite clear that to me, he was born into a magic-proficient family, or bears close relations to an adept of the discipline. I suspect that he inherited it from whomever charmed his necklace." At the end of his lengthy discourse, he sighed, running idle fingers through his hair, and returned to her initial question. "Do you regret that Haraldur made the decision to revive you, Vega?"

By then, Chara had intuited her own personal input, which had warmed Vega to their cause. Alster brightened at the Eyraillan princess's agreement to help, and even managed a slight, grateful smile in response. Elespeth, he looked again at his palm, which had since retreated from the Skyknight's grasp, there is a chance I'll get to see you. ...One last time. If... his smile faded, if you even wish to see me at all...

His prevailing sentiments were interrupted by Chara, who, after placing the almost-empty wine bottle on the table, regarded Vega with a guarded, testing appraisal, as if trying to glean if her words were genuine. "It will be difficult to trick our venerable Rigas head a second time, if we are even able to trick him at all. Focus only on this mission for now. But I will consider your offer, though I doubt it will come to pass." With hesitation, she added, "thank you." 

"Chara and I will plan a strategy for my inclusion on your mount," Alster said, tapping on the arm of his chair. "You won't have to do anything out of the ordinary, Vega. Feign ignorance. That way, if we are caught, you will come to zero accountability. Our Rigas head, or one of his councilmen, will no doubt inform you on when you have clearance to fly back to camp Tadasun. The only thing you and I have left to work on," he pointed to Vega, "your memories. Your roc won't allow you to fly on her until we rid of that pesky death shroud that envelops you. I've already lessened it by some margin, but I can't lift it in its entirety unless we restore you in full. We haven't much time to delay." He began to stand. "We'll have to return to the infirmary before Adalfieri wonders of your whereabouts. And once we're there," he nodded gravely, "we'll have to resume your memory extraction." 

Although Elias was by no means in peak condition, physically or cognitively, vestiges of his personality did not subside or vanish. His pride impelled him to slap away Daphni's hand when she presented him with water, preferring to control the tin with his own questionable strength. (He had succeeded, but at the cost of the water's contents sloshing out of the tin and soaking his front.) His sardonic sense of humor was also in tact, as something of a snort escaped his chapped, cracking lips. It only agitated his raspy, almost inaudible voice, but he seemed not to notice, or care as much about it or his failing health as he had in the past. "Now I know you are no hallucination. The Daphni I recall was assured of her expertise, to the point of condescension among her colleagues. I know what causes delirium." He gurgled a small, choking laugh, sounding as 'far gone,' as the newly-restored Sybaian accused him of being. "And that is not at all surprising. Any dolt with half a mind would be abreast of the goings-on in this city. The Rigases speak of nothing else. They are not a subtle lot, as you know." 

While he lay there, accepting Daphni's treatment of water upon his face with a grudging acceptance, he listened to her elaboration of a tale that had already seemed to him like some yarn that she was spinning with the intent to keep him awake and aware. But if that were the case, he would have to accept that she was, after all, a hallucination. For, why did she risk her life and safety, all for a "long shot" plan of breaching not only the walls of Stella D'Mare, but those of the Rigas estate, a walled city within a walled city? And for what reason? Certainly, it was not to find and tend to him as he waited for his death throes. It was much more reasonable to believe her as not real, as never real, or that perhaps she never left at all and was, in fact, pulling his leg with an improbable story. But that didn't explain why she was here now. Why she was here at all. The former was, naturally, the most realistic explanation: that he was finally losing his mind. 

He pursed his lips, staring into eyes that were so present, yet so prescient, he could not determine if they were of this world, or part of the afterlife to which she belonged, having actually succeeded in killing herself without the help of his poison. And that he, too, was dead. "What I do not understand," he began, shifting his still-aching joints and wondering if pain persisted even in death, "is why you had to risk penetrating the city's defenses at all. Do you have other business here? This," he indicated himself, "cannot be the sole reason why you have returned. And what of your clan? Where are they, now? Did they also breach the barriers of this city?"

"Regret?" Vega echoed Alster's inquiry, seemingly only half-aware of his presence as she pondered. Hadn't that been precisely what Haraldur had feared? That she'd have been better off, as well as happier, more at peace, in the arms of death? Perhaps there was some truth to it all, she realized, which twisted her guts with nauseating guilt. But it was not for the reasons that the mermcenary might have thought. "Life... it is a gift. I had a chance at it, and I failed--only to be given a second chance. Where would my gratitude be, were I to besmirch a rare second chance?" The smile she flashed was far-away, reflected in the dull hue of her once bright, blue eyes.

Shaking her head, she tugged at loose thread on her sleeve, watching it unravel as easily and as quickly as had her hope. "I can remember my death," she confided then, albeit hesitantly, fearing it might sound like the ramblings of a madwoman. "The moment I died... it came back to me, some hours ago, before you awoke from her sleep. All I can recall was that I was in the sky--until I wasn't anymore. The ground was beneath me, and... and blood. So much blood, and it all belonged to me. I think there was also pain, but I was too bewildered to realize it. Too... too focused on trying to get up, though I couldn't move. I was missing something... someone, and I knew that if I died, I would be letting them down. I think that person was Haraldur. But I... couldn't move, couldn't speak, and so I watched the clouds in the sky above, until..." The Skyknight closed her eyes. The memory seemed all the more painful, putting words to the pictures. "I didn't hurt anymore. There was just... warmth. Darkness. Like I was safe and buried beneath a soft quilt. And eventually, that quilt lifted, and I saw my mentor. The man who had made me a Skyknight, and had died only some years ago. But I could not seem to recall that, and was merely happy to climb upon his roc and take flight behind him, and there was... such peace. Peace like I had never imagined possible... that couldn't be possible, in this world.

"And I guess I went on believing that, when I was first pulled from death. Everything was... too... much.Too frightening." She shuddered, recalling that strange man--the necromancer, she assumed, given the context of the situation--and how, at his will, she had been wholly unable to move. To act at all. "But when... I woke up again, and I saw Haraldur's face... I felt that peace again, Alster. The peace that I had thought only belonged to death. That feeling you get when you think you have lost something precious, and then you find it..." Bringing her sleeve to her eyes, she dabbed at tears before they could fall. "I was happy to be alive. Because I felt I had something going for me, though I didn't know what it was... until you helped me remember that it was love."

Realizing too late that Alster's simple question had received a rather convoluted and intimate answer, she sat back in her seat, russet tendrils of wavy hair falling over her shoulders. "I did not regret that Haraldur brought me back, because, I think, I had something to return to. Something that gave me meaning and joy. But now, I..." Vega gnawed on her lower lip. "I only have a home and a brother that both resent me equally, a roc, and skies that take me nowhere. What I feel now is not peace; I think it is despair. Though I am and will be forever thankful for what Haraldur did on my behalf, I only wish he had not abandoned me. He should have told me... I could have helped him."

But what was done was done, and all that was left was to move on and deal with the issues at hand. "I apologize for my disgression... I suppose this is the result of knowing love for the first time in your life, when you had never experienced it before. You want to cling to it with every inch of your being, because now that you know what it is like, you realize how agonizing it could be if you lose it..." Something that she unknowingly shared with Chara's significant other, though that was a different case entirely, and if she knew Lilica, she'd never have realized any such similarity whatsoever. "Nonetheless, I am here now, and I have no intention of thowing away the gift Haraldur bestowed on me. This second chance... Although I do hope you are right, Alster, in your assessment of his magic-repellent abilities."

Standing, she bid Alster and Chara to lead the way to the infirmary. At least it was a quiet place, where she could dwell on those precious memories in peace. "Are you well enough to help me recall the missing pieces of my memories?" She asked Alster in earnest, seeming uncertain. "Last time, it seemed to... hurt you. And if there is any more repressed trauma... then I do not want anyone to have to experience it with me. It isn't fair." Her pain was hers alone; and she was determined to keep it to herself, from this point on.

"I already told you why I returned. If that is not a satisfactory explanation, then I might add on guilt for having deserted the city in the first place." Daphni maintained her reasons as she dabbed at Elias's clammy face in gentle motions with the corner of the blanket. "You saved my life and aided me many a time. I could not, in good faith and conscience, abandon you when I knew how you were deteriorating... and I should never have abandoned the cause, in the first place. I was stricken and lost; in no state, really, to make a sound decision. And I am remorseful for making that decision at all, but... thankful that I decided not to surrender to the hands of death." Her mouth quirked a small smile. "I have your condescending disapproval to thank for that, as well. And if I am to lead my clan now, then no true leader would abandon a city and a people in crisis. I only hope that you and the Rigases can forgive me my grave error in judgment..."

Dampening the end of the blanket again when it grew too warm on his feverish skin, and then applied it anew, tugging open the collar of his robe to expel more of that heat that had been building in his delirium. "The remainder of my clan chose not to follow me back here, for fear that not all of us would be successful. They have returned to Tadasun; the physicians there, from what I have been told, are rather sub-par." The Sybaian healer lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I might have risked my life, but a life where no risks are taken is not one worth living. I am Sybaian, and destined to eventually all victim to my own gift and curse, as such. Might as well make the best of the life I decided not to forfeit, hm?" Without preamble or consent, she went about checking his vital signs, which gave pause for her to worry. His temperature, weak pulse and laboured breathing did not bode well... The Clematis healer was fading, there was no mistake.

But not while she continued to draw breath--not now.

"But if I am not allowed to die, then neither are you, Elias. And I will not see you lie here and dissipate, awaiting death. Drink this." From the folds of her robes, Daphni withdrew a vial that glimmered with a faint green liquid substance. "I happened to encounter an old acquaintance in my travels. One who has experience in treating what you suffer. If we both make it through this war alive, then I want you to accompany me to see him. I cannot promise that he can cure, but many of his patients have lived long lives before illness has taken them. This," she indicated the vial, "is merely a concentrated form of that tea you drink. Too much, too soon can prove detrimental, but it should give you energy and relief enough to be of use, here. And, hopefully, to acquire hope in the aftermath. So: are we in agreement?"

Smile fading, Daphni stood, one arm outstretched with the vial for him to take. "It is a rhetorical question, because if you decline, I can and will dunk you in a bath of ice to treat that fever. And I guarantee you I'll revel in your humiliation."

Engrossed by her recall of the moments before her death and the in-between time spent with her mentor, Alster stood, mesmerized. Branching out from her personal experiences were his own musings, as he postulated the details on his upcoming date with Death. Would he suffer as the life leeched from his blood and into the ground? Or would he, like Vega,be too shocked to register the constricting, shriveling vestiges of his life, screaming its last and final protest? Would there be blue sky to greet him? A sliver of butterscotch sun, warm and deliquescent, melting upon his waning face? A memory of love on his lips, a picture of the woman he loved keeping him company behind his faltering vision? Or...would the fear of leaving her behind, of letting her down yet again, haunt his terminating thoughts?

Closing his eyes, Alster reached for the back of his chair for support, though his legs were not the ones quavering from the impact of the Skyknight's words. It was his heart. To find something lost, as she described--to behold it again, even if it was for one more time...he was so close to it, needed it. Needed her. But he worried that once he found her, he would never again let go. And he had no choice but to lower his hand, and release that most precious something, and hoped to all the heavens that someone would catch her before she sank into the dirt, because he no longer possessed the hands to catch. He would soon possess nothing at all. 

Alster nodded at Vega's discourse, to indicate that he was listening, perhaps a little too intently, a little too invested--as evidenced by the moisture lingering beneath his lids, and by his cheeks, which had grown into a death-like pallor. He opened his eyes halfway, and opened his hand, which had seized the back of his chair with a force so tight, he had to shake his frozen and locked fingers back into pliancy. 

"Haraldur is a very reserved, guarded man," Alster said, commanding his voice into even, strident tones. "I don't think he saw it as an option to turn to you, or to anyone, for help. It was probably difficult for him to appeal to the necromancer in the first place--that's how strongly he values your life. The fact that you won his heart at all, and that you have given him your own in turn--that's something I believe he'll carry with him, wherever he goes. Don't despair, Vega. There's no ending for you yet. Or for him." Not like me, he thought, lowering his eyes to the ground. It's ending, but I'm not yet ready to say goodbye... 

Presenting a small, hollow smile at Vega and her determination to make the most out of her second chance, he stepped away from the chair that provided him a very symbolic handhold, and guided his visitors to the door. 

En route to the infirmary, Alster used the same precautions, shrouding himself and Vega with invisibility shrouds, as they trekked the back-roads, through the garden, and eventually to the infirmary doors. Peeling away their layer of shielding as though it were a cloak, he opened their way to inside the dark, quiet chambers, and allayed Vega's worries with a dismissive hand gesture. "I've had my fair share of pain and trauma, Vega. You needn't worry. I wasn't adequately prepared, then, but I'm better rested, now." And as they stepped through the cavernous hallways, he stopped short when he heard a familiar voice chime from behind the curtain which designated Elias's bed and premature resting place. 

"As you should," Elias quipped as he slid his shoulders further up his pillow for a better, more comfortable upright position. Any comfort obtained, however, was dashed by Daphni's very involved buffering of his face, which he thought more invasive than helpful, and it oddly made him a little embarrassed. "And yes, I did contribute to the elongation of your miserable life--but in return, it is not necessary for you to coddle me, so." He turned his face away, at least grateful that it was already flush and swollen from his condition, and he therefore could not add much else to its already ripened color. "That will not earn you my forgiveness," he tilted his chin upward, with some measure of loftiness, "if you will even earn it at all, unprofessional as you have been. Besides, you missed a good deal of noteworthy events." He raised a fist, and began to tally the list with his fingers. 

"The accursed necromancer poisoned the Rigas water-well for some undisclosed reason, and the whole of the infirmary was crowded with Rigas infirm. They were eventually healed by the necromancer's capricious whims, but I about wanted to punt the blighter down the very well he so thoughtlessly infected." He ticked off the next finger. "The mercenary returned with a dead Eyraillan princess a few days ago--turns out, he cannot be healed by magic and would be an intriguing study, only I am in no condition to research this phenomena, and he seems to have vanished, which I do not recommend, since I cannot imagine his wound is in any condition to be jostled about with such blatant disregard for the care it took to sew him together, and..." He took a long, ragged breath, unaware that he, against his better character, was prattling on rather excitedly to this Sybaian woman, as if relieved, even gladdened, by the appearance of someone he had considered his equal, and for the opportunity to share the specifics as seen by one of his vocation. ...Even if she was a hallucination. He did not yet scrap that hypothesis. 

"And," he began again, after having extricated a gob of mucus and blood in his handkerchief, "the necromancer--he resurrected her. The Eyraillan princess. I told myself then that I could die knowing I had at least seen something of worth in all my disappointing years at this practice, but," he tilted his head at the green vial that Daphni displayed for his purview, and took it with tenuous hands. A light, green with the vitality of her proffered substance shone in the flecks of his hazel eyes as he unstoppered the cork, and sniffed the elixir from within. Though he could barely breathe, let alone smell, the potency of the materials mixed in the dram had transcended his olfactory senses, and penetrated straight to his memory, back to when he was strong enough to take and mix his tea four to five times a day. The vial was redolent of those times, to the point where he almost missed the regularity of his almost unbearable sour-bitter concoction. "Well," he tutted, bringing the vial to his lips, "let us see if this acquaintance of yours is as experienced as you claim. I doubt that this is poison meant to end my misery, not after your emphatic statement to the contrary. So..." he leaned back his head, and tasted a more intense version of the bilious liquid, which, despite its even more unbearable flavor, cleared his sinuses and eased the pain in his throat with near immediate relief. His lungs felt clear, buoyant, even, and his sibilant, croaking death rattle dissipated with a sudden swiftness. 

"Effective," he said, with an underrated flourish, as he looked at the vial with a discreet appreciation. "Unlike you, Daphni, I take my medicines, and listen to the physicians and healers whose care I am under. So your threats are entirely extraneous. Leave them to me." His smile was wry, teasing. But it faded when he heard the entrance of several new arrivals, and strained to hear their voices. "You are in luck, Daphni," he said, in a throaty whisper. "The revived Eyraillan princess. She is here."

"I do not coddle; I care for," Daphni corrected him, guiltily amused by his discomfort at her proximity. Admittedly, she had missed that dark and sardonic attitude that was so characteristic of the Clematis healer. It reminded her that there was still a spark in him; that he would not, so soon, accept death at it extended its cold hand to him. "And you are in no state to argue with me right now, so save your precious breath. I did not return for your forgiveness, Elias. I am here for your well-being, so that when I do pass in time, I will go to my grave without guilt and regret. So that you, nor any else, cannot say that I failed to leave my mark on this miserable world." For it was only in her lonely travels that the Sybaian healer realized she did, in fact, want what every other warrior, healer and living being desired: and that was to live on in memory.

And that could not be achieved in isolation and solitude.

But she lent an ear to the arrogant man as he filled her in on the events that had occurred in her absence, which were, as he claimed, significant and not at all trite in nature. In particular the arrival of the Eyraillian princess, and the involvement of the necromancer, Vitali, in both cases... "On one hand, I feel they should have expelled the necromancer from Stella D'Mare long ago," she admitted, her tone flat and signifying displeasure. "On the other hand... he can do what you and I cannot for the restoration of life. Although I would not go so far as to calling tearing a soul from the hands of death any form of 'healing'." It did make her wonder at the state of the newly revived princess, and how she was dealing with the possible repercussions of resurrection... But that was not her business. Not yet, anyway.

Relieved at Elias's willingness to consume the contents of the vial, she was almost astounded at how immediately it took effect on the Clematis healer's ravaged system. There was light in his eyes and strength in his posture, and though he still looked wretched from days of being bedridden, he was just as she remembered him, if not better. And that brought her a warm sense of comfort. "You do have the tendency to exhibit the obstinacy of a cranky child when others impede your pride by trying to care for you," Daphni commented, in response to his claim. "So I thought I would build up an arsenal of threats, just in case. Though I take it as a compliment that you are willing to accept my care, considering how strongly you used to think it was all based on nonsense." And he still thought that to a degree, of that much she was certain. All that had changed was his openness to new perspectives, with the progression of his illness. But if it was enough that it might save his life, then she would not complain. "I am glad to see you are your self-assured and self-righteous self again, Elias." And she meant that.

The sound of familiar voices drew her attention temporarily away from her petulant patient, and indeed, if this was the Eyraillian princess of whom Elias spoke, she was both eager and terrified to know the woman's condition. And if the princess required help... Who knew what sort of toll it might take on her?

"Alster." Daphni nodded at the familiar face, taking a moment to assess the Rigas caster's condition by way of taking note of his aura. He looked spent, exhausted, and something wasn't quite right... As if there was a piece missing from his whole being, something crucial, but she'd not be able to determine precisely what it was without venturing into the man's subconscious core and sorting through the damage. A feat that made caring for Elias and helping to treat his condition seem like quite the easy feat. "It has been a while. Is this..."

It was her, without a doubt: the woman who had returned from death. The Sybaian healer looked Vega over from a distance, head to toe, and almost reconsidered approaching. Her aura glowed with the chaos of energies that completely lacked direction, and were clouded with something... omious. Something that did not belong, but that clung like residue to her life essence. The remnants of death, she thought, and feared she was right. Time and again, she had been the barrier between a dying person and the prying hands of death, the door that stood in the way of a soul that was impelled to leave the body and cross over. But never had she dealt with the repercussions of one who had cheated death...
And the woman herself, resurrection aside, looked terrible. Exhausted and confused, half aware while the other half of her mind resided elsewhere. Whatever she had been through, dying or not, there was damage to be rectified. And as part of her clan's vows, she could not refuse help--not that she would have, even if given the chance.

This was, after all, her own second chance, in some respect. The chance to do things right, like she should have before she'd left Stella D'Mare and her comrades to their own devices.

"I do not believe we have met," she cleared her throat, taking a step towards Vega. "My name is Daphni Adela. I lead a sect of Sybaian healers who are allied with the Rigases."

"Sy...baian?" The word was clearly foreign on Vega's tongue. Was it one that she was supposed to know, but had been lost in the exodus of the rest of her memories? "I... forgive me, but the name does not ring familiar..."

Daphni shook her head and smiled. "I suppose it would not be. My clan and my kind have never set foot in the mountainous kingdom of Eyraille... In the past, it was highly opposed to anything that might be considered magic. Might that still be the case?"

"I... do not believe so. But do not take my word for it." Vega massaged her temples, expelling a pent-up sigh from her tired lungs. "My memory is not what it should be, I'm afraid... Please do not think that I mean you any disrespect by this. For all I know, I have heard of you and yours, and have merely forgotten."

"No apology necessary. Although..." The Sybaian eyed Alster, her eye bright with curiosity. "I do believe a bit of an explanation is in order. After all, Elias here tells me that you," she looked back to Vega, "are the result of a successful necromancer's feats... and you clearly need help. But I will need details before I can be of any assistance."

At the arrival of the curiosity named Vega Sorde and the two Rigases who had tasked themselves with her care, Elias stretched out a tentative hand for the curtains that wrapped around his bedside. Having lost interest in cocooning himself from the vagaries of a world he thought himself no longer suitable to witness, he swept the hanging shroud aside. He squinted into the sparking lights of etherea that emanated from the two casters' hands. Even when they set the spheres dancing across the infirmary, distilling the harsh pierce of fire into a soft, filtering glow, Elias still needed to wipe away the tears forming at the base of his swollen, over-sensitive eyes.

Once he and Daphni made themselves known to the three newcomers, Alster stepped forward, a look of confusion interspersed with alternations of shock and relief flitting across his careworn face. 

"Daphni," he said, his eyes shifting from the Sybaian healer to Elias, who was still very much alive, a fact that the Rigas caster regarded with a small nod of gratitude. "What are you--rather, whendid you--" 

"Exactly what I would like to know." Chara crossed her arms over her chest, mouth working into a thin, disagreeable line. "Breaching Rigas security is a grim offense. Not to mention, nigh difficult. No matter how acquainted you are with our family, I do not accept that the guards would just allow you passage inside without first seeking the permission of Adalfieri." 

"And what if Adalfieri had approved?" Alster countered, giving his cousin the side-eye. "Don't forget, Chara; we're allies. Adalfieri would not prohibit the return of an invaluable healer. Especially one who's contributed much to the Rigas cause. We've so few in our ranks, as is." A harrumph from Chara signified her surrender, which Alster took with a small, self-satisfied smile. It was no mystery that she continued to despise the Sybaian healer, but had rescinded her complaint, owing to the tiniest iota of respect, albeit a begrudging sort, that she bore for the woman. She did, after all, bring Elespeth back from the brink of death, and even though she abhorred the Atvanian warrior, her survival was imperative for Alster's health and safety. Moreover, Daphni was responsible for the reclamation of his celestial magic, which was an impressive feat unto itself. 

"Welcome back, Daphni." Alster, after insuring no more interruptions from Chara, bowed his head, dipping his chin over his chest. "This is Sir Vega Sorde," he waved to the woman beside him, who had not yet offered up her name, concentrating instead on what she remembered in the annals of her limited memory. "She is our ally-via-Tadasun, and--" But before he could dispense with proper introductions, Daphni inquired over the specifics of Vega's drastic transformation from dead to living, and he acquiesced with an expectant nod. 

"Elias speaks the truth. Vega was brought to our estate several days ago by the mercenary, Haraldur. She was dead on arrival." He glanced apologetically at the Eyraillan princess of subject, in case his tactless wording caused her offense. "We healed all her surface injuries, and the necromancer succeeded in summoning her soul back into her body, but at the expense of her memories. They are still in tact, but submerged beneath the residual death shroud that her soul brought back upon its return. I've been working with Vega, and together, we've managed to restore certain aspects of her memory: those associated with strong emotions. Sorrow and happiness, chiefly." He chose to omit to the healer his lack of preparation in one impromptu session, the particulars of which almost resulted in his assimilation with Vega, followed then by the deconstruction of his own self-awareness. 

"I carry vestiges of the shroud. The ones we've expelled from her soul. I find that they latch on to me with all the ease of burrs in wood-brush." He offered a self-conscious, one-sided shrug, to demean the impact of his death-seeking chthonic magic ability. "I can extract all of Vega's death shroud, I'm sure of it, but I'm not as experienced in the Sybaian method of healing from within. Much as I'm still learning, I fear I'm a poor representative in comparison to you." He drew his hands forward, beseechingly. "Would you help us? Your expertise would expedite the restoration of Vega's memories. And if we combine our efforts, the aftermath shouldn't be too hard on our bodies." 

"You are not back fifteen minutes and you've already a proposition on your hands," Elias snorted from his position atop the bed. "A healer can only rest when he is dead, seemingly. But," he traced his eyes over Alster, in appraisal, "this caster has the makings of a halfway decent healer--unfortunately for him. He should make a marginally helpful addition to your mind spelunking excursion." 

"Is that an endorsement I hear?" Alster raised an eyebrow, adopting the language of sass that Elias spoke with fluency and that he, through prolonged exposure, began to channel. "I thought you told me I only had enough skill to heal the bruises off an apple. You went on to say that I share a lot in common with a bruised apple, and that I have been hit by far too many branches to ever contribute anything worthy to the healing community." 

"Yes," Elias nodded with as much emphasis as his emaciated form could muster. "That is the sum of the community as a whole. All bad apples, infested with worms." He pointed to Daphni, as if to prove his point. "You still wish to cast your lots with us?" 

Not like it matters, Alster thought darkly. I'll be dead in a week, if all goes my way. But Elias's confidence in his capabilities had improved on his mood, and it encouraged a smile to invade his lips. "Sounds like my lot." Then, he turned to Vega, his smile transitioning into a twinge of concern. "Are you ready? If you're too uncomfortable by this procedure, we can find another method. I understand this is overwhelming for you...especially now that there's two of us with ready access to your inner mind."

Daphni considered herself lucky that the two Rigases she happened to encouter were two that weren't likely to become whistleblowers to her rather illegal presence in Stella D'Mare. Even if Adalfieri did no oppose her arrival, should Andalari find out that she had managed to sneak in using the guise of one of their soldiers, certainly tensions between them and the Rigas family would only intensify--and in so doing, it might have been benefical for a Rigas to out her, especially one with whom she had not worked so closely.
She did, however, eye Chara and consider just what the haughty mage was weighing in terms of the pros and cons of her return. If anyone in that room was likely to rebel, then certainly in would be her... but not at the risk of Alster's scorn, Elias's disapproval and the Eyraillian's princess's possible dismay and mistrust. She might not have been able to help Lilica, but Chara Rigas could not deny the service that Daphni had done for Alster. And as such, she felt safe.

"I fear for our privacy, in such a public place, otherwise I would be happy to divulge the details of my return," she told the casters with a solemn nod of the head. "But know that I return just as I had left: as an ally. And my only desire is to be of help in any way that I can."

Returning her attention to the one she now knew to address as Sir Vega Sorde (and she did not bother to question the unconventional honourific), the Sybaian healer lent an ear to Alster's explanation of how Vega's ordeal took place, and the events both leadinng up to it and following. Though relatively unfamiliar with her condition an its unique circumstances, she felt deep in her gut that having lost touch with her memories might have been the mildest of unfortunate side-effects to being dragged from death. Though confused and weary, and certainly torn up internally from her struggle to recall herself, the young woman appeared to be functioning particularly well as a living being once again. But breath in her lungs and a pulse in her heart did not make her whole, as was evidenced by the nauseating chaos of her aura, which dimmed and brightened and shrank and grew at random intervals. Daphni dreaded the psychic mechanisms that were responsible, and yet, Vega seemed to be holding herself together. A strong and resilient soul... I am convinced that is the only reason she made it through her ordeal, unscathed.] She did not need to know that the princess was also a Skyknight to know that she was a fighter, in more than one sense of the word.

"You are truly blessed, Sir Vega Sorde, that you have been given this opportunity," Daphni said finally, after a moment of deliberation. "Although I imagine you must also find yourself very confused, if you now only know yourself insofar as your happiness and sorrow. I will admit, I am not readily familiar with healing the scars of a lifeline having been severed, and then tied back together, but I am confident that I can be of help to you. It looks as thought you have already found yourself in good hands, as it is." She nodded to Alster, who himself looked weary and faded and held together by threads. On any other occasion, she would not have advised his interference or aid given his condition, but since she did not know whether or not time was of the essence to restore the Eyraillian princess's memories (not to mention, she was not at all certain if she could do it alone and emerged unscathed), she did not refuse. "I would only advise not to shed this death shroud like a second skin, but rather coax it to fall away of its own accord. Who knows what parts of her it might take with it, should we peel it from her and leave her raw? Vega..."

Returning her attention to the copper-haired woman, who almost appeared to shrink as the room discussed her like she wasn't even there, Daphni's typically stern and stoic face softened. "The healing rituals performed by Sybaia healers are not entirely painless. I must warn you now that, should you agree to allow myself and Alster to help you, you will inevitably be forced to face aspects of your subconscious that you would rather sooner forget, or never become acquainted with. But should we be successful, you will find yourself stronger and with a clearer heart and mind than before--and, hopefully, with the remainder of your memories, and your sense of self. Are you truly and honestly prepared to undergo this, as you are?"

Vega looked from one inquisituve face to the next, unable to dispel the humiliating wave of vulnerability that accompanied the fact that almost everyone in this room, it seemed, could breach her weak mental barriers and access her mind. It made no difference that they were allies or friends, that they wanted to help, and could possibly be the difference between a life of residual amnesia and regaining what death had taken from her: her sense of self. But she could not yield to that vulnerability, not if time was of the essence, and so she nodded. "Yes--I'm fine. I'm ready. Just... do what you need to do, alright? I don't..." But something happened to her when she met Daphni Adela's kind blue eyes. Something inside her unhinged, and unbidden, a sob wrenched from her chest, and she doubled over, hiding her face in her hands. Who did she think she was, exactly, that she assumed she could convince these people that she was fine? That she was ready to let anyone else in to the most intimate part of her being, which could subject them to horrors of which even she wasn't aware? What if there were parts of her that she was not willing to have exposed?
She was not ready. She was not strong. She couldn't even fool herself.

Naturally intuitive to the princess's fragile emotions, Daphni did not hesitate to step forward and gently pull her to her feet, allowing her to rest her forehead against her shoulder as she wept. "You don't have to be ready. Not right now," she assured her in a quiet tone, unable to help but pity the poor creature. Even the strongest had a breaking point, and at times, all it took was a fracture. Providing Vega a safe space to weep, she returned her attention to the Rigas casters and Elias. "We can't do this now; it will only cause more damage." She advised them quietly. "I realize time is of the essence, but she needs rest, and an opportunity to recuperate from the progress already made. Give her a quiet space, something to help her sleep... and we can reassess tomorrow."

"I understand," Alster agreed as Daphni led a distraught Vega to her bed, and followed up a little later to give the recovering Skyknight some water and an extra blanket. But before he wandered over to the far side of the infirmary, where the others had convened, he slid a supportive hand over Vega's sob-wracked shoulders and gently bid her a good night. "It's been a long day, I know. You more than deserve rest. I apologize for pushing you too far, too soon, without any show of reprieve," he said, and would have left his words at that, but he glanced at her neck, where the blood-stained roc carving, unmistakably made by Haraldur, fluttered over her chest. It seemed to breathe with a life of its own--as if it were an actual bird made wooden and miniature--and he paused in his retreat, looking thoughtful. 

"That necklace...it has the potential to grant you talismanic power. May I?" Only after receiving her permission to investigate, he cupped the small trinket in his hand, and felt the swarm of energy, like a creature with a heat-activated heartbeat, run up and down his arms with fevered shivers. He let the carving drop, where it floated and pirouetted in the air for a fraction of a second, before returning to its position, hanging from its leather thong. "This possesses your blood--and the blood of Haraldur's craft. Hue and effort and creative intention, imbued with thoughts of you. He has breathed life into it--just how the original owner of his pendant had once done the same, in order to shield him from death and its influences. And your blood, your sacrifice--it activated this carving, and awakened its truest potential as a charm. Don't hesitate to call on or invoke its special properties if ever you need additional reserves of strength. If ever you need hisstrength." He smiled with a touch of sadness as he absently stroked the lines of his scarred hand. 

"Blood magic is the most ancient, most binding, most intuitive of any of the esoteric principles. It's proof that we all are connected to and have ready access to one another, if we so wish it and infuse it. Any man or woman or beast can activate the channels that run through our veins, and the veins of others. You, Vega, are no exception. Please take good care of that. It represents a blood-bound union between you and Haraldur that cannot so easily be severed." With a final nod of farewell, Alster returned to his feet. "I'll check on you in the morning, Vega." He passed her bed, announced his departure to Daphni and Elias (Chara had since excused herself from their congregation), and bounded off into the night. 

Chaos abated from the infirmary, and silence reigned dominant once more, as the numbers that were awake and present dwindled back down to two. Elias, very much energized by the potential for the unveiling of even more impressive events, glanced sidelong at Daphni, and waved her back to his bedside, so he could speak low without having to throw his already strained and raspy voice. "Evidently, you are here for more than my well-being. Let me by no means stop you from running headlong into a most-complex inner-mind healing endeavor. Granted," he said, with a conversational lilt, "you will have further help. May that headcase of a Rigas mage offer you some additional support. I," he pointed at his chest with emphasis, "at least am a low-maintenance patient of yours. Provide me more of that elixir, or the exact dosage of the ingredients, and I daresay I'll even be able to manage again on my own." 

With his blurry gaze and his failing lack of farsightedness, he watched as the Eyraillan princess tossed and turned in her sheets. He was still awed by her resoundingly successful return from death, a condition that he and his fellow Clematis healers strove to prevent, as any healer was wont to do. However, most of the clerics in his Brotherhood never questioned the doctrine of the Eight-Colored God, who had exclaimed, via the Prophet of Natha, that all dead who rose again to Earth had forever lost their Way to the Mountain Eternia. Reintegration in a world from which their soul had already disengaged and abandoned would cause untold damage to the vessel, and they would never again find peace, living or dead. They were doomed to walk the world of the waking, purposeless and stripped of themselves, or die anew. But in the Other Realms, their already damaged soul would deteriorate and atrophy, transforming into shards of hatred and remorse. They would become colorless, inky wraiths, suckling away at all human life-force, always on the prowl for a soul which would build them back into completion. 

"So, my Brothers and Sisters," The High-Priest had told Elias, and the acolytes, on their ordination into the Order's Clematis sect, "it is vital that you allow the dead to die. Do not try to resuscitate them, or jolt them awake with a surge of magic. You are further killing them, in the spiritual sense. Even if they should return to us, their Way is closed to the light. They are dead inside. Nothing but walking corpses, always desiring that which they will never receive: absolution." 

Elias, who was hardly a model citizen, let alone a faith-driven Brother of the Order, responded to this overblown gospel with his characteristic heaps of skepticism and doubt. The soul, he believed, would always know where it was needed. If body and mind both existed in the land of the living, the soul followed suit. If mind and body were otherwise destroyed, the soul would find its purpose elsewhere. But, despite its calling, it, in no way, suffered irreparable damage, and Elias was adamant in his assessment of Vega Sorde. She was not damned. Her soul was not an inky, colorless thing, irrevocably broken now that it passed through two different states of being. It was her mind, and its connection to body, that needed attention. They were mortal, fallible, easy prey to persuasion and harm. But they were fixable, malleable. They, by being inoperable for so long, suffered the damage, and it was a healer's job to salvage what could be salvaged. And he was not in the business of salvaging souls. They were already near-indestructible, even if they sustained a little wear. 

Daphni may not have considered the necromancer's efforts "healing," but that was exactly how Elias viewed the act. 

"You should take from the Eyraillan princess's example--however botched her efforts," Elias said after his long, contemplative pause, appraising Daphni in the light, and noting the harsh lines of exhaustion that even the mellow light could not soften. "Get some rest. I assure you, I am not so petty as to purposely die in the middle of the night just to spite you and your care of me, so I'm certain you'll see me in the morning." 

"Daphni," he said hesitatingly, before she took her leave, "do you believe that a soul can die? Or that acute trauma could cause it to fade, lose its Way, and never retain wholeness?"

The following morning, Alster entered the infirmary with quiet, deliberate steps, so as not to awaken Vega or Elias, if they were still asleep. He continued on his route, to where the Skyknight rested, and placed a rather impressively-sized golden feather beside her head. "Your roc is doing fine," he whispered, admiring the sheer breadth of the glossy, sun coloration of the roc's plumage, and the healthful spear-shape of the shaft. "She also lends you her strength."

As she had expected, placating the distraught princess was no easy task, and Daphni took it upon herself long after the weary Alster and Chara had retired to soothe Sir Vega Sorde as best she could. With Elias's help and input, she brewed the stricken woman a hot tea that eventually eased her into a restless sleep, but even then did the Skyknight toss and turn and murmur unintelligible worries. Even sleep did not allow her the reprieve that she desired; no would it, the Sybaian healer figured, until her soul had resolved what ailed it.
And even then, there was no guarantee that Vega would ever be entirely whole again. But she did not divulge that much to the Eyraillian princess, or anyone else, for that matter, lest doubt impede their success.

Summoned to Elias's bedside, Daphni left the princess alone to sleep, taking a seat on the Clematis healer's cot, something that felt strangely organic in his company. "Alas, there are more than you in need of help, Elias," she informed him, a teasing half-grin forming on her lips. "I knew I would be required to divy my attention, but fear now; I shan't overlook your needs, not even in light of the unique case of the Eyraillian princess." As if to prove a point, she adjusted the sheets over his legs, a small gesture of kindness that she was sure would irk him, nonetheless. "And I do have faith that Alster will provide a great deal of help... He has already ventured into the Eyraillian's mind twice over, and can thus navigate it better than I. Though I cannot be sure of the outcome... Do not fear for my condition. Gods know I have survived much worse."

But he was right, and she was not so proud as to begrudge rest of her own. Chara had promised, in her good will, to ascertain there was a place for the Sybaian healer among the other healers in Stella D'Mare, so that she might blend in as best as she could; and it would have been a lie to declare she was not looking forward to closing her eyes for a handful of hours.
"I should be very disappointed in you to find I have returned, only for your life to slip away in the night," she told the Clematis healer with a firm nod. "So do see that you do not invalidate my efforts and the risks that I took just to be here. Rest well, Elias; depending on how you feel come morning, I have a limited amount of that serum to get you through."

Turning to make for the door, robes swishing behind her, the Sybaian healer halted at the sound of her spoken name, followed by a profound question that she was not sure she could answer. Daphni considered her thoughts and words with care before she faced Elias again. "The soul does not die. It is immortal and eternal. That said... not a soul in existence leaves this world, undamaged. They break and bleed in their own way; and the Sybaia, to an extent, can help them heal." She considered the Atvanian knight, how battered her soul had looked as it prepared to cross over. Bleeding and scarred and hurting... She shuddered to ponder the state of Vega Sorde's immortal soul. Torn from death, after having already endured hardship, with so little to cope with... Truly, it was a wonder the woman was at all sane.
"An immortal soul can be injured and lost. But never... I would never say that they are entirely beyond help, or beyond repair. I cannot even begin to divine what a touch with death has done to Vega Sorde's soul, but just looking at her, I can tell that it was damaged to begin with. That she has come through with such will and lucidity... That, alone, is proof of a resilient individual. She was strong enough to die and return to the living, relatively in tact. And though she will not recover overnight... I think that her case will be a good example of just how tough a soul is. Just wait and see.

"And have a little faith in her; and in Alster. And," she couldn't help but grin, "in me."

Though she awoke early that morning, Vega hardly felt rested; rather, her gut was tied up in knots, both nauseating and painful, and she dreaded being offered food or drink once the breakfast rounds were made. So she lay on her side, staring out the window at the rising sun beyond, as she tried to push her thoughts aside and gain a moment of peace. She almost did not notice the golden feather placed next to her head, upon her pillow, until Alster spoke up.

Shifting her position, she reached out to touch the russet golden feather, and sure enough, its texture felt familiar on her fingertips. It brought a smile to her dry lips. "I want to see her again," she confessed, as if it were not already obvious. "But... I can't yet, can I? Not if... not if she won't know me."

"Perhaps by the end of the day, she will know you again." Daphni chimed in as she approached the Rigas caster and the princess, a tall glass of liquid in her hand. At Vega's hesitation taking it, she explained, "It is merely milk and honey. I understand you might not be ready to eat, but you will need strength and nourishment for what is ahead. Feed your body to feed your soul. Even if all you can manage is a few sips."

Grateful for the Sybaian healer's understanding, Vega nodded and took the drink from her, cradling it in her hands. "Thank you. For everything... all of you."

"Gratitude is a privilege, though not a necessity." Daphni assured her, happy all the same, before she took her leave of the Eyraillian and Alster, venturing back to Elias's bedside. The Clematis healer looked well, with more colour to his features, and vigor to his movements as he straightened his robes. Very much like the strong-willed healer she remembered meeting.

Somehow, this brought a good deal of comfort to her. "You are still my patient... but I am going to need your help in today's endeavor."
Taking a seat at the edge of his bed--which seemed to have been reserved for her, at this point--Daphni folded her arms in her lap and took a breath. "I don't know what I am getting into. But while Alster and I do our part... I need you to keep an eye on us. In the event that we are in danger of becoming lost in Vega Sorde's subconscious, or worse... coaxed by the death that still clings to her." And thus, losing themselves forever in the limbo of the in-between... a fate that she would not wish on anyone. "But you must prioritize Alster. If it seems he is fading or failing, then tear him out of the trance--I do not care what methods you use, so long as he awakens. Even if it means leaving me at the mercy of this woman's hostile psyche; I am not priority." Looking up from her lap, her bright eyes searched his face. "Are we in agreement?"

"Last time she saw you, she attacked you." Alster pointed to her cheek, where the great avian once left a rather deep gash, though it had since been healed with magic. "It's precautionary for now, Vega, but once we rid of the shroud that surrounds you, she will recognize you, and there will no longer be a need to keep you separated from her," he said, with a confident nod. "She is a feisty one, though. Nearly swiped at me, herself, when I dared to approach for one of her molted feathers. But she definitely has a wild, fighting spirit, and is more than ready to take to the skies again." 

His mien was open and friendly, though, as with many of Alster's attitudes as of late, was exaggerated, a cloak to cover his truest threadbare self. It was so threadbare, in fact, and moth-eaten, he was convinced that everyone present could see through the tattered, gaping holes. He was nearly transparent, and his intentions even more so. In his overeagerness to depart from Stella D'Mare, he had reduced Vega, despite her fragile state, into a flurry of chaos, disregarding her need for a long, gradual recovery and dismissing the heavy losses she had already accrued--death notwithstanding. 

He wanted to apologize for his treatment of her, believing that he agitated her already tender and bruising psyche by way of his forcefulness of help that he foisted on her without a moment to consider the consequences of his actions. He wanted to sit back and tell her to take as much time as was necessary, to allow her to explore the grounds of the estate and beyond the Rigas gate, to see the rest of the city, the beach, the latticed walkways, the floral gardens and the mosaic fountains. But he knew that he was as unequipped to granting her clemency as he was in providing her with exemplary care and healing. Stella D'Mare was in the throes of war, sandwiched between two very distinct, very dangerous threats. To err a day longer could spell catastrophic destruction, and the losses of many innocent lives. No. He had no choice but to push Vega, as he had pushed himself. To save her, he could not provide her with rest. It would promise her nothing but aimlessness, and of convalescence without need, without a goal to keep her properly motivated or sane. Only when he determined to help Lilica did he believe it possible to go on living without Elespeth at his side. And even though that life was forfeit, he was now an advocate for the staying power of hope, when used properly. He would guide Vega to that silver lining--if any would exist for her at the end of her long and harrowing trials. 

"I'm going to have a word with Daphni," he told her, with a gentle, reassuring smile. "But we're both close-by, if you need us for anything before we start our healing session. In the meantime," he looked to the feather, then at her roc necklace, "remember what I told you about talismans. Hold on to them, both. They will help to focus your energies, and ground you. They will be your link to the material world, if ever you are lost and need to find your way home. Familiarize yourself with the feel, the texture. Think of what they mean to you. Do that for me...and I'll be back shortly, all right?" 

Elias awakened shortly before Alster entered the infirmary, though he made no sound or indication of his conscious state. Though bleary, heavy-headed, and a shivering mess of weak-joints and heaving coughs, he felt more like himself than he had in weeks. Owing to the elixir, or to Daphni's return (which he only honored as a valid explanation due to the medicines she administered to him, and not the singular existence of her company), he became more cognitively aware, and showed tenuous signs of acknowledgement for the world around him. It was all the difference of a day. One day, and he transformed from death-claimed, to something of a human being. A human being who cared for the preservation of his soul, and the souls of others. 

The soul is not some fragile flower, he told himself, demanded it of himself to believe. It can and does survive death. And it will find the Way when it returns again to the Other Realms. If I die, and if I happen to return to life, as per the necromancer's fickle agreements...I will prove this true to you, Daphni. 

With such defiance of his own religious teachings burning in his already fever-burnt eyes, he watched the infirmary spark to life around him, which, inevitably, summoned Daphni to his bedside. He flattened his sheets and bunched the extra, outer layer aside, to give off the appearance of someone less burdened by disease, less pitiable, and more prepared and likely to take action--especially after listening to the Sybaian's request of him. 

"And this foray is different from any of your previous misadventures --how?" Elias snorted derisively. "I am well-acquainted with your high-risk healing process, and the aftermath, which, as you are aware, I have been able to counteract with my own bit of healing. Rest assured, Daphni," he cracked a small, dry smile. "This does not differ from our regular fare as former colleagues." 

"About that," another voice piped up from behind them. Alster, looking apologetic and sheepish for eavesdropping, stepped closer to the curtained area that denoted Elias's private 'room.' The Rigas caster lowered his voice to a strained whisper, and continued. "I could not help but overhear--you express concern for sinking into the pull of death. It happened with me, when I first entered Vega's mind and extracted her memory via her sorrow. I wasn't careful," he admitted, recalling the struggle to combat the assimilation of his soul into Death, "but it's strong. The pull. I was very nearly trapped in a limbo-state, floating weightlessly into space, my entire being deconstructing before me." Then, Elespeth saved me, he thought with a reactionary throb of his heart. "I know that I am less fit than you to offer any sort of aid...but I can guide you, as well as I can, through her mind, to ensure this doesn't happen to you, either. I'll act as shield, Daphni," he said with a wan smile. "Death likes me. Do what you must for Vega, and I'll deflect and absorb the energies that threaten you. You don't have to think of me as a liability." An iota of stubborn Rigas pride narrowed his eyes just slightly. "Neither of you do. When you're ready," he jerked his head to the corner of the room where the Skyknight lay, "I'll be waiting for you over there."

It turned out that Daphni needn't explain to Elias how this foray differed from any previous healing attempts; Alster did that for her. The Sybaian healer listened as the Rigas caster offered his own input, based on direct experience with Vega Sorde's fractured subconscious mind, and what he had to say came as no great surprise to her; on the contrary, it confirmed some of her deep-seated suspicions. "You have already touched with death, Alster; as have I." Without realizing it, her hand drifted to her side, where the tiny incision had scarred since Elias had had to drain the fluid from her punctured lung. She could still remember seeing her mother's face as her body had prepared to die. "It is only logical that souls who have already become acquainted with the ever after are more susceptible to death's pull--its lure. But that you have already encountered the princess's mind is a boon, and I will rely on your navigation." She offered a small smile. "Rest assured, I have never thought of you as a liability."

Watching as the Rigas caster returned to the Eyraillian warrior's side, Daphni returned her attention to Elias. "I hope that answers your question," she shrugged. "I have pulled people from the brink of death as they approached it; I have barred their soul from crossing over. But this soul has already experienced the beyond, and as such, I must be prepared for anything... and yet, I have no idea what I am getting myself into." A wry smile tugged at her fair features. "You have helped me countless times before--I know well that I can rely on you, Clematis. Which is why, this time, I insist that you focus your attention on Alster. I have heard the murmurings of his importance in dispelling the dangers of this city... we cannot risk his life and well being. So if it comes down to me and him..."

She trailed off, feeling she had made her point, and cleared her throat. "Do not mistake my intentions; I have no intention to fail. But should something go wrong that I am rendered... useless to you, listen carefully." Spreading her hand, she listed her thoughts off on her fingers. "There are a handful more vials of that concentrated elixir that I gave you, left with Stella D'Mare's healers. Only take them as needed, lest their potency and effectiveness become sub-par as your body adjusts to them. Second... remember the name Silvanys. You will find the man who prepared the elixirs bearing that name, on the outskirts of the kingdom of Ilandria. I am confident that he can help you. Do you understand?"

For a moment, a solemn look befell her face, with the realization that she might not be able to carry out helping him as she had initially intended. But it was gone as soon as it surfaced, replaced with a light-hearted grin. "Otherwise... wish me luck in this endeavor, hm?" Briefly, she lay a hand upon his shoulder. "And if you do not believe in luck, wish me the strength and judgment to be successful in this. Your help is always appreciated."

Some moments later, she joined Alster at Vega's side, noting that the woman held a roc feather in her lap, and the blood-stained pendant tucked beneath her tunic, against her chest. Close to her heart... It made the Sybaian smile. She is protecting herself... drawing on strength. More and more, success appeared to be within reach.
"How are you feeling, Vega?" She ventured to ask, for there was no point in trying if the princess was not mentally and emotionally prepared; it would otherwise all but guarantee failure.

But she knew Vega's answer before the woman spoke up. She sat with a straight spine, shoulders back, and face composed: strong. Ready. "Better... more confident in this. I think... I believe I am prepared for this." She offered a nod. "Just tell me what to do."

"Your task is simple, Eyraillian princess." Reaching out, Daphni hesitated for a brief moment, before tugging the fabric of Vega's tunic aside ever so slightly to reveal the scabbed rune that had led to her ressurection. Both the point that had offered her another chance at life, and the source of a good deal of the damage that had been done. The Sybaian healer felt her stomach turn in warning the second her fingertips brushed against the yet-to-heal skin, but she said nothing of it. "Open your mind to me, just as you did Alster. You do not need to try to think or feel; simply... be." As an aside, she added, "And trust in us. Alster and I will keep you safe. Whatever you see, whatever you feel... know that you are not alone. And that the images projected by your subconscious are only reflections; not reality."

"I do. I... trust you. Both." The Skyknight assured them, as she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, shakily. Willing her stomach to calm, her racing heart to slow, her troubled mind to go blank...

When she opened her eyes again, she was back in Eyraille--except it wasn't Eyraille. Not anymore...

The kingdom, the palace... it was all practically leveled with the mountains, crumbled and decrepit and deserted. And it looked to have been for quite some time, with no evidence of foorprints or any other signs of life. Not human, not animal... not even roc, the beasts which had claimed the mountainous range long before humans had imposed. There was nothing but emptiness, a shadow of what had once been...

"What happened?" Finding herself standing next to Alster on one side, and Daphni on the other, Vega gripped the Rigas caster's arm. "My home... but I haven't been gone for long at all. How could this..."

"It is not real, Vega Sorde. Remember, this is a reflection." Daphni squeezed the Skyknight's shoulder, brows furrowed in concern. "Your inner mind is capitalizing on your worst fears, on top of your amnesia... You must not get caught up in what you see."

Vega nodded dumbly, azure eyes wide. It was clear that not a moment had yet passed, and already her nefarious subconscious had power over her. "It just... feels real. What am I supposed to do? Where is everyone, how do I find out what happened?"

Without warning, she let go of Alster and shook off Daphni's supportive hand, advancing forward to the ruins of the sky-high castle that she had once called her home.

"I shall do you one better than luck." Elias took Daphni's hand in between both of his clammy palms and folded his fingers over it in prayer. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and murmured beseeching words to the Omni, the Eight-Colored God, the overseer of his now devastated country. "Oh, One of Color, One of Light. Of the Flower, the Compass, the Sea-dweller, the Spider, the Star, the Crystal, the Horse and Rider, and the Stag. Grant us strength. Grant us protection. Grant us the path to walk the Way, if you should seek us worthy. But if our time is not yet to be, see us back to the direction you so meant for us to take. In Life and in Death--so mote it be." He ended his prayer with a symbol he drew into the air--an X and a cross-shape--and then opened his eyes, releasing Daphni's hold with a timid air. A small flush colored his pallid cheeks. "I am a man of faith, and a man of the cloth, even if I do not appear in that manner to you at times. I may be downright heretical, a blasphemer, and a hypocrite, but at my core, I believe in the righteousness of my God. I am silent in my prayers, always, but," he sighed and dropped his hands, "I supposed I would share one with you aloud--just this once. Now," he almost barked, returning to his old, cantankerous self, "go along. You are no longer allowed to die. Not with my invocation and my vigil burning at your back." 

When Daphni joined Vega and Alster, Elias watched as the trio sat atop the cushioned surface, linked hands, meditated--and then stilled, as if they were living statues. That was when he knew they had entered into the Eyraillan princess's troubled subconscious mind. 

Beneath his breath, Elias recited another prayer. 

Alster, who was fast becoming accustomed to exploring the inner landscapes of many a lost and fractured soul, opened his eyes to an unsurprising rendition of the kingdom of Eyraille, sundered into as many pieces as the woman they endeavored to heal. Nothing of the rock-hewn artifices, for which he knew the sky-top kingdom to be famous,remained, and the earth was barren at their feet, succumbed to some wicked, far-reaching fire, which swept over the land and burned it black, incinerating all to dust and ashes. A forlorn, high-pitched wail of wind whipped through his hair and clothes with such force that he wondered if the dream was trying to eject him, or eliminate him as it had seemingly done to all the denizens of the ruined Eyraille. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his feet into the dirt and looped his arm around Vega, implanting his presence in her mind as he would a seed or sapling--with long, stretching tendrils that anchored themselves far into the dry, cracked, infertile earth. Is it possible, he thought, taking a lingering look at the sour-yellow sky, That Stella D'Mare may share the same fate as this phantom Eyraille? Regaining his footing, and his focus, he looked back to Vega just as the wind died down, searching her eyes for any early signs of a mental collapse. 

"Vega," he said, securing his hold on her arm, "I, too, was trapped in a very realistic dream, of which there was no escape. It's easy to convince yourself that it's actually happening, but in doing so, you're sinking further and further into an apocryphal life. Remember your talismans. Remember--" His speech was severed by her withdrawal of his and Daphni's support as she wandered off without them. Nodding along for Daphni to follow, Alster sprinted to catch up, but her release of them was like untethering leaden weights from her legs, and she drifted swiftly out of their reach. "Vega!" He cried, pitching himself to a full run, but it was like chasing the moon: it always seemed to float farther and farther away. "Vega!" He cried again. "Come back! Follow our voices, before--" But the words died on his lips. With horror, he watched as the mountain swallowed her. 

Vega had found the citizens of Eyraille. They huddled in a cavern beneath the mountain, clothes all in tatters, faces gaunt and limbs bandaged, as their forlorn eyes quickly turned to hostile points at the Skyknight's approach. They all climbed to their feet in unison, like contorted dolls on a frazzled marionette's string, their heads lolled to one side in unnatural repose. The broken-necked army trundled forward, their hands, which were not hands, but jagged roc talons stained in blood, stretched toward Vega with slow but purposeful strokes. 

"Deserter queen," they all spoke, hissed at once. "We fought to end your father's tyranny. We died to end your father's tyranny. We were loyal to you. Why? Why did you forsake us all? Why do you ground our graves to dust? Deserter queen!" Their voices rose in baleful sobs. "Abandoned in our time of great need! Even now you run! We demand your blood! Die with us. Die with Eyraille. Die with your father."

"Deserter queen," Another voice, separate from the mob, sounded from behind Vega. She was rather tall, almost equine in build, with long steady legs and a full mane of brown curls. Her eyes were a dark brown, deep-set, sorrowed and heavy, yet incisive and wild. "You provided us a home, but it was as mangled as the one we fled. My people suffered and died to reach you. You are proud of our achievements, but ignorant of our needs. You see us not as people but as numbers. Mere statistical evidence of your kingdom's glorious rebirth. But you refuse to honor or acknowledge the lives of the thirty-eight men, women, and children who have perished--all in the name of your so-called freedom. We do not matter to you if we are dead. And now," her eyes became black coals of smoldering flame, "you take a shine to my husband. You bewitch him, and he sacrifices yet again for you and your unforgiving nation. And should he die for you, that will be one more casualty on the blood-stained hands of the Tyrant King's despotic daughter!"

A resounding note of assent rippled through the army of puppets. They all rallied forward, chanting, "Die, Deserter Queen!" as they tore and slashed through her clothes and flesh with their roc talons, spilling blood and cheering at every splash that spattered on the ground. Her brother, Caris, his own talons the color of the edge of darkness, and just as sharp, appeared midst the tearing and rending. With a cruel smile, he prepared to plunge those claws straight through her heart...

Suddenly, an intense white light seared through the mob, blasting them backwards and away from their target of deepest aversion. In the middle of the light appeared Daphni and Alster, who had at last succeeded in locating Vega's whereabouts. The light spell dissipated, but was replaced with a watery film which spread around the Skyknight and her two companions. The mob, having since rebounded to their feet, reared back for another attack, but found they could only grab and knead at the protective bubble that separated them from their quarry. "They're trying to drag you back into Death, Vega!" Alster shouted as he reinforced his barrier. "These are only your fears at play! They're part of you. Take them in. Accept them. But don't let them destroy you!"

Almost as immediately as she had hoped and wished to find signs of life in her dilapidated kingdom, Vega regretted her decision tenfold after the mountain swallowed her whole--and showed her what 'life'--if you could even call it that--remained.

Her people. Many who she still recognized, even in their mangled and unnatural state, even despite their chimerism as they had evidently taken on the quality of the rocs. People, dying people, angry people without hands, bearing claws as sharp as their loathing... What have I done... Came the princess's desperate thoughts, eyes wide with horror and despair. No--this is not the end. It is reversible... I couldn't make it better before. But I can now. I will now.

"I am sorry." She whispered, spreading her hands to the people. "I abandoned you... I should not have, but I am here now. It is not too late--let me help you. Please, let me undo what I have done..."

"Impossible," a voice hissed. "You have failed us. You have failed every one of us... we are already doomed."

"Blood for blood." Another voice demanded. "Make it even. Our blood spilled due to your negligence; now yours will spill as recompense."

Vega gasped as they advanced on her, slow and purposeful. "No--no, please, wait," she heard a sob escape her throat. "Please, please let me help you... I can help you! I can make this right!"

That was when another voice, steadier and more cutting, made itself known... and the Skyknight turned to face someone she never would have thought to imprint so heavily on her mind. "Arina..." The woman who stood before her, tall and assured, was so much like Vega remembered... and yet completely unlike her at all. "You're wrong... your people matter to me! To Eyraille! I have seen to their well-being..." But then you ran away again, that caustic inner-voice reminded her. And once again, they are defenseless... "No one took in vain what happened to you and your people... you must believe that. And Haraldur..."

The Eyraillian princess all but choked on the mercenary's name, her gut wrenching with the memory of what he had sacrificed for her. "You're right; he should not have put himself at risk the way he did. I did not ask for this... I care for him, just as you did. And I will find a way to free him, you must believe me!"

She saw the mob as they came at her, ripping and tearing with their talons, but Vega found herself frozen to the spot. She screamed and wept, hugging her shoulders in a futile effort to protect herself--and that was when she saw his face. 
Caris...

"Brother..." She sighed, weeping both tears and blood. Hatred shone in his eyes, and he smiled with the intent to kill. She knew this; and she did not care. "Forgive me, what I have done to you. Please..."
With nothing left to keep her grounded, Vega spread her arms to him, as if inviting a final embrace. It's okay, she said to herself, closing her eyes in anticipation of the pain. We are blood. I will go down with you...

The final blow never came.

When she opened her eyes, the Skyknight registered the faces of Alster and Daphni, whom she had almost forgotten had accompanied her to this personal hell. "Alster..." Looking down, she realized that she bore no wounds and was no longer bleeding. He had shaken her from the spell of the residual death shroud, restoring clarity to her vision and her thoughts. "But they're right. I... I have let everyone down. I do not deserve to live..."

"And yet, you have been gifted with life. Do not throw that away." Daphni all but hissed, and turned to address them both. "You will not escape this until you find forgiveness in yourself, Vega Sorde. The time for self-compassion is now, there are no excuses! Now hurry. I will fend off the death shroud, but you must use this time wisely to accept these feelings and find the strength and will to move on!"

Inhaling deeply, the Sybaian healer then stepped outside of the protective shield, and faced the mob. Death knows me, too, she reasoned, hoping to distract it from the Eyraillian princess--and her suspicions were confirmed instantaneously. The clawed chimeras all vanished in a heartbeat, and in their place stood a single person. He clutched his middle, blood staining his lips, face ashen and hollow, eyes haunted and full of loathing.

"You call yourself a healer, and yet you walk away from a people in need." Elias's decrepit form hissed, his voice sounding entirely inhuman. "Your own brethren died in your absence... and now you've the gall to call yourself their leader. You, Daphni Adela, are naught but a selfish coward."

The words stung; of course they would, as death reflected her own self-criticisms back at her, in a form that would hurt the most. But that is all it was: a reflection. "You are right. I have made poor decisions," she confessed, stone-faced. "But it I not too late for me."

"No, not for you. Never for you." Elias's doppelganger hissed, hacking a cough into his sleeve, which came away stained with dark blood. "But what of me? You already know it is too late. Your serum merely abates symptoms... I am dying. You know it as well as I. And yet you insist in dangling hope before me, like a carrot on a string. Is that your plan? Shall I go to my grave believing that there was still some farfetched chance?"

Daphni had no answer, the question taking her aback. Surely... surely, that was not what the real Elias thought. Surely... "I am going to help you. It is not over for you, either," she insisted. Taking a dire chance, she stepped up to the spectre and dabbed the blood from his lips with her sleeve. "I do not know what the future holds... but let us fight it, together. Whatever happens, I will not abandon you again. I never should have." She watched, then, as Elias's sunken eyes began to bloom with colour, as his face began to fill out again; more a man than a spectre. "I realize it is selfish to ask your forgiveness, at this point," she continued, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "But, whether you choose to despise me or not, I choose to help you, in whatever way I can. I would not preach hope if I did not myself have faith in it."

"You are a fool," the Clematis's doppelganger murmured, sounding astonishingly more human--and looking the part. "I care not about hope or a happy future. Whether or not I matter years from now, I merely wish to die knowing that the feats I achieved have mattered. That my life has made a difference where others have failed."

"You want to be remembered." The Sybaian healer confirmed, recognition touching her core. Without thinking, she lay her hands upon the spectres shoulders. "You matter now, and you will in the future. But you need not reduce yourself to a memory... please. Give me one more chance to help you."

She had no idea at what point she'd forgotten that she was speaking to a reflection that death had drawn from her own subconscious mind--but that was just the chink in her armour that the entity needed to make her crumble. One second, she could have sworn she was looking into the cool, stern face of Elias, and the next... In the next moment, she suddenly couldn't breathe. "Imbecile. You cannot help me; you cannot help anyone." Once again more monster than human, the spectre's long fingers wrapped around her throat with impossible strength, and squeezed. "Don't you see? Even your own clan recognized that, and thus had you expelled. But you cannot take a hint, and you just had to return, to assuage your own, selfish guilt."

The frightening illusion slammed Daphni onto the cold ground, then, hardly awarding her a chance to draw breath before it set a foot upon her chest, and stepped with nearly its full weigth on her ribcage, and the lungs beneath. "You should have taken that vial while you had the chance," it sneered, as she struggled for breath. "But a painless death really is too good for the miserable likes of you."

The moment that death's energy had redirected its attention away from Vega Sorde, the Skyknight awoke with a gasp, tears streaming down her pale face as she eagerly looked for Alster--who, thankfully, had awoken next to her. "It wasn't real. Tell me... tell me it isn't too late." Unhinged and vulnerable, she sobbed, leaning her head against the Rigas caster's shoulder, her whole body trembling. "I can still help them... I can still be there for my kingdom, my brother... the refugees..."
So distraught was the Eyraillian princess that she hadn't even taken notice of the Sybaian healer, who had gone limp and collapsed on the infirmary floor, dark bruises having blossomed on her neck and chest--neither which rose or fell with the intake of breath.

"No!" Alster called out, trying to maintain his shield and gain the Sybaian's attention at the same time. "Do not leave the barrier! Let me handle the death shro--" 

But it was too late. She had stepped away from the protective circle, and he could not give chase lest he leave Vega and himself exposed to any other wraiths that may attack them in their vulnerable state. Once Daphni approached the mob, which wailed and scraped against the barrier in their desperation to rupture the surface and pierce free, they had all vanished--including Daphni. ...Including the death shroud. 

She has it now--in her own subconsciousness, he thought furiously. I need to take it from her. She wasn't meant to absorb it! 

But remembering Vega, the intended recipient of his healing attention, he gripped her shoulders as he willed the shield to recede around them. "Vega," he said, his voice firm, "if you let yourself die, you cannot help them. All those who rely on you--who still rely on you. You'll never be able to make things right, if you're not present to see those changes into fruition. Look before you--at your talismans." He nodded at the feather and the necklace, which appeared looped around her neck and clutched in her hand. "The necklace represents love and sacrifice--the one who is not yet out of your reach, and who has fought through the barriers of this city, made bargains with less-than-savory men, accepted his arrest at the hands of Andalari--just to secure and ensure your second chance at life. To make things better. To make things right. The feather," he waved to the golden-stemmed pinion, which was weaved through her fingers, "represents you. Who are you, Sir Vega Sorde? Are you the princess of Eyraille? A Skyknight? Friend to the rocs? A deserter queen, or a protector of your people? When you fly, do you feel the joy of weightlessness? Of freedom? Your most trusted confidante guiding you through the skies? She waits for you, too, Vega. Aeriel." He stretched his hand out to the near-hysterical woman. "Come. Let's go home. We'll see her. Your roc."

With their hands entwined tightly together, the dismal cave faded into the white-hot light of Alster's aura. When they opened their eyes, the white-paneled walls and high windows of the infirmary greeted them, sun-streamed and placid--a stark contrast to the bleak hellscape from which they fled. 

"Vega." He held the woman, who was shivering, into a supportive embrace, allowing her sobs to wet and stain his tunic. "The images weren't real," he said soothingly, as he smoothed back loose strands of her hair. "And no, it's not too late, Vega. As long as you're alive, it's never too late."

He tried to swallow the lump that formed in the back of his throat. As long as you're alive...

Then, with sudden remembrance, he swerved his head to look over his shoulder. 

"Daphni!" 

She lay sprawled on the floor, head lolled to one side in an eerie imitation of the puppet-like wraiths of Vega's nightmare visions. She was still. Nothing moved. No breath entered or streamed out of her. To confirm the seriousness of her condition, Elias, who had crawled from his bed, was kneeling over her body, pumping his hands over her chest in rhythmic motions, even though the strain of it all looked about to kill him.

His own failing health did not stop him, however, from jerking towards Alster and Vega, and barking his orders at them in a wheezing, yet authoritative tone. "Eyraillan--" he glared at the tormented princess, "if you're done blubbering, find me some healers, posthaste! Alster!" He ceased his compressions and pointed to his side, "right here!" 

As Vega shuffled out of the infirmary for help, Alster scrambled to the floor, leaning over to feel for the Sybaian's pulse. But Elias, after peeling off the woman's tunic, grabbed his hands before he could do so and rearranged them upon Daphni's now-bare chest: one above the heart, one just diagonal from it, upon her mid-torso. 

"When I say," he snapped at the Rigas caster, "you're going to release a small shock of magic through both hands. You know the amount. Create a circuit. We've discussed it before--We put it into practice. ...NOW!" 

At the Clematis healer's shredding cry, Alster released what he hoped was enough sparking etherea to jump-start Daphni's heart. Without the proper shielding precautions in place, the attack singed her skin, but Elias demanded more power, which Alster, with a flinch, provided. 

It had the desired effect. Her chest seemed to flutter and pulse, but with an unnatural swell of pressure shocking her system from within. Seemingly satisfied with the result, Elias shoved Alster's hands aside and resumed compressing the now-blistered area over her chest. 

They persisted this back-and forth two more times, until finally, Daphni's heart began to thrum from beneath Alster's fingers, and short, shallow breaths huffed from her nose and mouth. At that time, two healers burst through the infirmary doors and joined Elias and Alster on the floor, helping to stabilize her condition and coax her heart into a steady, strengthening beat. 

"She won't last this way," Alster told Elias, who had devolved into a series of wet, wracking coughs. Despite the obvious pain, crumbled as he was over his knees, he gestured for the Rigas caster to continue. "She carries the death shroud. I fear that it's eating her, overtaking her--and that's why her heart has failed--and may fail again." He urged the two healers to clear him a space near Daphni's feet, and reached for her hand. "I'll have to go into her subconscious mind and absorb it into myself, which is what should have happened in the first place." 

"Wait," came Elias's now meek, mangled voice. He dragged himself closer to Alster, and placed a hand, the non-bloodied one, over Daphni's wrist.

"No," Alster said, punctuating the word with a forcefulness that threw even Elias aback. "You are in no condition to take this trip."

"I am already dying. I can't die any harder." Elias coughed again, as if to prove his point. "And she told me to watch you. That you are priority."

A hard, humorless laugh croaked out of Alster's mouth. "I wish people would stop telling me that. Look," he sighed, impatiently, "there's no time to argue. You'd be a liability if you came along. You wouldn't know what to expect."

Elias fingered his blue clematis broach with a blood-stained hand. "I have my god, Alster. He'll prepare me for what I'll expect." Then, with his characteristic furor, he seethed, "Let me in, dammit!" 

Hunching his shoulders over in defeat, Alster nodded wearily. "Close your eyes. Open your mind to my call. When you're ready...we'll enter." 

When next they opened their eyes, they materialized in Daphni's inner mind, but didn't see her there. In fact, they saw nothing but a broad, empty expanse that stretched on for miles on end. Alster wore on his lip in worry. Were they too late? Had she already ceased to exist? 

Elias, who, in this world, was not infirm, but still plagued with a sickly aura, stood for a moment, as if deliberating, then began to wander down a random direction. "This way," he said, matter-of-fact. 

"How are you certain?"

"It seems right," he shrugged. Sure enough, after walking in silence among the ceaseless, barren landscape of indistinguishable gray horizon, they spotted a figure--two figures--in the near distance. One was long and spectral--and it was strangling the other, a helpless woman who was sputtering and fighting feebly on the ground.

"Daphni--"

"The death shroud," Alster whispered, his eyes narrowing at the scene before them. "Distract it. Distract them. I'll absorb it once she's free of its influence." 

But Elias was already marching right up to Daphni and the spectre, looking much like a whirlwind about to descend on an unassuming straw hut. His hands were clasped into fists at his sides, and a cold fury swam about his austere features. Alster, meanwhile, crept around silently, endeavoring to remain out of sight--or at least, to not attract any unwanted attention. 

"You," Elias pointed to the long-fingered spectre, a wiry, inhuman thing that looked much like depictions of the inky, soulless husks that feasted on the lost. "She doesn't need you to tell her that she is a waste, and a disgrace, and a coward. I do that for her on a regular basis. Besides, her soul tastes like boils on an old bloke whose body has withered in the sun too long. Bloated and diseased. Unappetizing. Unworthy of death. Get off," he growled, and proceeded to kick the creature off of Daphni. "I'm much more satisfying and already marked by death. Clerics, I hear, sport fat, juicy souls."

It all happened so fast, from the moment she opened her tear-strewn eyes to the panic that suddenly surrounded an unconscious woman on the floor. The Sybaian healer... "What happened? Why didn't she wake up with us?" Not another, she thought bitterly, a slow anger cooking in her newly awakened being--one that felt whole. I won't let another person die... another person suffer for me. I won't...

No sooner had Elias requested her help that she sprung out of her cot without question, to retrieve further help for the situation that unfolded before them. She did not take no for an answer when she encountered two healers, whom she identified by their garb, taking a leisurely stroll in the late-morning sun. Startled by this strange woman's vigor, they did not hesitate to make their way to the infirmary, where they acted immediately on the emergency that required further attention. "I am tired of people making sacrifices for me..." She murmured, staring at the unconscious woman as Elias and Alster struggled to revive signs of life in her still body. 
And she was useless but to hope that the healer and the caster could help her pull through.

Futile though it might have been, Daphni struggled against the wraith, her vision blurry and her blood pulsing in her ears from lack of air. But she was not about to give up: she would not let down the people who relied on her. But death did not relent, in its psychic and physical assault. "Stop struggling--what is even the point? You are nothing, and you have no one. Accept me; eternal sleep. After all," it laughed cruelly, "you would no longer be alone. What would you give to see your own mother again? It is not as though anyone else will tell you you matter."

It might have been right; and yet, the familiar voice that cut through the gloam and pain was more reassurance than she could have hoped for. Elias... Elias is here. But how...?

She could have laughed, had her lungs permitted it. What she wouldn't give to hear the Clematis healer call her a coward and a waste of space, hear it in his own, true voice. It meant that it was not too late: that he was still here, and she was still here, and that she had a promise to uphold. A cause worth living for, and a lot of foolish decisions to reconcile.
And that realization was the point at which the wraith lost its hold on her, and she kicked it off of her form, staggering to her knees. "Alster...!" She choked out, knowing that Elias's presence must have been part of the Rigas caster's doing. He must have been there, as well. "Now...! Do away with this entity!"

For fear that it might reach for Elias's next--one who himself was not so far from death--she knew they had to act fast. Scrambling to her feet, she seized Elias--the real Elias--by the shoulders, and met his eyes. "I told you to worry about Alster, you fool... not about me. This could have killed you. Possibly the single, stupidest thing you have ever done." And just when he might have thought that there was no hope for gratitude from the stubborn Sybaian healer, she stood on her toes to adjust for their minor difference in height, and pressed a soft kiss against the gentle give of his lips...

Daphni awoke with a start, gasping and coughing and clutching her aching chest, one that both throbbed with a searing burn and tender bruises. On instinct, she sat up and hugged herself for modesty's sake, as a pale but very alive Vega Sorde hurried over to her. "Thank the gods," the Skyknight all but wept in relief. "You're--"

"No... Alster. Elias..." The Sybaian healer rasped, nodding to the two men next to her, both who were alive and waking, but had not escaped unscathed. Before the other healers summoned could get a word in, she was back to asserting what little authority she had in the city. "See to the Clematis," she demanded, reassured enough that Vega had seen to Alster, hands on his shoulders and speaking to him in a low, urgent tone. "Elias is already compromised... he needs... get him a vial..."

Attempting to stand, as she did afterwards, was a mistake, and she was not quite sure of what followed. Hands caught her as she began to fall, she felt herself being carried to a cot...
Then the world went mercifully black.

Though alive and relatively well, the ordeal left the Sybaian healer unconscious for two full days; enough time for Elias to recuperate with rest and the medicine that Daphni had brought for him, for Alster to recover from absorbing the death shroud into the depths of his chthonic magic, and for Vega to begin to put herself back together, now that she had found all the pieces. She and Alster had begun discussions with Chara regarding flying back to Eyraille, now that Aeriel recognized her and had accepted her as her rider once again, and virtually all that was left was awaiting the right moment to put their plan into action.
With or without the Sybaian healer's help, the world remained in motion, events continued to unfold... enough that Daphni would be unable to help but feel that the world had been reborn while she slept. But helping events to fall into place had been her goal all along, and if she had managed to tip the scales enough to ensure the survival of not only the Eyraillian princess, but Alster and Elias as well, then that alone was a success.

The Sybaian healer eventually opened her eyes to blinding daylight streaming through the infirmary's windows. She squinted against the brilliant sunrays, turning her head and struggling to push her body upright with her arms, which trembled from the unshakable heaviness that seemed to sit upon her shoulders. This is how the Skyknight must have felt, carrying the burden of that shroud for as long as she did... she thought to herself, and realized it was no wonder that Vega had seemed so out of sorts. Her chest ached with every breath, and as she managed to push herself into a sitting position, she realized that almost her entire torso was tightly bandaged. She assumed it must have had something to do with the dull, burning feeling that irritated the skin beneath the gauze...

"...how long have I been asleep?" There was no one out and about to ask but Elias, who appeared to be cleaning instruments nearby. His face was pale, but he was at least standing, no doubt from the aid of those vials of medicine. Some semblance of his former self... enough to bring about a feeling of reassurance in the empath. "Are you well? What of the Rigas caster and the princess? Has anything else occurred in my... absence?" Her throat and chest protested every word she formed, but she had to know, or she would not rest. "Tell me, Clematis, or I will go and find out for myself... and you know I do not bluff." A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She could, and would, forever match Elias's obstinacy. Perhaps, in some backwards way, it was that which brought out their best potential.

In those brief moments before Alster's spell took action, Elias helped wrench Daphni to her feet and away from any retaliatory action made by the soulless thing rebounding toward them--toward him. He shifted so that his back was turned to it, and waited either for the cloying pressure of the wraith's fingers upon his neck, or the sucking force of a spell in activation. What he received, instead, was the healer's castigations. 

"I did just as you asked," he huffed, defensively. "I worried about Alster--that's why I am here. I'm watching him. If I am stupid for following your orders, then you are even stupider for conceiving of them." And, right as the cold, hairy pull of chthonic energy sucked away the spectre like tendrils of slimy smoke, they kissed. Rather, she kissed him, but he willingly partook in the joining of lips, needing not fear that his sickness would enter her, or his cough would constrict his throat and obstruct his breathing. 

The featureless landscape rubbed away as they returned to consciousness. The three of them awoke in the now-bustling infirmary, but they were not awake long enough to see the result of their endeavors. Elias, his lungs filling with liquid, doubled over and hacked himself unconscious. The only things he remembered, before the world bruised into black all around him, were the noxious green of the elixir unstopped from its vial, and a tingling sensation that lingered on his blood-colored lips...

While not suffering any physical ailments or the burden of near-death, Alster, who had only needed a day of on and off sleeping to recover, was hardly more than a body, an autonomous thinking receptacle. He was capable of movements and decision-making, but much of what defined him as a person, as Alster Rigas, was lost. All color had drained from his face. His eyes lost their light. His chest was deflated, sunken further into the ribcage. And his speech patterns, his mannerisms, the candor that fueled his affable demeanor, were obfuscated by a murky film, which seemed in want to blot him out of existence. 

When inquired after his health by either Chara or Vega, he waved off their worry with an unconvincing flick of the hand. "It's only temporary," he insured them, his voice a languid pull that dragged along after him like a wounded animal. "My chthonic magic is reacting to it. The shroud. In my system. It's like a bad cold. But I can't release it. Not until I'm far. Already, this combination of death and the energies that respond positively to it may, I fear, feed the Serpent." He turned his fogged mirror eyes to Chara, and nodded like his head was a rusted door latch. "Tell Adalfieri that Vega is well enough to make her departure from Stella D'Mare. Meanwhile, I'll work with Lysander on effective vanishing techniques. I want to appear as obliterated as possible."

Chara frowned at his choice of words.

"Invisible," he corrected, before she could question him further. "Out of sight. Vega," he addressed the recovering woman to his right, "just act as normal. Adalfieri is arranging for your release, so you will have his support. No need to treat this operation as a clandestine affair, because for you, it is not. The Rigas head will see you off with his blessing. I only need to convince him and all of his advisers that I do not exist, so I can slip upon your roc undetected."

"Is this a side-effect of your newfound energy intake?" Chara, no longer able to keep silent on his macabre observations, blurted, but not before giving a surly look at the Eyraillan princess, as if blaming her for dying in the first place. "Believing that you are actually dead?" 

With a forlorn sigh, Alster rose from his seat, making for the foyer of Chara's villa. "I'm going to get some rest. We'll all need as much of it as possible." 

"You are to see her again," Chara added, with an affected pleasantness that she hoped would bolster her spirits. Alster's hand, which was poised over the door, froze. "Elespeth. She is still at camp. I am certain she will like to know that you are alive, and relatively unharmed."

"I'm...I'm sure she will," Alster said, his words choked and small. He made his departure, shutting the door quietly behind him, and setting out upon the grounds of the estate. 

It didn't take him long to find Vitali, wandering between the gardens and the infirmary. 

Without preamble, Alster approached the necromancer, his gait like one of Messino's mindless, reanimated men, and threw a changepurse at his feet. Inside, a collection of glittering gold coins clattered together with the inviting, warm sounds of riches that had yet to be spent. "I know you have the means and the resources to leave this city on your own merits, but see this 'donation' as extra incentive to hold off, if only for long enough to take back the acquisition you have lost to Andalari's dungeons," he said, rubbing his shivering arms for warmth, but otherwise making no other motions. "But wait first until I am gone. See this as payment for the deed. He owes you nothing else beyond that which he has originally promised to you. Do I have your word?" 

Elias had only been awake for several hours, but could not stand being confined to his bed a minute longer. 

Though it was brief, wandering around in Daphni's dream-space, unencumbered by his disease or the pain of an attack, was the closest he had felt to bliss. Notwithstanding, of course, the creature that had breathed down his neck in preparation to suck out his soul. If he eliminated that little detail, then he could accurately admit to himself the errant stirrings of bliss. And something else. 

He checked on Daphni's condition several times since he had been awake. Still asleep. But breathing. Her chest was a steady up-and-down motion, despite all the tightly-wound bandages that inhibited her natural breathing technique. 

In the moments before the Sybaian healer stirred, Elias managed to sit up in his bed and take a few faltering steps around the vicinity of his bedside. He kept busy by leaning against the table filled with his medical instruments, and cleaning them to a shine. Cleaning his hands to a shine. Recleaning the sharp-ended probes and the blunt-ended probes, the scalpels and the scissors. While he worked, he had doubled over multiple times, feeling light-headed. The room spun out of control. His legs threatened to buckle from beneath his weight. His breathing ushered out of him in short, hurried gasps. Excruciating pain traveled from his lungs, to his throat, and everything twisted up from inside of him. But he was standing. He was alive. He was not about to devolve into another coughing attack. And most important--he was as content as he had ever known to be. 

Daphni found him in this position, ruminating over past events as he ran a damp cloth over a tin cup in circular motions. He turned over to regard her, his face still beset in its same, hard-lined rigor. "Two days," he said, as if addressing a patient, and not the woman who had implanted him with a kiss of...of what? Gratitude? "I haven't been awake for much longer than you." His voice was even scratchier than before, sounding atrophied, hollow, but nonetheless audible. "But it was time enough for me to learn that yes, the princess is faring better, though she is still distraught. Alster looks like walking death, and appears a little cross with you. You had stepped in his way, apparently." A soundless chuckle parted his lips into something of a smile. "He is beginning to take on the attributes of a healer: impatience for petulant sorts. But he is managing. As am I." He clutched his chest to take a well-needed breath, then continued. "Though I am not being dramatic in saying that your elixir is all that is keeping me alive, right now. Then again, you are also the reason I almost died, so...your presence is neither a detriment nor a help. You may as well not even be here. No, I take that back." A roguish smirk crossed his lips, which he began to trace with the tip of his knuckle. "You are most definitely a detriment. A chaotic force who is so determined to die, that she louses up my own plans on having a reasonably uncomplicated exodus. Either quit trying to die, accidental or otherwise," his expression narrowed into a glare, "or...live. And," he hesitated, "take me there with you."

Although he kept to himself and relatively out of the way, Vitali was not oblivious to the happenings and events that revolved around his most recent necromantic success. Word had it that the Sybaian healer had returned, and with her help, along with that of Alster and the Clematis healer, they were looking to expedite the Eyraillian princess's recovery. He did not bother to inform them that such would prove a dangerous feat, as he had already provided ample caution, in his opinion. And, anyway, he was rather curious of the outcome, as his curiosity was wont to be.

Of course, he should have expected their heroics to come through, as it was obvious to him just hours after their success that Sir Vega Sorde had returned to a state of being that encompassed the whole person, memories and all. And taking note of the dark miasma that surrounded Alster Rigas, when the miserably man approached him with a bag of money that he frankly did not need, he understood why and how they had managed the success.

"I daresay, you have seen better days," Vitali commented, glancing only briefly at the bag of coins at his feet. "Taking on the death shroud of a woman who you hardly know... I wonder how often you cross the line between altruism and self-annihilation, Rigas. That dark shadow cannot feel pleasant upon your shoulders."

It should not have come as any surprise that the foolish caster insisted on ensuring the safety of the arrested mercenary, although the plea was rather redundant. After all, the necromancer had no intention of letting incarceration or death interfere with a perfectly legit bargain. "You toss coins at my feet as though I am some beggar in need of money, and ask me to uphold a promise." He dragged out the words, as if he was having trouble comprehending. "You are, essentially, making a bargain with me, Rigas. And in bargains, I name the payment. For this promise, I could ask much more than the petty riches that you have to offer...'

He let the statement hang, for effect, before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "I had no intention of acting too soon on the mercenary's front, anyway. The timing is not right. But I will take your coins, anyway, and give you this; come here."

Though Alster hesitated, Vitali pricked his finger with the tiny blade always in his possession, and grabbed the man by the shoulder with his other hands. With quick, fluid movements, he drew a rune on the Rigas's forehead, and no sooner had he finished that the remnants of the death shroud that he carried dissipated. "I believe the words you are looking for," the necromancer drawled, sticking his pricked finger instinctively into his mouth, "are 'thank you'. To which I say, you're welcome. Be careful, Rigas."

Replacing his dagger, Vitali turned on his heel. "You shouldn't make it so obvious that you wish death upon yourself. It does not take a necromancer to notice it. Those who wish for it tend to attract it, like toxic magnets--although, bear in mind, it might not end up being your own life that it targets."

An uneven sigh of relief escaped Daphni's lips when Elias explained that all parties involved in helping the Eyraillian princess were alive and as well as they could be, given the circumstances. "Well; it seems as though your prayer paid off, after all," she quipped, tenderly hugging her middle with one arm. "I offer thanks to you and your god. I won't deny that everything I did was out of mere instinct; that feat... it was a first."

It was no mystery, however, that Elias was not faring well, and despite her current condition (which was not much better), she refused to relinquish her authority as one caring for him. "You call me petulant, and yet you are on your feet as if you are not about to collapse. Come here." When he neared, she grabbed his wrist and did not let go until he reluctantly took a seat on her bed. Grasping for her robes, which had been removed and folded at her bedside, she retrieved the stone that she had since purified, and placed it in his hand. It began to darken almost immediately as it absorbed the symptoms and fatigue that ailed him.

"I think you know I was not trying to die," she argued and sighed again. "I am instead guilty of overconfidence. I thought I could dispel death with willpower. But then... I saw your face. And I let my guard down." The confession brought a tinge of colour to her fair cheeks, as she recalled the bold action she had taken when the man came to her rescue. She did not regret it, though remained unsure as to whether or not it should be acknowledged. "I intend to stay alive, Clematis. If for no other reason than to remain a thorn in your side, out of spite." She could not help but smile, satisfied at the colour that had returned to his face when the clear stone had at last turned black.

Taking it from his hand, she replaced it in her robe and turned her body to face Elias, wincing at the pain it caused her burned skin. As always, the Clematis healer's aura was tinged with a shade of contempt; but there was something else, now. Something... wanting. Like a sore that sought a salve to be soothed. Take me there with you. It was as great a plea as she could expect from the man, and she understood. She knew what it was he sought.

Daphni reached forward, her hand caressing his forehead before it cupped his cheek. "Close your eyes and open your mind," she requested, her voice quiet and sincere. "You have the power in your own mind; you are in charge, and I can do nothing without your will. But I can help you get there, if you will let me." Pausing, she added, "It does not need to be dark and dangerous. You need me not take me to where it hurts. In your mind exists precious havens, as well. Concentrate instead on where your happiness comes from... you might be pleasantly surprised at what you find."

She did not think he would accept, and half-prepared herself for the possibility that he would walk away. But when he did not, she took it as consent, and closed her own eyes, feeling the subtle changes in his aura and a shift in his emotions as he envisioned and focused on something that had, at one point, brought him happiness. And through that imagery, she, too, could feel the ease of a lighter atmosphere.

Oh if only the necromancer knew how true his statement actually is, Alster thought, his eyes unblinklingly regarding the mistrustful man, feeling neither disgusted by his presence nor annoyed by it. So possessed was he by the weight of the death shroud, that little seemed to bother him, especially if they involved manners of this material world. It all seemed trivial, laughable, even, if he had the capability to laugh at the moment. We're all going to die anyway. And I..I'm just choosing my death sooner. He fingered over the self-inflicted etchings on his skin, which were covered and concealed by his clothes. Did the necromancer know of his intentions? He seemed adept at identifying death in its many manifestations, whether planned or unplanned, from sickness of the body or sickness of the mind. Alster's own iteration of death--it was the sickness of self-sacrifice. One that he was born to coddle and nurse, unaware that one day, when it was grown and full, the tumor that was once so benign would excise itself from its perch on his soul--and take him along with it. He had no choice, and soon, the others would begin to understand his reasons. 

I need to die. To undo all my damage. I need to keep cleaning. Clean all the ruined lives. Clean them until I can no longer feel my hands. Only then is it possible to be forgiven. Only then can I die knowing that I've helped to better the well-being of some, and prevented the annihilation of thousands. I need to die...because I want to die. At least... he looked uncertainly at his hands, which were now clasped at his sides. I wanted to die. Now...I'm not so sure. But I'm so tired...tired. 

I'm tired of everything... 

Once assured--or as assured as could be had with Vitali--that Haraldur's chances for escape were looking favorable, Alster was about to leave then and there. But the necromancer's beckoning hand stymied him to a halt. His fevered eyes gazed upon the small dagger that Vitali had produced from his sleeve and, almost as though he was one of the man's puppets, he stepped forward on his command. The moment the man's bloodied finger completed the symbol upon his forehead, it was like someone had peeled a leaden suit of armor from his body. His chest rose from its concavity, feeling fuller, warmer. The chill abated from his bones. Color exploded onto his cheeks, red-hot and aflame as if to make up for its days' long departure. A headache, throbbing and tender, bloomed from behind his rekindling eyes. Though he felt like he was finally waking from a long sleep, his convictions never changed.

I am still to die. This is just a small reprieve. Enjoy it while it lasts... 

"You shouldn't have," Alster said, his voice dripping with derision as his eyes narrowed. "Really. That bit of energy no doubt traveled right inside the Serpent's open maw. Anyway," he sighed, straightening his shoulders, "your help...it won't matter. As you've already posited, I am wishing it. My death. It needs to happen." He took a breath, and it was like sucking in air for the first time. His chest ached for the feeling, longing for that tingling of life to whir forever on. "Thank you...for the warning. I'll be more subtle about my machinations." Before the necromancer departed, Alster called after him. "Farewell, Vitali. It'll probably be our last meeting...but only you might know that for certain." And he left before the smarmy man could respond. 

It was with a silent groan of annoyance, yet of understanding, that Elias found himself sitting again on his bed. "Oh, so it is my fault now that my appearance threw off your shroud-banishing technique," he said, with a sneer at her confession. "So sorry to intrude. I am certain if we did not show up, you would have eliminated the entity all on your own. And I wonder how many revivals it would have taken for your body to do so. Four? Five? I would have been long dead before you defeated that thing--just in keeping your heart alive. Believe me, whether or not you intend to keep breathing...you are not the best indicator of what will insure your continued existence." 

He watched with a curious eye as the stone she cupped into his hand transformed from milky white to an opaque black. The effects were immediate. He was able to suck in less labor-intensive breaths, and he not once felt the urge to cough. His lungs, rather, felt less liquefied. More solid. A fixture in his system rather than a detriment that was slowly killing him. "Where did you acquire this stone?" He turned it over in his fingers until she snatched it away from his grip. He was about to protest, but paused in his complaints when she brushed soft, pliant fingers over his cheek and forehead. He abhorred touch, of any sort, but her own, so needful, yet careful in its positioning, was somewhat inviting. Unbidden, he had opened himself to her as his eyes slid naturally closed.

Listening to her words, he envisioned a place, a time, when the tribulations of life had not yet arrived to embark on the destruction of his homeland, his health, and his high regard for certain persons. But in her suggestions to conceive of happy, untroubled memories, he could not help but think of Leon, his mentor, leaping from the battlement in rapid succession, his mind playing and replaying the moment as if they were caught in a time loop. He struggled to wall away the sounds of continuous splashing as his dead weight hit the water. Then, he saw two of his brothers, faces bloated out of proportion, white tongues rolled out of their mouths, molded and fuzzy and dotted with flies. 

No, Elias. Think. Think, he demanded of himself. Go further back. Before that. Before everything.

There was a tree, he recalled. An enormous oak tree, as wide as the trunk was tall. He used to sit under it for hours at a time, with a book wide open on his lap. They were the days of his youth, back when he was referred to by his full name: Elias St. Rain. In his home of St. Thorne, families of nobility would earn the "St." honorific, and the St. Rain house was notorious for producing knights and soldiers of the Realm. However, as he was the youngest of five, and his brothers had already taken the call to serve, there was no pressure heaped over his shoulders to become anything more than a spare. But this did not bother him. He could do as he wished, all day long, and his family in turn expected nothing spectacular from the ambitions he chose to pursue, aside from receiving some form of education. 

This is where I wish to go, he told himself, and images flickered before his eyes like pages unfurling from a book. He blinked--and suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grassy knoll. Behind him, a cathedral-like manor loomed, brown and imposing. But it was far, and easy to ignore. The tree dominated the landscape, its leafy crown crisp and orange with the colors of autumn. It rustled in the breeze, like an old friend bidding him hello. It has been a while. As a child, he oft pretended that he was orphaned, abandoned at the base of this very tree which became his residence. He would climb the branches and clamber to the very top, reveling in his belief that it was only home he ever had, or needed--until Charlotta, worry-lines ironed on her face, would have to fetch him before the dinner bell rang, lest he be in a world of trouble. 

He turned to Daphni, who was beside him. "I don't even know if this tree, or if this manor, still exists," he said, taking care not to overtax himself with nostalgia. Now that he did not have to worry about the specifics of his infirmity, he would irk himself silly if he was afflicted by an ailment of the bittersweet variety. "Much of everything was destroyed in the raids. But this is where I used to live." He swept a hand over the wide, impressive estate grounds. "A long time ago. I never thought..." that this place made me happy, he finished, in his head. But I miss it. The simplicity.

"St. Rain," he said, after a few awed moments of silence, staring up at the tree. "Before I renounced my name, I was Elias St. Rain, the house of one of the eight noble families of St. Thorne. St. Thorne is...was...the ruling family at the time." He tried to maintain his composure, and hoped that in this illusory world, he could stay his nervousness, or hide the twinge of pink that threatened to spread over his cheeks. He was not used to being so...exposed. 

"This must be a treat for you," he said, beneath his breath. "To discover that I, too, am just like everyone else, lurid sentimentalities and all. I'd rather still have you think I was heartless."

For someone so obviously plagued with heavy events of the past that had left irrevocable scars, the Sybaian felt a tinge of pride for Elias, as he navigated parts of his mind that he had likely never visited--not since these places had become memories. She could sense the profound sadness before the manifested, witnessing only briefly the man jumping to his death, two bodies in the water. People who had assumedly meant a great deal to him, who he had, on some level, not yet let go of. Come on, Elias. You can push through this... find a better place. I know you have one. 

And he did. In seconds, a subtle shift in the scenery brought into focus a tree, and a manor in the background. A sense of calm filled the warm air, and it was as if she felt weight lifted from her shoulders, basking in the solitude. It had an immediate effect on Elias, she noticed, who not only looked and sounded healthy, with no evidence of the illness that plagued him in the waking world, but his face appeared placid. No lines of concern or weariness or anger... just peace. This place had once brought him peace and fulfillment; and now, albeit temporarily, it would again. Perhaps enough to purge his tired soul of some of the toxicity onto which it held so desperately. "It might not exist among the living, but it still exists here. Your memory of it is so solid and impermeable that it has a place in your subconscious, on so deep a level that nothing can touch it." Inhaling deeply, she smelled the crisp scent of autumn, inviting and soothing. "Everyone, deep in their mind, has a safe haven. Although unless you are magically adept, it either requires a good deal of practice in mastering a certain form of meditation... or having someone, such as myself, take you there. But it is there, nonetheless."

Daphni had witnessed brief glimpses of the reluctantly peaceful side of Elias, behind all the cynicism and sardonic and patronizing comments. Usually they had manifested in gradual shifts of his aura, about which he was likely unaware, without ever registering in his face or posture. But now, beneath that tree that held such precious significance to him, and without the presence of the condition which threatened his very life, even he could not hide the soothing relief if he tried. "The joke is on you, Elias," she teased with a knowing smile. "For I never once thought you to be heartless. Heartless people do not, after all, become healers."

Elias St. Rain... Such a musical name, the Sybaian healer thought to herself. The name of someone who was no more immune to sentimental human nature than the next human being. But even without the name, she had never doubted the soft spot on Elias's heart. Everyone had one, regardless of their exterior demeanor; and despite what the Clematis healer might have thought, the tragedies of his past had not destroyed his tender side. He merely kept it far more guarded, since he had been hurt. "I do hope you do not think I helped you reach this place for the amusement that I take in your humility," Daphni chuckled and shook her head. "Alas, I am in the wrong profession, were my motive to take pleasure in reducing others to their emotions. That isn't possible... Your aura is not a reflection of who you are. Although, on some level... I believe at least part of you always has been, and always will be, Elias St. Rain."

It was strange; as if by knowing him by his full name, the Clematis healer had transformed before her eyes, the absence of his illness aside. His eyes seemed brighter in colour, more blue than grey, his jaw stronger and shoulders straighter. Elias the person, not Elias the healer. Perhaps that was just what he needed, just for a little while: to remember what it is like to be a person, to be at peace with it. 
A task at which she, herself, had failed... Such that, ultimately, she had rejoined the sect of healers who had shunned her for years. Daphni Adela could not find herself beyond her identity as a Sybaian healer, and the abilities with which she had been born. At the very least, one of them had achieved that feat, even if it took venturing into a foggy memory to uncover a previously unknown safe haven.

But this haven was not her own, and beyond helping Elias find his way to it, she really had no business being there... At that realization, she took a step back from the calm and collected Clematis healer. "This place is yours, to visit to your heart's content; I'll teach you to do it on your own, she promised, nodding and clasping her hands in front of her. "But I need not be here. Remember, I told you that you have total control in this place. Feel free to will me away; I have no power in a subconscious that is not my own, and no business being here if it is not for me or anyone else to experience."

She didn't want to go; she could not deny that the tranquil autumn of this plane also brought her worried mind the quietude that it so sought. Particularly when she could no longer visit her own secret space in her mind. Not unlike what Chara had done for Lilica, Daphni's safe haven had been extinguished long ago, but by her own hand, and her own means. After all, there was only so much she could tolerate of seeing her late mother and her childhood home, without being consumed by near deadly nostalgia.

Contrary to what she told any of her patients suffering from despair... for her, it was simply easier and far less painful to miss those days gone by, than to remember them.

"Despite that you think otherwise... I respect your privacy," she added, when he hesitated. "And I do not dwell where I am not welcome."

Nothing can touch it...

But time had already touched this place, had branded it, twisted it, and threw it to whosoever staked a claim on the land. What he beheld, now, was a ghost. A replica of what was gone. Though it filled him with a rare serenity that he seldom felt--even before the ravages of war or the flaring of his acute lung disease--he also felt a gnawing on his chest. It was all too bittersweet. He could never return to this place without subjecting himself to the truth: that home was gone, that St. Thorne had fallen to rubble, that two of his brothers were dead and the rest of his family in hiding, and that what he had done on these hallowed grounds still permeated the air around his haven, reminding him of that which he never should have forgotten, but somehow...he had. He, so swept up in the latter twenty-odd years of his life, simply chose not to look over his shoulder and catalog what he had neglected to take with him: his sense of purpose. His sense of accountability. The entire reason that events as he knew them to occur had even occurred at all. 

Heartless people do not, after all, become healers. It was as if she read his mind, formed his inner musings into words, and reflected them back at him like a mirror, allowing him to see, to further confirm, the why of his origins. After all, why did he become a healer? 

He gazed again at the tree, his eyes a mixture of its mottled gold and green leaves and the solid brown of rough bark. How could he enjoy this inner sanctum of his so indiscriminately, when it only dredged more dirt to the surface, exfoliating all his unwanted memories, good and bad? Was this what the Sybaian clan did in order to heal their patients? Corner them into a seemingly innocuous place of solace and then force the pain and suffering through every orifice until the subject was bleeding and left raw from the ordeal? Was he privy to an underhanded ploy from Daphni to patch him up 'from the inside'? If so, he had fallen for her sinister schemes, and had only himself to blame. Is this a side-effect of dying? he thought as he ran a hand through his head of brown curls. Have I grown to be...easily swayed? Open to influence? Hopelessly insufferable?

The latter seemed true, at least--as evidenced by his reaction to Daphni speaking his name. His full name. One he had not heard uttered in decades. Elias St. Rain. It was so awkward, so clunky. It denoted importance. It denoted strength. A title of nobility that he had abandoned in favor of taking the cloth. And yet...on her lips, she had breathed a new life into it. Polished. New. Something that, like this memory, still belonged to him. 

He turned his face away, concealing from the Sybaian healer any visible reaction that her name had spurred on his slightly widening eyes, or his twitching mouth. But before he could respond in a way contrary to his stirrings of...fondness, for Daphni, she had retreated from his vicinity and suggested that he will her to leave. And perhaps he would have--a month or two ago. But now, she had embedded herself into his life like a worm in the dirt, and the only way to rid of her was to flood her burrow, and drown her to the surface. And worms, they nourished the soil, facilitated the growing of a garden, provided food for birds. By walling her out of his life, he may blunder any chance of...of...

Reconnecting to the earth, to the soil. Finding a purpose beyond the practical and the structured, lonely life that he had wished on himself. Should he live through his disease, wasn't it better to show proof of growth, and of gratitude to his God and the people who He placed before him on his Path? 

"No," he heard himself say, before he could filter out his speech. "Stay. I may..." he about flinched to say it, "need you, here." He stepped forward, and urged her back under the shade of the grandiose tree. "I have....a confession. Something in me that still..." He waved out across the field, to indicate his safe space. "I will not be able to enjoy it here, unless I tell someone, lift the burden..." Then, with a defeated sigh, he hunkered down on a protruding tree root that acted as a bench, and invited Daphni to join him. "I'd like to tell you why I became a healer." 

He rubbed his shoulders against the scratchy bark that acted as his headrest, and began. "Since all ordained clerics are required to renounce their name and title, not many noble families are willing to sacrifice their sons or daughters to the Order--unless they have any excess children that they do not mind losing. That was the case for me. As the youngest of five, my family did not harbor any great expectations for me. Even so, St. Rain is not known for producing any holy-men. There is a joke among the noble elite that St. Rain is a family of heathen sympathizers, and that we are friends to the hostile marauders that claw constantly at our borders." 

"But that was not how I got my start," he said, picking at a splinter in the wood. "As we were a busy family, active in high society and expected to attend all functions, my parents did not have the time to raise us. The job sat squarely on my governess, Charlotta. She was very patient, suffered no fools, never complained, always found the time to listen to me and all my outlandish stories, and..." he colored, slightly, "she was the closest I had to a mother, barring my actual mother. But...she was ill. Slowly wasting away from a disease of the lungs. Sound familiar?" He quirked a bitter, lopsided smile. 

"I wanted to help her, so I studied feverishly on potions, teas, tinctures, serums, elixirs--anything that would lessen her pain. The local apothecary took an interest in me, and I began apprenticing under his tutelage, for the next several years. But in that time, her health took a turn for the worse...and no manner of medicines that I or the apothecary mixed for her, would sooth her ails. Several Clematis saw to her, and their prognosis was also grim. They, too, could do nothing, save for making her comfortable as she died. So...I raided the apothecary's supply stores, found essences of nightshade, of hemlock, monkshood, oleander--and I mixed up a fast-acting poison that would kill her instantly. She thought I was administering a cure for her." His voice became distant, almost strained. "The look on her face when I told her she no longer had to suffer any pain was..." he swallowed his words. "She took it. Her eyes froze in horror. Her entire body convulsed. I almost thought she would vomit out the solution. I had mixed it too strongly. She must have been in great agony. But finally, the light left her eyes, and she ceased breathing, or moving...or living."

"The following week, I joined the Order of Clematis as an acolyte. As a healer, yes. But mainly, I chose that path...to repent. But it did not matter...because she was not the last person I had poisoned. Far from it. As you well know, you were nearly my latest victim." He kept his eyes purposely averted when mentioning the poison--his poison, that she was so close to consuming. "I realize now, the power of a mercy killing. It must be done, when no other avenues are open for survival. But at fifteen years of age, it was a hard lesson to learn. And I suppose I am doing my penance now." He placed a hand to his chest, over his lungs. "By suffering the very same disease. What Providence. Maybe I am meant to die the same way, as well. By poison." He closed his eyes, and felt the crisp, smoke-filled autumn breeze brush against his cheeks. "Perhaps the vial I gave you initially...is really meant for me, Daphni."

Stay. Daphni about wondered if she had plummeted the two of them not into subconsciousness, but a dream, altogether. That was not a word she ever thought she would hear from Elias, especially pertaining to her hovering presence, which every other time, he seemed to despise and resent. But now, he was asking her to stay; confiding that he might even need her help. Just how many layers of you have you kept hidden? she wondered, watching the stern lines on the Clematis healer's face smooth and disappear. Instantly, it was as if he had grown years younger and a good deal healthier, simply by letting go of that sullenness to which he held so tightly. Behind which he hid, using it both as weapon and shield in the face of anything that might hurt him, or surface memories that rendered him raw and vulnerable.

But he wanted her here for a reason--merely to listen. To be the receptacle of a story that weighed on him so heavily that it choked the breath out of him.
And so that was precisely what Daphni Adela did. Without judgment or reaction, she listened to his story, to the factors and events beyond his control (as well as those within his control) which had carefully crafted him, made him the man and healer that he was today. She almost envied him for it: being the product of a life-changing event, one who had pursued healing for a reason. Not because he had been born for it, it guilted into making use of abilities that might one day kill him...

But she did not envy him his burden, for it was one through which even she was not certain she could live.

Of course, she would never tell him as much. "Where does your guilt come from, Elias?" The Sybaian healer only ventured to ask once it was clear he had finished his tale. "From the fact that you delivered your governess more hastily to death, or because you were unable to preserve her life?"
Gently resting her hand atop one of Elias's, Daphni shifted to sit in front of him and ascertain she had his full attention. "There is more value to mercy killings that you realize. And you are one of the few whom I have met that even comes close to recognizing that value. Those who you helped, your governess included... a part of their heart, if not all of it, was grateful that you ended their misery. Though not all of them were clearly as grateful as I was, when you offered me the option."

Though he'd berated her and, in a professional sense, had disowned her when she had accepted that offer, Daphni hadn't forgotten the deep compassion that it must have taken for him to make such a proposal in the first place. To realize that pain manifested in more than just one form, and that it could become so profound that it could swallow someone's world whole. Of course, she had changed her mind, and death was by no means a solution for every woe, but it was the validation in that simple act of handing over a vial of poison. A gesture that said to her, I know it hurts, and I'm sorry I can't help the pain, but here is the chance to escape it if it becomes too much to bear.

Elias's heart was one more tender than he would ever admit. And for that, the Sybaian healer knew, she just knew, that his fate was not one slated for premature death.

"You're wrong." Though gentle, Daphni's voice resonated in the tranquil glade. "I do not believe that your illness is a punishment, Elias. My gods do not smite mortals in such a way, nor do I believe does yours. But sometimes... the events beyond our control do befall us for other reasons. Such as to make us better understand pain." Her smile was woeful. "And we healers seem to suffer the worst of it. But I do not believe we are slated to die... nor that that poison I meant for you. But whether or not you decide to take it is not for me to say."

Squeezing his hand in reassurance, she added, "Allow me to make a proposal: come with me. When this war resolves itself, one way or another, come to meet Silvanys. And if it turns out that he cannot be of any help, either in curing your condition or providing you a means of living a longer and happier life... then I will leave the decision in your hands. But do me this one last favour, and hold out for hope while it is still within our reach. Should you give up now, so soon..." Her mouth twisted into an uncertain smile. "Then I may just hold a grudge and spit upon your grave."

"The guilt," he swallowed, looking at the manor in the distance, "is towards the whole blasted situation. That I poorly prepared her death draught. That I took it upon myself to be her executioner. That I removed from her the burden of choice. But I knew, had I given her the option to fight her disease or end her pain and suffering, she would pick the former, and it..." his hand balled into a fist, "it drove me mad to see her in such a state. I did it for myself. To end my suffering. It was out of petty selfishness. That is why I feel guilt. My heart was not in a place of compassion or love."

And there it was. The answer he sought. The reason for his guilt. The whole driving force behind his circuitous route to achieving status as a healer, though he would have been content as an apothecary. In such a profession, he would never have to worry about magic or religion, both of which he abhorred for so long, especially when submerged into the Order's antiquated practices. He took the cloth because he was selfish, and looked to remedy his human errs. He took the cloth as punishment, as a means to tread down the path that eventually would lead to acceptance for his crimes of playing god. 

Charlotta was intensely religious, and in her death throes, even more so. She would have sanctioned his decision, given him her blessing to succeed. He, however, was not entirely successful, and had almost been excommunicated on multiple occasions--all on the grounds that he was not "compassionate" or "spiritual" enough. He had only learned to become an efficient healer in the mundane sense, keeping his practice aloft with tried and true methods, using nothing so nebulous as faith healing or prayer. How would appealing to the Eight-Colored God save the life of his patients? No--that responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders. It was a laugh that only now, as he faced the gateway of Death itself, was he receptive to the welcome light of God. His past preachings on the wonderment of the One were always hollow, seldom convincing or praiseworthy. Had he even believed his teachings at all? No. But as he stood at the threshold, at the edge of his tree-planted memory where the origins of his professional life had begun, realization slowly crept into his thought process. I really do believe. 

He glanced sidelong at Daphni, viewing her in a shade different than how he once regarded her: as a pest. As a charlatan who claimed a connectivity to the human psyche. As a joke. A mockery of solid, indisputable medical evidence. What he could never be, because he banished his spirituality, ignored the bindings of his immortal soul, and treated the physical body as the only receptacle through which pain and joy, sickness and health were filtered. Now, he started to understand his disconnect. His severances. And it was all because he was convinced of his selfishness, convinced that he lacked compassion and a deeper, innate recognition of the universe. He told himself this was true. Others told him this was true. And so, he made it true. 

But his mercy... that, at least had remained in tact. Throughout the long years of his thankless work, it was the only bit of compassion that he retained in his cold, unfeeling heart. Perhaps, as Daphni had pointed out, his lack of depth was why he was besieged with a consumptive illness. Maybe this is what I must learn. ...Empathy. 

Elias stared at Daphni's hand, which tightened around his own, and found that he did not wish to pull it from her grasp. Instead, he curled his fingers around it, and nodded his assent. "I don't wish to take the poison, for I am of your persuasion. There must be a reason, beyond your 'exemplary care,'" he snorted, "why I am not yet dead. So hold your spittle in your mouth for a mite longer." A hard-lined smile crinkled his cat-like eyes. "I'll come along, but so help me, if your savior is some charlatan, and our trip all for naught, I might live my last days regretting what I am about to do." He leaned forward and pressed a tight, closed-mouth kiss on her lips...for reasons of sanitation. But then he thought about the specifics of their non-corporeal realm, where disease and filth did not exist, and he kissed her a second time, mouth open to capture the spit she had so reserved for his grave. 

As arranged, Chara had, the day after next, reported to Adalfieri the stabilized condition of Sir Vega Sorde, to which the man had responded with a favorable nod of his head. 

"My," he clicked his tongue with approval, "the Eyraillan princess convalesces quite gracefully." 

"We had the help of some very capable healers." 

"Alster, I take it, was a valuable asset to the recovery of our most honored guest." 

Chara, as taught tirelessly by her father, did not rise to Adalfieri's bait. She could not let on that they were planning to smuggle Alster atop Vega's roc mount. "He has," she said, with practiced apathy. "She no doubt reminds him of the Atvanian warrior of whom he is still so fond. His aid has been instrumental, and is much deserving of a boon from your esteemed Lordship."

"Hmmm," he ruminated. "You are absolutely correct, Chara. His services will not go unrecognized." He thumbed a finger beneath his chin. "Then, I shall see him at the proceedings tomorrow."

Chara froze. "...Pardon?" 

"Oh," Adalfieri said, with a chortle, "excuse me, Chara. I am flying ahead of myself, here. Tomorrow evening, in the cover of night, we shall release Sir Vega Sorde and her roc to the skies, and provide her ample magical concealment to see her safely back to her camp. I would love for Alster to stand by my side for this auspicious event. We have not, after all, readily conversed since before his awakening from that terrible curse. I feel it is nigh time that he is welcomed, rather than continuously ostracized, back into our family's good graces. I am certain that you will agree, my dear." 

...Shit. 

"Of course!" Chara's laugh was pitched an octave higher than usual, and it fluttered with unease. "Though, mind, he has been unwell. Bone-weary from his excursion into the mind of the Eyraillan princess. Are you certain that he will be receptive to your company by tomorrow eve?" 

"I am certain he will be just fine, Chara. No need to worry, so! You said it, yourself. He is quite resilient, and has an impressive amount of stamina. Besides, it is not healthy for him to keep withdrawn and alone for the bulk of his waking hours. Please inform him of my decision. For," he exaggerated a sigh as he shifted imperceptibly in his favorite chair, "I would be much affronted if Alster did not choose to show."

Once she was dismissed, Chara hurried out of the doors and strode towards her villa, bearing on the ground with crushing steps to compensate for her inability--mindful as she was of Rigas eyes--to break into a frenzied run. 

She burst through the doors and ran into the foyer, where Vega and Alster were chatting in the living space adjacent to the terrace. 

"We've a problem," she said with hurried breath, and told them the grim news.

"Well... some do claim that there is no true altruism. That people are incapable of it, because it is seemingly impossible," Daphni confided in him. Not as if to make a point, but to validate his point of view. She was not under the impression that he received any form of validation very often. "Maybe that is true, to some extent: that we cannot ourselves feel righteous and fulfilled unless we extend our reach to those in need--thereby achiving that very fulfillment. But that does not belittle what we do; or what you have done, for your governness. Mercy is mercy, regardless of the motive or intent... So," half-grinning, she nudged his shoulder to have him look up when his gaze dropped to the ground in shame. "Put that guilt behind you, now. You have acknowleged it, entertained it, but it has well overstayed its welcome. It does nothing to improve the health of your body or soul, and I daresay, your governness is likely frowning upon you from beyond for being your own worst enem over the matter."

It felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders when he at last met her eyes and agreed to her terms. While it was painfully clear that she was otherwise incapable of helping him (save for this impromptu journey that had led to him confiding in her his innermost demons), perhaps her acquaintance would be the catalyst. The person who could restore the Clematis healer's hope along with his health, and change his mind to the possibility that he was, due to past decisions or otherwise, meant to die. "Really, Elias?" She folded her arms, and wrinkled her nose rather distastefully at his comment. "And here I thought that since you had reconsidered my alleged 'charlatan' status--and that of my clan's--that you would also reconsider thinking the status of my connections..."

Daphni was cut short of words of breath by a gesture that she never would have dreamed. And when Elias pressed his mouth against hers, first closed and then open and willing, her mind struggled with the quick decision as to whether she needed to pull away or embrace is. If you fall into this trap, you know how it could wound you, that cautious voice at the back of her mind chimed in. A voice that made her think of her mother, and of the father that she had never met, and how her mother had pined for his company for so long that her fragile heart had everntually yielded to the pain, giving a whole new meaning to dying of heartbreak. He can walk away from this, unscathed; you can. You know that. And should this war, his health, take a turn for the very worst...

Then I will deal with that when--if--the time should arise she countered her own inner critique, as her hands found Elias's shoulders. I will not deny myself this. I will not live a life without allowing myself to know this feeling, merely for fear of its backlash. A life of evasion through fear is not a life worth living.
"...who are you?" The Sybaian healer breathed, when at last the two separated for fresh air, cheeks faintly flushed and lips swollen--and smiling, at least on her part. "And what have you done with the cold Clematis healer who I thought for sure I had figured out, by now?"

Vega, as the days passed and hastened her towards recovery, had taken to Alster and his freely given friendship--because, frankly, it was all that she had to hold herself together.

She remembered, now. She could recall nearly everything that she had forgotten since rising from the dead, save for a few insignificant details or faded memories that seldom crossed her mind in the first place. Though be that as it may, the more the Eyraillian princess remembered, the deeper it plunged her heart into a chasm of futile hopelessness--and as such, she decided it best to focus on the future. And in particular, the near future, one which consisted of exiting Stella D'Mare while taking with her a passenger of great importance to the city... illegally. 
As if she needed any more reason to focus the whole of her attention and problem solving skills on the matter.

"You're sure about this?" She sat across from the Rigas caster on the terrace of his villa, plates full of cheese and grapes and breads awaiting consumption yet hour-long untouched. Neither of them presented much of an appetite with all of the apprehension building on the next day's feat. "It's not that I cannot do my part, nor that I don't want to go through wit it, but... Alster, what if circumstances prevent you from returning to your home?" Vega tucked a loose tress of vibrant russet hair behind her ear, pale eyes turned downward as she sat forward in her chair. "To be honest, I never thought I would come to miss Eyraille. There is simply too much of it that remains broken, too much work to be done... it is overwhelming. And yet, a stubborn part of me yearns to return... with the knowledge that there is a possibility I might not."

Awaiting his reply, their conversation was interrupted by noneother than Alster's fiancee, who came rushing in, out of breath and determined to get a word in--and for good reason.

"...he knows." Vega breathed, her shoulders slumping forward in defeat. "There is no other reason that he would request Alster's presence at my departure than for the fact that he suspects he will make an escape with me. I do not know how we are going to get around that, concealment spells or not..." Gnawing on her lower lip, she frowned as thoughts tumbled through her mind. "We need more time. I... what if I were to 'regress'? Show signs of amnesia again, making me unfit for departure tomorrow? It could be the diversion that we need..."

But a diversion was nothing but a waste of time without the means of planning against the Rigas head's failsafe.

Similar thoughts crossed Elias's mind as he maintained his lips upon her own, while his hands traveled down to meet her waist. Why was he kissing her? He, who snorted upon the very concept of love and affection? And with a once-despised Sybaian--an empathetic healer, no less! What were the ramifications of his decision on her highly sensitive mind? And what would happen if the disease was imminent in taking the life from him, as he expected it would? Did he think upon his foolhardy act with any modicum of sense? For, he most certainly was not cataloging ways in which to encourage longevity and a fair constitution. What of his Brotherhood, his oath? While the Order did not prohibit relationships to form, or for two of like mind to marry (if it be God's will), they also frowned upon fraternizing with an individual outside of the clerisy. Not that it mattered much, he thought. The Order was but a small collection of scattered men and women of the cloth, without the benefit of a high-priest or priestess to lead them. Even if he were excommunicated by whomever saw themselves in charge, it no longer seemed like a grievous loss. After all, what good was magic if he could scarcely use it without devolving into fit of pain-searing coughs, and what good was identity and oneness with his church if it inhibited him to discover a cure? Without the waning grip of the Order to hold him in place, he would be free to roam and do as he wished, until death or an absolution. And though he began to open his heart to the mercy of the Eight-Colored God, he had, unbidden, allowed Daphni the same path, the same passage, into his sickly embrace. 

He could not explain, substantiate, or reason such a wanton act of silliness on his part. 

But he'd be damned if he didn't at least try. 

When they pulled away from each other, Elias coughed, but unburdened from his fatal affliction, it was a benign clearing of his throat than an actual health-related issue. He scratched the side of his neck, and a non-fever-induced fluster arose upon the bed of his cheeks. "For reasons of research," he began, affixing Daphni with a defiant stare to offset her smiling, almost victorious expression of his defeat towards the emotional sciences, "I shall play your game. I am still cold as ever, mind. That has not changed. But I am willing to accede to your expertise, Daphni. Perhaps your, ah, company will provide me with some alternate methods of healing that medicine or magic cannot accomplish. That is," he averted his hazel eyes as his frown twitched and fought his coming words, "if you would have me." 

"But," he threw a cautionary finger before her face, "hear my stipulations. If I do not see any favorable results from now up until my death bed, I will thereby terminate this relationship, and reassert my initial impression over your sophomoric practice: all pretty words and guesswork combined with sheer dumb luck. But should your dumb luck contribute to the elongation of my life, then I will admit to you the breadth and scope of all my transgressions. Now," he spread his hands over his lap, as if he were about to conduct a business transaction, "do we have a mutually-agreed upon start-time for this...experiment?" 

Alster, whose health fared better--all thanks to Vitali's unsolicited guidance, he thought bleakly--had decided to spend a measure of his time in Vega's company. Even though he felt more withdrawn, more unnerved, more bereft of hope than he had since Elespeth first departed from Stella D'Mare, he put on a good front for the Eyraillan princess, who was in need of a companion. He, too, was in need of a distraction from the gloomy thoughts in his mind, which was constantly ruminating over every possibility, every premature annihilation, every deferred plan or backfiring scheme...

And over death. His death. So close. How he fought so hard to attain it, to at last see the end, a retribution for his sins, a reconciliation for a future in which he would play no part. But all that he asked of his cursed destiny was to see her, to see Elespeth...one final time. Then I will go with no fuss, he promised himself. I will go, knowing that I lived as full a life as possible, given my circumstances. I'll come to accept everything--if only to see her again.

But the universe was deaf to his requests, or, thought he did not yet deserve an unobstructed path to his end goal, as Chara, who fluttered upon the terrace, was quick to update him and Vega of the situation. Alster, however, felt too stunted, too expectant of all the wrongs thrown like sand into his eyes, and too prepared, to react with more than a wearied, resigned bob of his head. 

"Adalfieri has impeccable foresight, with or without the aid of his magic," Alster said as he stared out into the ocean-lined horizon in the distance. "Vega," he addressed the Eyraillan royal without looking back, "your 'regression' would only buy us time, and I daresay Adalfieri will be expecting any chinks that will prevent your departure."

"But we cannot pass a trick over Adalfieri's nose with any range of success," Chara said, wearing on her lip in worry. "Already, you risk much just by daring to traipse around his presence with but a concealment spell protecting you from detection." 

"So we don't try to trick him," Alster said, quietly, and Chara's eyes widened with alarm. 

"...What are you implying?!" 

"He is well-versed in mind-play, Chara. But bold, reckless maneuvers, unplanned, raw, and mindless? Even if he were to predict a chaotic departure, he can't determine the specifics, or the law, in chaos, or how to prevent its occurrence."

"That's," Chara sputtered, "insane! It can damn everyone involved! Put my own loyalties into question. Ruin my chances of freeing Lilica!"

"I know." His voice was little above a whisper, now. "So don't risk your cover any more than you've already compromised it. I'll handle this on my own, tomorrow evening." He turned, then, to Vega. "I may need to ask for your assistance, Vega--and that of Aeriel, if she's up to a little rampaging." 

But before she could hear a word more of their near-suicidal plannings, Chara stormed off the terrace, past the doors of her villa--and she searched, in vain, for the one man to whom she never wanted to become acquainted. The one who Lilica heeded her not to involve. The one who caused endless troubles, but had inexplicably employed solutions, with resounding successes. 

She looked for Vitali. After all, Alster, she thought, with a fury that popped her bones and shivered at her skin, one reckless act deserves another.

It required more will power than Daphni thought she could govern in order to stay the laughter that bubbled in her chest, upon hearing the Clematis healer's explanation of his gesture. It was all a front, she now realized; that cold stoicism was merely a defense mechanism for the feelings that he had now all but laid bare to her in that single kiss. But dignity was such a fragile thing, and she could not shatter Elias's when he had made himself so vulnerable on her behalf.

However, he had no problem in continuing to maintain skepticism regarding her and the nature of her own professional practice. And for that, she would not discontinue poking fun at him--and would not turn down the opportunity to do so. All in the name of good fun, of course. "Research? Game? There is no 'game' here but your own, Elias St. Rain," Daphni assured him with a confident smile. "I do not play at games of the heart. I take it seriously and treat it with care, lest the pain I inflict on another person affects me, in turn. Not to mention, I am aware of the danger and what might become of me should the 'game' not go as planned. My mother found that out the hard way..."

She could see the trepidation in his eyes as she spoke, that fear of rejection, of destroying him at his most vulnerable moment. But that... That was not what she wished. Because by the warmth of his aura, which flickered in bright and vibrant colours like she had never seen before, this was no jest, on his part. It was genuine; it was more than she could hope for. "You do realize the risk that I am taking, by accepting this, your terms and all," she asked to confirm, folding her hands in front of her. "We all benefit from companionship, Elias. It nourishes the heart and soul and promotes longevity of the former. For the Sybaia, the reassurance of someone who values them beyond their skills... it can even buffer the blowback of the work we do, and the toll it takes on our bodies and minds. But it can also lead to a quicker demise; and can give a whole new meaning to dying of a broken heart."

She left it at that for a moment, simply to let it sink in. For him to realize the immense risk she was taking by entertaining this idea at all--but only for a moment. Her smile softened, and she reached out to touch his folded hands unapologetically. "But... this is a risk that I am willing to take, with you. I have risked my life once, just to return to Stella D'Mare. What's another gamble?"

"Alster..." Vega averted her eyes to meet Chara's, silently in line with the haughty woman and her steadfast attitude. She was right; commotion would be reckless for everyone involved. Was it really worth the risk if it endangered so many lives? "Chara is right. I am all for working with you to rectify this situation, but... it is too risky. Not just for me or Aeriel, but especially for you. You have a purpose--a reason to return to Tadasun, not just to flee this city. What if it is all for naught?" She recalled, after all, his lost lover with whom he sought to reunite... So why would he seek to gamble, to be so cavalier in taking this chance?

Turning again to consult Chara, she looked just in time to see the Rigas caster's back as she disappeared through the doorway. The woman was on a mission, and she had her own agenda; that much had to be true.
"Let's hold off. Your betrothed might yet come through for us with a better plan." Perhaps their chances of success depended on it.

Whether or not it was a 'better' plan remained to be seen, but if anyone could get Alster Rigas out of Stella D'Mare without Adalfieri's interference, Chara had certainly turned to the right person.

"And what can I do for you, Miss Rigas?" The necromancer folded his hands across his lap, legs elegantly crossed on the garden bench. It had taken little effort on Chara's part to track down Vitali Kristeva; he seemed to know when others sought a bargain with him, and would thusly make himself known. Unless, of course, he did not want to be found. "Or, I suppose, the better question is: why would I want to grant you a favour?" As always, his services were not a charity.

Elias, in witnessing the twitching of her upper lip, was well aware that Daphni was attempting not to laugh at his proposition. His eyes flashed as a result, as if daring her to make any sounds of heckling mirth at his expense. While he said those words in half-jest, the other half was a cover-up, for he would not so readily admit that he needed her--both to care for him and to offer extended camaraderie. He was a prideful man, and even if he was set to lose everything of himself, piece by piece, he would not sink so low as to be stripped of his independence and dignity. Especially since associating with her on such an advanced level meant that he respected and validated her practice, including her claims that love and companionship were adequate means of stitching together the holes of the body. He saw these happenings first-hand, and knew that to deny them, he would be made the bigger fool for having besmirched such inane, yet proven, ideals that spat in the face of hard medicine and so mocked the discipline of healing. Still, to concede to Daphni in full (for he already had conceded, surrendered himself to her will), was to raise her in superiority...and he would not give her that satisfaction. At least, not so overtly. And yet, there was still the possibility that what could heal others might not necessarily heal him. Hence, the "research." The "game." 

"You could always refuse," he said, as flippantly as possible. "This method of healing, as you have seen occur with your mother, with your own people, is potentially destructive. Just like highly concentrated bursts of magic expelled for mending a wound. Too much good, however pure the intent, rots the flesh, and corrupts the process. If you do not think you'll survive such a procedure, you needn't agree to my terms at all." He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "If it would so damage you--and you know that it will, given my winning attitude--" he quirked a smile, "do look into your own health, as it is foremost. All you would do here is perhaps prolong the life of a miser, and if your Ilandrian friend is so exceptional at what he does, then I would not require the buffer you may or may not provide--as long as I survive the trip." 

He glanced down at her hand atop his own, and his voice softened, sanding away at the sharp bite of his usual intonations. "Besides...outside of this space, here, my infirmity will return. I would be afraid to touch you, to..." he flushed, and pressed on his lips, to indicate just what he meant, "...and I doubt I would have the energy to engage in much else. Think hard on what you may lose, or rather, never gain, should you agree to this gamble." 

It did not take long for Chara to find her intended target. 

Vitali, as she had predicted, was lounging in the front garden, as if waiting for her arrival. A reflexive shiver rippled at her arms, and she rubbed her hands up and down the offending area to clear herself of the trepidation she felt at embarking too close to the eerie necromancer and his false charms. While she had encountered the man several times already, and was audience to his feats during his tenure at the estate, she scarcely said a word or two to him in acknowledgement, and preferred to keep away from his attention, as per Lilica's warnings. 

But that was no longer feasible. Already, Alster had interwoven himself in the necromancer's affairs, and in turn, the necromancer ingratiated himself into Rigas politics, and had even infected all those who were separated from them by degrees--such as Haraldur, Vega, and Elias. They could not rid of this pest, not when so many "owed" him favors. It sickened her to kowtow to such a reviled individual, one who drove Lilica to commit heinous acts all for his sick-ended pleasures--but he was a tick. The way to release his hold was not to pull him free, but to deliver him a surplus of blood so that he would detach himself from the skin of his own volition, happy and sated and bloated until near-bursting. 

She tried to contain her ire as she approached the man, crossing her arms to negate the fact that she had been warming herself with her chilled fingertips. First checking to see if there were any passersby, she cast the muffling spell as taught to her by Lysander, then drew herself into her full, self-assured stature, sloughing away any bits of desperation or hastiness. She needed a clear head, and clear words when facing Lilica's putrid half-brother. 

"Yes, I am in want of a favor." Not need, she coached herself. Never use need. "Alster cannot fly with the Eyraillan princess tomorrow; Adalfieri expects him as an honored 'guest' by his side. How he proposes to wander from Adalfieri and ride on board Vega's roc, regardless of this commitment, is nothing short of suicidal, and may cause a fair amount of collateral damage." She sighed, all self-loathing and bitter, for daring to ask for Vitali's services. "I need a diversion. A distraction of Adalfieri's attention, and of those who will be attending the event. I want no casualties, no wounded, but it must be enough so that Alster and Vega can make their exodus without any fuss."

She played around with a bright sapphire ring on her right hand. It was sculpted from gold and inlaid with diamonds. Extricating it from her possession, she presented it to him. "This is worth a mint, should you decide to sell it at market. But I would hold on to it. The ring is emblazoned with our family insignia. If you reveal it to any of our allies, they will provide you with asylum, should you require it. And if such a trade does not satisfy you, or pique your interests enough to help," a hard-lined smile stretched across her face, "I will aid Lilica in your most untimely demise. I need only tell her that you have wronged me, and I am certain that it will be all the motivation she requires to destroy every aspect of your miserable soul."

The depth of feeling in the Clematis healer's eyes was about enough to constrict Daphni's vulnerable heart. That pure longing for a life that he was not sure he could have, the hesitation to hope that any good might come of his uncertain future... If only she could promise him that he would be all right. That it was not foolish to hope. That she could bring him to the means of the cure that he so sought.
But she could not. All that she had was her optimistic outlook and that unquenchable faith that all would turn out right--that one of their gods, at least, would find favour for them, and grant them the unity that they desired. One that would last.

"What would I be, if I were so selfish as to put my own health and well-being above someone else's?" Daphni teased, smiling through her own concern. "I certainly have a lot to lose. Which must tell you something about he faith that I have in the risk that I am taking by agreeing to this 'game', as you so put it. Because, just think: what if I am right, and that the answer to your troubles does reside near Ilandria?" Her smile broadened. "You could have the life you desire. Not only your health, but a companion for your miserable self. Something real which, when you are comfortable, you can touch. Someone you can... kiss. And who would return the gesture. Someone who values your life beyond your contributions to your field..." Her voice and eyes softened along with his. "That is what you have to gain; and I think that it is worth a chance. And... I hope you will agree."

Because it was worth the chance. Daphni Adela had not sought much in life, but since her mother's death, she had desperately hoped to fill that grim void. To feel grounded again, like a meaningful being who was both worthy of and capable of being loved. And that kiss, which still made her lips tingle and her heart beat an erratic rhythm, had ignited her courage to pursue this risk.
Even if, for the second time in her life, it possibly meant looking upon the deceased face of the second person she had ever loved.

"Elias St. Rain." She enunciated his name, like it was more than it was. Something sacred. When she had his full attention, eyes on eyes, she reached up to cup either side of his face, fingers entwined in his curly locks. "I would like to take this risk with you, and to see it through to the end... Whatever the end may be."

"Well. Isn't that a pretty trinket." The necromancer, eyeing the proffered ring, sounded rather underwhelmed--that is, until Chara went further into its meaning, significance, and how it might be of help to him. Vitali's eyes immediately brightened, and he took the jewelry between his forefinger and thumb to examine it more closely. The sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the sunlight. "Well, silly me. Here I was about to admonish you for thinking that I valued material possessions," he chuckled, and twirled the ring in his fingers. "Had I known you Rigases would be such eager clients, I would have made my presence know much sooner! And to think now, with this, I am welcome back whenever I might require sanctuary."

The flamboyantly-dressed man read Chara's face as she so hastily followed up her offer with a threat--one involving his sister, no less. "Now, now. No need to include dirty tactics in this business transaction." Vitali brushed it aside with a flippant hand gesture. "And certainly no need to involve my dear sister. Much though I am sure she would love to witness my demise, something tells me that killing has devolved from her ultimate agenda, lest her fragile conscience get the best of her. Besides, I happen to like what I have to offer. But only on one condition."

Pocketing the ring, the necromancer stood, not himself much taller than Chara in stature. Much like Lilica, one so powerful and yet looked so easy to break. "Do not ask for miracles, my dear Chara. I can do your bidding, but I can only control so many variables. Not that I will not do my very best to ensure the safety and survival of all parties, but... things do not always go as planned. Know this, and you have a deal."

Whatever Chara had planned, she did not relay any of it to either Alster or Vega, and the next morning was full of uncertainties and trepidation.

The Skyknight had taken her time that morning to prepare herself and Aeriel for departure; more time than she needed, if only to buy herself and Alster precious moments before she would no longer have any further excuses to delay her departure. Even going as far as to sleep in later than she should have (claiming the rest was necessary to make the flight safely), she found herself running out of time, such that she and Alster hadn't even the opportunity for a final clandestine meeting before their master plan would fail before it had ever begun.

Standing near her beloved roc, who seemed to reflect her rider's agitation, the Eyraillian princess took the formality to thank the Rigas head for his help and hospitality--next to whom stood Alster, still and lackluster in his posture, shoulders slumped in what had to be defeat. "I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me, and vicariously for my kingdom," Vega's tone was automatic, as was her shallow bow to Adalfieri. Her smile, at best, was tight. "Eyraille is in your debt, and we will help you in whatever way we can, should you need the support."

Her eyes met Alster's for a heartbeat, sharing in the helplessness that they both felt. She had made a promise to take him with her... and yet, that promise could now never come to fruition. All the more fodder for the stifling guilt that drove her to the bottle time and again, if only to catch a few feeble hours of dreamless sleep...

With a defeated sigh, she turned back toward her roc--and no sooner did she pivot on her heel, that the sound of hurried feet tore her attention back, as well as that of everyone who had gathered to witness her take flight. "Your Lordship!" The pale faces o two Rigas guards hurried to the old man's side, eyes wide with panic. "You must come at once... it is of the utmost urgency!"

The response that Daphni had given him was a predictable one. While Elias was not one to overblow his self-worth, or think that his presence garnered even an iota of positive attention (on the contrary, people typically broadened their distance around him), he knew the Sybaian's answer before she opened her mouth to utter it. She, like him, was prideful. To refuse his "game" was to deny her desire and drive to succeed, no matter the obstacle. And she, like him, (much as he expressed otherwise), was a healer who valued the well-being of others at the expense of her own health. Of course she would agree to his terms.

But, wasn't he forgetting to detail a more relevant reason for her involvement in the more intimate aspects of his life? Her self-sacrificial stance in favor of his survival and wellness? The way she possessed his attention with her imploring gaze? The insistent grip of her fingers against cheeks that were not sallow or gaunt, but full and salubrious? She, like him, shared in his...in his...

His partiality. His acceptance. His fondness and fancies and...something else. But he dare not voice it, even in his head. 

"I am not surprised," he said, with a matter-of-fact grin. "You harbor a certain attraction to lost causes. Who am I to tell you not to proceed? After all...I am selfish, and I have much to gain." He took her chin in his faltering fingers, and raised it so it near touched his waiting lips. "I agree...to you," he whispered. "Only if I too am able to cull and cure your own miserable existence, Daphni. That's my only other condition." And he finalized their spoken transaction, signing their contract with a kiss, beneath the shade of the grand, golden oak. 

After her questionable arrangement with Lilica's demonic half-brother, Chara proceeded with Rigas matters with as normal and unruffled a demeanor as was conceivably manageable. She revealed nothing of her machinations to Vega or Alster, worried that voicing her non-plan of a plan would reach the wrong ears, or, worse yet, be rejected by Alster, who was quick becoming adverse to the aid of others--as if he hated himself for having to rely on everyone's support, when he thought it better to handle all matters on his own. 

The evening of departure had arrived, and all souls requested for attendance were accounted for: Adalfieri, Alster, who, with pursed lips, stood beside him, hands atop the backrest of her Lord's small palanquin, Vega, positioned before her roc, Lysander, not far from the Eyraillan's reach, a few guards and members of the Council, and Chara. The Rigas head welcomed Vega's rather stilted words of praise as if she had sprinkled them with gold and perfume. He brightened with a smile and kissed her hand and wished her well, which only increased Chara's trepidation. What potential ill-favor would Vitali inflict on Adalfieri? On their estate? The Rigas head, while misguided in his handling of certain situations, was still their venerable leader, her kin, and her valued mentor. She picked at her nails, dreading the outcome, almost preferring for Alster to raise his hands and conjure whatever spells he had thought of summoning, welcoming whatever havoc he had intended on wrecking--and she saw him attempt to do so. He slowly lifted his hands, his eyes both faraway and deadly aware as he curled his fingers, preparing, waiting to act, ready to retaliate...

The scene was interrupted by the entrance of two breathless guards, their eyes bulging with barely-contained horror. Adalfieri listened to their pleas with a calm face, but made no indication of stirring to action. He glanced sidelong at Alster, who shrugged and appeared equally as perplexed by the news. "What, praytell," Adalfieri began, "is the matter?" 

The first guard, only marginally more put-together than his companion, stepped forward. "The sarcophagus of Rigel...is open. And inside...he...he walks! He walks. Rigel does! Across our grounds. Cursed. We are all...it is simply--"

Adalfieri waved a hand to silence the guard. "This must be the work of the dreaded necromancer," he said, his voice a distant clap of thunder. "Postpone this flight. Alster, come. You are able to absorb death energy--"

But when he glanced over his shoulder to regard the chthonic-adept Rigas caster, he was nowhere to be found. "Lysander!" he growled. "He has vanished. Find him!"

"Your Lordship," the second guard intoned, almost hysterical, "we must hurry. If Rigel's body is at all desecrated, or marred, our spell-forms will be compromised!" 

With a curse of futility, Adalfieri whirled his head towards Chara. "You are in charge here while I am gone. Find Alster. Do not allow anyone to leave until this matter is resolved." He nodded to the guards to lead the way, then directed his own honor guard to lift the palanquin upon which he sat and follow as quickly as their legs could run. 

Alster, who took advantage of Adalfieri's distraction, used the opportunity to cast a concealment spell on himself and sneak away, towards Vega and her roc. Rounding on the Eyraillan princess, he tapped her gently on the shoulder and whispered. "Let's go. Now." He made haste as he climbed on board Aeriel and silently hoped that the fierce avian would not spook or try to buck him off the saddle. Fortunately, with Vega there to ease her mount, they had both secured themselves on top of her feathered back. "Now, we disappear," he said, and waved his hands, extending his concealment spell to consume Vega and Aeriel in the shroud of bent, refracted light. He felt a foreign entity join in his casting: a guiding, helpful boost, which eased the weight of his complex spell. Alster looked out towards the grounds, and saw Lysander, surreptitiously pointing his hands in their direction, a shimmering heat-smoke distorting the air around his splayed fingers. 

Nodding with satisfaction, he turned to Vega, and wrapped anchoring arms around the woman's waist. "Fly. Fly, while we have the chance!" 

Chara, who saw Vega and her roc disappear--which was no doubt facilitated by Lysander's magic--faced the remaining Rigases at her command, and had no choice but to play the role assigned to her by Adalfieri. "They've vanished! Alster is on top of the mount! Do not let them get away! Lysander!" She barked at her father, who responded by raising to attention, as would a soldier to his superior officer. A little too overwrought, Father, Chara thought with a frustrated inner-sigh. "Can you tamper with Alster's concealment shroud?!"

"I am trying!" he said, hands outstretched and eyes narrowed in concentration. "But he is overtaking my magic! I do not think I can--"

"Useless!" she seethed, and pointed at the remaining Rigases. "Well, do not just stand there and gape! Throw stunning spells at where you think they are positioned! Do not hurt them! Quick, before they fly!"

By then, the familiar pumping of wings lashed a great plume of dust into their faces, impeding the casters from shooting accurate spells at the escapees. However, they persisted, and threw their magic at the ground and into the air, following the sound of howling wind and whistling feathers as a guide until they could no longer track their location. They were gone. Too far aloft, out of range, and out of sight. 

I cannot believe that actually worked, Chara thought, looking disbelievingly at the dark sky and predicting their trajectory with her eyes. "I cannot believe you let them escape!" she snapped, reprimanding her charges with bruising glares reserved for each one. "Now we shall all suffer Adalfieri's unending dissatisfaction!" 

I am dead, she thought, with bottomless dread. Utterly, undeniably dead.

With the added effect of a hastily constructed shielding spell, Alster and Vega were able to escape the grounds of the Rigas estate without sustaining any damage. Tightening his hold on the Skyknight's waist, Alster watched with bated breath as they climbed the skies, melding into the air above them, dropping from the earth and floating away, away, into the night...

Tentatively, he leaned a little to the side, lowering his head to prevent the wind from buffeting his hair into his face, and to look at the sparsely illuminated inkiness of the midnight land beneath them. Of the deceptive peacefulness of Stella D'Mare and the deceptive bleakness of ocean surrounding them, distinguishable by its depth, abyssal even in the pitch of night. He looked from below to above, at the unhindered view of the stars, of the constellations Fasianos and Kormoranos and Kissa, and of Aerione sinking low into the horizon...

Alster closed his eyes and focused his attention ahead, towards his rider, before opening them again. His back was now turned, on Stella D'Mare, on the Rigases, leaving them to their fate until he could at last trade his life for their safety. He would subside into blood, into a mere spell-form stained on the ground, but they would be protected. And he would be dead. And Elespeth would be...

I'll see her, he thought, eyes widening with realization. Unbidden, a small laugh burst from his mouth. 

"We'll make it," he said, loud enough for Vega to hear. "We'll actually make it!"

When they reached closer to their destination, Alster again spoke up over the roar of the wind. "We're still concealed, so land near the outskirts of camp. Once we're no longer in danger of friendly fire...I'll strip off our spell."

What was going on? Or, more speifically... what had Chara managed to do to create this diversion?

Vega's eyes met Alster's, curious and inquiring, but he Rigas caster did not seem to have any idea either as to what had taken place to cause this impeccably-timed diversion. And when she turned her attention to Chara, Adalfieri's favoured asset, the proud woman's face betrayed nothing, if in fact she was involved. And why should my departure be delayed for an urelated issue? The Skyknight prepared to ask Adalfieri that very question, but no sooner had she parted her lips that she noticed a certain Rigas caster no longer stood next to the venerable leader of Stella D'Mare's most powerful family. Whatever was amiss, and whatever had managed to seize the attention of the one man who stood between freedom for her and Alster, it was of no concern to the Eyraillian princess. She knew what she had to do; as did Aeriel, ever in tune with her dedicated rider. And it had to happen fast.

She hadn't heard him approach, but felt the tap on her shoulder and the murmured words in her ear--and did not think twice about what to do. "Climb behind me." She instructed Alster, and turned to Aeriel without a second glance at the audience that had gathered to witness her departure. Expertly mounting the roc, she offered Alster a hand up, taking Aeriells reins with one hand while securing the Rigas caster's balance with her other hand on his thigh. There was no time to ascertain that he was properly mounted or comfortable; they needed to leave.
Aeriel knew as much, and took to the air before either rider was properly situated. Alster's arms tightened around the riderls waist, and Vega leaned over so far to maintain her own balance that the roc's brilliant plumage tickled her face. "Just hold on." She said to Alster, as they made their abrupt descent. "This could be unsteady."

By some miracle (or perhaps subtle orchestations on Chara's part), whatever offenive magic that came their way seemed to miss the roc and its riders entirely. They gained altitude until the air air began to grow faintly thinner, and Stella D'Mare, in all of its richness and beauty, grew tiny and almost insignificant from their height. Vega's heart beat so quickly that she felt it in her throat and every appendage, and the trepidation lasted for hours, until the sun sank over the horizon, leaving the light of the stars and moon as their only guide.
Left only wit the mixed feeling of returning to Tadasun--and hopefully, Eyraille, soon enough--while leaving behind Haraldur, whose fate could veer in any direction given his incarceration, the Skyknight was quiet throughout the ride back to Tadasun. Even at Alster's optimistic remark of what had already become obvious, given that they were in the clear of the Rigases and Stella D'Mare, she could only offer a quiet nod in reply. We will make it, her inner voice confirmed, though not without a twinge of remorse. But if Haraldur doesn't... then there might not be a day that passes that I do not regret any of this.

Hours later, she wasn't even aware that they had reached their destination; not until the Rigas caster behind her spoke up. As if snapping out of a trance into which she hadn't realized she had fallen, Vega looked up and refocused her gaze on the horizon. "Hold tight. Aeriel knows what she's doing." Giving a gentle tug on the reins, the roc dipped gracefully, making for the unlit region just east of the semi-illuminated Tadasuni camp. With only a light thud upon impact, Vega dismounted and helped her passenger step off as well. "They will recognize me before you," she added, as they began to make their way towards the encampment. "Let me be seen first."

After gentle murmuring to the roc that she would return for her shortly, the Eyraillian princess, alongside Alster, made for the camp with careful, measured steps, Vega just a few paces in front to ascertain that she woud be the first one spotted--and sure enough, they were, by an ensemble of night guards.

"Stop where you are! Don't move an inch, or we will retaliate." That voice, the stance of the sword-wielder who approached them... Vega recognized it immediately, hardly able to believe their luck.

"Tam--it's me." She lifted her hands nonetheless, to make it clear she held no weapons. "Sir Vega Sorde. I... we..."

"And what sort of game are you playing?" Advancing on them with a less than friendly twist to her features, Elespeth brandished her blade--the one that Alster had sent her way, for her hands only. "I saw Sir vega Sorde's dead corpse on the battlefield. Resemblance aside, I have no reason to believe..."

The words died in the Atvanian's throat the moment she saw who stood mere paces behind the Eyraillian princess lookalike. She nearly dropped her sword, which suddenly became so much heavier than it had seemed only seconds ago, and all of the fight drained from her face, replaced with wonder and bewilderment. "...Alster?" His name was like a wish upon her lips.

The moment they landed at Tadasun's campsite and settled in the roc's saddle, Alster, after disseminating their cloaking spell, began to busy himself with his appearance. He ran fingers through his mussed-up hair, pulled wrinkles and feather-dander from his royal-blue tunic, straightened his gloves, which concealed his suspicious runic engravings, and checked on his high-collar to ensure that it covered the scars upon his throat. He felt ridiculous, to be gussying up to such an extent, and as he dismounted to follow Vega through camp, his cheeks flushed hot against the cool night air. His steps grew wiry, resistant, while his heart threatened to lodge in his throat and choke him unless he hacked it out of his mouth and watched as its pulses slowly died. So many thoughts ran through his head as they neared closer and closer to the sentry border: What if she doesn't want to see me? What if she curses my name? What if she's not even in camp? What if she's moved on--found another suitor? Worst of all...what if she still loves me? Could I face her, fully knowing that I will leave her again, hurt her again--this time for good?

He rubbed his quickly dampening gloves together, muttering to himself to keep from losing all composure. But then Vega had stopped abruptly at the sound of...of...her!, and Alster, vastly unprepared for how soon he would be meeting his dearest companion, almost crashed headlong into the Eyraillan princess, but caught himself in time to abscond behind his human shield and make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. It occurred to him that he could use his magic to vanish from sight, and he considered doing just that, but it was too late. Their eyes met. Hers were so vivid in color, even in the low-burning fires of camp. And the glow of her chestnut locks, that firm, determined face, persisting so nobly despite the rigors of camp-life...He wanted to take her into his arms, ascertain that she was real, absorb the warmth that his chilled body craved more than sustenance or drink or sleep. He wanted to release all his troubles, all the suffering he'd accrued over the past two months, just to feel her comfort enfold him, so snug and enveloping, that nothing else would ever matter. But other Tadasuni sentries surrounded them. High-ranking officers began to lope from behind tent-walls, en route to the late-night disturbance. Alster swallowed his head-pounding desires, and nodded wearily to Elespeth. 

"Ah, hello." A shy smile spread across his face as he stepped forward, knowing that he could no longer hide. "Eris. Nice sword." That was absolutely inept, Alster! he chastised himself as he bit down on his tongue, endeavoring to detach the dratted thing from his mouth before he began to inquire at her about the weather, or something equally as inane!

Fortunately, an officer stepped through the small but growing fracas, scrutinized the two intruders with increasing alarm, and demanded clear, concise answers--of which Alster was all too happy to provide. 

"We've come from Stella D'Mare," he announced, and hoped he sounded confident and fierce, as befitting of a Rigas. To remain on task, he avoided Elespeth's gaze. "Sir Vega Sorde was brought to us, the Rigases, by one of her foot soldiers. You know him as Haraldur. She was in critical condition, but not dead." This time, he did meet Elespeth's eyes, bidding that she follow his story, and try not to contradict him. The Tadasuni were a superstitious lot, and would not take kindly to the discovery of Vega Sorde as a woman revived from the clutches of death. They would view her as a walking corpse, no better than Messino's puppet army. "We saw to her convalescence, but with the siege and Andalari's defenses as airtight as they are, we could not relay a message to you regarding the whereabouts of your Eyraillan ally. So I have come, as an ambassador from the Rigas family, to solidify our cooperation and foster stronger ties and communication between us all." It was pretty telling, that he was able to improvise a speech with greater aplomb and grace than he could face or even acknowledge his lover--save for a few choice glances and little bobs of the head. 

The officers took Alster and Vega to the officer's quarters, and they explained their position anew to the leader of the encampment, a grizzled, uncompromising man who did not seem pleased by such ease of infiltration into his tent town--by means of magic, no less. However, he accepted their story with a grunt and a nod, and prepared arrangements for lodging his unexpected Rigas guest.

Once they were dismissed, and a few soldiers scrambled away to pitch him a tent of his own, Alster exited the officer's quarters with Vega in tow, and met again with Elespeth, who insisted she follow their procession, and had waited for them outside. 

"You must...have a lot of questions," he said, his voice low and half-whispering--in case any eavesdroppers were afoot. "I...I'll answer anything you want to know--if there is somewhere we can speak in private. That is," he averted his eyes and pulled at the fabric of his gloves, "if you...if you'd like the company. I wouldn't want to ah...impose."

Questions... where did she even begin?

Trying to comprehend the mayhem before her, namely the reappearance of two people who she had never thought she would see again, must have felt akin to the impending madness that Tivia suffered. Vega, who should have been dead, was standing before her with nary a mark, like she had never been speared and fallen from the sky. Haraldur, the one friend who she had thought would be a constant in her otherwise miserable existence, was nowhere to be seen, which wrenched Elespeth's heart more than she cared to admit. And Alster... To find the Rigas caster standing before her, alive and well if not looking as tired as she, felt like nothing less of a miracle.

Fortunately, nothing was required of the former knight as she and the Tadasuni sentries escorted the duo to the commanding officer's tent. So she took this time to carefully process what was happening, pinching the underside of her arm a few times to ascertain she was not dreaming. He is here. In Tadasun. In front of me... It seemed Tivia's predictions were more than a result of the damaged woman's waning sanity. And she couldn't have been more grateful.

Finding herself alone at last with her friend as well as (former?) close companion, hours later, Elespeth still struggled to find the words to voice every single question on her mind, no matter how minuscule. Finally, when she found her tongue, it seemed she could only manage the most obvious: "What of Haraldur?"

No sooner had she spoken the mercenary's name that she noticed Vega immediately pale. The Skyknight's azure eyes fixed on the ground. "He... is incarcerated. In Andilari's hands. Because of me... I am sorry, Eris. It has been a long and arduous flight; I beg that you excuse me, for now."
The Eyraillian princess did not wait for an answer before she turned and left Alster and the Atvanian alone, much to Elespeth's conflicting eagerness and trepidation. Though it was not without a pang of sympathy for the Eyraillian princess, who looked as though she had been through her own personal hell. That she had returned here, with Alster... yet forced to leave Haraldur behind. It had to have not been within her realm of choice; Vega would never have left Stella D'Mare without Haraldur, had it been up to her...

She did not want to know the fate of the mercenary, she decided, even if Alster knew. Not right now. 

"Right. We can talk." Giving a curt nod, she indicated with a gesture over her shoulder. "My tent will offer adequate privacy." 

Leading him through the dimly lit paths between tents, the Atvanian woman struggled to find words to ease the tense silence that followed them like a curse of the words that they had last spoken in one another's company. When they made it to the partially secIuded tent that spared more room from the others in their neat rows, she found the opportunity to explain, which was as good a remedy for the quiet as anything. "I was never allowed in the communal barracks; something about rooming with a woman being bad luck for soldiers." At another time, it would have been fodder for humour between the two of them. Now, it barely warranted her lifting her shoulder in an indifferent shrug. "The Tadasuni are a strange and superstitious lot..."

Having spent the majority of her nights a Tivia's personal guardian (against herself as much as others), the former knight's tent was relatively barren, save for an unused cot, an unlit candle and a single change of clothes. Clutching her elbows, she turned to the man who she'd loved (and who she still loved). She wanted to scream at him and kiss him and walk away and walk into his arms all at once, and it was maddening. "Why?" The most difficult question, that was for certain, but it was the most pressing. One that guaranteed she would not fall asleep that evening until she knew. "Why come here, of all places? Certainly not for..." She paused, stopping herself before she could proceed. Who was she to think that he would come all the way to Tadasun, practically risking his life to see her after she had so coldly turned her shoulder to him? "Vega... she brought you here in lieu of Haraldur, didn't she? What I don't understand is why... and what you plan to do, here."

Pressing her lips together, she placed a hand on the hilt of her sword: the one that he had crafted specially for her. And when she looked up again, meeting the Rigas caster's blue eyes, she asked again, with whole new meaning: "...why, Alster?"

As Vega departed, her face an amalgam of despair and bone-weariness, Alster watched after her, in part for a focal point that would prevent him from staring, transfixed, at Elespeth, in part because of genuine concern. Life and death both had been unkind to her ever since her unsanctioned arrival at Stella D'Mare. And he, while doing everything possible to expedite her recovery, was also responsible for denying her the company that had plunged her into a longer convalescence period. Not that he could have done anything to save Haraldur, even with his foreknowledge, but the fact that he did not even try, all so he could secure a space on Vega's mount--it placed a sour taste in his mouth. She had sacrificed for him. So had Haraldur, and Chara, and Lysander. And Elespeth--many, many times. The only way to make their sacrifices worthwhile...was to die. The camp was only a detour, he reminded himself. Elespeth...is only a detour. 

"He'll be fine," Alster said, once the Eyraillan princess had wandered out of earshot, leaving the two of them alone--and at the mercy of each other. He shuffled his feet with uncertainty, but nonetheless followed Elespeth through the narrow pathways of the sprawling encampment. After a seemingly long, torturous period of uneasy silence between them, he began to blurt his exposition."He made a bargain with the necromancer. That's why she's alive." His voice was hushed, but his hand was raised and glistening, the tell-tale sign of a spell in activation. He muffled their speech, having encased them them in a dome of auditory protection as they walked, together. Together. He swallowed his trepidation, and focused on his words. "Vega was dead. And Haraldur--he breached two security barriers in order to reach us. To reach him. The necromancer, as you have already gathered, was successful in his efforts to revive her. But Haraldur--for his disruption, which threatened to break the tenuous truce between the Rigases and Stella D'Mare--was turned into Andalarian authorities as a scapegoat. I'm not proud of it, El." His mouth almost went dry at the utterance of his pet-name for her, but he shook his head and continued. "But he wanted to go. He didn't even attempt to flee. But the necromancer--he is not one to allow a deal to slip from his fingers. That's why I think he'll be...he'll break free. We have to believe in that."

He silenced himself when at last they reached her own private quarters. He nodded in approval at the small but tidy space, and even spared a timid smile at her explanation. "I'm surprised they've done this much for you. You must have proven yourself a more than capable fighter in their eyes, to garner this level of acceptance." But his smile faded and his palms perspired and his ears pounded from the inexorable hammering of his heartbeat. To give himself something to do, he cast a spurt of fire in the direction of the unlit candle. It flared to life, an unnatural purple-blue flame throwing shadows across the canvas walls of their enclosure. With a self-conscious shrug, he readied an apology for his showoffish behavior, the very type that had him ostracized by his peers so long ago, but when she posed a simple enough question, and it flared with such potency as to dwarf his stupid little candle trick, he shrank into himself and took a seat upon the cot. 

He had expected this question, had even prepared an answer for her in their many hypothetical conversations he had laboriously crafted in his head. But no amount of rehearsing could gird him for the moment when he'd open his mouth, and lie to her. Perhaps it was not quite lying, he remedied, but he'd definitely be withholding the truth. She could not know what he was planning to do. She would not accept his reasoning, however sound--and he did not blame her. It was a madman's drivel, even to someone who was magically inept, and blessed with understanding all the underpinnings of his Serpent-specific misfortunes.

Folding his hands over his lap (mainly to stop them from trembling), he took a deep breath, and met her eyes--but not quite. He looked past her head, for he required all the courage he could muster for his response, and the gumption to withhold what gnawed at him to reveal--which was everything. 

"I could have gone anywhere," he admitted, fingers twitching in his steady grip. "Well, that's not entirely true. I was a prisoner in my own home, Elespeth. They wanted to--rather--Adalfieri...he wants to use me. To unleash the Serpent." He shivered reflexively, and the candle flame grew brighter as if to compensate for his chill. "It feeds on chthonic energy. He's incarcerated Lilica for that reason. So that It can absorb her essence, and grow stronger, and break free. I have reason to believe that Adalfieri thinks I can control It...that I can direct It towards New Town and the Andalarian royal family--and destroy them all."

"So that I won't be manipulated, or forced to engage in horrendous acts...I had to leave. Anywhere would have sufficed, as long as I broadened my distance from Stella D'Mare. The opportunity arrived when Haraldur landed in our estate with Vega and her roc. I took advantage of it, because I reasoned that if I could flee anywhere, go anywhere..." he lowered his head to his chest, his entire face burning, "I wanted to be where you are." He stood, shakily, to his feet. "I'm sorry. I should not have assumed...that you in turn felt the same way. I'll take my leave of you, if you want it. It's probably, after all...for the best."

"The necromancer... the one who was responsible for plunging you into a coma." Elespeth bit down on her molars so hard her jaw ached. Of course it would have something to do with that wretched man; one who never seemed to be sated, despite the life after life that he ruined, directly or otherwise.
But it was not really Vitali's fault, was it? Haraldur had done what he had done out of the way he cared for Vega. He'd have found a way to save her, with or without Vitali; and he'd have sacrificed himself willingly. Because, like so many people dear to her, sacrifice appeared to be all he knew.

But why must it end like this... "Farrin used to tell me that the righteous and virtuous always won." Wrapping her arms around her body, she cupped her elbows, too bone-weary to feel warm at the memory of her beloved brother. "But of course he thought that way; he was a knight. It was branded into his mind over and over again, every day of his life... and he was wrong. Good does not always triumph. I think... he must have realized that the day that he died. But Haraldur realized this a lot sooner, it seems." Pressing an exhale from her lungs, Elespeth's shoulders sagged. "You'd know if you saw it. The way that Haraldur and Vega seemed to... just breathe new life into one another. They gave each other new meaning, and now... no, forget it. I guess I just wanted to see some good come of this war. For someone deserving."

Pacing to the back of the tent, the eerie light of the candle cutting out the contours of her chiseled face, the former knight of Atvany looked as someone who wore the weight of battle like an armor that she could not shed. Compared to how she had left Stella D'Mare, a heartbroken wreck of a woman weeking new meaning and fulfillment, Elespeth had become pieces of her former self, precariously welded together on the inside, and coated in stone to protect what was vulnerable. Unfortunately, that stone was not as impenetrable as she had hoped it would become. "I had hoped that things would take a turn for the better, in my absence from Stella D'Mare." Her confession resonated in the small tent with a much larger presence than she had intended. "I wish I could say that, at this point, I am through with blind hope..." But the fact that she had been brought up a knight, just as her brother had, solidified thta yearning for a fair outcome. Even when all of the odds spoke otherwise.

Turning back to the Rigas caster, who looked somehow older than she remembered him from only months before, Elespeth heard out his stumbling explanation, if only to better understand his stance. Was he actually returning to her? Or was it that their encounter, right here, right now, had all been a matter of chance? A result of his dire need to escape Stella D'Mare, an opportunity that he could only seize with Vega's cooperation? The picture that he painted was a vague as it was clear. Or, at least, it was a stretch to wrap her head around. "Adalfieri... he means you harm? His own family? But... why? I do not understand why he would sacrifice everything precious to him to ensure that Andalari does not stay in power..." Had the old man finally gone mad? Or was he simply more clever, more devious than anyone had imagined he could ever be?

It didn't seem to matter; not in that moment, at least, when Alster confirmed his intentions for being where he was now. And that was all that it took for the stone wall that the former knight had carefully built around herself to crumble, months and months work of toughening her skin stripped away with the soft look in the Rigas caster's blue eyes. "You forced me to turn my back on you." She accused, though her tone was less directive of resentment and more saturated with wonder and bewilderment. "So I left... but now you're here again. Because of what? If war is to tear us apart, Alster... then why did you return at all?"

He had no time to respond, however. Not in the seconds that it took for Elespeth to close the distance between them, take Alster in her arms, and press a hungry, desperate and lingering kiss to his mouth. It was all that she could do to hold back a sob, to admit that she had yearned for his touch again, for the reassurance of his presence, for that sense of completion that she had been missing since she had left. "No. Don't leave again... don't you dare." She murmured against his lips, clutching his shoulders tightly, afraid he might vanish if she let go. "I don't... want to be alone, anymore."

But some good did come from this war, Alster had wanted to say, as he stared towards the tent flaps, which rustled and stirred in the night breeze, enticing him to depart, to blow as far from the camp, and from her, as possible. You did. We did. Even if it didn't last...I'm grateful that it happened. That it saved me, while I still had a life to live. 

Perhaps he had always known that his days would soon equal to zero. From the moment he awakened the Serpent, when he was but a youth, hateful and confused, manipulated and abandoned, he began to realize that he had opened for himself a difficult and expedited destiny, fraught with hardship, unforgivable acts, and relentless remorse for the things he could control and all that he could not. He since accepted that Life, after it ceased deriving joy from his countless misfortunes, would volley him over to Death, where it perched over his shoulder like a whisper, patiently waiting to breathe words that would spell his condemnation. Why wait, Death? Alster thought, his eyes unblinking as they watched the swirl of canvas beat against the sides of the tent, as if he was speaking directly to the source: an uninvited guest, invisible and yet disruptive in his entry. I'll come to you willingly. On my own terms. But...

...But.

Why did he hesitate? Elespeth did not want him. She had moved on from him emotionally, it seemed. It was the best result that he could have wished upon her, upon them. It would hurt less, in the end, once he took his final leave of her and the world. Their connection was broken. Severed in its entirety: the last, terminal step to severance from a life to which he was still clinging, desperate for release. So why did he already feel his throat constrict, his passages close, his heart thrum into a faint, pattering beat? Why did it feel like if he cut himself open, the blood would not stream out of his arteries, but rather drip from the wound like dew from a deadened leaf? It was closure he was receiving, but he didn't want the closure of a closed heart, he now realized. He wanted love. Her love. One. Last. Time. 

Then, she turned him around, and kissed him, and everything circuited back into his system. His lips welcomed her touch, her taste, which opened all blockages in his shriveling, wilting shut-down. He starved for her, and she fed him, but only one morsel at a time. He feasted on what she provided as his arms coveted her waist, pressing her near, wanting them to fit together, as they had done before. And as he closed his eyes and prepared to surrender to her will, she broke away from him, leaving him gasping in pain, as if she had ripped away the top layer of his skin at her retreat. 

"I...I never forced you, El," he said, with faltering cadence, urging himself to say something, anything, to distract him from the withdrawal of her everything. His eyes moistened as he spoke the words, but his mouth twisted into a rictus of bitterness and anger--two emotions he did not notice he harbored toward her during their long months of separation. "You did that, yourself. I tried to call you back. I wanted us to work something out. It was never over, El. Not to me. But you left, and I...I," he clutched his neck, his fingers, free from the fabric of the glove that had concealed only the base of the hands, biting into the flesh anew, much as he tried to prevent his new nervous, violent tic, "So did I. I left. And it took everything I had to...to come back to myself." As if his body suddenly become cognizant of his words, it, and he, moved away from her, rejecting, denying, retreating. He sat again on the cot at the far end of the tent, bridging distance between them. Pulling away his fingers, he stared at the streaks of blood that his nails had scraped from his neck, the blood that would soon exsanguinate from him in full. He forced his palms into his eyes, desperate in his attempts not to lose his resolve and stalwart composure. I will not break. Not now. Not now...

"I'm not precious. I'm just a thorn in Adalfieri's side. Someone he wanted dead long ago. But I am a useful pawn, and..." electing for a modicum of honesty, he added, "now he has the opportunity to dispose of the Serpent, Andalari, and myself, in one fell swoop. That's why I returned. I don't want to--" before he could choke the words I don't want to die, he bit his lips into silence, and heeled his palms into his eyes with such force, that blooms of purple appeared in his blackened vision. 

"I won't leave, El," he said, after a long beat. I'm all yours, forever...for one night. He felt her approach, felt the imprint of her weight upon the cot, the fire of her proximity, the smell of her skin and the wisps of breath that entered and whistled from her nose. Slowly, he removed his hands and opened his eyes. They ached, not from the pressure that he had placed against them, but from drinking in her appearance, entrenched as it was in tragedy. In loss, and fear, and heartbreak. "Take me away." His voice was drowned, small...and desirous. "And I...will do the same." He threw her into his arms, and returned her kiss with such fervor, that the blue flame on the candle burned white-hot, and melted the wax until it was a mere nib. Then, the flame burned out, leaving them in the company of darkness, and each other.

Elespeth witnessed the rage gradually unfold on Alster's face, like petals on a new flower. Only those petals were dark and resentful and accusing, and instead of bringing joy to the viewer, they only instilled in her similar sentiments. How dare you put the blame on me, she thought, clutching her hand into a fist so tight that her nails dug into the calluses on her palms. How dare you make this about what I did, and not what you caused. She wanted to shout at him as hot tears threatened to fall. This was not her doing, not her fault; he had suggested they separate. She had merely fulfilled his wish, thinking a clean break would be the easiest for the both of them. 
But that was where she had been wrong. It had not been easy at all, not on either of them, though how was she to have known? In the time away from him, she had learned to cope with loneliness the best that she could, namely by involving herself in Vega and Haraldur's eventual union, and by lending her help and attention to Tivia. Though... was that really coping? Or had he merely been distracting herself from the hard-to-admit truth that without Alster, she was lost and alone and without hope?

As soon as the anger and frustration surfaced, it dissipated the moment Alster pulled away, taking a seat on the cot several feet away from her. The air around her suddenly felt too cold, such that a chill traveled down her spine like a snake, and she clutched her elbows to keep warm. A moment of panic took her off guard, seizing her by the heart, and as if the cold had found direct passage into her veins and bones, the former knight began to tremble uncontrollably. [/i]This is what it feels like. This is what awaits me.[/i] Something in her mind cautioned her, at the realization that everything was--had--completely fallen apart. Her brother was dead, she could never return to her family. Haraldur and Vega were doomed, when she had only wanted the best for them and their happiness. Stella D'Mare was devastated by an otherworldly creature and yet another mad leader. Tivia was fragile and cracked, and Alster... Alster was estranged. Resentful. Perhaps even remorseful of whatever it was they had had.
And she... Elespeth was cold and alone and uncertain of what lay ahead. And no longer maintained the certainty that whatever was to come, she and Alster would face together, hand and hand, there for one another to the bitter end...

"I didn't want to leave. But what choice did you give me?" Her voice, a broken whisper, strained against her fury and despair. "What... was I supposed to do? If I had not been the one to leave, then you... you would have. Just like everyone else. Everyone leaves... has left me. My brother. My family. My allies..." Afraid her legs would buckle, she took a seat next to him upon the cot. "I tried to protect myself... but I just made it worse. I'm... so sorry, Alster." Swallowing her guilt, she clutched herself tighter, chilled from the inside out. "I have no right to ask anything of you. But I want... if you can just... if you can forgive me. If you can do that, even if you must leave again, I can put myself back together...or at least, I will try." Turning to the Rigas caster, torn apart by how broken he appeared, she shivered and hugged herself tighter. "...can you? Forgive me?"

The chill in her blood and bones was soon remedied by the warmth of Alster's arms, and the pressure of his lips against her own. Why did she feel so suddenly fragile? Like she had when she had watched the life leave Farrin, as he had died in her place... That trauma returned to her, weakening her, making her more vulnerable than she cared to admit. It made her almost afraid to touch the man before her, for fear that this cold would rub off on him, that she would only drag him own with her into the abyss that was her hopelessness and misery. The desire in his voice called to her, touching upon a part of her that she had not realized craved it so. She wanted everything, all over again: his presence, his voice, his touch, his reassurance... I won't leave, El, he said, and yet she could not help but feel that a part of him already had left her--a part that she was by no means sure she could retrieve, or that he would ever offer again. But then came his request, and it was so far beyond her to deny him that. "Don't leave," she repeated, her lips brushing against his as the words tumbled out, as if something in her detected that their reunion would not endure. "Don't..."

Through his kiss, and the warmth of his body against hers, Alster warmed the Atvanian warrior from the inside out, even long after the candle had flickered its last breath of life. And he let him take her away, just as he had promised, making her forget what hurt and why. She stopped shivering, feeling the heat of his skin so close to her own, and gave herself over to the only person with whom she trusted her wrecked body. Clothing discarded, they created warmth with their friction, complimenting one another's movements in the darkness of her small tent. Elespeth sighed, surrendering to his love and passion, keeping relatively quiet until she climbed so high that she felt herrself tumbling from the peak of pleasure, and gasping from the fall, until she settled back onto earth with a rapid pulse and skin glistening faintly with perspiration. Exhaustion threatened to envelope her, persistent in its tug towards sleep, but the former knight resisted it for hours. She reveled in the warmth of Alster's body against hers beneath the sheets, quiet and listening to the reassuring sound of his heartbeat, placated like a frightened child for the first time in months. She did not fear sleep or her dreams, and yet resisted all the same, reminding herself over and over that this was real, that Alster was here, that she was not alone, he would not allow it...

At some point, as the moon shone bright overhead, casting glow upoon the ceiling of her tent, Elespeth experimented with closing her eyes--not for long. Only a moment, just enough to be reassured that if she opened her eyes again, Alster would still be there...
But sleep was faster that her strong will, and it seized her before she realized that she would not be opening her eyes again--not for several hours. Not until after her source of warmth and reassurance, her remedy for the burning ache in her bruised heart, had broken his infant promise and left her alone on her cot, fulfilling her most prominent fear.

Alster was afraid. He was afraid then, when he made the motion for Elespeth to depart, all due to his guilt and terror of near-killing her a second time, and he was afraid now, when she opened her mouth and spoke her confession: Everyone leaves... How could he, with any measure of conscience, continue with his charade, spouting reassurances that were but falsehoods in disguise, when she'd be quick to discover the truth? This was a mistake, he thought. His fingers twitched, wishing to scratch his throat raw in protest and punishment, but they were folded over her waist and his mouth was tied with hers, and though their proximity lifted the strain from his shoulders and untwisted the knots that tangled and tightened in his gut, there was still a niggling voice in the back of his head that reaffirmed his mistake. You should not have come. You've given her hope. This 'detour' is dangerous for you, Alster. For you, and for her. You should not have stopped here. You'll leave behind only destruction in the form of her heart!

But he needed some form of closure--as did she. And he needed her presence, the press of her firm, muscular body, the hot breeze of her breath on his face, the saccharine-salty scent of her desperation and desire, to know that his life did not exist as a series of struggles, coursed with animosity and strife and the constant affirmation that he was an inherently depraved creature undeserving of pleasure, love, kindness, or companionship. He needed the knowledge that someone still waited for him, would grieve for him, and that person...she encompassed everything he ever wanted but thought too selfish to claim as his own. Yet, he had experienced, however brief, the release of his soul into the closest he would feel to mortal divinity. For, after that night, after committing yet another unforgivable act against her, his immortal hereafter was irrevocably damned. His sacrifice might save the city, yes, but he would be responsible for the spiritual murder of a woman who did not deserve anything but the tenderest of care for putting up with the likes of him for far too long. But what could he do, now? He could not break away, nor did he want to--and neither did she. He had to make his last moments with her count. And maybe, one day, far into the future, she would forgive him for his death. For leaving her. Leaving her.... Alone. 

"I...forgive you," he said breathlessly as he broke away, their lips separate, but their foreheads touching, as if to make up for the severed contact. "I'll always forgive you, El. Please forgive me, in turn." For what I'm about to do, he almost cried. Wanted to cry. Wanted her to know, so she could stop him, imprison him in her arms, refute his pleas to release him, order him to remain. To stay. Stay with her... His eyes wavered and his voice wavered, but still, he pushed on. "I only wanted to protect you. I was too unstable, before. Awake and confused, my memories all broken glass. I didn't know what I'd do to you. And I couldn't handle what I already did do. But it's all right, now." His hand traveled from her chin to her tunic, down to her belt. He tugged it free, hearing the swish of the cloth which had bound her unraveling, opening to him like a rose, all pink and pert and baby-soft. "Everything will be all right." 

It had been so long since they were like this, entwined and as one, with him all over her and inside her and around her, and she, in kind, painted herself across all of his senses. He was swimming in color, feeling stroke after stroke, throwing himself upon the canvas until they surrendered to jubilant noise. He had even forgotten about the bandages wound against his chest, abdomen, and hands, so worried that she would observe and inquire after his injuries. But as they rose and fell and rose and fell, he disregarded all his reservations relating to his body, and focused on the exploration of Elespeth's own. He plied and pawed and kneaded her like clay, refining but not resculpting what he already considered to be fine art. A statue of flesh and hue, pulsating, reacting so viscerally to their collective desires. And even as he climbed down, off the scaffolding of the masterpiece before him, he could not quell the consumptive force that raged from within. He was alive/i] and in love. Reunited. Bound, again. From out of the morass came a dream made real, and he never wanted to tread again into darkness of the mire.

But he was to die the very next day. And this epiphany transformed his excitement into nervous, agonizing despair. [i]A mistake. All a mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake...

He whiled away the night trying to bar the truth from his mind. He wanted to flee then and there, so that Elespeth, in staunch refusal to sleep, would not suspect anything was amiss. But she would question him, and would no doubt follow him into the night. The hours ticked on like centuries, and he struggled just to take stifling breaths--even while encased in his lover's warm embrace. I can't do this. I can't carry on this way. I just can't...

That was when he began to sing. At first, the songs were low and morose, but as his breathing evened and his heartbeat pumped at a normal rate, he sang melodies, tone-complex lullabies, crescendos of a grand, yet soft timbre, and soothing trills like swells on the ocean shore. When at last he sang himself hoarse, he looked over at Elespeth. She was fast asleep. 

He lay there for a time, enjoying her company, willing himself to brand this moment onto his soul so he could take it with him to the next life--or to wherever his wretched remains would be heading. Then, as the sun, that dreaded, fulminating sun, burst across the horizon and streamed its warning light against the lower portion of the tent, Alster sidled from bed, and got to work. 

First, he waved a hand over Elespeth's face, both to confirm that she was still asleep, and to channel a spell upon her closed lids, thereby locking her into sleep until the very moment he died. He could not have her out searching for him the moment she realized he was gone. After standing up and fitting back into his clothes, he grabbed a pen and parchment, and wrote a letter for her to find when she awakened. 

My Dearest Elespeth,

I came to you under false pretenses. The real reason I've returned to you is to say goodbye. The Serpent cannot be allowed to destroy Stella D'Mare. I alone possess the means to bind It back to the land. On that day so long ago, when I first called the creature's name and awakened it from the abyss, I ushered forth an onerous destiny that was always meant to end in my death. I had managed to buy myself fifty years of time--and it was well worth the wait, just to meet you. Just to know you. Just to love you. Even if you go on forever hating me, please understand that I tried to resist this path of finality, for your sake--for our sake--but it is all that remains for me. I have to right all my wrongs, and pay my price in blood. 

Leaving you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I am like everyone else in your life, and I am so sorry. It is one of my biggest regrets, and I already have so many. But I will never truly be gone. I'll find a way back to you--somehow. If my star lives on, then so will I--and I will watch over you from that vantage point. Like I've told you before, I never considered us a lost cause, even when we were separated. Though we are again separate, I refuse to disappear, to fade--especially from you. Together we will always be. Please remember that.

I love you, Elespeth. I love you. And thank you. For saving me when I couldn't save myself. Farewell.

Yours Always,

Alster Rigas 

Once complete, he rolled up the parchment, and placed the letter beside her pillow. He took one last, lingering look at the woman he dared to forsake for the umpteenth time, stroking her chestnut locks lovingly with a shivering finger. As he stood vigil over her, he wept silently, his shoulders quavering, head bowed in abject remorse. 

"Forgive me. Goodbye, Elespeth Tameris," he whispered, as he planted one last kiss upon her slightly-parted lips. Once composed, he turned away, cast the shroud of invisibility over himself, and vanished--out of the tent, out of camp, and out of Elespeth's life. 

"Elespeth! Elespeth!" 

A sigh of relief flooded over Tivia as the Atvanian warrior opened her eyes. It was still early morning, only an hour or two after Alster's departure, and the sky-seer, after receiving aid from the newly-arrived Sybaian healers, was able to enjoy a relatively undisturbed night's sleep--until a vision emblazoned through her skull that morning. 

The twin stars were the brightest she had ever seen them. Lambent and radiant, they shone more luminescent than the moon. But the one on the right had suddenly closed its all-seeing eye, leaving the left star to span the sky alone. Suddenly, the right star plummeted--but did not crash to earth. It hovered, as if waiting, suspended by frayed, yet powerful threads. Held fast by its partner star. 

Tivia awoke, and scrambled for Elespeth's tent. She found her, in a slumber that sparked of celestial magic and smelled sharp, of rain after a storm. She saw the parchment beside the warrior's head, scanned the letter, and screamed internally. 

For the next hour, she painstakingly unknotted the complex loops and whorls that comprised Alster's spell-form, a magic so intricate and advanced, that Tivia feared she tightened the weave into an impossible and impermeable web-work from which there was no solution. However, with one last ditch pull, the spell unspooled, and Elespeth fluttered her eyes open. 

Tivia all but shoved the parchment into the other woman's face, her blue-gray eyes wide, grim, and haunted. "Elespeth. Alster is...he---he..." she silenced her mouth, and waited for Elespeth to read the letter.

His touch was like a balm for every ache her body suffered, physical and emotional and spiritual. Just like the very first time they had unified so intimately, the former knight surrendered herself to him, holding nothing back as she moved with him, savouring everything that he offered her. It never occurred to her to question the bandages that bound his flesh, and even if it had, she would rather not have known, in any case. Enough about hurt and pain, what they had been through, what they had inadvertently put one another through... He told her that everything would be all right. He loved her, still, despite how she had broken his heart... But could he really be the pillar that she needed? That stable brace between her and completely falling apart, and the only buffer that she had to cushion the eternal pain of watching her brother die... who had she been trying to kid?

Who was she without him?

Hours of lying in silence in the aftermath had never been so soothing, so reassuring, and she wouldn't have interrupted it for anything--save for Alster's lullaby. The timbre of his voice relaxed her taut muscles, brought her to a place where it felt safe to close her eyes. No sooner did she dare it that sleep took her, but it was not cold and colourless as her dreams have been of late. Instead, it was vibrant and teeming with hope; the very dreams she'd had during the happiest point of her relationship with the Rigas Caster. She sank so deep, and so quickly that she was barely aware of the transition that took place between listening to Alster's steady heartbeat and the images that formed behind her eyelids...

If only she had known it was the last time that Alster had ever intended to see her.

Waking up felt like clawing through a fog. Somewhere in the realms of consciousness, Elespeth felt a tug, one that she resisted yet which refused to let up. Go away, she willed it, happily floating through her reverie that took her to places of peace and comfort that she never wanted to leave. In particular, a place where she still felt Alster's solid presence, such that she was certain his body still lay next to her own, his warm skin flush with hers beneath the safety of the bedsheets. But that incessant tugging only grew stronger, more determined, and the former knight only had so much power to resist. Yielding at last to the grasping hand that endeavored to pull her to the cold surface, she swam through the comforting womb of her unconscious mind, until at last she opened her eyes, slow and groggy and bitter at what she had been forced to leave behind. 
As if reluctance wasn't enough, the confusion that swam through her head as Tivia Rigas's face came into focus was almost jarring. "...Tivia." Even her voice felt heavy, the mere effort of lifting her tongue to form words feeling a great feat. "What's... but I thought..."

And where was Alster?

Realizing her lover's absence was ultimately the jolt that Elespeth required to shake off the heavy fatigue that weighed like lead in her muscles. Sitting up so quickly her head spun, one glance to her side confirmed her fears, as the other side of her cot yielded only the imprint of a body who had previously laid next to her. No sooner did Tivia offer the piece of parchment that the Atvanian warrior snatch it from her grasp, devouring the words with her eyes as her terror intensified. Devastation gripped her by the throat, as she took in word after word, hands trembling and heart racing. "He knew... he planned this." The words tumbled from her lips, chilled with the onset of the horrifying realization. "He never intended to return to stay... he lied. He lied to me...!"

Tossing the piece of paper aside, Elespeth threw dignity and decency to the wind, tossing the bedsheets aside to retrieve and pull on her discarded clothes. "Help me find him, Tivia. You said I was to save him--did you not? This is it, then. I need... I need to save Alster from himself."

Sir Vega Sorde had spent half of the night staring hopelessly at the bottle of red wine on her bedside table, and the other half consuming it until it plunged her into a restless, dreamless slumber, with her head upon the table. Where she had thought she had finally found a reason and a means to give up the bottle, she once again found herself helpless but to heed its call. To embrace that numbness that soothed her aches and made her forget about the bleeding of those heart wounds that would not heal. The more she struggled not to think about Haraldur and his possible fate, the more his face surfaced in her mind, until she was forced to drown it out in waves of strong burgundy, until the wee hours of the morning, when her veins were too saturated, and the remainder of the swill spilled from its tipped container.

Ultimately, it was a splitting headache and churning nausea that roused the wrecked Skyknight as early as the sun rose. Raising her head with a groan, she hardly had time to stumble from her tent before she violently emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground outside. Holding her hair back, she wondered--not for the first time--why she had subjected her body to such unnecessary measures, merely to tuck her unwanted thoughts into the crevices of her mind, out of her immediate attention. I am a disgrace, she mused, her thoughts as bitter as the bile that rose in her throat. A disgrace as a royal, as a knight, as an ally... this misery is no less than I deserve, and I cannot directly protect those dear to me.
It was nothing short of a miracle that voices other than that self-defeating drawl tha pounded with every pulse of her headache reached the Ilandrian princess's ears. It was their familiarity that brought her out of her miasma of fog and sick, and encouraged her to look out on the horizon, suffering the sun's glares. "...Elespeth?" 

Her voice too hoarse to call out, the Skyknight swallowed what remained of her nausea and vertigo and hurried toward the Atvanian warrior, who was accompanied by the crucially-burned Rigas caster. Something was wrong; she could tell by the frantic, terrified look in Elespeth's eyes, and reached out to touch her friend's shoulder, inquiry painted on her otherwise pale face.

"Alster," Elespeth breathed in response, a if it did not surprise her to encounter her ally at the most crucial of times. Insted of pushing her away, like she was wont to do with help, of late, she gripped Vega's wrist. "He is in danger."

As Elespeth read through Alster's parting words, Tivia cursed herself silently. Could she have prevented his departure, had she focused on honing her cursed gift in place of knitting together all the tears of her ravaged emotional (and physical) state? If she postponed her session with the Sybaia, listened instead to the subtle shifts and moods in camp that denoted some important dignitary or another landing within their boundaries, or, heavens forbid, turned her swollen ears to the stars and welcomed their shouting counsel, perhaps she could have barred Alster from escaping. For all of his incongruous and questionable judgment calls, Alster, moreso than Chara, was capable of reason, and would weigh Tivia's warnings with careful consideration. But what would she have said to him? For--though uncertain of this, herself--something about the entire scenario felt wrong, somehow. 

According to what little she gleaned from the stars, Alster was in Stella D'Mare when he succumbed to the Serpent. The city threatened to slide off the mountainside as violent quakes unseated buildings, and the shore's crashing waves receded. He was standing over a precipice, where far below, the inky black sea churned and spun in rapidly cyclonic motions. Then, the mighty creature thrashed out from beneath the marine abyss, and dragged him into the maw, down down down...

And the city melted into the sea. 

But, she thought as she chewed on the inside of her cheek, what she saw, what she heard, could be an abstraction. A metaphor. Symbolic images that on the surface appeared fluid and literal, but, in reality, were little more than an addendum to the book she did not read nor was able to consult. Looking at it from a refreshed perspective, Stella D'Mare was but a placeholder, inconsequential background information that distracted the spectator from the subject: Alster, sinking into the abyss of his own creation. The threat of the Serpent may have motivated him to take the plunge to his death, but all actions were spurred on by his own hand. He was ending his life, perhaps prematurely, and whether this event had anything to do with her vision, they needed to prevent its course from running to the desired end. 

As they traveled across camp, Tivia, eager to begin their search before they ran out of time, huffed to catch up with Elespeth's loping, purposeful strides. "Why...why did you not warn him?" she asked with harried breath, her lone eyebrow furrowing into her lone eye. "You had him all last evening, did you not? I told you that he was in danger! He would have listened to you. El--" Her speech was cut short as she tripped over a rope-line. She careened towards the ground, but cushioned her fall with outstretched hands. Cheeks aflush in embarrassment, she bounced back to her feet, and ran to reunite herself with the rapidly-drifting warrior, who did not wait for her recovery. "Where are you even heading?! I'm certain Alster traveled in the opposite direction, away from Stella D'Mare. You'll be able to sense him with what is left with your bond. From there, we will know where to go." 

She soon realized Elespeth's strategy when they appeared before the tent that denoted the Eyraillan coat of arms. "Do you intend on taking a roc?" Her eye then widened when she took notice of a woman, who had been declared dead, standing there before them, very much alive--albeit not very well. "Sir Vega Sorde," she said in wonder, trying to determine if the woman was made of flesh or just an apparition--or a delusion. "Is that how Alster came to be in this camp? You were in Stella D'Mare?" 

However, they hadn't the luxury to discuss the Eyraillan princess and her wayward journey from dead to living. Without warning, Tivia grabbed Elespeth's blood-oath hand, and held it aloft like a compass. "Close your eyes and concentrate on Alster and his whereabouts. I'll try to energize and amplify the vestiges of your bond. Together, we'll reach for the pull of his magnetism--and follow it to him." 

After an hour of traveling west, towards the mountains, Alster found a notch in a hillside, which provided shelter from the otherwise grassy, windswept landscape of fields that opened to the azure plains of sky. They mirrored each other in scope: one was brown and lifeless, the other blue and meaningless. And he, caught in the middle, would surrender to nothingness. 

He settled within the crook of the hill, immediate in his preparations as he silenced all thoughts that did not pertain to his task at hand. He needed utmost concentration; otherwise, his precision-reliant spell could rupture, backfire, taking his life without sealing his blood into the earth. 

With a deep, yet uncertain breath, Alster shed his tunic and undershirt, and unwound the bandages on his arms, abdomen, torso, and hands, exposing the purposeful slits in his skin that created one half of the spell-form. Aiming one hand towards the ground, he summoned fire, and burned the second half of the spell-form into the earth around where he stood: a square within a triangle within a circle, all festooned with the same ancient runic text. Then, he drew a knife from his belt and, gathering his confidence and fortitude, sliced open all of the still puffy, healing scars that peppered the upper half of his body. His eyes watered and his muscles tensed as he reopened his inflictions, but he forced upon himself an uneasy meditation to clear the mind from the pain. He worked quickly over the trace-lines of his torso and arms, until all he had left to do was the hands. Before he began to carve the final letters across his palms, he caught the contours of his comet-shaped oath scar, lined so deeply into his flesh that it looked like a mouth, firm and pursed into a hardened white line, displeased, angry, and so deeply, deeply hurt. Betrayed. 

Droplets of water fell upon that hand. Tears stained the flesh, while blood from the flesh wept upon his earthen tomb. With a small, strangled cry, he hacked at his hands, eyes half closed and averted, too ashamed to watch his marks of desecration appear upon such a sacred wound. A symbol of their union, which he had marred, corrupted...disregarded. 

My destiny...ends here.

Blood streamed from his hands, from his arms, from his torso, in great gouts. Turning his palms heavenwards, he slid his eyes fully closed, muttering the beginning incantation for the binding ritual. The blood, like liquid snakes, slithered from the openings in his ruined skin in twisting skeins of rope, collecting into his clawed, trembling hands. They floated and pirouetted in mid-air, almost molten in its graceful malleability. All preparations now complete, he need only open the initial doorway by fusing the first collections of his blood to the ground within the spell circle. Once there, he could not turn back; the ritual would drain him of all his blood, wave by unrelenting wave. But if he stopped now...if he erred, or hesitated, or found himself any form of distraction...

Do not think about distractions, Alster. Focus. It will all be over soon enough...

"There is nothing left of this damn bond," the Atvanian warrior hissed, despite Tivia's belief otherwise. "If there was, I'd have woken up--I'd have sensed what he was about to do, or at least that he was in danger, like I have every time before!" Unless... unless...

The angry lines in Elespeth's visage smoothed at a sudden realization that cut her to the core. Blood bond or not, she had always been attuned to Alster and his needs; like Tivia said, it had to do with the twin stars, their true, celestial linkage. And the only way she could have possibly remained so hopelessly oblivious to the fact he lad left her in the middle of the night was if she had been bespelled to remain asleep. He did not want me to interfere... that is why he left the note.

That is why I did not wake up.

Clenching her jaw, the former knight closed her scarred hand into a fist. "He bespelled me," she muttered, unable to discern if she was hurt or angry or poisoned with both dark sentiments; and likely, she was. "If he is not yet dead, then he might well wish he was when I see him again." I am beginning to sound like Chara, she mused with a remorseful sigh. If this truly was what love did to people, then she no longer had any doubt of Chara Rigas's affections for Alster--or what they had been, at least.

"We can take Aeriel." Vega piped up, through the miserable fog of her hangover, about which she had temporarily forgotten in light of this emergency. "Three people is a stretch, but I think we can all safely confess we are gaunt with our own demons--and I do not exclude myself, in this. Let's hurry."

Leading the pair in the opposite direction, Vega reached the roc stables and prepped her mount for flight, knowing she would find no resistance in the trusting creature. "Eris," she said to the former knight, beckoning her forward, "you take the front, and I'll sit between the two of you. You are the only one with even the faintest link to Alster by blood; it only makes sense that you lead." That, and she was not at all sure if it was even safe for her to fly in her condition, let alone lead the warrior and the caster. She would be lucky not to find herself nauseated all over again by the ascent into the air. "Aeriel knows what she is doing; just let her know where it is we are going, what direction. I will help with that."

The Skyknight found no resistance on Elespeth's part, and Tivia was eager to follow her lead. So she helped the former knight mount her relatively calm roc, and then climbed on behind her, before offering Tivia a hand. "Hold tight to the reins, and to me," Vega instructed the two women who had likely never flown upon a roc's back in their lifetimes. What a way to endure a learning curve... and at such an inconvenient time. "What direction are--"

"West," Elespeth certainty burned in her green eyes as she glanced over her shoulder at the other riders. "I... I just know it. We will find him if we fly to the west."

Vega offered a shallow nod and reached over to give Aeriel's reigns the proper tug, and no sooner was th signal given that the roc took off with a shrill screech, seizing the skies in seconds. Vega's stomach did somersaults as soon as they took to the air, and only through careful breathing and concentrating on the cool morning air on her face did she manage to maintain the contents of her stomach. Elespeth, on the other hand--through pure determination or perhaps by some miracle--rode like any seasoned Skyknight, well-balanced and in control, and on a mission. It was Tivia for whom Vega worried the most, and held fast to the womanls wrists, tight as they were encircling her abdomen. As if it all wasn't havoc enough on the Eyraillian princess's uneasy stomach, Aeriel suddenly took a plummetting descent, taking Vega completely off guard. "Eris!" She shouted, noting how Elespeth held the reins. "What are you--"

"There! He is down there... it's Alster!"

How the former knight was able to tell that the shape below, in the shelter of a mountainous overhang, was Alster Rigas, Vega could hardly divine. From their height, he could have been anyone, a mere speck on the horizon, but the warrior... she was so certain.
And as they neared ground-level, the Skyknight saw that she was right.

He was bleeding profusely, from everywhere, from what Vega could tell. His shirt was discarded in a heap, and the realization hit her with a twinge of horror that he had not suffered any sort of attack: rather, all of that trauma, those wounds... they were self-inflicted.

Elespeth wasted no time. "Al... Alster!" Aeriel's wide talons hadn't touched the ground before the former knight leaped off the enormous bird, lucky enough to roll into her landing as she cleared several feet from sky to ground. Stones dug into her flesh, her knees and face and hands, and she knew she was bleeding by the stickiness on her palms as she got to her feet, and hurried towards the Rigas caster. Whatever he planned to do, she knew it could not be good, and would not end in happiness for anyone. "Stop! Alster Rigas... whatever you think you are doing, I demand you stop... Now!"
Nearly tripping over her own feet in doing so, the desperate woman all but lunged for the wayward, making a grab for his hand and pulling him into her.

His hand; torn once, and torn again, as was hers. The second time in their lives that those two very hands opened and bled together, into one another, however unintentional it might have been.

Tivia and Vega were hot on the Atvanian's heels, both eager to be of help, until Elespeth did exactly the opposite of what they expected, and delivered a sharp slap across Alster's cheek. It left a bloody imprint of her angry hand. "How dare you... how dare you!" The former knight screamed hysterics, not so much as making a move to stop Alster from stumbling backwards at the impact. "What sort of punishment is this? To come back into my life just so... just so you can absolve yourself of guilt and take your own damned life? How dare you play my heart like a fool!"

"Eris! Stop!" Vega's arms encircled Elespeth's shoulders before she could make another move; not only holding her in place, but physically restraining her, as the former knight fought and struggled against her strength. They must have been equally matched in fitness, for it was the only reason that Vega did not find herself flung off her own feet. "Stop it! You're acting out of anger, and you are going to regret your actions!" Of course, the warrior's fury was not misguided, as Vega was equally taken aback by the Rigas Caster's physical state. Her eyes briefly met Alster's, tired and dark and confused, and she, too, found herself asking him: "...why? After all we've already lost..." In a sense, she, too, could not help but feel betrayed. Haraldur was gone; Alster had been her only friend and ally in his absence. There were not enough bottles of wine in the world to drown the sorrow of losing everyone in whom she had ever invested trust.

"You said you wouldn't leave." Tears mingled with the scrapes on Elespeth's face, her fury half-fueled by such intense sadness that she couldn't even take a full breath. "I begged you... I beggedyou to stay. I was warned that I would need to stand between you and death... but I never expected that the hand from which I was to protect you would be your own."

Alster was so heavy with concentration that he did not see or hear the descent of a roc mere yards away from his ritual circle. His eyes were fused tight; it was possible they would never open again. The blood roared in his ears as well as out of his hands, the main conduit through which he would join the markings on his body with the markings on the ground. The blood was the circuit, and completed the circle. It was in this state, with his mind already silenced by the promise of encroaching death, that he began to mutter the words that would free himself from this world, and condemn the Serpent to it, in his passing. The sibilant tones began to leave his mouth, touching against the tip of his tongue, which flattened against the roof of his mouth in anticipation...

Then, a shrill wind surrounded him on all sides. Swirling eddies counteracted the interior noise with an exterior pierce that snapped his eyes open in response to the unmistakable call. Alster! the wind shouted, demanded, in a feminine voice that he recognized from a far-off place, a place he thought he had left behind. Stop! Alster Rigas. And there she stood, there she ran, and before he could process what was happening, or why, she entered his circle, and yanked him from it, their hands, those hands, linked and wound fiercely together. 

His mouth reworked, and his senses returned with an alacrity that singed his every nerve, and heightened his awareness to almost supernatural qualities. "Elespeth!" His utterance rang with bewilderment, frustration, fear...and rage. "What are you doing!?" he spat, shoving her as far from the very active, very dangerous circle as he could--but with their hands still linked, he only succeeded in flailing off his feet and stumbling into her arms. He tried to squirm away from her, but her grip was a clamp, fused and firm and unrelenting. Blood made contact with blood. A contract, familiar in its popping electric flare, was reforged. It muddled and tampered with a powerful magic still in activation, poisoning the streams and thereby corrupting his spell. Not only had the blasted woman rendered his ritual ineffective in a matter of seconds, but she had managed to endanger them both. He needed to terminate the spell before it, too, began to absorb Elespeth's blood, and drain her dry.

But she did not recognize the severity of her position, so engrossed was she in making him suffer for his actions. She slapped him so hard that he almost tumbled back into the circle, and surely she would have slapped him again, if not for the assistance of Vega, who restrained the hysterical woman from further physical assault--but it did not deter her verbal diatribes. It was all too much. He couldn't think, much less disseminate the spell! His teeth threatened to grind into powder, his jaw pestled them so hard.

"Shut up!" he fumed, infuriated, as he turned his deadly gaze on Elespeth. "Just shut up for a moment!" He pointed to a tendril of black miasma that reached for her like a slimy stump from the outer lines of his burnt-black spell-circle. He saddled himself in front of her, pressing his already blood soaked hands against the tendril, fighting it back into the boundary whence it came. Using the ropes of not-yet-corrupted blood that were still his to command, he bound the miasma to the circle, knotting and twisting with the zealousness of one who now had everything to lose, if he failed. The miasma wailed and writhed in protest, like an army of serpents fused to one unstable body. It threatened to split, to rebound, to strike in all manner of directions, but eventually, it ceased its jerking movements and slowly, resignedly, melted into the circle. The entire space turned a fathomless black, erasing all trace of the runic patterns and geometric shapes, and then faded back into the earth as if it never existed. 

With an intense sigh of relief, Alster fell back on his heels. Then, he whirled on Elespeth, and gripped her shoulders so hard, the residual magic squeezed from his possession and entered her, with a fierce spark that was sure to cause her skin blisters. 

"You idiot!" he cried, with a fury the likes of which she had never seen from him before. "I hope you're happy. You've won. Your foolhardiness reestablished our bond." He showed her his hand, all stained a russet red, save for a thin, glowing streak that ran diagonally from the base of his index finger to the heel. "You put yourself at risk, and now I'll never be able to work that spell again!" He looked helplessly up at Vega, as if she were the only sane person remaining in his presence--though her gaze, too, betrayed her feelings on his sacrifice. They did not understand. Nobody understood why he had to die. 

"Do you realize what you've done, Elespeth!? Stella D'Mare is now doomed! The Serpent will rise again. This ritual--my life--would have prevented that outcome!"

"No, it wouldn't have." Alster shot his head in the direction of the naysaying voice. It was Tivia, battle-ravaged, her face half gone from ruinous burns that had melted her eye and contorted her mouth into a permanent grimace. But in her preserved half, her good eye still shone with that Rigas defiance, and the air about her was upright, self-assured, and certain. "Your ritual would not have worked, Alster. If there was a possibility of it succeeding, I'd have foreseen it. The blood seal that you tried to enact will not affect the Serpent a second time. Rigel only succeeded because his innate power was immense. Even with your bond to the creature, your life could not reinforce what's already been so irrevocably broken by generations of wear. You need to find another way." 

Alster, bleeding hands clutching at his lap, stared at Tivia, his mouth agape. "Tivia...how do you know all of this?" he asked, in a breaking whisper, as if half-expectant of the answer.

Her response was immediate. "I am a sky-seer." 

In one fell swoop, all his anger abated, replacing itself with the weight of crushing defeat. Shoulders slumping into his body, head sagging as if losing all support of his neck, he disintegrated into a mess of wrenching sobs. 

"Why can't I do...anything right?!" he voiced in between convulsions, hugging his freely flowing wounds against his arms to help staunch the flow. "How do I even fix what I've done? Elespeth..." He looked at her with imploring eyes. "I just wanted to...I thought the world needed me dead. I...I'm sorry, Elespeth. I'm...I'm so tired. I just wanted to sleep again...like before. You and I...in a...perfect dream." With his last reserves of strength, he closed up his wounds so that they were no longer life-threatening. He collapsed against Elespeth's chest, his sobs subsiding to make way for his quickly losing consciousness. "Just let me sleep." He reached for her hand, her blood-oath hand, holding it like something to be cherished. And his eyes slid shut.

The man before her, torn and bloodied and frenzied, looked like Alster Rigas. He sounded like Alster Rigas, had the same mannerisms as the Rigas caster, but there was something different that glimmered in his blue eyes, something that the former knight had never witnessed before. Anger, resentment, frustration and determination to such an extent that it actually seemed to consume him. It was enough to startle her out of her blinding fury for a brief moment.

She watched the tendrils of the magic he had been working sink back into the ground and disappear, hypnotized by their writhing and squirming, almost inclined to reach for them if they would bind her and Alster to the same fate. Vega let go as soon as the Atvanian warrior managed to calm her body, just in time for Alster to turn on her and seize her roughly by the shoulders. Something shocked and burned her skin, eliciting a violent wince on her part, though nothing hurt quite as much as his words. Idiot... Foolhardy... Stella D'Mare is doomed. The worst part was, she didn't care, even if he spoke the truth. If it meant interrupting his fate, so that theirs might be sealed together, until the very end...

Fortunately, Tivia dispelled his assumptions with her knowing certainty, and like a storm reaching its end, the rage and disappointment in Alster's eyes seemed to vanish. And all that Elespeth could do was watch, dumbfounded, as the man she love dissolved into himself, bleeding both lifeblood and tears. He hadn't known if this was going to work. It had all been based on hope and guess work, and... a desire to escape from reality. A reality that, although involving her, was too much for the Rigas Caster to bear. And as such, he sought fantasy, an unreality with only a dream doppelganger that bore her likeness. A perfect world, the very type that could not actually exist.
A dream without her, the real her, in lieu of a reality with her.

Then, he was collapsing against her, a mess of blood and tears, sobbing his plea for forgiveness until he had nothing left in him, and her arms were the only barrier between him and the ground.
"He requires medical attention immediately." Vega and Tivia both hurried to Alster's side, the former taking the unconscious Rigas caster's weight into her own arms. "I can take him on Aeriel and return for the two of you as soon as possible; it is our best option."

Elespeth put up no argument, as the Skyknight shuttled Alster back to the encampment, leaving Tivia and Elespeth in one another's silent company until she returned for them.
No one heard a word from the Atvanian warrior for the rest of the day.

Alster rested through the night and into morning, while Vega stoof vigil over him, with healers only periodically checking his ital signs. The verdict was that, beyond cleansing his self-inflicted incisions, he required rest, and so that was precisely what the Skyknight let him do. In a way, it was something of a blessing for her, a short reprieve from the thoughts that otherwise swam through her mind, and also forced her to maintain her own standard of health for the time that she waited by the Rigas Caster's bedside. When at last he awoke, she had, herself, already foregone another night's worth of sleep, her eyes deep-set shadows against her freckled skin. When he stirred and opened his eyes, she found she could not offer him so much as a smile.

"I did not bother to tell anyone, for fear that people would worry." Looking down, she toyed with the hem of her dirty tunic's sleeve, frayed and beyond repair as it was. "But when I regained my memories... every night since, I have had the same dream. I am lost in a forest; I do not know how I got there, or where I am, so I wander aimlessly, until... I see him through the trees." Of course, Alster likely knew well to whom she was referring. "I see him, and I feel so relieved, so full of hope... so I call to him. I try to follow him, but he is so fast, so elusive, and then when I think I have caught up to him in a clearing... he isn't there. No one is. I am alone... and I am still lost."

Finally looking up from her sleeve, the Eyraillian princess turned her tired eyes to Alster. "Imagine, when Elespeth found you again... how she must have felt. Full of hope, optimistic, relieved, soothed, reassured... she was an open wound, and you were the salve. But then, imagine what she felt, waking yesterday morning to that note you had written her. She thought she had made it out of the woods, only to realize that she was still lost. And that is a feeling that I would not wish on anyone, not even my worst enemy. For the only thing worse than lack of hope is false hope. I am only telling you this so that you realize the magnitude of what your antics had caused. Had I known that you merely wished to return to take your own life..." Then what? Would she have refused him a seat upon her roc? Would she have endeavored to go after Haraldur, despite what Alster had done to help her?

She didn't have an answer. "Elespeth has not left her tent since yesterday." With a sigh, Vega got to her feet and made for the opening of the tent, too weary and heavy-hearted to carry on this dismal conversation. "I can't speak to how she has faring because I have been keeping vigil over you, in her stead. When you are physically able, perhaps you might go and speak with her, yourself." It went without saying that it was the least he could do, and that was all she bothered to say before taking her leave for some long-awaited rest, herself.

Despite his yearning for the reprieve of sleep, to wash away the grime and guilt of that dreaded morning where all had failed him, sleep did not offer Alster any solutions or serenity. In his dreams, he was stranded in the middle of a stormy ocean. With no vessel or piece of flotsam on which to cling, he sank beneath the waves, water entering his lungs with relentless force. But he did not drown. He was made to suffer the sensation, losing air with expediency as he was forced to consume the burning constancy of sea water. This was his new reality. He was no longer alive--he was certain. How could anyone survive this long without the breath of life to pump his heart and churn his blood? 

But he did. Again, and again, he sundered to the waves. Again, and again, he choked, suffocating, struggling to cry for help or paddle his hands together, desperate for a spell to light his path and signal for someone to find him. No one will find you, Alster, a voice in his head prickled and throbbed and swished, sloshing against him like surrender. Isn't this what you wanted? To sink beneath the waves? To disappear? 

No! He swam towards the surface, but it drifted further from his reach. He was sinking, and his entire being was piecing apart. Dissolving. Not alone. Never alone. I want...I want...

You cannot die and obtain what you desire most, the voice hissed. Unless you killed her, too. And now you can. You are linked. You will die together. Into this sea and down, down, down...

I can't do that to her!

You already have... The voice echoed and, like everything else around him, faded into darkness. He was alone.

Alone...

Alster shot up from bed, gasping for breath. He coughed and sputtered, relieved to be hacking only air. He was not drowning--and a presence from his periphery informed him that he was not alone. Light filtered from the canvas-sided walls of his holding. Blankets were draped across his body, which were again bandaged, concealing the grisly evidence of his most regretful deed to date. 

"Vega," he said with a strained, raw mutter, his head bobbing wearily in greeting. Now that he regained his breathing patterns, he felt the throbbing whinge of his head, both heavy and light from loss of blood. "How am I--" but his weak, half-formed inquiry deferred to the Eyraillan's discourse. He hung his head in response to her admonishment, as a petulant child would from a parent. He played with the bandages around his hands, imagining them as flesh that he could pick and pick until he bled anew. Until the pain in his heart felt as nothing more than a pinprick. But his gracious hostess would not appreciate his physical response, in light of recent events. And frankly...he was sick of it all. Blood. Scars. ...Bonds. 

"I know what I've done," he said, his brow contorted with both anguish and mild annoyance--as if he wasn't already aware of his reprehensible behavior that had caused Elespeth such heartache. "I'm no stranger to guilt, Vega. You don't have to rub it in." He sighed, expelling his latent frustrations in favor of the apologist in him who was desperate to mend his mistakes before the regret twisted him into something uglier than his current guise. "But there are bigger factors at play, here. I was not merely ending my life. I would never have done that to her if I felt there was another way. But...I needed to pay for my sins." He searched her eyes, yearning for a sympathetic ear--anything to dab and sterilize the infection that was ravaging his insides. "Please understand that. Please..." But she made her leave then, and he was given nothing but the echo of his words on which to contemplate. Alone. 

Alster met with Tivia out on the campgrounds shortly after Vega's departure. She carried a small jug of water and was heading towards Elespeth's tent, where she had stationed herself at the woman's side since their return to camp. Out of duty to the warrior, and an unadmitted investment in her well-being, Tivia's aid was a direct response to all the instances when Elespeth had done the same for her--and she was not one to forget it. 

"She's not well, Alster," she said, when he inquired after her current state of mind. "She won't say a word to anyone. It as if her mind has shut down--not unlike my own condition from earlier, I suppose." 

"Give me the jug." Alster stretched out a hand to take it, though it trembled from the lingering after-effects of his anemia. His voice, too, was shaky, though he tried to manage his mannerisms--to rise above the paralysis of his depression, which in the past, had oftentimes wrested control from his wiser senses. "I'll take it to her." 

With hesitation, she relinquished the jug into his care. "Do not cause anymore damage," she warned, to which he responded with a slight wince. "...I am not here to judge you, Alster," she added, with something resembling forgiveness. "The Rigases...we were not so kind to you. And it might have contributed to...what you were so hell-bent on accomplishing. So," she looked at her kin, who stared back with some befuddlement, "you do not have to apologize to me. You sincerely wanted to save us, and that is honorable. However," her brow drew down in contention, "you knew this procedure was not infallible. You were ready to waste your life, if need be. If you truly wanted to live for her...you would have researched another method. Which gives me cause to wonder. How important is she to you?"

She left him to stew over her final words. Holding the jug as though it were a burden to carry for the rest of his days, Alster arrived at Elespeth's tent and, with an intake of courage, pushed through the flaps. 

"Elespeth," he called to the woman who sat so lifelessly upon her cot, the woman he had ruined, who he continued to ruin, and who he feared would remain ruined--all because of him. He sat beside her, and poured water from the jug into a tin that he found discarded on the floor. He gave her the tin, but didn't expect her to take it from his hands. An uneasy silence passed between them as he wracked his brain for an explanation or for something, anything, that would heal even an iota of the damage he inflicted upon her. "You have every right to hate me," he said, his lungs feeling like they were filling with water. "But hear me out, please. I'm not making excuses. Only trying to explain why I...decided to go through with this." He averted his eyes, watching the ripple of the water in the tin. 

"I thought I had lost you in this life, Elespeth. That you never wanted to see me again. What then, was the point of persisting, I wondered? My entire world...it had devolved to madness. I wanted it all to stop. And nothing else was stopping me from...I just wanted to save what I destroyed, Elespeth. I wanted to do good. I wanted to limit suffering. I threw myself into healing every broken soul that I could, hoping that it would heal me. But it was not enough. I still needed you in order to become whole...but the Rigases...they sought to own me. To control me. Dead, or alive, or as some sick pawn in a game that was not mine to play. So I decided to break the board. No one would play. I didn't think I had any other options. It made so much sense at the time, because my death...it could save lives. And I could at least rest. Find some measure of peace in my sacrifice."

"Then, came my mistake. My weakness." He gripped at the tin, avoiding Elespeth's eyes. "You. It was not my original intention to see you before I died, but the opportunity presented itself...and I made sure it would come to pass. Fully knowing it would destroy you, I went through with my visit...all for my selfish desire for one last time in your arms. Or just hearing your voice...it would have been enough. I saw you, and you responded to me. Didn't cast me off. Wanted me near. And your warmth, your need, your unshakable devotion--I...I didn't want to leave you. But I had invested so much, convinced myself that this was the only path to take, that I couldn't let everyone down, or myself. Unwittingly, I had banked on this outcome so much, to the point where I looked forward to not existing. I thought that maybe I would dream again, and you would be there, and I wouldn't have to abandon you. Some part of you would live on with me in death, somehow, and..." At last, his tongue broke his rambling speech. His hand reached out and folded over her own. That familiar, oh-so-inviting tingle sparked between them, alive. Like home after a long journey at sea. 

"I'm sorry, El. I didn't know what else to do. I've always felt pulled in different directions. I want to do right by everyone...but I just can't. Someone will always get hurt--and I'm tired of hurting you." He gave her hand a firm squeeze as his words threatened to break and spill its contents all over his sleeves. "We're in this together, now...but I understand if you need time to rekindle your faith and trust in me." He again handed her the tin of water. "But at least, please, nourish yourself. Don't waste away because of me. And I'll stay here as long as you need me to, whether it's never," the ghost of a smile touched his lips, "or forever."

She wouldn't have recognized her own voice if she had heard it with her own ears, and so Elespeth's motivation to speak at all, to anyone was reduced to nothing. Feeling little more than a soulless husk, not so different from the Skyknight's condition before Haraldur had taken her from Stella D'Mare, she did well to put her body through the motions of climbing upon Vega's roc when the Skyknight returned to retrieve both her and Tivia. Both spoke to her, time and again, but her tongue could make no reply. And no sooner had they landed back at Tadasun's encampment that she retreated to her tent, still without a word, and disappeared from the world and her comrades.

Like all of the others, nightfall did not bring rest to the distraught Atvanian, as Alster's face haunted her mind's eye, a study I both light and shadow. The face of her dreams, but now, also of her nightmares. One that simultaneously validated her existence as well as condemned it, leaving her sore and confused and aimless, and for one who had always been so driven and coordinated in her path in life, this heaviness of uncertainty was nothing less of devastating.
Nothing... I've survived for nothing.

Elespeth Tameris stared at the ceiling of her tent, so numb from the inside out that she did not feel the burn on her shoulders from Alster's caustic course of magic through her flesh. She didn't even realize when the sun crested the horizon, casting an uneven glow atop her flimsy enclosure to signal dawn. At some point, a familiar voice echoed in the abyss of her brain fog: Tivia, she reasoned, though she did not bother to glance in the woman's direction to confirm or refute her suspicion. Eventually, the voice faded, indicating that she had been left alone and to her own, quiet devices once again.

Talking and silence, talking and silence, footsteps that neared but retreated before they could enter her tent again. This happened time and again, as the day drew on and a pain in her head and stomach alerted her to hunger and thirst which she had pushed to the very back of her mind, caring little for her current physical condition. What does it even matter? What have I been working towards? What have I been holding out for?
Miracles didn't happen; reality was harsh, it did not play into anyone's favour. The only destiny that existed won out beyond the stars, for they could tell their stories, but the world below would laugh in response.

Tivia was wrong. She and Alster were not destined... Once, she had thought it might be true. But that was before it had occurred to her that her life, her existence, her love, all paled in comparison to that of a sweet dream.

The former knight was on the precipice of unconsciousness when footsteps finally passed through the stiff flaps of her tent. She was inclined to suspect Tivia, once again, knowing the star seer possibly felt a certain debt to her since she had cared for her and extended a hand of friendship, despite her initial reluctance. But it was not Tivia's voice that broke the silence in her tent. It cut through the fog of her stupor, as sharp as the sword he gifted her, yet as gentle as the songs that had lulled him to sleep. She didn't need to look; the new wound on her hand, throbbing and tingling, decimated any shadow of a doubt she might have had.

For the longest time, she said nothing, unable to find words in the crevices of her wounded heart. With her back to her pillow, the Atvanian warrior hugged her knees, resting her chin upon her knees. She had discarded her tunic for the aggravation it caused the angry blisters on her shoulders, sitting only in her trousers and her plain, cotton shift that buffered the chill and chafe of her battle armor, lending her a look of having given up completely. As if she had lost the light which had driven her every movement and breath.

But he kept on talking, pushing that damned tin of water in her direction, and she knew that he would not let up until she acknowledged his presence. Her lips felt parched and dry when she used her voice for the first time since she had last seen Alster awake. "Life... reality is harsh, isn't it." Her words sounded so far away to her own ears, that she wondered if she had spoken at all. "It deals what it deals, regardless of our intentions, our dreams, our wishes... it takes so much from you, one would wonder why we endure it at all."

Absently reaching up to rub one of her tender shoulders, Elespeth squeezed a long exhale from her lungs. It felt as though a little bit of her life seeped out along with the used air. "I have wondered, time and again. It would have been so... easy to die. I'd have bee able to join Farran; there would be no more pain. But someone reminded me... of the reason why I needed to survive." That was when she turned her sleepless, green eyes to Alster, hollow and numb and yet still suffering on some level. "To me, the suffering was worth it. Because all of the hardship and suffering in this world and this life was worth it, if only for one person. I couldn't bear... to leave you, Alster."

A tremor wracked her body, chilled without being cold, and Elespeth hugged her knees tighter. "I had thought you felt the same. But now I understand how I was relevant to you. That... that it wasn't me. Only the idea of me. Me, in a perfect world that does not exist... in a place where there is no suffering. But here, in this wartorn place..." Closing her eyes, she turned her face away. "Here, I am of no use to you... you don't need to explain; I understand. I just wish... I wish you had been honest with me, before you tried to disappear forever."

As he spoke his long-winded approach behind his motivations, he found himself unable to stop the deluge of words that meant nothing but verbal offal, devoid of a pulse. Of the true intent behind his almost-successful annihilation. They were designed merely to validate his reasoning and to convince himself that he was without fault. Free of liability. I did what I had to do because I had no other choice, was his argument. If I didn't kill myself, on my own terms, Adalfieri would have done it for me--with disastrous results. Yes, those reasons were pragmatic, but also relied on conjecture and inexact science to craft his desired outcome. In other words, he was searching for an excuse to die. And if so, Tivia was correct in her suppositions: he did value death and an idealistic fate more than an imperfect life with Elespeth. A mere concept over reality. Lies above the truth. He had a taste of an unbroken existence, and its loss affected him more than he cared to admit. Now, he contended with what remained of that perfect place--Elespeth. But it was not all of her. Yet, it was. In a flawed, shattered world, she was the facet on a cracked surface. She shone just as brightly, her color just as lovely, but the image was distorted, like the reflection on rippling water. The world was the problem, not her. Yet, she inhabited it, was affected by it, and by default...they were both one and the same. She was, after all, the product of her upbringing. 

But the realization--that he loved the lie--terrified him. She was forced to shoulder this knowledge, this weight, ever since he had cried those condemning words to her face. Having to confirm her suspicions, to one already so disheartened and wrapped around an unrelenting shroud of numbness, was certain to kill him in everything but in body. The exact opposite of the kind of salvation he wished to find on the other side. What else of her can I destroy? he thought as he hunched over his lap and threw his hands over his eyes. I have done everything possible to snuff out her light. I'm capable of saving lives, helping others...but why can't I save or help her? The one who means the most to me. ...Every time I see her, she is less of herself. Diminishing. Dust in the sky. And I...I can't help her.

He raised his head from his hands, and glanced at her blistered shoulders, recognizing the pattern of his fingers from where he had gripped and seared her flesh with his discharging magic. But I can start somewhere, at least. To heal her...from the outside, in.

Crawling onto the cot, Alster positioned himself until he was behind Elespeth. With the most careful of touches, he tested her tender spots, gauging the extent and the severity of the damage. "I did this," he said as he unfurled a cloth from his pocket, and dabbed it into the water-jug that he had placed on the ground. "Let me undo it." 

He began to wash the surface area of the affected tissue, as soft as breath, but with a deliberateness he had seen Elias demonstrate through his thorough cleansing and dressing of wounds at the Rigas infirmary. To prevent infection, he went over her burns several times, all while trying to ignore the ache of their proximity. So great was her melancholy, it radiated from her skin and burrowed into him, down to his joints, which resonated with her in bone-creaking ululations.

"Life is pain," he said in agreement, as his hands began to hum and light in a slow, healing pulse--as Elias had taught him. "And it can be so debilitating, so intense and cutting and unbearable, that we fall into it like a sword, and watch, helpless as it wrenches us open...but does not kill us. It knows that it can't kill us, Elespeth, because that is not its domain. But it's too selfish to share with brother Death. It covets and hoards and treats us like play objects, and Death has to steal us away and hide us into the toy-box before we are too broken to move." As he waved his hands over her shoulders, the unsightly blisters popped, sloughed away, and made room for the rise of pink, newborn skin that replaced the old cracks and bumps. "I too wanted the lid of that box to close for good. To no longer worry about having your limbs pulled, your stuffing ripped, or your glass eyes gouged. Every. Single. Day. But, if I didn't go through all of that, I would only have the ghost of you, Elespeth." With his healing now complete, he drew his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. 

"The reason I dreamed of you, in that perfect place...I couldn't bear to be without you. What idyll would it be, if you were not there to experience it with me? But she was an unfaithful reproduction. A poor replacement. She never had her legs splintered off, or her paint chipped away. She was not who I originally fell in love with. You are you because you've suffered. And I love you because you're imperfect." He buried his head into her shoulder, and kissed it gently. "That's who I really wanted with me in death, Elespeth. You--and not an ideal. But you're right." He closed his eyes, the flutter of his eyelashes tickling her skin. "I've not been honest with you. I wanted this suffering to end, but it would only end if you were there with me on the other side. So I had to go on believing there was another you, waiting for me. But that would not do. You were created from this terrible, terrible world and are beautiful in spite of it. Because of it. A flower on the battlefield. I...I'm sorry that I realized this only now. I could have spared you so much pain. So much of it." 

Tears welled from his eyes. He tightened his embrace, in earnest. "Thank you...for saving my life. Because it gives me the chance to spend more time with you. The chance to make things right. To live, to help my family, to save this city, and to be present, in these moments, with you--my most important reason for being." His entire body froze, then, as a most dreaded thought bubbled from his lips. "Do you...do you still want to be here? With me? Or am I...not enough for you anymore? Do you..." he choked back the waver of his failing voice, "want the lid to close?"

She hadn't given too much thought to the burns on her shoulders until the remorseful man took a seat behind her and touched the traumatized skin. He was so gentle in his approach, as he dabbed cool water upon the blisters and peeling in order to cool the heat trapped beneath the layers of flesh; so careful not to cause her pain, cognizant that she was already in another form of pain. It still hurt; the pressure, the way the water stung, and the rupturing of the blisters when he removed the cloth. Unbidden, she winced, even at the soothing lilt of his words, the reassurance of his proximity, and the warmth of his body against her back. It brought her mind and memory to just a few nights prior, when they had moved together as one, when they were joined, when she believed that he had meant what he said when he had promised not to leave.

Suddenly, everything--her burns, her heart--hurt so much more. She took a deep breath to calm that stress response, but the hurt did not dissipate. "You don't have to protect my feelings, Alster," she told him, her voice not at all accusing, but rather, gentle. Understanding. "I learned a long time ago, the true value of my life... not enough for my kingdom, for my family. Not enough for anyone. But I was in denial for so long, because I had wished so hard to impact someone's life. To mean something to someone. But that is not a guarantee in life, is it? Not all of us have meaning. Not all of us lie in wait for happy endings. Some of us are just fodder... and otherwise, a waste of space."

Pressure behind her eyes indicated the desire to cry, but there was nothing in her to be expelled from her tear ducts. Crying was for despair; for a denial that the worst could not be prevented. But somewhere in the events of the past day, she had learned acceptance of what had occurred, and the futility of believing otherwise. "When the time comes... let go. Nothing lasts forever." She recited the words automatically, something that had been ingrained in her mind from years ago. "One of the few words of wisdom I remember from my grandmother. I should have let go so long ago... my story, my meaning, ended when I left Atvany for the first time. When I left behind my identity. But I was too determined to have meaning; to become relevant again. And so... I fell in love with you. For my benefit, for yours, because I thought... I thought that what I had to offer was enough. It was foolish of me to ever think I could be the catalyst that would set someone's life right, again."

His body was so close to hers, so real, and yet, she was chilled. As if something inside of her wasn't properly working to regulate her temperature, could not quite register the comfort that he offered. In an off-handed way, it felt akin to a state of shock.
"You have never been not enough, Alster." Raising her arm, she coughed into the crook of her elbow, her chest feeling heavy with her heart, and something else. "You have been exactly what I need. But I don't know... what to expect from you anymore. It's so frightening... wanting to hope, but not knowing what is going to happen. I don't think I have ever been so afraid."

Stifling another cough, a shiver traveled down her spine, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, Elespeth realized the extent of her exhaustion. Clutching her arms against her inner chill, the former knight lowered her body onto its side, the flimsy cot cradling her form. "I'm so tired," she murmured, reveling in the relief of closing her eyes. "I need to rest. So do you, Alster. Rest... recuperate."
It wasn't long after that the Atvanian warrior drifted, her breathing even, yet curiously laboured, and her face unnaturally pale.

She slept through the remainder of the day, only opening her eyes when someone prompted her to drink water, to the concern of others. Vega visited a couple of times, unable to find sleep, and finally thought to touch the Atvanian warrior's forehead, which was abnormally warm to the touch. After alerting the healers, they were quick to come to a conclusion. "Influenza." The Skyknight sighed, as they heated boiling water over an open fire. "Her immune system was weakened from pushing herself so hard for so long. They do not believe it to be a contagious outbreak, merely an isolated case of a body in need of care."

It was evening, and feeling remorse for evoking guilt as she had earlier, had opened up with far less hostility to Alster. She sat next to him on the log before the fire, as they waited for the water to sufficiently heat. "Do not blame yourself in whole," she offered, gently nudging his shoulder. "We are all guilty of over-exertion. Though maybe your presence will speed her recovery. At least, I believe it would."

Alarm danced in Alster's now open eyes. Hers were words of surrender. Of despair without an open door. Pus without room to drain. It would fester, and grow into an abscess and rot within her until--when? What could he do? What could he say? She bled all the same. Drowned in her flood of inner demons. Walled him away, barred him access from her bruised, ruptured core. Her system rejected him--the pestilence in her heart.

Mother was right. I am a disease. If I don't take lives away, I make them worse. Vega mourns. Lilica is still a prisoner to my family. Haraldur is in Andalarian custody. It doesn't matter if I save them. Elespeth is right. Let go. ...I am nothing.

But she...she is something. She is everything. 

"It was enough for me, Elespeth," he said, almost pleading with her. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a soft massage, desperate in his attempt at comfort. He flinched when he felt her hot to the touch. So it's true. I am making her ill. "You were, you are enough. I'm alive, because of you. Several times over, in fact. Does that not mean anything? You've impacted it so much, that you broke what was considered an unbreakable curse, and brought me home. If you would have let go, Elespeth...where would I be? Who would I be? Alster Rigas means nothing by himself. So much of my identity hinges on you." You cling, Alster, his mother's words fizzled into his head. You cling, and you squeeze, and you choke, until I'm white, and crumble like chalk.

He looked to his hands, which gripped Elespeth's arms in a vise, whitening the skin beneath his touch...like chalk. He released her, and fell back on his heels, and brought those hands to his throat. Turn them on myself. If they cling to me, Mother, then I'm the only one who chokes... 

"I'm afraid, too," he said into the silence, his fingernails raking against his flesh. "Of me. Of what I'm capable of. What I've done. All I ever do...is hurt you."

You're hurting her, now. The bond... Alster stopped in mid-scratch, his eyes wide as he withdrew his hands, and wiped away the blood on his clothes. A tightness constricted in his chest, in his throat. His stomach roiled and his head responded with a dizzying weightlessness that shivered down his raised flesh. He felt about to vomit.

That was when Elespeth coughed, and shivered, and at once, Alster was to his feet, though the swiftness in which he gathered his senses worsened the demands of his own body. Immediately, he felt at her forehead. It burned like the rest of her. He helped to settle her upon the cot, threw a blanket over her shrinking form, and tucked the corners underneath her, for additional warmth. 

"Yes, Elespeth. Please rest. I'll get you a healer."

He stumbled out of the tent, breathless. He didn't make it far when he doubled over, and vomited a red substance that almost looked like blood.

Alster hid his condition from everyone else, which wasn't hard, considering their preoccupation with Elespeth. This was not about him. She mattered, always, and he was the scum who had subjected her to the triumvirate of misery: heartbreak, disease, and the degeneration of the soul. He made himself useful to the healers, fetching water and clean rags, a pail, and extra blankets and pillows. He paused only to allow himself time for release, hiding in the narrow alleyways as he retched, his chest seizing, his vision blurring. Eventually, he listened to the bitter truth of reason that thrummed in his head, which was cruel to point out that his pain was her pain, and running himself to the brink of exhaustion would do her no favors.

Tivia volunteered to take on the more demanding tasks in his place. Nobody save for himself blamed him from withdrawing from the brunt of the work--at least not overtly--but he suspected that they did so amongst themselves, to spare him the added stress. Too late for that, he wanted to tell them as he went on to work on boiling some water outside--ensuring himself it was not an arduous chore, despite his body's demands to the contrary. He sat upon the log opposite the fire-pit and threw a few sparks of flame beneath the pot. His magic was not enough to agitate his constricting chest and susceptible stomach, but enough to force a few coughs from his throat--just in time for Vega to join him at his side. 

"It's all my fault," he said, half acknowledging her and half speaking his own fears aloud, to the fire, to the universe--to any who were fit or unfit to judge him. "My presence, my existence...is a disease. No one is made better from its exposure. Cut off the head, bleed it out...it doesn't matter. She has succumbed. I am not enough...to anyone." With the water now to a boil, he doused the flame, and lifted the pot from its mooring. Sweat formed on his brow and chilled him, despite his proximity to the heated pot and the steam. "But I won't let her go through this alone. If she's damned either way... then I'll be damned with her." He turned away from the Eyraillan princess, and with the pot at hand, wandered back into the tent, his breath streaming from him in troubled huffs.

"You are being unncecessarily hard on yourself." Vega heaved a deep sigh, prodding at the fire with an old sword to stoke the embers. "...and I am partially to blame for that. I should have been more supportive of you, especially given what you have done for me. Being a friendly face when I awoke, while I hardly knew who I was, actively helping me to regain what I had forgotten... I apologize, Alster. What I said, the other day, was harsh, and needn't have been said at all. I do not have an excuse." Like everyone else strung out on their very last nerve, sleep-deprived and tired and takng far less care of herself than she should have been, the Eyraillian princess had reacted on a primal level to Alster's poor decisions. And, in some ways, she might have been right in what she had said: but that did not make any of it necessary. 

You are making others hurt just because yo hurt, a voice at the back of her mind accused, and she knew it to be true. Protecting the feelings of others from the bite of her opinions was not on her priority list in her current state, sober only half of the time, and the other half dredging through the day, facing the consequences of the night before. In fact, she appeared worse off now than she had when she had been nothing but a corpse. And this time, she had no one to blame but herself. "I just... I want to believe that Haraldur would not have walked away, if it had been possible. I need to believe that, because I do not know what I would do if I cannot. And seeing how you walked away from something--from someone so precious, from the very thing that I had had the opportunity to experience so very briefly... it made me angry. But it should not have, because it is none of my business. And true though that may be..." Averting the gaze from the fire, she met his eyes, "I know that you are enough for Eris. And this is your chance to prove it to yourself. Be there for her, now, and watch how she heals. And speaking of healing..."

But Alster was already picking up the pot and turning towards Elespeth's tent before she could continue. With a frown (and feeling rather a hypocrite to speak her mind), she stood and faced his back. "I know you are afflicted, as well, so stop trying to hide it and look into resting, yourself. What use will you be to Eris if you are in just as bad a condition as she is?"

If he heard her, he did not reply, and Vega watched the Rigas caster disappear into Elespeth's tent. And no sooner had he left that she was struck by the realization of her loneliness, once again, and thus retreated to her own tent. After all, there was no one else to talk to, and she had nowhere else to go.

Sleep was sparse and comfort was impossible. For the few days that followed, Elespeth seldom left her tent, only departing to relieve herself (she was, after all, too proud to use the bedpan that had been provided for her). Not that she was granted much dignity, otherwise; healers frequently intruded to check up, feeling for the status of her vital signs and temperature, to the point where on the third day (though still miserable) she refused to cooperate with any of them and would only send them away. It tired her to have hands pawing at her without her consent, acting as if she was too feeble to look after herself, and the misery of the affliction paired with the lack of sleep which accompanied it only darkened her already testy mood. Too hot and feverish to be fully dressed, yet too chilled to not be covered, the Atvanian warrior spent the majority of her time curled up on her cot in her undergarments, with the blanket only ever covering one half of her body at a time. On the bright side, it was a different kind of misery, which distracted her from the misery of her broken heart, and in a way, she invited it, for it was easier to deal with a fever, aches and chills, than invisible pain with no known remedy.

Tossing and turning, tendrils of her hair having come loose of her braid sticking to the back of her neck, while her shift stuck to her skin like a layer that wouldn't be shed, the former knight struggled to find that place of peace deep in her mind to retreat. Alster had had a dream, full and elaborate, while he had been plunged into that demi-coma; and here, she couldn't even get a reverie, in her time of need. Nothing to ease the throbbing pain in her head or the tenderness of her skin or her wildly fluctuating temperature, and it just wasn't fair. She was frustrated and tired, and all at once too tired to be frustrated, which only frustrated her more...

And to top it off, someone else had come into her tent, unannounced and uninvited. "I thought I had made myself clear." Elespeth snapped, rolling over and sitting up. "I don't... Alster?" 
She had expected one of the stubborn medics to have completely disregarded her wishes and returned to have her drink noxious mixtures of unpalatable herbs steeped in hot water, which did nothing but leave foul tastes in her dry mouth. Instead, she took in the form of the Rigas caster; the very reason her heart was broken, and the reason why it still perservered and beat at all. Speechless, she watched as he carted in a pot of steaming water, both touched at his desire to be of help, and yet irritated that everyone seemed to be disregarding her desire to be left alone.What did it take for someone to recuperate from a wretched illness in relative peace?

"Why is everyone treating me like I am an invalid?" Huffing a sigh, she pulled the woolen blanket further up her legs in a single, irate motion. The on-and-off fever had painted her cheeks, chest and sholders red, almost giving her the illusion of a healthy glow. But her furrowed brows, sleep-deprived eyes and restless pout gave her the appearance of a child who had exhausted all coping mechanisms, and was liable to tantrum. "I am fine. People needn't retrieve water or tea or blankets and cloths for me. There are far more trying issues in this encampment..."

As he placed the water next to her bedside, however, she took note of his own pallor, the laboured sound of his breathing, and her sour mood tasted slightly less bitter, all of a sudden. "You're not well either, are you?" Almost as if in response, her injured hand began to ache around the edges of the wound that once again matched Alster's. Her brow smoothed in concern, and just a little bit of guilt. "Am I making you sick? Because of... what I did?" Squeezing her hand into a fist, she drew it against her chest. "You shouldn't be caring for me, when you yourself need that care just as badly..."

The days of Alster's convalescence went on alone and self-medicated. To stave off the attention of the healers, he acted less sick than how he felt, though it was half-true that his ill-health had arisen from another source entirely. It was mostly borne of his wounded mind, manifested into indigestion, stomach upset, and fever. He kept himself busy at first, resting when he could, but also making use to the Tadasuni generals who had demanded to know of his unauthorized trip from before, which had caused a stir with the Eyraillan princess and the mysterious woman warrior who, since her arrival, appeared to attract all manner of colorful characters and bizarre situations. Alster, in turn, crafted a few well-researched lies--something about the terrain and a suspected Andalarian tunnel that ran parallel to the foothills of the mountains and snaked towards camp. It was a reconnaissance mission sanctioned by the Rigas family, he explained, and there was a miscommunication between Eyraille and her soldiers--namely, Elespeth. They, perhaps out of a lack of intelligence gathered from his "investigation" followed by their regret for allying with such a volatile family, granted him a dismissal without asking for elaborations. On the one hand, their paper-thin tolerance of him allowed for free range amongst the camp boundaries, but it also meant that, without liability, he hadn't any distractions or a cause that he could adopt in order to recuperate from the trauma of the last several days. 

In that wide swath of spare time, he split his duties between visiting Elespeth, and shutting himself away in his tent. He had not spoken to Vega since their evening by the fire, though he accepted her apology and offered an empathetic air to her situation, which was not too dissimilar to his own--only he had played the role of the aggressor, the culprit. He had walked away, like Haraldur before him, whose reasoning was cogent, and nearly identical in scope. But unlike Haraldur, Alster's self-imposed sentence was premeditated, and well within his control--for the most part. However, despite her apologies, Alster did not seek or even desire Vega's company. Already beset with guilt over his actions, her presence only agitated it anew. He was a walking reminder of what she lost, and as a result, he could find little comfort with the morose, alcohol-driven Eyraillan royal who no doubt viewed him as crust on the underside of her boot. Better to be alone. To reflect on what he had done. 

To punish himself in isolation, he sought no hands of solace or herbal remedies for deep, dreamless sleep. No shortcuts. No forgiveness. He'd even shunted Tivia's attempts to be near, though her offers were halfhearted at best. They were never close, despite her newfound willingness to treat him as an equal instead of some half-formed underling, as she'd done in the past. But he didn't deserve her openness, or proper rest, or an end to the illness which had already shriveled his appetite. He could keep nothing down, and seldom ate. Even when he drank, his stomach revolted, and spat the water back out of his mouth. He accepted his body's rejection as ample retribution for his misdeeds. And though he gave himself rest and care for his condition, it was for Elespeth's sake that he had even bothered. 

When he was not engaging in his solitary purge, he often checked on Elespeth's well-being at her tent. Whether surrounded by healers, or delirious with sleep or ennui, she did not acknowledge him. He would touch her burning forehead, weave his fingers through her own, call her name, sing to her, or sit at her bedside for hours, and she would loll her head away, or close her eyes, but never address him, look at him, recognize him. At the end of every session with her, he would deliver a healing pulse, low-energy but humming with a frequency that was most conducive to recovery. On return to his tent, he would weep silent, dehydrated tears and trail bloody scratches down his neck, down his cheeks, until he remembered to stop, to heal them. She would know. She might feel them. Don't hurt her. Never never again....

On the third day of Elespeth's illness, he walked into her tent with another pot of boiling water. This time, no healers were pouring through the minuscule ground space, and this time, the woman that he loved was awake, aware. And in a slight rage.

Unbidden, a small smile reached his lips. "Sorry to disturb you, Elespeth. I just thought that maybe you wanted to join me for some tea?" 

He listened to her complaints as he set the pot on the ground and rummaged for his herbs pouch. He dabbed the green, earthy-smelling, spicy notes into two mugs that he had prepared, and filled the boiling water to both, just below the brim. He handed one steaming cup up to Elespeth while he remained cross-legged beneath her cot. 

"Tea is enjoyable, even when we are not sick. And this concoction isn't too terrible. Elias taught me how to make it." Half to himself, he muttered. "It's about the only thing I can keep down." 

Sensing that she either overheard him, or was appraising his condition--which, between his sunken cheeks, glistening skin, rattling breath and general pallor, was quite obvious--he shrugged his shoulders dismissively and took a sip of the tea. "I've always been sickly--in one way or another. I usually hide it well. It's commonplace for me. Almost normal, really. Nothing to do with your influenza, Elespeth." He rubbed his shoulders against the wooden legs of her cot, and tried for another smile. "They're just worried about you. It's a healer's job to care for their patients. It's...well," he lowered his head to watch his scarred hands, free now of their bandages, rub against the glazed surface of the mug, "...after this war, after I find a way to stop the Serpent," he paused, half expecting her to react in fear, to think he meant to try and take his life again, "I'd like to train to become a healer. I've been shadowing Elias these past few months. He needed assistance, and I needed a purpose. I want to mend minds, souls...like the Sybaia do." He looked at her in that moment, with sad, defeated eyes. "Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm not fit for that kind of work at all." I make a mess out of everything, he thought, as he gave an audible, labored sigh and took a generous sip of his tea.

"You've never asked me to join you for tea when I'm healthy." Elespeth countered in a grumble, yet found herself no less disarmed by the Rigas caster's courteous attitude. It didn't hurt that she also felt more than a mite guilty for the fact that he, in his likewise sickly state, was choosing to care for her over himself. He truly wanted to make amends, it seemed, and despite herself, so did she. Despite how her heart still hurt at every glance of his kind face; the face that had hurt and betrayed her, yet simultaneously warmed her chilled core. The face of the man who sung to her when her fever was at its worst, made her feel that she was not only not alone, but in the company of one who truly cared. Oh, how she had missed that feeling, those long nights when she had longed to see his face again...

She didn't want tea; she didn't want anything, but her fever and sweating had left her dehydrated, and she would do herself no favours to continue to refuse food and water. "You were always healthy and radiant when I knew you at your happiest." Bringing the tea to her lips, she sipped the liquid, which burned her already hot mouth. But she did not care. "Don't lie to me; I did this to you. Either through the contagion of the illness or our... bond." A bond which he had not wanted back, having purposely severed it for his own reason and purposes. "You hurt me; more than I can describe, but I... I did the same to you. And it appears as thought I still am."

Taking a sip from her mug, she was surprised to find the not was, indeed, not nearly as appalling as the other concoctions that the healers has insisted she force down her throat. It soothed the ache in her chest just enough that breathing did not seem like such a labour. "You have a kind heart, Alster. I do not believe your wish to be a foolish one... gods know, we could certainly use some more empathetic healers." Her lips twitched into a small smile, one outlined with a ghost of sadness. "And you would have the ability of both Elias as well as Daphni... I think the world would lose out significantly, without you."

And yet, what can I provide? What am I good for? Hurting the ones she loved. Tearing apart her family. Bringing misfortune to all whom she encountered... Except for when I am with Alster. He brings out my potential, gives me meaning... makes me useful when I would otherwise be a waste of air and space. Perhaps he knew this; regardless, a seed planted deep inside her heart reminded her that she could not walk away from him, not for good. After all, she had already tried... and it had landed her far more helpless and worse off than before. "Imagine, if I had not reached you in time." She spoke the words so softly, afraid to look up from her mug to witness the probable guilt in his blue eyes. "The world would have lost such an asset. And I do not just mean Stella D'Mare and the Rigas family..."

A chill assaulted the Atvanian warrior all of a sudden, the tremor leading to unsteady hands that spilled her tea on her lap. Sighing in frustration, she placed the still steaming mug on the ground. "This is preposterous." Elespeth growled her frustration, rubbing her arms, which felt chilled but were hot to the touch. When was the last time she had been able to reliably and effectively determine whether she was actually hot or cold. "I am of no use to anyone in this damned state. I don't want to just lie here anymore, like an invalid with nothing to offer. I am tired of being no more than a burden to everyone around me... it isn't bloody fair!"

Unbidden, irate tears sprung to the former knight's green eyes. She hid them as she pressed the heels of her hands to her closed lids. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him again; to appear as vulnerable as she felt, when she only wanted to be strong. The Rigas caster had enough to contend with, nevermind her childish reaction to illness. "You don't need to coddle me, you know. You should take care of yourself..." And yet, the cadence of her voice cried out, But I don't want you to go. I am tired and afraid and don't want to be alone.

Alster countered by pointing to indicate all of Elespeth, from her crown down to her feet, which, despite her infirmity, was up and primed and ready to go. "You seem to be in good health much of the time, and even when you're not, you and your restless feet would dart away before anyone could offer you a sip." To punctuate his observation, he took a rather loud slurp of tea, practiced and poised, as if he had taken a lesson in cheekiness from the Clematis healer in addition to hands-on medical training. "But I'm not lying to you," he continued, his tone taking on a more somber note the moment their eyes met. "At least on one count. I was born sickly, a runt, and have since needed to contend with near-constant headaches, nausea, vomiting, throat tightness, heart palpitations...Elias seemed gladdened by this information, as if I had proven some theory of his to be true. Anyway, I digress..." Before moving on, he tensed at her words. You hurt me. He nodded, too ashamed to look Elespeth in the eyes, let alone in her general direction, and shrank back into position on the floor with only his tea for warmth. 

"I'm tired of lying to you," he said, his voice small, breakable, like shells on the beach that were shattered by clumsy feet. "So I will admit that our renewed sympathetic link might have something to do with my reaction--on top of my natural proclivity towards illness," he blurted out the latter half of his statement, so afraid to cast any iota of blame on her that any word tilted against her felt like blasphemy of the highest offense. "That's why I was angry about the reinstatement of our bond. Yes, it was able to...to stop me from making a terrible mistake, but now, you're again burdened by my shortcomings, of which there are far too many to count. I'll hurt you. I'll keep hurting you. I don't want to. I never want to, not after what I've done. But I will." His fingers gripped the mug as his breath spiked, sucked in with a swiftness that sounded in a pained gasp. He bit down on his lip to silence the outburst that thrummed his heart in double-time, responding to his body's distress, the apex of his nerves, the panic that threatened to twist him into some pathetic chimera, a once creature, now distended and mangled...

He tried to calm himself by concentrating on Elespeth's encouragements, so desperate for kind words, some proof that he was redeemable, even if only in one aspect, that he held on to them like a rope pulling him from the precipice. At once, his breathing regulated. An even cadence returned to his shaky voice. His eyes refocused, no longer fading along the edges like a funereal shroud over the face. But his thoughts were unformed, and his mouth opened before he could arrange what he had hoped to convey. 

"That's generous of you to infer, Elespeth. But Elias and Daphni both?" A nervous waddle strained his speech. "I'd be lucky just to exhibit a cursory knowledge of their collected practice. But Rigas healers are so hard to come by. It's a very precise art and can only be handled by the most skilled of casters, and ones who possess the greatest inherent aptitude at birth. But my family is ambitious. Those with the aptitude for healing seldom pursue it, thinking their talents wasted in the infirmary, when they could be rising ranks and entering Adalfieri's close-knit circle of elites. As is, the Rigas healers on call are not fully-realized in the art. They vacillate between in their duties too much. Wear too many hats. It dilutes effectiveness, productivity, and..." Finally, his breath, and the anxiety he tried to outrun, caught up with him. He clutched his chest with one hand, while his tea-holding hand trembled, causing the mug to dance in small, jerky circles. "I'm sorry, Elespeth. I really am," he said, almost frantic in his yearning to appease her. "I wanted to do good, one last time. I was so convinced that to die would be my greatest contribution to the war, to saving lives...maybe even to you, eventually....once the shock of my passing wore away and you could move on. But--" 

He jumped with surprise at her outrage, worried that her sudden flare-up was directed toward him. Relaxing his shoulders a tad when the true intent of her message permeated the stale air of the tent, Alster set aside his tea, which had dribbled over the ground in his excitement, and crept to his feet. He resettled beside her on the cot and planted his palm against her mid-back. A healing pulse emanated from its point of entry, reverberating against her spine and loosening the congestion in her body. "You are not a burden," he said, his voice surprisingly calm, considering his almost manic state from moments before. "Remember, Elespeth, you saved my life. You constantly save me from myself. I can't even begin to list all the impossible ways in which you've managed to reach me, even when all hope was lost. But that's what you do, El. You make the impossible happen. And I...will never stop thanking you for all that you've done me, nor will I ever stop trying to win back your trust." He massaged that area in her back, slow and methodical. "And yes, I do need to coddle you. I'd say it isn't fair that you're always the one looking after me, and grant me no chances to do the same. So this is my payback. Besides, I'll rest here." He quirked a smile. "That gives you the chance to watch for my own health, lest I keel over and faceplant into the tea."

"No, Alster... no, you are wrong." Elespeth pried her hands from her eyes and face to fix them on the deflated and sickly Rigas caster before her. "You will not keep hurting me if only... if only you will promise me that you will just stay. Stay and be honest, and value your own life as much as mine." What was it about the most important people in her life seeking the quiet embrace of death? She thought of Farran, who had sacrificed his own life if only to save her own. She thought about Lyriq, who had risked his life, and likely his standing within the Tameris household. And now Alster so valued her life above his own that he had sought to exterminate his sacred light for the good of her and the rest of the world...
But why, oh why, had none of them considered that keeping themselves safe and alive was the best for her in every way possible? Was her presence so unlucky, so poisonous that she inadvertently led others to believe their lives were worth absolutely nothing?

If that was indeed the case, then it was about time that she convinced those whom she loved otherwise.

Even the former knight's strong and near infallible pride was not enough to convince her to shy away from Alster's presence next to her on her cot. Because never had she erally, truly wanted him there with her so badly. Back in Atvany, when she had awaited her own, grisly demise, she had managed to forfeit all of her hope, and vicariously the desire to muse about any such rescue. Certainly, she'd have given anything to see Alster (and would never forget the palpable relief when she did), but at that point, possibly one of the darkest times of her existence, she had been wholly prepared to die.
But she was alive; and her reason for striving for more than superficial existence and empty meaning was right here, right now, and she'd be a fool not to realize how precious their moments together were. There was, after all, no guarantee that the end of this war and all of its madness would yield a happy ending for either of them, let alone both.

Unbidden, tears leaked from her eyes and streaked her flushed cheeks. It was as if Alster's gentle touch and the gentle healing it provided had opened up something inside of her that had been infected and festering for longer than she cared to admit. A sore that she had managed to ignore, up until now that it was draining. Before long, those tears were accompanied by deep sobs that wracked her body, and she buried her face in her hands, helpless but to let the deluge flow. "I just... want to forget these months. That you were gone from my life." She managed to choke out the words, in-between deep breaths. "I want to pretend that it never occurred. But I know that it did, and we will both wear scars as reminders. But if we... if we move past this, repair what is broken, you must promise me one thing." Her sobs subsided just enough to look up from her hands, and turn her tear-streaked and weary face towards the Rigas caster, her fever-warm body nestled close to his. "Blood bond or not... I want you to consider your life as an extension of my own, from now on. No more valuing me above yourself. If you want to protect me, Alster... if you want me to be happy, then look out for yourself, just as you would for me. Alleviate my worrying... Do you think you can do that?"

It was the first time in days that Vega did not wake up to a throbbing headache and incurable nausea--and the Skyknight decided to seize that rare opportunity and use her lucidity wisely. At least, it was a chance to learn whether or not it was worth it to wean herself from the bottle and once again face the reality from which she so desperately wished to hide.

The vermillion rays of early morning sun cutting through the haze of morning still made her eyes sting. But the Eyraillian princess, through a tiny seed of hope, and a larger store of strong will, decided it was worth the peace of mind to know what the future, untampered with and unhindered, held.
Because she now knew one person who was able to provide her with that very reassurance... should she see fit to help her at all. It was worth a try.

"Hello? Are you awake?" Parting the flaps of Tivia's tent, Vega tentatively stepped inside. In her arms, she bore a tray of fruit and bread and fresh water, which she sat upon the Rigas woman's bedside table. "Ah... we haven't spoken much, have we? But you and I share a friend in Elespeth, and... and in Alster. I think." It had been so long since he had spoken to her, that the Eyraillian princess was not longer certain as to the status of their camaraderie, especially considering the way she had treated him when he had woken up from his self-inflicted exhaustion. Frankly, she could not blame him. "Accept my apologies in advance, as this is entirely out of the blue... but I need... I was hoping that, perhaps, you could be of some help to me."

Toying awkwardly with the hem of her tunic, Vega's racing mind carefully considered her words. There was no real reason for Tivia to help her; moreover, the Rigas caster had a myriad of troubles of her own. But the worst that could happen was a refusal. And compared to the rejection that she had faced in imploring Haraldur's friendship, not to mention his heart... Nothing could cut her as much as that did. "I need to know... if you can tell me what lies in wait for me. Whether I should continue on hoping and playing my part for my kingdom and its allies, or if I... if there isn't any point, anymore. I need to know...." She averted her gaze to the tips of her boots, and her voice became more quiet. "I need to know I am only wasting my time and energy on fruitless hope."

Value my life. ...Have I ever done such a thing? Alster's healing touch persisted as he ran his knuckles past tender knots in Elespeth's lower back. He massaged them free, kneading and prising whilst his magic tickled up and down her hue-deprived skin. He worked on lessening the aches and pains and fever, running his fingers upward, towards her shoulders, where at last they rested. The only reason I'm alive is because I've valued the lives of others. he thought, as his fingers slowly burrowed beneath Elespeth's shift, tracing her collarbone. It quivered from the efforts of her pained sobs. 

"I don't know if I can," he said, a wisp of a whisper in her ear. "There is no worth to my life, by itself. That's why I am in constant service to others...try as I have in the past to fight for my individuality--with dire consequences, as you well know. But for you," he breathed, his head filling in the space between her neck and shoulder, where his hand once rested, "it will be easier. Whether or not I wanted this bond reforged, it has been done. Your life is mine, and vice versa." He flattened the palm of his scarred hand and slid it over her wrist, where it settled softly over its natural contours. He hid that palm from view, however, as, etched across its surface, were the ugly rune markings that represented his biggest folly to date. He healed them as ably as he could over the past few days, but the scars remained on every surface that succumbed to his sacrificial knife. Let them be a reminder of what I've done, he thought, in defeat. But I still don't want her to see them. The reminder is for me. Not for her. Never for her.

"So...I promise you that I will try, but only if you promise me that you'll do the same, Elespeth." He leaned forward, his arms traveling to scoop her up into a soft embrace from behind. "That means that when you're ill...you allow yourself to heal. No fussing. No denying help. And if ever we see ourselves together in battle...don't try to protect me. Doing so puts you at risk--and you'll find that I'm quite capable, now. If it's one thing I've learned from our long absence, it's this." His voice took on a defiant edge as his hands tensed around her arms. "I can fight my own battles." 

But as quickly as he made his bold show of competency (which was mostly to his own benefit), it faded to the back of his throat, in favor of Elespeth and her emotional needs. He tilted his head to kiss her cheek, absorbing the tears that flooded past her lids. "I'll stay right here, Elespeth. As long as you need me to." He blinked his feverbright eyes toward her discarded tea and, with a small snort, pointed his chin at it. "But that tea isn't going to drink itself. And you have a promise to uphold. Oh, and El?" A smile, which actually reached his eyes, illuminated his face. "Thank you. For...giving me another chance." 

Ever since Alster's arrival and the chaos that such an arrival had ensued, Tivia kept out of the way, excepting when she lent aid to the healers who monitored Elespeth's condition. His reappearance also diminished her importance in the eyes of the only woman who she could consider a friend at this juncture. The Atvanian warrior's attention--and health--was consumed by her suicidal lover, and he in turn expressed the same levels of obsession and zeal. Perhaps to stave off the sudden loneliness she felt when Elespeth's mind sought refuge elsewhere, she initiated with Alster, who, while courteous and curious about her sudden onset sky-seer ability, often withdrew before conversation wound on for too long. He was distraught, despairing, desperate for companionship, but also driven and focused on a singular goal: to reclaim Elespeth's love. Tivia understood his desire to make amends, and even felt deserving of his unspoken, more secretive reason for his reservation. She had been cruel to him in the past. He was Serpent Bane, reviled by many, and unbefitting (at least she once thought) of tolerance or kinship. Why, then, would he indulge her seemingly superficial attempts at outreach? 

Knowing that he was with Elespeth at her tent, and having that innate sense that they were stitching together the gashes in their relationship, Tivia tried to obtain some well-needed rest, but found it altogether impossible. Between the latent screaming in her ears, which lowered themselves to a dull roar and which she could sometimes trigger into silence, and the strange images she witnessed between closed lids, the act of sleeping would offer her no reprieve. Nor would staring at the canvas sides of her tent, either. But what else could she do? Tadasun was afraid of her, wanted her nowhere near the arms tents or the soldiers who trained on the fields. The healers welcomed her, but only out of duty to their oath that ensured no person be turned away from proper care. Aside from them, she had no purpose, no distractions. Again, she fell victim to the voices, to the flashes before her eyes that blinked without cease, without quiet. 

...Until she heard a voice from without, one that did not belong inside her headspace. With it came a figure, red-headed and tottering, but real. She was no vision. No smoke-filled apparition that would vanish at her touch. 

"Vega Sorde," she said with some surprise as she sat up on her bed. Buffing at her ears to clear them of the extant noise, she cocked her head at the Eyraillan royal's inquiry, which only caused her brow to fold in slight confusion. Why did this woman have need of her company, of her help? They had not spoken at all before now. Was she so desperate for answers, for absolution, that she wished to consult someone who had the dimmest recollection of divination and its many faulty, maddening nuances? 

"We share a friend in Haraldur, as well," she said, hoping to connect their strange ties by a closer thread, but in so mentioning the mercenary's name, an unwitting blush crept to her cheeks, the burned half smoldering like embers in a dying flame. "He was the one to pull me from the...the fire." She swallowed, trying not to linger on that memory. "And he has visited me several times since. Not what you wish to discuss, I know...but I'd rather speak of what is known than what is unknown. For, what you ask..." she huffed a sigh, "I can't tell you. Because what you ask...is specific to cleansing the hurt in your soul. You are better off consulting a Sybaia on such matters." She rubbed at the crick in her neck. "I am but a slave to the stars. I see what they want me to see, hear what they want me to hear, and my scrying is specialized to the fates of the Rigases and those who are involved intimately with them. But if you just want someone to ensure you, then I will do so, Vega. You've been given a second chance at life. As have I." By the same man, she wanted to add, but kept that part silent, lest her face erupt again into red blemishes. 

"I would not waste it. Whether there's a point to it or not, you have the ability to change how you perceive events. Or to change the events, themselves. When you're dead, that's no longer an option. Some people like that kind of surrender. I would," she muttered, staring with her one good eye at her lap, into some faraway space. "Anything to stop this deluge. But," she cleared her throat, snapping out of her dark ruminating, "I do know one thing." She fiddled with her fingers, suddenly interested in how they moved and bent. "He's alive, and is likely to stay that way. Death is not yet ready to claim him."

Disappointment and anger were indistinguishable to the Skyknight. She had come to Tivia Rigas in good faith that the star seer could be of help, yet without fully comprehending the woman's power and ability. She had known only that she could see into the future with enough accuracy that she had effectively predicted Alster's death, which had therefore been prevented. And yet, she could not foretell anything regarding her, or even Haraldur, for whom she appeared to harbour some sort of affection. At one point, that realization might had struck jealousy in the Eyraillian princess's vulnerable heart, but she felt only the vague ache of sadness. After all, it was not as though the mercenary had, in the end, returned her own affections. 

"This has nothing to do with my soul, damn it all." Unable to refrain from groaning, Vega clutched a fistfull of her own hair. "Do not make this about me. I am whole--do you understand? I am whole, without Haraldur. I am whole despite that my soul had to be crammed back into my dead, cold body. I am not broken, I am not hurt, I just... I just want to know what to expect! What lies ahead and what efforts I should endeavor to make. That... that is all." You are denying, a voice deep inside of her cautioned, but she ignored it. This was not about her; there was nothing wrong with her... save for, perhaps, the way in which she dealt with loneliness. But she could put down the bottle whenever she pleased; it was merely a matter of willpower. That, and a better distraction. 

If such a thing existed, that is. "Forgive me. I did not mean to shout." Remembering whose company she shared and why she was there at all, Vega reined in her attitude and returned to a humble and hopeful state of mind, to the best extent that she was able. "I've been... tired of late. And worrying for everyone I care about. It is exhausting, as I am sure you know." Closing her eyes, she regrouped and exhaled, rolling her stiff shoulders back. "But... thank you. Haraldur is his own man, and a survivor, at that. I never should have doubted for even a minute that he would... that he will find a way out of all of this. And, thank you." She offered a faint smile and a nod to the Rigas caster. "For the reassurance. You are, of course, right: we must do what we can with the lives which we have not yet lost to oblivion. Make the changes that we wish to see."

And yet, it all sounded so mechanical and rehearsed in her ears. As of she was not sure whether she meant to convince herself or the woman before her who, too, was in need of a little hope. Smiling again, she touched Tivia's shoulder. "With both Eris and Alster temporarily out of commission with mutual illness, should you ever require assistance or... even mere company, then rest assured that I am around and willing. At least, it might keep me from indulging in age-old habits." At this point, Vega was well aware that her tendency to reach for a bottle of wine when in need was no secret; and yet, she couldn't even muster the humility to be ashamed, beyond admitting that it was, in fact, a poor coping mechanism. "Do take care, Tivia. And thank you, again, for your reassurances." With on last nod, the Skyknight turned and left the Rigas caster's tent, wholly unsure as to what--if anything--that brief visit had accomplished...

The aroma of the evening's last dregs of meal wafted through the crisp night air of Andalari's encampment, as soldiers and their superiors picked away at what was left of their final meal of the day. For Haraldur, though, it was the mercenary's first--and not much of one, at that.
Consistent nourishment was indeed a luxury of the privileged, and not a right of the captive, at least in the eyes of Messino Di Andalari. Every so often, when they cared to remembered, the guards on duty would throw the prisoner scraps of whatever happened to be left over, barely fit enough for dogs, let alone humans. The last time one of the uniformed men wearing Andalari's proud colours had bothered to recall that a living being was shackled in the prison tent had been the morning of the previous day; more than thirty six hours had passed since food or water had, therefore, passed Haraldur's lips. And the man who finally saw fit to deliver him food still acted as though it was such a divine mercy that he had remembered at all.

"You had better be praising his highness the Prince for his gracious mercy, saving you this bit of food," the man grumbled, sliding a tin plate of stale bread, sinewy meat on the bone, and an insufficiently sized cup of tepid water. "Better than he treats most traitors. Can't wait to hear what he decides on, with regard to your sorry fate." Leaving the plate just barely out of the shackled Haraldur's reach (intentionally or not, who could know?), inches short of the lead his chains provided, attched as they were to a pole embedded sturdily into the ground, the guard left practically as quickly as he arrived. Once again, the mercenary was alone, perhaps a preferred state of being, in his eyes. 
But, as the night progressed, he would learn that his solitude was not destined to last forever.

The first clue to that realizaiton was in the form of a scream from one of the night watchmen, hours later, as he scrambled to spread a rather shocking message through the camp.

"The dead! The dead... o-our dead, they walk! They have returned!"

"What in all bloody creation are you talking about?" Someone else, rudely woken from sleep, growled in response. "What are you, sleeping on the job and suffering nightmares?"

"No, look! Go and look for yourself. They... the ground, they clawed their way out of the ground! Look!"

More voices, more murmuring as others ventured to see what had incited these ravings of a madman--and that was when the quiet night became a cacophony of screams.

"Good. It is always so rewarding to see my work go acknowledged." 
There was no mistaking the voice that suddenly emerged from the dark, so near Haraldur that the mercenary might have thought he had always been there. How the sly necromancer had managed to make this way into the prison tent, without even the merccenary himself realizing it, was nothing less of a magnificent feat. Before Haraldur could so much as look up, the sound of metal on metal reverberated own the pole to which he was tied, and the heavy chains fell loose at his sides. "Do not tell me you thought I would let you our of our bargain that easily," Vitali chuckled, his lithe form making for the tent flaps as if he intended to simply walk out as casually as he would were he not freeing a captive. "Well? Death wish or not, something tells me you would much rather be anywhere but here. As would I."

Tivia, not one to abide the unrestrained attitudes of those who wanted favors out of her, responded with a steely glare, which colored her eye into tints of stormy gray. "I do not have the answers you seek, Vega!" Her voice was guttural, a rasp that reverberated from her clavicle. "You think that my ability is some book, where I can turn to the page with your name marked inside and simply read your future aloud!? No! Even I don't understand what I am suddenly able to do. I've scarcely had this gift--this curse a month, and already, I have some unhinged upstart demanding the answer she wants to hear? I will tell you again, princess: this is not about your future. It's about your place in your future. In your life. No amount of what I tell you is going to change how you already feel!" 

Her breath escaped her lungs in a pant of effort. Hunched as she was in her cot, on all fours, she looked almost predatory, about to leap on the woman who dared to treat her with such disrespect. And yet--she could not help but feel badly for the Eyraillan royal, who, in the span of mere weeks, had died, been revived, and lost the man for whom she harbored much affection. Such a range of emotions had overtaken Vega, and she was bound to snap that tenuous thread, which had tried to hold her together with limited success. Now, all the frayed ends were on stark display, privy to all who cared to look. Tivia's shoulders released their tension, and her voice softened to accommodate the lost figure that swayed before her, who was in such fervent need of kind words. Of a purpose. 

"It's all right to be broken and hurt, Vega," she said at last, all the ire gone from her luminous eye. "We all are. And there will never be a simple solution for you to employ. No formula. All we can do is survive. The rest will come to us when it does. I'm sorry I can be of no greater help," she said, with genuine sincerity. "But you can at least rest assured that the mercenary...that he will make it out alive. Sometimes, that is all we need. A little hope, even if the hope is for others, and not ourselves. You can return here any time you'd like, Vega. Just..." she leaned back on her heels in order to rub away at the strain in the overworked joints of her shoulders, "direct that anger elsewhere. I am not a receptacle for your abuses. Take care." 

If there was one thing about his Forbanne training which Haraldur had learned to appreciate, it was how to deal with imprisonment and torture. 

When he had first arrived at the dungeons beneath the castle of Di Andalari, he was promptly greeted by a warden whose lips were so curled against his teeth, it appeared that he had no lips to spare at all. The man spoke in sneers, and his eyes glittered with sadistic delight as he scanned the appearance of his newest prisoner as though he were a plaything. 

Before he was taken to his cell, the warden ushered him through the dank, dripping corridors and into a room that was nothing more than a tunnel burrowed into the wall. The ceiling hung low, brushing against Haraldur's head. They led him into a torch-lit corner, the guttering flames at a low burn and near to fizzling into darkness.

Once there, the guards accompanying him bound him against the wall, which was discolored in tones of rust and a dark, septic brown. They stripped him of his clothes, jeering as they poked his bandaged side with the blunt of their swords, tearing the sutures anew. Haraldur took in a few deep breaths, reacting to their prelude, as well as preparing for the expectations of his punishment. He clenched his buttocks, within which he had stored his precious necklace. It was the safest place he could think to hide it from his tormentors. Head erect, his jaw set and firm, eyes hollows in his skull, he waited for the bite of whips or blades or prying instruments--whichever they saw fit to use on him. It was all for the purported purpose of receiving "answers," they had assured him. "Tell us what we need to know, and we shall cease our interrogation. Simple as that." But Haraldur did not move his lips, even when the pain exploded around him and wheezed the air out of his lungs. Still, he did not utter sound, not to scream, to gasp, or to speak a word. On the outside, he hardly reacted, save for when his body quavered and twitched on reflex. On the inside, his mind was a series of numbers, counting, always counting, lest his senses disappear. It would liberate him from the pain, but at the expense of his awareness. One, two, three, four... His fierce-set eyes were testament to both his resilience, and to his lucidity. His sanity. 

"Why won't you say a word?!" One guard exclaimed, after extracting a fingernail from Haraldur's hand. "Nothing of your involvement with the Rigases!? Are you bloody deaf and dumb?! Are you actually enjoying this?!"

One-hundred five, one-hundred six, one-hundred seven, one-hundred eight...

"This man is a well-trained soldier," The warden said, his voice calm as he thumbed his chin with a hand bloodied by his reticent prisoner. "He won't talk, no matter what we do. Well, there's no use in keeping him alive, then." 

As if on cue, another guard had entered the torture chamber to deliver a message to the warden, but stopped in mid-sentence once he regarded the prisoner. His eyes widened with sudden realization. 

"Warden, that man...he was a mercenary at Prince Messino's camp until he turned traitor and fled! I've no doubt he's defected to those Tadasuni scum, and is working for their interests. His name is Haraldur, sir."

"Haraldur, hmm?" He looked at his barely-conscious acquisition, running a finger along the rivulets of blood, which flowed at a trickle. He did not want to drain the man. Exsanguination would be an unsatisfactory way for his prisoner to die. "That is quite a Northern name. It does explain your unshakable stubbornness. Mollengardians love to hold their tongues. I should hack yours off, for the pleasure of it. But..." he sighed, raking that blood-soaked hand into his hair, "perhaps Messino can break you, yet. You!" He signaled to the messenger. "On your return to camp, take this man with you. I'm certain His Highness will know what to do with him." 

Three-hundred twenty-seven, three-hundred twenty-eight, three-hundred twenty-nine...

Haraldur's wounds were patched up haphazardly, and he was given just a swig of water in preparation for the long hike to the camp outside of Stella D'Mare. He was dragged along for two days and given no food, and mere droplets of water. Rest was mercilessly short, and only exacerbated his dire exhaustion, which disabled him from taking any retaliatory action. At last, they reached camp, but by then, he was too delirious to know if Messino had paid a visit to him in the prisoner's tent. It was then that the guards saw fit to actually feed him, realizing he could be of no use if he was too weak to do little more than breathe and sleep. 

Ignoring the soldiers and their derisive remarks, Haraldur's tunnel vision, blurry and faded, began to widen to include his periphery, while his sight sharpened on the food and water left behind for him. He yanked his muscles against the chain. His limbs screamed for relief, still bloodied and bruised beyond working order. His legs kicked forward to reach the tin of water and scraps of food, but in his struggle, he knocked over the tin and pushed the plate even farther from his grasp.

Throughout the night, he used the retrieval of food as his focal point, his distraction, his sole motivation to pull him out of the doldrums of his fugue. Somehow, he managed to pull the plate into his hands. Ravenous, he devoured the sinewy meat, broke the bones to suck on the marrow inside, ground down on the rock-hard bread, and licked the plate until clean. The meal was delicious, a treat--possibly the best he had ever consumed, because he did not know when he would receive his next--or last---bit of sustenance. 

But he didn't have time to think or brainstorm on how to escape his surroundings, before a scream in the night shot him upright and to attention. He heard frenzied shouts about the rising dead, the tumult that erupted outside his tent, and his addled mind began to understand what had happened. 

"Vitali," he said to the shadow that materialized at his side, the first word he had spoken in days. It was uvular, rusted like the shackles that fell from his wrists and ankles, but nonetheless audible. With intense difficulty, he crawled to his feet, using the pole that had once bound him for support. 

"Water," he urged, suddenly feeling light-headed as he leaned against the pole. "Sword. Need... Sword," he repeated, his eyes flashing like a Forbanne in activation. "Four-hundred fifty-seven. Fight. Four-hundred fifty-eight. We fight...Four-hundred..." He shook away the drone of numbers that churned in his head once he found what he needed: a jug of water in the far corner of the tent, as well as a short sword, propped against a desk in the corner. The guard from earlier must have been sloppy and complacent in his duties, and forgot to remove them from the tent. Haraldur took long, but drawn, deliberate sips from the jug, and drew the sword from its sheath, into a hand where half of the fingernails were missing. It hurt to grip the pommel. Everything hurt. But his fighting instinct flared and burned away at every need but the need to escape. To cut a pathway. To kill his way to freedom. He looked over at Vitali, nodded, and limped out of the tent, sword at the ready, in anticipation for devastation.

"Huh. I would say that the likes of you has seen better days, my dear mercenary..." In the dim moonlight that filtered through the crack between the tent flaps, Vitali's face painted a look of disgust, as f he had just happened upon a most distasteful sight. "I have a feeling that you are already well aware of such, as it is. Well, drink up, then. Believe it or not, our window of safety is remarkably small, even with the dead waltzing among the living as we speak."

Fortunately for the both fo them, Vitali had had the foresight to guess that Haraldur's condition would not be ideal for quick escape. As such, he had planned ahead their path to freedom through Andalari's encampment, taking the darkst route under the cover of shadows, and far from where the mayhem he'd caused was occurring. Though while it might have been the safest route, it was not the fastest, which incited impatience in the necromancer, when he realized he was to bear at least half of the compromise warrior's weight. Haraldur could hardly take more than a handful of steps before his balance threatened to give way, the weight of the steel in his hand further pulling his body to the will of gravity and urging it ever closer to the ground. "I should really be requesting a supplement to our already agreed-upon bargain for this, you know." Vitali huffed, annoyed that they could scarcely make time at the pace they tread. "Consider this my insurance that you will repay me the day that I call upon you, soldier. And do not think for a moment that I forget those who are indebted to me, or the exetnt to which they owe me."

Creeping behind tents and keeping to the shadows, those few spots where moonlight missed the ground, the pair made it to the westmost edge of the encampment--which, to Vitali's great relief, had bee left ungarded, in order to address the chaos for which he alone was responsible. A chance that he had been willing to take, but of which he had not been certain would work out in their favour. Though something of a mastermind he might have been, in the art of manipulation and escape, there were some things that even the infamous necromancer did not know, and could not control. "Excellent. Now, what are the chances you think you can sit up for sme hours? You'd be dead before we made it to a safe range, by foot." Past the camp boundary and towards the forest, Vitali led the mercenary to a sandy brown steed tethered to the trunk of a tree, waiting patiently for a rider and a direction. "Something tells me the Captain of Messino's quaint little army won't be missing his mount for some time," the necromancer announced, removing himself as Haraldur's crutch so as to untie the equine. "Poor beast looks in need of a better master, in any case. It's tired and malnourished; I am certain it will find a better home after walking away from this hellish microcosm once and for all. Come on, now, up you get."

Vitali mounted the steed with relative ease, compared to Haraldur, whom he had to pull onto the horse, for the most part. Even then, the battered mercenary leaned heavily against his unlikely saviour for support. "Do us both a favour and at least try not to fall off," the necromancer requested, before slapping the horse's side to spur it into a gallop.
And with the dead roaming Andalari's encampment, no one took notice of a missing prisoner, let alone a missing horse, in the dead of nightfall.

Contrary to her own suggestion, in the days that followed, Vega only sparsely visited with Tivia to check in on the Rigas's well being, while both Elespeth and Alster recovered from their respective aliments. And not for disinterest in the star seer's camaraderie, but for the weight of the guilt upon her shoulders, given her outburst towards the poor woman the last time they had met. Tivia was not the enemy; it was not within her power to choose what she saw, or help whomever she pleased with such a strange ability. And yet, she had nearly lost her head when the Rigas caster suggested the help that she needed was spiritual-emotional in nature. Something wrong on the inside, when she wanted nothing more but to believe that when she had come back from the dead, she had come back whole. Maybe one piece, one memory at a time, but she was whole, now. Functioning, living, breathing, regardless of how she felt on the inside...

And so, she felt it safe to assume that Tivia might only have tolerated her company, though likely did not desire it. Nobody did, it seemed, and the Eyraillian princess felt that she had only herself to blame. She had turned away from Alster when he had been in need of reassurance, in need of a friend; she had alienated Tivia with her unnecessary outburst, as far as she knew. And Elespeth... The Atvanian warrior did not need her. She needed only Alster, and thus, Vega Sorde came to the realization that he had no place in the lives of any of these people.

But it was no tragedy, she tried to reassure herself, over and over. Haraldur was alive, and Tivia seemed certain that he would make it through his trials. He would go on to new tasks and possible identities, and forget all about her when the pull of wanderlust dragged his services in one direction or another. But none of that mattered, because she was not alone, and never had been. During those days when she managed to keep herself sober (and even on some days when she failed in that endeavor), the Skyknight found solace nestled beneath the wing of her dear roc. Aeriel did not judge her, did not push her away, but always greeted her with enthusiasm, regardless of whether or not she was under the drowsy spell of wine. "Perhaps we should fly away, you and I," Vega mused, one evening as she curled up next to her longtime avian companion, stroking the roc's lovely golden feathers. "When we find an end to all of this. We could take to the skies, two nomads, until we find a place. Not Eyraille or Stella D'Mare or Tadasun, but somewhere else. We wouldn't have to fight, there would be no need to keep up appearances... imagine, if every time we took to the skies, it was just for leisure. For the joy of simply being alive." The bird, of course, gave no real answer, but her gutteral clucking indicated how content she was to spend time with her rider. If nothing else, this self-imposed social isolation had allowed the tired princess to furhter bond with her forever friend; perhaps the only living thing on whom she could count, at this point.

"I think... we both need to rediscover that. Joy. Living. Not simply... surviving." She went on, staring into the starless night, her breath a huff of fog in front of her face. The nights were cooling significantly. "We will find a way. I promise you that. We need not tie ourselves to Eyraille forever... it does not have to be our destiny. We could--wait... what on earth?"

Astonished, Vega watched as a handful of night guard hurried to the camp borders, armed and ready. Had a single intruder thought that they might infiltrate Tadasun's encampment in the dead of night? Andalari, she had thought, was not that stupid...
"Wait here. I'll return." She gave Aeriel one last pat on the beak, before gripping her lance and making it to her feet, following the short parade of soldiers. Like everyone, her stay was conditional on the help she provided, and of late, that help had been very little. It was about time she stepped up to remind the Tadasuni why she was Sir Vega Sorde, and not princess or lady...

Those thoughts were gone in an instant, when a tired steed and its two riders approached the encampment.The night guard hadn't a chance to demand the identity of the dark-haired, sly-eyed young man at the front of the horse, before Vega, dropping her weapon, rushed towards them. "Haraldur... Haraldur! You're alive... thank the gods, you're alive." In his pitiful attempt to dismount, the Skynight was there to take the brunt of his weight as he all but collapsed, bleeding and cold and barely conscious. Not the strong and indestructible man she had last seen. "What are you waiting for? Get help--send all of our healers, immediately! Hurry up!" She barked orders at the assembled guard as if they were her own men, and her voice rang with such authority that the sentries hardly hesitated to retreat, save for those who circled the necromancer, Vitali, and demanded his identity and affiliation with the mercenary. "Hold on. You're safe." She murmured to the mercenary responsible for giving her a second chance at life. "You're safe, and among friends... thank you. Thank you for returning."

Haraldur did not register the long ride to camp, the jarring jostle of his ruined body, or his slump over the necromancer's shoulders during the brunt of the trip. He thought only of the sword, clutched so tightly in his hand, that his knuckles had turned white from the pressure. He thought of running headlong into enemy resistance, of propelling his blade into the slats of their armor, of introducing his weapon to flesh and blood and death. Death was most assured. It was final. Unchanging. At least, that was what he had always believed. It was a comfort of his, to know that a heart would cease beating if he stabbed it or its master in a certain way. And yet, he rode with the epitome of all his greatest fears: a man who could raise the dead. A man who he had commissioned to revive a woman with whom he was involved and with whom he could not bear to see without a pulse, without a breath. They rode now, towards Tadasun's camp. Towards her. And all he could do was count. 

Seven-hundred fifty-two, seven-hundred fifty-three, seven hundred fifty-four... 

He refused to release the sword, and allowed it to ride up against his hip, which still bore the wound of his side-injury. The pain that wracked his body was immense, but it had also reached its threshold, its limits, and no amount of hard riding or sword brushing would heighten the shock of his varied afflictions. He counted, and counted, and counted, until he saw the lights of the encampment to which they were riding, and he almost slid off the horse in relief, but waited for the ceasing of hooves underfoot. For the stillness. He saw the rush of soldiers as if through a filter, all blurred and blended together. Voices were twisted, foreign and guttural, like nothing he had ever heard, even when traversing strange lands. Taking cues from Vitali, whose fuzzy figure had dismounted before him, he pivoted in the saddle and made to do the same, but he stumbled from the horse and started to careen toward the ground--but someone held him aloft, preventing his fall. Familiar arms cradled his heaving muscles, and a familiar voice broke through all the unrecognizable chatter that polluted the air. It was feminine. Her inviting aroma penetrated his nostrils, mollifying him. She made sense. He could understand her. He was safe, she told him. Among friends. Returned. 

He dipped his head in a nod, and turned his half-gone eyes at her. "Vega," he said, reaching up a hand with the missing fingernails to touch her face, ascertaining her solidity, her pulse---her life. "Ni-nine...nine hundred e-eighty....eight. Eighty...nine. No. That's wrong....Ninety-seven. Ninety-nine....A thousand. I still have it, Vega...it's here," he added, referencing the necklace, which was still tucked safely in the folds of his body. "...I won't die. He," he jerked his head in the direction where he thought Vitali had stood, "won't let me." 

After a few more moments, Alster rushed into the scene, followed by Tivia and a few Sybaian and Tadasuni healers. He saw Haraldur and his eyes widened, but he did not hesitate in taking hold of the mercenary's free side and distributing the other half of his weight against his shoulders. Together, they brought him to the closest available tent and laid him on upon a cot. The healers immediately went to work, stripping him of his fetid clothes while proceeding to appraise and dress his horrible wounds. Alster catalogued the damage, himself, and winced at what he saw. Whip lashes marred the torso in deep, etching cross-hatches, which had been burned shut, damaging the upper layer of tissue. On his hands, five fingernails, all told, were missing, and the pads were raised, puffy, and bleeding. His side injury had been prodded open with all manner of instruments and had turned a dark, blotchy gray. Worst of all was his right leg. The kneecap had been smashed into a grotesque dent, and was a ghostly purple, while the ankle pointed at a sickening angle, hobbled inwards. The toes were broken, all nails pulled, but not cleanly. Jagged remains crowned the ravaged cuticles, looking more like shrapnel than anything that naturally grew on the body. Alster paled, but refused to turn away from the sight. It could not be ignored. How was the man still conscious? Still aware of his surroundings--albeit disoriented? 

"It is a surprise he is even able to walk at all," a Tadasuni healer said, harrumphing from deep in his throat. "That knee will never work properly, nor do I foresee him able to put any pressure on that foot without the use of a cane or a crutch--even if we rebreak the bones and set it. Recovery will be long, painful, and I doubt he will fight another battle in his life." He traveled from his leg to the hole in his side. "This wound is showing signs of sepsis. Fortunately, we caught it in its early stages. If we treat it now, we might be able to stave off the spread of infection." 

"Never fight...another battle?" Haraldur choked out from over the muttered din of healers spouting their prognoses. His tortured eyes shone with unbridled horror, cold sweat beading on his brow. Alster had never seen the composed warrior look that way before. His sword was his livelihood. It depended on his health, his ableness as a fighter. There was a pride in his ability, a purpose that meant everything to him, because it defined him as a person. Who would he be, then? Removed from all that he had ever known, Alster wasn't sure the mercenary could survive in this new, compromised life, nor would he wish for it to persist. As if to confirm his suppositions, Haraldur said just as much. "No. That can't...I can't--Death is...I'd rather be dead." His fingers twitched, curled, as if grasping an imaginary sword, or searching for the one they pried out of his iron-grip. His mouth worked into a grimace as his breathing shallowed, spiking into pained, stabbing intakes. 

"There might be another way." Alster stepped forward, insinuating himself into the crowd that gathered at Haraldur's bed. "We've established that magic cannot heal you from the outside. But that doesn't mean we can't mend you from within." He nodded towards a Sybaian healer, and invited her to join their circle. "Psychic magic is able to penetrate your barriers, your resistances, but you have to let us inside, Haraldur. That means...to open yourself to us. To your mind, and to all that plagues and ruptures at your soul. Can you do that? Are you willing to trade for your physical health, in turn for taking what you've been protecting for so long, and allowing it to ooze and drain--" he pointed to his temple, "from in there?" 

If it was possible, Haraldur had lost even more color from his face. All of his movements had ceased, and his breath shuddered to a complete stop. 

"We all have our demons, Haraldur," Alster soothed, as he placed fingers against the scars on his throat. "I've seen hell itself. Many times over. As have you." Then, in a gentle whisper, "I know of your origins. I know of what you've done. The country that conscripted you--the brutality that happened there... We'll help you to fight it--but you have to want to fight it. Will you?"

After a long, troubled pause, Haraldur's body shivered violently in response. He closed his eyes, and nodded.

Droplets fell onto his marred and brutalized skin, mingling with the blood on his cheeks, and his body, though supported, shook. That was when Vega realized that she was sobbing, holding the man whom she still loved with such affection that she was reluctant to let him go. Even surrendering his compromised form to the healers, who were all far more capable than her, was done with the utmost reluctance, and she refused to leave his side as they carried his broken body to the tent. He wouldn't die--he couldn't, not while he was in possession of his pendant, which she had deduced he had already reassured her was with him. But he was so delirious with pain, so broken and in need of care, that the sight of him near broke her heart all over again.

And when they exposed his wounds, she nearly fell apart. What had he endured, in the hands of Andalari? And all because of her... all because of what he had done for her. When, once, he had loved her. This is all my fault... She realized, then, that is was not the pain that had the mercenary bothered. Not the unsightly gashes and bruises and will-be scars, but rather, the deluge of prognoses that the healers toss around among one another in their frantic and helpless discussion. Being crippled; that was what frightened him the most. Never picking up a sword again, never defending himself, requiring aid to so much as take care of himself on a daily basis...
Complete and utter loss of independence: that was Haraldur's fear. And the possibility of it coming to fruition was simply too close for comfort. Too close for the battered man to be placated.

All the same, she saw fit to try. "Haraldur--stop." Vega touched his face, at once cold and hot and clammy. "It's too soon to give up hope. Just breathe; count your numbers. If..." Lowering her voice, she brought her mouth closer to his ear, so that only he could hear. "If we can bring me back from the dead, we can bring you back to full health. Don't give up so soon. Give us a chance."

Almost as if on cue, Alster Rigas spoke up, proposing his own suggested course of action, and she very nearly sighed in audible relief. Of course, the Sybaia! Alster had reached Haraldur's mind when he had implored the mercenary protect the Atvanian warrior, in his stead. It might not be impossible to heal him from the insight out, or at the very least put his body in the right position to heal itself.
Yet, Haraldur looked almost less inclined to allow such an invasive procedure take place than he was to suffer the aftermath of all the torture that he'd endured... Vega watched, astonished, as his already pale face nearly went grey with fright. What was it about the man's mind could possibly keep him so guarded? So unwilling to open up about what had happened to him, what continued to fester in his subconscious? They had all suffered, and as Alster reminded him, all had demons introduced by past experiences. And keeping those demons locked up was no way to freedom; on the contrary, it was likely the worst form of self-imprisonment imaginable.

"Whatever it is you are afraid or ashamed to reveal," the Sybaian healer added after a brief moment, "then know that it is likely nothing that I have not already witnessed in the depths of someone else's mind in one form or another. And these medics..." She glanced around the room at the skeptical men with their doomsday prognoses, and expelled a long sigh. "They are right. This might well be your only chance to recover, soldier. To begin to heal from the inside out... You would be amazed at what your mortal body is capable of, when it is not expending such energy keeping these psychic infections at bay. Let me... let us help you."

Yes... help him. Please. Vega looked on, silently imploring the Sybaian healer and Alster. Two people far more capable of healing, of mending, than she was. These were the people who Haraldur needed. That is, if he was willing to let them in, past those carefully crafted defenses...

Haraldur's almost imperceptible nod flooded the Skyknight with relief. "Trust in them, Haraldur," she urged the mercenary, gently trailing the backs of her knuckles down his pale cheek. "Let them help you. They can do it, if only you will let them."

"Might it be possible to clear out this tent?" No sooner had Haraldur agreed to her methods that the Sybaian healer took command, more astute and authoritative than even Daphni Adela. "Give this man some room to breathe, and give us the space to do what needs to be done. We require silence to concentrate. You," she turned to Alster. "I assume you are acquainted with this man? I will then need you to help me navigate his mind. Something tells me that only a familiar presence will bypass the careful barriers that he must have been reinforcing over the years."

As the others took their leave, some grumbling over hwo emasculating it was to be ordered around by more than one headstrong woman within the encampment, Vega also saw fit to follow suit. This was not about her, and there was nothing that she could offer Haraldur but kind and supportive words that he likely only found to be trite and useless. Go where you cannot do more damage, Vega told herself, as she passed through the tent flaps to leave Alster and the Sybaian healer to Haraldur's critical condition. So anticlimactic, how one moment she had felt so warm, and more like herself than she had felt since before her own death, being so near Haraldur again, feeling his hand upon her cheek... And yet, at the next moment, she was chilled to the bone without him. Realizing that despite his potential to heal, to recover, to return to the person who he once was, there was no part for her in his life. In many ways, she was just as broken on the inside, and moreso since she had been ressurected. Who was to say she had come back to the land of the living as a whole person? And how long could she fool herself into thinking that she was?

Vega sat outside in the chilled night air, surrounded by Tadasuni soldiers keeping warm around a fire, and yet feeling so desperately alone in the crowd. That is, until a hand on her shoulder startled her out of her melancholy musings. Eyes wide, the Eyraillian princess sprung to her feet, and clutched the Sybaian healer's hand. "Did it work? Is he alright?"

"Hardly," the woman scoffed. "His defenses are too strong. Neither of us can penetrate the mental barriers that he has in place... but the Rigas caster says that, perhaps, you can."

"But I... I don't think that is true." Vega shook her head. "At one point, perhaps, but now... now, it just doesn't seem--"

"If you care at all about this man, then the least that you can do is try." The Sybaian healer frowned, and indicated the direction of Haraldur's tent with an impatient wave. "Well? Are you willing to put your own demons on hold long enough to help this man vanquish his? Don't look so surprised; I can see the colour of your aura as plain as day. It isn't unblemished."

Try... But what if trying only did more harm than good? What if her own intrusion in his mind caused the mercenary to close up for good, cutting him off entirely from the potential to heal due to the unwanted sentiments that she might stir up? The Sybaian did not realize any of this; she couldn't know what she was asking. And yet, what if...
What if...

What if her involvement was was ended up saving him?

Worrying her lip, the Skyknight, at last, gave a decisive nod. "Tell me what to do... and I will help where I can."

"Dammit!" Alster cursed as he slumped forward in his chair, clawing his fingers into his hair. He was alone in the tent, save for Haraldur, who, drugged into sleep, was drawing fitful breaths, his brow contorted, twisting into even deeper knots with each rise and fall of his chest. Weaved through his bandaged fingers was his pendant, which he had extracted from its hiding place prior to compulsory sleep. It dangled from its chain, swinging like a pendulum, glinting its mockery at Alster, who looked away and began scratching at his throat in frustration. 

He had succeeded in penetrating the mercenary's mind before, and that was back when he hadn't much experience in traversing through the subconscious. Why, then, was this instance so different? The answer was clear. Haraldur had given his consent, but it was under duress, done in fear of having no other choice, and fully knowing what to expect from dredging up memories he cared not to revisit. As a result, he had inadvertently closed his defenses into a tight, impermeable ball. What he needed was a comforting presence, and Alster, who was mere acquaintances with the warrior, was far from adequate.

Don't take it personally, he told himself, assured himself. This has nothing to do with your skill level. You haven't failed. Not yet. Not yet...

He stood from his chair when the Sybaian entered the tent with Vega in tow, and strode over to meet them halfway. With a grim look at the Skyknight's distressed blue eyes, he sighed and wasted no time in delving into their situation. 

"We can't even cross through the first, most superficial of his barriers, Vega. But you...you may have better luck. He knows you well. Responds to you. You and him have had an emotional resonance in the past, and I'm sure that acknowledgement will weaken his armor just enough to allow us deeper passage inside." He took Vega's hand, and led her to the chair positioned beside Haraldur's head. "But I must warn you. What he's hiding--I understand why he's erected so many barriers. I've seen vestiges of it when I first explored his mind some months ago. You'll need to take a few deep breaths. Prepare yourself for what you may experience. And when you're ready," he sat on the edge of the cot, still holding her hand as he waited for the Sybaian to join in their circle, "we'll enter." 

Haraldur's mind was an endless, sweeping plain. The sky was uniform, an unsegmented gray, and the grasses a dry, brittle yellow. Stalks of it swayed in the wind and broke apart, sending detritus into the cold, late Autumn twilight. 

"This is as far as we've been able to tread," Alster told Vega as they walked without actually going anywhere. Their feet moved, but the landscape was like a painting, and they were frozen against the canvas. Until...

He saw a tent appear in the middle of the field. When they approached it and looked inside, they saw Haraldur, shackled to a pole, crumpled into a heap, convulsing with dry heaves. Prince Messino, curls wild and untamed, stood before him with a hammer, beating at the mercenary's kneecap and ankle aggressively, his shouts staining the air like droplets of blood. 

"This is progress," Alster said in a strained whisper, trying to control his rage at witnessing yet another ally fall to the sadism of the Mad Prince. "This must have happened just a few days ago, and had a lasting impression on Haraldur, if his subconscious already insists on walling it away. But it's a fresh memory, and malleable, and the barriers aren't yet strong enough for him to fortify. We can burrow our way in at this point." 

As they wandered closer, the tent above their heads suddenly tattered in twain, giving way to open sky. Only now, the once unperturbed horizon had ruptured, turning patchy and sinister. The clouds churned, spiraling into a vortex, which touched down over their heads. Before they could escape, the twister had engulfed them whole and lifted them from the ground, sucking them into a swirl that roared and thrashed and spun, spun, spun, wringing them into helpless surrender. Alster could not see or hear, or grasp anything at all, and any use of magic evaporated from his hands, as if...

...As if parts of Haraldur's mind were also magic resistant.

Alster swallowed hard, at a loss for how to proceed. Without magic, without the ability to find Vega or the Sybaian, neither whom he could locate, what could he do? 

A flash of lightning streaked across the funnel of their imprisonment, but in that flash, Alster could discern images. The flashes grew more frequent, one after the other, throbbing against the opaque screen of wind with such rapidity that those stray images coalesced into a series of scenes.

He saw Haraldur, a few years younger, kneeling beside a makeshift grave: a splintered tree limb wedged into the frozen earth. He had his head bowed, his body so still, it was hard to tell if his intention was to be the grave marker. A statue, carved from granite, acting as sentinel before the departed. Behind him, other splintered branches, rows of them, jutted out of the ground in hackneyed angles, as if they, too, were honoring the dead.

The image flickered, and changed. 

The mercenary, at eighteen or nineteen years of age, was curled up against a tree in a thick wood, a long, jagged knife embedded into his wrist, which mechanically continued its sawing motions as wells of blood gurgled from the messy incision. His eyes, in a sympathetic imitation, were slit and gouged and frothing with tears. Salty brine and spots of blood fell upon his necklace, the only thing that shone in all of the darkness. 

Another scene. A much different Haraldur stood, his entire bearing apathetic, eyes like dry, empty bowls where water once pooled. He walked, stiff-shouldered, into a war-tent, accompanied with three senior officers who leered at the young man. Their lecherous hands yanked at their trousers, at his trousers, with the impatience of desire. Haraldur remained expressionless, compliant, even when they stripped him naked and threw him to his knees. 

As that scene ended, the lightning in the funnel forked, growing more aggressive and striking so close to Alster, that he felt the resultant shock. All his fine hairs stood on end. But despite the intensity of the storm, the next scene flickered to life, and unfolded without hesitation. 

Haraldur was on the battlefield, blood-soaked and feral, leveling every assailant on his war-path. His technique was ruthless, exact--like lightning descending. He growled and screamed and gutted whatever his sword targeted. Alster looked at the bodies, and his stomach flipped and almost wrenched out its contents. The dead, who were not only dead, but desecrated, tortured, were not full-grown adults. They were children. Their eyes were turned heavenwards, blood-flies feasting on their stiffened eyelids. Haraldur turned toward one unsuspecting child, still alive, still fighting, and ran him through the chest with such force that, even without sound, Alster heard the cracking of the young thing's delicate breastbone. The little boy slid off the mercenary's sword, mouth filling with blood, and tumbled, face-down, onto the bodies of the fallen. 

"Child-killer," the wind roared with a ferocity that vibrated in Alster's bones. "Kinder-slayer. Die, and rot forever in the tomb of your slain. We will never forgive. We will never forget. All Forbannemust pay the price. All will--" 

The voice of the wind choked off, sounding as though silenced by a blade. It screamed in unearthly terror, and died away--in tandem with the twister. The winds dispersed. And as the vortex lost its form, it ejected its victims upon on the torn-up ground. 

Alster, his head a vice, scrambled to his feet and searched wildly for Vega and the Sybaian. Luckily, they were both nearby, jostled, but otherwise unharmed. He helped them upright, his touch lingering on Vega's hand. "Vega," he said, his eyes searching, "did you see--?" 

"She did." A voice from behind answered, in an authoritative ring. Alster whirled around and saw Haraldur, painted in the blood of his victims, eyes both dead and exacting. Calculating. They roved up and down Vega's form as if she were a hunk of meat that was ready to send to the butcher. "She should not have." 

Then, like the whip of wind, a flash of lightning, he rushed forward, flying past Alster and the Sybaian, and ran Vega through the abdomen with his sword. 

"The dead should stay dead. Join them, Vega." 

The plain on which they inhabited, once barren and featureless, was festooned with bodies, children and elderly, men and women alike--all of his slain. They were in its epicenter, in the pinwheel of carnage--where Vega had become the newest sacrifice.

It was like watching the progression of an endless horror, painted with blood and pain and tears, and for a very real and honest moment, Vega wished she hadn't ventured into the darkest and most protected depths of Haraldur's mind. Thankful for the presence of the Sybaian healer and Alster, the Skyknight clutched the Rigas caster's hand without realizing it, desperate for the reassurance of touch and the presence of someone else. If for no other reason, than for the knowledge that she was not the only one witnessing this very real hell that the mercenary had experienced first-hand. These events, all imprinted on and scarring his soul... 

It all made sense, now. His closed-natured and hesitation to proximity... All for the sake of quietly bearing this burden. Hiding it from the world, for fear it could again become all too real.

"Don't...! Stop it, leave him alone!" The shock passed like a wave over Vega's head, leaving her soaked with anger, hurt, and disbelief. She didn't stop to think that she was in a shadow of a memory, an animate painting of events that she did not have the power to change, and that even the phantom presence of her lance which she willed into existence would not make a difference. "Get away from him, now!"

The Eyraillian princess charged at the older men who sought to defile a young Haraldur, all the rage in her heart channeled into her lance as she hurled it at the back of their heads.
It vanished, along with the men and the young mercenary, only to reveal a battlefield soaked in lakes of blood. Bodies, none fully intact, littered the crimson-rich earth, and Vega Sorde's blood chilled as her frantic mind slowly came to comprehend the extent of the tragic carnage before her. And it was only when she saw him--the man she loved, more animal than man, more reaper than saviour--cut down a human being barely half his size and age that the horror sunk into her pores and her veins, and she paled, sickened and distraught.

Children... those are children. She repeated the words over and over in her mind, murmured them to herself. And although she had witnessed it with her own eyes, and had alibis to confirm that what she was seeing was real, it did not resonate as being something that Haraldur could have ever been capable of. And yet... this was him. This was real. This had led to the enigma that he had become, and no matter how Vega yearned to simply wipe these painful years from his memory just like her resurrection had done to her, there would be no removing the scars from his body or mind or heart, even in their absence.
Haraldur feared himself. Not just who he was, but knowing what he was capable of. What his past had shaped him into...

Clamouring to her feet, knees shaking, Vega turned toward the direction of Alster's voice. Looking into his face was like looking into the mirror at her own: lost, stricken. "He..." Why was it so difficult to voice the words, the truth, when she knew that Alster had witnessed just the same thing? The horror and disbelief was already written all over his pale face... "Did he really..."

She didn't have the chance to finish before he stood before the two of them: no longer a shadow oblivious to their presences, but very much aware. Too aware. And although he bore the same features and stature of the Haraldur that she knew, he looked so far from the same person. His eyes were cold, betraying not so much as an ounce of human feeling. Nothing beyond animalistic bloodlust and determination...

There wasn't even a second to respond. Not before the mercenary closed the distance between them, and the bite of his steel pierced her abdomen.

The pain didn't register right away, not for the familiarity of the feeling that cloaked her like a cold blanket. She had been in this position once before... but it has been different, that first time when death had come for her immortal soul. Then, she had been alone, confused, and full of regret that she could not be there for someone... someone specific, someone important to her.
Perhaps that was why now, this time around, it did not hurt quite so much.

Blood speckled her lips as the Eyraillian princess struggled to take a breath, staining her clothes and Haraldur's further when she coughed, the crimson so bright against her lips. "...will it make you better, Haraldur?" Vega rasped, her body falling involuntarily against her assailant's. Even now, under such grim circumstances, she could take comfort in pressing her forehead against his shoulder. This time... This time, if death claimed her, then she swore to have no regrets. "Can you... will you heal from this, all of this... if I return to death?"

It hurt to breathe, hurt even more to talk, but it was possibly the last conversation that she would have with the man she still loved--or whatever semblance of him remained. "The world... it hurts us. Changes us, make us..." She paused to violently cough blood again, fingers trembling as they gripped the tatters of Haraldur's clothes. "Makes us do things... that haunt us forever. But we can heal... that is why love exists. To heal us from the inevitable. It makes us human... not our past. Not our... our sins. Our heart; finding love in another, and accepting theirs in return..."

Dizzy from the extent of blood she had already lost, the Skyknight fell to one knee, bloodied fingers still clutching the threads of the mercenary's attire. Her body made a sickening sound as it slid down his blade, but she refused to let go. If it was the very last thing she ever did, she would not let Haraldur believe he was a monster for the rest of his life. "All... I saw all of it. Everything you... did. But it doesn't change anything. It doesn't negate all you've done for... for other people. Won't make me... stop loving you." Closing her eyes against her blurred vision, the dying princess leaned her cheek against his thigh, in pain, but oddly enough, at peace. "Promise... promise me, you'll forgive yourself... and I'll return to death. But only if you... if you promise." 

With feeling slowly seeping from her barely responsive limbs, Vega paid attention to every passing second she had left, near him. "All right..." Her voice was now barely a whisper, a murmur, and she wasn't sure as to whether she was speaking for herself, or for Haraldur's benefit. "It will be... be all right. All right... all right..."

"No... no, she should not have come." The Sybaian healer, wide-eyed and stricken as she stood next to Alster, looked about ready to fall to pieces, herself. "She will... dying here, will spell death for her, for certain. This was all a mistake... we were not equipped to handle this!"

Haraldur, about to wrench the blade free of his victim and spear her a second time, paused in his advance, hesitated. She--Vega--had gripped his sword, his arm, his shoulder, her mouth gurgling blood, all in her attempts to right herself and to be heard, beneath the ravages of her dying form. His eyes hardened at her pitiful shuffle to salvage the vestiges of her life, but in them reflected confusion. Better? What did she mean by 'better'? Did he even understand the concept? In his world, he killed, lest he succumb to the enemy's blade. And she, though she held not a weapon or the intent to kill, still dealt him a grave threat. It was a threat against his entire foundation, the fundamentals that built the structure upon which he stood, balanced, steeled and ready to fight. She was walking death, an anomaly who challenged his beliefs, his desires, that the dead not follow him once he severed their souls from their bodies. His negligence had seen her killed. Some destructive side of him had seen her revived, and that same reckless decision-making invited her to explore within his mind, to learn of secrets that he had vowed to take with him to his own hellish netherworld. She was a dangerous entity. His very survival hinged on her death, her final death--and no sentimental relapses, or vulnerable chinks in his resilient chain would prevent him from completing his task. 

Kill the intruder. 

He pulled his blade free of her, watched as her blood stained the already rust-soaked mud beneath their feet. Even so, she still clung to him. Her words were soft, yet penetrating. A susurrus with spikes. He cracked his neck from side to side, as if doing so would dislodge such spikes. They were mere burrs, and would not influence his actions. 

But he listened, against his better judgment, and his rigid, unfeeling face softened around the edges. It was an infinitesimal change, but significant to one such as Forbanne. She saw it all. Saw his wanton slaughter of children. And yet--she hadn't faltered in her questionable position...of loving him. 

He shook his head, clearing away the fugue that tried to perch behind his eyes. To fog his periphery, to block the clear, wide span of his farsightedness. He would not be swayed. 

"Forbanne are not loved," he told her, his tone flat, unrelenting. He pointed his blade to her throat, intent on silencing her voice and her heartbeat--for good. "What is your true motive, Eyraillan? To see me in pieces? I do not bow for my enemy--no matter how defenseless." 

Alster watched this entire exchange, flickering between shock, to hope, and doubling back to shock. He hadn't been quick enough to prevent Haraldur's assault on Vega, nor did he think to predict that the mercenary's fortified mind would attack in order to defend itself from what it perceived as harm. However, he kept silent, lingering just behind Haraldur's blind spot, somewhat optimistic that Vega's blood-speckled speech would reach him. And it had--for just a brief flicker. But the man was stubborn, unyielding, and her secondary death throes were, unfortunately, not enough. Vega would die a second time. Haraldur would remain paralyzed, haunted by what he caused in a chamber that he had once deemed safe. Untouchable. Alster ground his teeth, unable to bear witness to this tragic outcome--one that eerily paralleled that of his own attack on the woman he loved. All to protect his fantasy. His foolish, foolish fantasy. 

Destroy it, a voice inside of him rumbled. Do for him what you were unable to do for yourself. Break it down. Break it all down.

Alster looked down at his hands. Small, blue fires spurted from both, weaving between his bent, poised fingers. My magic works at this level, he thought, as the flames dispersed into smoke. Confirmation that this is a very vulnerable place for him. We're so deep, that his magic resistance hasn't yet touched this place. That means...

He scanned the immense battlefield, the mangled bodies of the dead--women and children and men, alike. A morbid idea skipped like stones on the shores of his cognition."It's not over, yet," he whispered to the Sybaian healer, as he weaved a black, shadowed tapestry between his fingers. I haven't used chthonic magic since before I awakened from my curse. The spell acted like smoke as he caught each erupted tendril from the ground and redirected it towards the nearest dead. And I am no necromancer. But let this dream be my stage. I draw power from the possible. 

Right before Haraldur had the chance to slice his blade across Vega's throat, the bodies that surrounded the mercenary jerked and clambered to their feet. It had the desired effect. Haraldur's blade ceased movement. He raised his head in time to see the entirety of the battlefield teem into unnatural poses in a mockery of their shortened life. Their death. Women with imploded torsos. Children with arms attached by sinews. Men that limped as entrails spooled from behind them...they all reached for Haraldur. Those who still possessed mouths opened them into a rictus of terror. Of silent screaming. Of agony without a voice or without an outlet to express the extent suffering. They moved as if they had never died, had always lived in some malformed limbo where all they did was exist as lost pieces, operating under some residual will to move and interact with the world they still called home.

Haraldur dropped his sword. His eyes flared, growing wide with intensity. Hands that were once steadied precision quaked, his slow, retreating steps a mirror of the uncoordinated lope of the dead--his victims--come to life. 

"No," he said, his voice a scrape, choked and terrorized and haunted. "You're dead. You're all dead!" 

Closer, the dead lingered. Closer. They encircled him and Vega, blocking his escape. Breath sounded from their nostrils. It was a detail that disturbed Haraldur all the more. 

Desperate, he glanced down at Vega. Barely alive. But still living, nonetheless. Even if she was once dead, she was more alive than the spectres that endeavored to grab at his clothes, his skin, his soul--whatever remained of it. 

"Vega," he tried to keep an even tempo, an even stance. A balance to everything. Face them. They're the enemy until they no longer move. But he couldn't face them. "Tell me you're still alive."

She didn't move. Haraldur closed a hand over something cold, metallic, but it was not a sword, or even a weapon. It was attached to a chain around his neck. A pendant, which wasn't there before, impressed itself against his skin. It was a reassuring weight, that pendant, that chain. That unbreakable, resilient chain...

His survival did not depend on her death, he realized. It depended on this charm. It was the amalgam of all his strength--his true strength. And his identity--his true identity. 

You are not Forbanne. No, not anymore. This necklace has been with you, always. It represents who you are. Who you always were. It's saved you many times--eventually saved your mind from them. This woman that bleeds has been trying to remind you of that. You are beyond all of this. Let them come...

"Let them come," he said, this time aloud. He crouched beside Vega, unfastened his necklace, and held it against her palm. He called upon the pendant one last time, to protect not only himself, but the one he had damaged, who had lolled so lifelessly into his arms. Closing his eyes, he tightened his hold on her, on the metalwork that their hands had shared--and he accepted his fate. Be it death, or damnation from the mob, or a life under the knowledge that he killed something, someone most precious, who had never wavered in her belief of his goodness, even now, at the apex of her second passing...

Whatever awaited him, he would stand down, surrender to it all...

I surrender...

The necklace suddenly sparked, illuminating into a glow that radiated as hot as simmering coals. Haraldur recoiled and released the branding heat of the pendant on reflex. It did not drop; rather, it floated in midair, its soft pink light enveloping him and Vega and barring entrance to the dead who walked. It pulsed. It had a voice, but he could not determine the timbre, the melody, the language--if it had one at all. But it was ethereal, with a frequency that entered him like a dagger, yet instead of wrenching him open, it bound him back together, stitched him shut. It soothed on healing salves, rubbed away bruises, encouraged regrowth of what was missing. And, before that energy had time to fade away, to disappear, Haraldur tried for words, and only managed one: 

"...Mother?"

But it was gone. The light had dwindled, subsiding into the overcast gray of the battlefield. The necklace, now dull and tarnished, clattered to the ground. The army of the dead was nowhere to be seen, even as littered corpses across the horizon. Haraldur turned back to Vega, and found her completely healed. The gaping hole in her abdomen was no longer. Nothing more than smooth, unperturbed flesh, and the tear of fabric where he had pierced through her clothing. 

Cradling her in his arms, he rose to his feet, noticing Alster and the Sybaian for the first time. The Rigas caster had a small, tentative smile on his face as he approached the mercenary, through the former circle of undead. "I think it's time to go back--wouldn't you say?" 

Haraldur said nothing, but he nodded to acknowledge them both, and nodded in response to the question. He continued to hold Vega steady, enmeshed beside him like a sling he didn't want to abandon. 

Alster gave a sidelong glance at the Sybaian, his expression placid despite the strain of his wayward techniques apparent in his drooping eyes. "I'll leave our return to someone who isn't an amateur in all of this." 

When they all opened their eyes, and found themselves back inside the tent at Tadasun's camp, Alster immediately checked for Haraldur and Vega's injuries. To his great and tired relief, they were healed. From the outside, at least.

"Thank...thank the stars," he said, breathless, as he slumped into a chair and lowered his eyes closed.

Beyond her desperate plea to the bloodthirsty mercenary to become reacquainted with his fragile humanity, Vega remembered nothing beyond collapsing and choking on her own blood. Even after the lot of them had reemerged from the darkest depths of Haraldur's mind, the Eyraillian princess did not immediately awaken from that deep slumber, which led the Sybaian healer to worry that she was, indeed, trapped in the mercenary's subconscious. But as she examined the downed woman and her vital signs, reading her aura, nothing suggested that she could not return to the world of the living upon awakening. She was damaged, as was every living being who possessed a soul, but she was not stuck. To the Sybaian, it appeared no different from someone who required rest and recovery, much like Haraldur, himself. And so she chose to let the two sleeping warriors be, and awaken of their own volition, when their bodies and minds were ready.

And then there was Alster, who had performed better than she ever could have hoped to do in the depths of another person's finicky and convoluted subconscious. Despite her own rough state, shaky and pale and fevered from the onslaught of emotions that had assaulted her body, which had acted as a conduit, she brought the Rigas Caster water in his exhausted state. A small thanks for his help in what might otherwise have been a terrible tragedy. "My training... is not as extensive, as that of my sisters." The young woman said, by way of explanation for being 'amateur'. Indeed, she looked to be almost ten years Daphni's junior, almost more child than adult. "I do not believe I would have succeeded in this endeavor, without your help... thank you. Perhaps you would consider working with the Sybaia more often."
With a final nod, the healer left, feeling unwell and requiring rest from such an exhausting excursion.

But Alster was not left to himself for long. As he sat with his water in his hands, a blanket covered his shoulders as familiar hands tucked it in around his neck. Not yet recovered, but well enough to be on her feet, Elespeth took a seat on the ground beside Alster, complexion pale yet alight with a small smile. "Word has it that you have saved another life... or, rather, multiple lives. Again." Taking a seat next to his chair, the Atvanian warrior pulled her knees to her chest. Her wan visage still betrayed her sickness, along with her sunken frame and sluggish movements, but Elespeth seemed to have at last come back to herself, the fractured pieces of her heart slowly mending. It hadn't hurt that Alster had been there for her the entire time, helping her through feverish nights of coughing fits and nausea. He was there for everyone, it seemed.
Everyone, save for himself.

"Everyone is talking about what you did for Haraldur. How you even managed to save Vega... How it was comparable to the help that the Sybaian can provide. That is special... rare." Tucking her loose, chestnut hair over her shoulder, she searched the Rigas caster's weary face, reverence in her green eyes. "Which leads me to fail to understand how you can think so little of yourself. So many people are alive, have been given a second chance because of you... how can you possibly doubt your importance, Alster? How could you ever come to believe that you were better off dead to everyone who cares about you?"
Reaching out, she took Alster's free hand, her palm warmed his chilled digits. "You know that we can't win this without you. So many lives would unravel... including my own. Promise me..." From her sitting position next to his seat, Elespeth pressed her head against the side of his thigh. "Promise me you will survive."

All right... everything will be all right. It will be al right.

The echo of those words was the last thing that Vega Sorde remembered before the searing pain faded, and her world went black. Those words, the unintentional warmth of Haraldur's body as her own had slumped against it in its death throes. She was not frightened; on the contrary, she drew comfort from the fact that she may be the catalyst for the mercenary's healing. If he held such biting remorse for reviving her, if returning to death was what would free him from the binds of his own constricting guilt, then she was happy to be the trigger for his final release. As she faded, she could ever have sworn that his arms encircled her one last time, bringing her tired mind back to more pleasant memories, of previous moments and embraces that had left her feeling warm and loved, making her feel as though she mattered...

But then, she awoke, and the peace came to an end.
Gasping for breath, the Eyraillian princess awoke to a coughing fit, clutching her abdomen which throbbed with a phantom pain that doubled her over. But when she lifted the hem of her tunic, nothing was there but the unmarred flesh of her sunken stomach. 
Wait... did that then mean...

The Skyknight surveyed her surroundings, and that was when her memory rekindled the floating fragments of what had come to pass. Haraldur, asleep but alive, lay upon a cot next to her, damaged and mangled, but alive nonetheless. And she...
That meant that she was alive, as well. That her death in Haraldur's subconscious had not spelled death for her among the living. It had all been little more than a terrible dream... The living nightmares that Haraldur had experienced in the run of his life, all manifest at once. But then, if she was still alive, after the rawest and most honest form of the mercenary's mind and soul had sought so desperately to find relief in her death...
If she was still among the living, still revived, what did that mean for Haraldur and his ability to heal?

With slow, sore movements, the Eyraillian princess moved to the fallen warrior's side, and with the gentlest of touches, she removed his bandages. She cleaned his wounds, applied a salve that the Tadasuni medics had left behind to the raw beds of his fingernails, checked the swelling of his broken leg that the healers had set earlier that day. He was alive; his body would heal, but... what of his heart? His mind? Had that excursion into his subconscious been for naught? "I only wanted peace for you. That peace that you so desperately desired..." With a damp rag, she wiped the dried, crusted blood from his arms and face, careful not to wake him. "If I could go back... if we could face that all again, and you could end my life to revive your own, I'd do it, you know. I would do it in a heartbeat, with no second thoughts, no regrets, if you are certain that it would free you of your guilt... I am so sorry. I'm alive; and I've failed you."

How long he'd been awake, Vega could not be certain. But when the mercenary suddenly opened his eyes, alert and aware, she couldn't help but wonder if he had heard her apology... Otherwise, she found herself temporarily at a loss for words. "Try not to move," came her gentle encouragement, as she reached for a powdered mixture of potent herbs that she promptly mixed into a pitcher of water. "Can you swallow? The Tadasuni left behind this tonic for pain when you awoke, but they advised only to take it when in desperate need. It is very potent and addictive in nature..."

She waited for a reply, but none came. The silence aggravated her enough to push it off. "I... I wish I knew what to say." Folding her hands in her lap, she stared downward to avoid Haraldur's gaze, disconcerted that she could not read past the clouds in his eyes. "I only wanted to help you... I tried, I don't know what went wrong. I don't know why I'm still..." Still alive. Still breathing, still existing, when she shouldn't exist at all. But her chest was too full, her throat too tight to properly articulate the apology, and so she ended with a mere, "Please... forgive me."

Fingers gripping his pounding temples, Alster sat, his head like a leaden ball in his hands, with his shaking arms the only able weight to lift it above his shoulders. A wave of nausea flooded over him, but he concentrated on taking long, refreshing breaths, in out in out, until he finally could open his eyes and interact with his surroundings once again. He regarded the Sybaian who stood by his side, proffering a tin of water, which he accepted with a gracious nod. Now that they had succeeded in their task, and the responsibility was lifted off their collective shoulders, Alster was able to give more attention to the Sybaian, and studied her appearance. She was young, yet had carried herself in a way that suggested great maturity, whether foisted upon her or not. She reminded him of Tivia, who, while also quite young, was saddled with a burden far too large for her to lift all on her own. 

And what of you, Alster? A voice chimed in the back of his head. Aren't you also young? Aren't you also taking on everybody's burdens, including your own?

It's the least I can do, he countered as he stared at his warped reflection in the water. No longer will I need to rely on anyone. No longer will I be useless. I don't count. But they do...

He lifted his head at the Sybaian and offered a small, wan smile for her act of kindness and encouraging words. "I'm self-taught. The very definition of amateur, no, novice. There is much that I can learn from you, and your sisters. Consider my aid at your disposal." He gave a shallow bow of his head, then extended a hand to her in camaraderie. "Thank you for all of your help. My name is Alster Rigas. And you are-?"

When the Sybaian retired in order to recover from the ordeal, Alster sipped at his water until he felt a warm shroud envelop his shoulders. He looked behind him to see Elespeth, and at first, his mouth popped open in fear. What would she say to his umpteenth battle with recklessness? Would she raise her voice, or a hand to slap him? Detail the ways in which his negligence was hurting them both? However, the smile that rested upon her face bespoke of another motive, and he melted back into his chair, telling himself to relax. 

"I did not save any lives," Alster said, and promptly explained himself before Elespeth accused him of modesty or denial. "I just gave Haraldur the push he needed to save it, himself. Not that he was in any danger of death--at least, not before I interfered-- but Vega was in critical condition...and the whole situation...it grew much more desperate. So I created a crisis for him to overcome." He glanced over to Haraldur, who, still unconscious, seemed to breathe easier, now that his legs had mended themselves from the depths of his soul. "I put everyone at risk with my rash decision to raise the dead. It was by sheer dumb luck that the results were favorable. And that is all Haraldur's doing. And Vega's."

Alster twisted in his chair to face Elespeth head-on, drinking in her expression and feeling undeserving of the respect that glimmered in her green eyes. Yet, he craved it all the same. She thinks I've done right. That I should be proud of my achievements. And her approval...that should be good enough for me.

But...

He welcomed the inviting pulse of her hand, felt the electric tingle that he had so terribly missed during their separation. A twitch of a smile appeared on his face as his fingers closed over her knuckles.

"I owe it to everyone," he whispered. His blue-green eyes glazed over as he lowered his head to meet that of her lover. He kissed her crown, gently, watching as the brown-golden gleam of her hair shone in the dim lantern-light. "What use are my rigorous decades of magic-training for, otherwise? My strong inherent ability, the likes of which has not been seen since Rigel, our founder, from three thousand years ago? I abused that power in the past, for selfish, twisted reasons. That's why I thought I had to die. It was the only way...for me to make amends. At least, that's what I had once believed. But I don't know, anymore." He tightened his grip on her hand. "I can't make promises, El. This world is relentless in its quest to main and destroy and kill. Even if I don't go out seeking my own death..." He trailed away. Then, with a sigh, he nodded. "I can promise you this: I will try. Our fates are tied, once again. So," a lopsided grin slashed across his mouth, "I have no choice but to survive." 

Emptiness. A field that spanned across time itself. He crossed it, that gray, nondescript landscape, more times than he could recount. But it had shifted, somehow. Splotches of color stained the monochrome grasses. A bludgeoned sun bled through its cloud-bandages, turning the entire overcast sky into a staunched vermilion. More landmarks dotted his once-barren refuge. Dead bodies, draped over rocks. Broken swords, dented shields, too damaged to salvage, lay discarded across his path. There were small drifts of snow, dramatic mountain ranges that burst from the ground like the rising of some enormous reptilian creature with spikes across its spine. He saw tent towns, horses without their riders galloping across the land, their eyes emblazoned with unmitigated terror. He saw long needles, cruel grins, metallic clasps and scalpels that were sharp enough to slice through bone. 

Haraldur quickened his pace, endeavoring to leave it all behind, but they followed him. Those untamed memories, uncaged and untethered, running rampant in a place that once evoked calm. Stillness. Nothing.

And now, there was everything.

He continued to walk, to vault past children with their dead eyes staring sightlessly into the heavens, or to avoid the men with the long needles, which slipped behind the tear ducts, through the brain, and...silence. But it was of the horrible kind, the kind that paralyzed, but kept you awake and alert and so very aware. 

No!

He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he was upon a straw bed within a tent. A blurred figure leaned over him. Speaking. Cleaning him...with the greatest of care. Leaning upright on his elbows, he looked past his nose, down and over his torso, to his legs. Flinching in preparation of the expected flare of pain in his knee and ankle, he was surprised to feel...nothing of the sort. Both legs swayed and flexed with all the ease of a thin tree in the breeze. He stared, dumbfounded, until he saw a faint shine in his periphery. He turned to address it. Balled up in his right hand was his pendant. But it...didn't look quite the same. No longer did it capture the light in warm, buttery tones. Rather, it was rusty, aged, as if it had corroded away in the sea for decades. He lifted the now fragile thing, touched it experimentally, and came away with blackened detritus from the once polished, smooth surface. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but the result was still the same. 

And suddenly, the weight of what had happened affected him in full. 

"I don't even know what peace is, Vega," he said, carefully setting the necklace upon the cot as he sat up against his pillow. "And your death...that only would have destroyed any chance of peace I could conceivably have in this life. I don't need you to die for me. Haven't you learned from what you've seen?" He winced, hesitating. " I don't...want that for myself anymore. To kill. I only continue to do it because I'm good at it. Because it's all I know, and it gives me purpose. I'm...sorry." He took away her buffing hand, the one that scrubbed against his face, and held it in his grip for a few, lingering seconds. His eyes pierced her own. "I don't want you to die. I don't want to kill you. Don't be another haunt. Another toll I have taken. There's already so many..." His voice dropped down to a drowned whisper. He released her hand. But then came the distraction he had hoped would arrive, and it was much easier to focus on the fact that he might be able to walk again than on what had been dislodged from the dark recesses of his mind, including Vega's secondary run-in with death. 

"I don't need that," he pointed to the herbs. "I'm...I'm healed. This," he jerked his head at the necklace, too afraid to touch it lest it crumbled to ash, "it...saved us both, I'm sure of it. I asked it for help, and...but it must have overtaxed itself. The presence...it's gone." He looked at it with all the sorrow of a departed friend or relative. "Gone," he repeated, staring at the dying contours of his most reliable companion, the only reminder of who he was and where he came from. He had a family. A name that belonged only to him. But, like his forgotten name, the pendant, too, would fade into the ether and become yet another lost relic. 

"Don't apologize," he said, after what seemed like hours peering into some realm beyond realms. "Don't ask for forgiveness. I'm responsible. And now that you've seen what you've seen..." he swung his legs from the cot and carefully planted them on the ground, "you don't have to pretend that I'm right for you. Because I'm not. Because I'm nothing but a...child-killer." His eyes widened. It was the first time he had spoken the truth aloud--to himself, or to anyone. Immediately, he got to his feet (wobbly but standing) and turned away from Vega before she could witness the intense anguish that contorted his face. The tears that threatened to spring in his wounded green eyes. "I wish you never had seen that..."

"No... stop belittling herself." Had she more energy and vigor to sharpen her words, then she would have. But the fact remained that Elespeth was sick and exhausted, and that Alster, though alive and well, was still stubborn and headstrong. And would not so easily be swayed. "I know what you did for him. I know that he would not be alive, now, were it not for your interference. The Sybaian might have acted as conduit for the ritual, Vega might have been the key to stepping inside, but you... you alone incited the catalyst that steered Haraldur in the right direction. Not only that, but in reviving Haraldur, you had yet instilled hope in Vega Sorde." Shifting her weight, she leaned into the Rigas caster's touch, reveling in the feel of his gentle fingers through her loose hair. "I spoke to Tivia... she says that Vega had visited her, in hopes of gleaning answers to her path ahead. And that when your kin could not provide her with answers... she lashed out., very uncharacteristically. I fear for her, Alster. But now that Haraldur is well... or on his way to becoming well again, perhaps the same can be said for the Eyraillian princess."

The healing cut on her palm zinged with electricity as Alster tightened his grip, reminding her once more of how tightly they were bound. How their hearts were synchronized, blood relying on blood for survival. It was a frightening thing, but more than that, it was reassuring. "I know war, Alster. I am not asking for an infallible promise. Not when all of our lives are at stake, when there is no telling what might cross our paths... but I do not regret that our fates are tied. It had not been my intention, but there... there is one thing that I want." 

Shifting her weight to her other leg, the Atvanian warrior reached for Alster's other hand, and captured his eyes when their fingers wove together like threads on loom; synchronized, and a perfect fit. "I want you to take me with you--whatever that means, wherever you may go. Whether it is in life or death. Because I have had a lot of time to think, Alster; and it is what I have been thinking since you saved my life, from the hands of my own people. And..." Pausing to find the right words, she found herself swallowing a lump of emotion in her throat. "And that is, that I... do not want to be without you. I lost my ties with Atvany when Farrin died, and I was forced to leave Lyriq with the mess on his hands. Meeting you has the first time I have found meaning and happiness in this wretched life since I fled my kingdom in the first place. And I would rather die with you, than live on, returning to a nomadic lifestyle without a name and identity. I have finally found myself... and it is with you. I am with you. I want to stay that way." Unbidden, a tear trickled down her pale cheek. "With you..."

"...yes. I... did learn from what I saw, Haraldur. I learned a lot. But it is not what you might expect." He was alive: and not only alive, but well, healed, no longer in danger of enduring a life as a cripple, as the mercenary had so feared. It should have brought her joy to witness his living, breathing, conscious form as he stood upon a leg which, under any other circumstances, should have been ruined beyond repair. And, to some extent, it did... except that, for the mercenary, it did not. He had faced his demons, and won; but because she had been there to witness it, the victory was a bitter one. For it had been a fight that she was never meant to see. "I learned that... this world is a far darker place than I had dreamed. Darker, even, than the tyrannical rule of my own father... which I had never thought possible. I learned what has hurt you... and what still hurts you. I learned the extent of your strength; that, in spite of it all, you have maintained your humanity. I learned... I learned that you are possibly the strongest and purest person that I have ever come to know."

Even if I was never supposed to know.

At first, the Eyraillian princess did not recognize the aged trinket in his hand, until she advanced for a closer look. His pendant; the one that she had given back, that had kept him alive during his torture in Andalari... it was the same. But it was sullied, broken, empty... little more than a hardly aesthetic piece of jewelry. An ugly antique, something that had once held so much meaning and power...
And now it was gone. Gone, because he had wished upon it to save himself. To save... her. So that he would not have to bear the burden of staining his hands with more innocent blood. "You didn't have to do it. Not for me." Vega's voice was hardly above a whisper, despondent blue eyes fixed on the once powerful talisman. "I am not worth such a precious wish, Haraldur. But all the same... I owe you my gratitude. For saving a tresspasser who had no business going where she was never welcome, at the expense of something that meant so much to you..."

Yet another guilt upon her shoulders. The talisman would never work for him again; it would offer no protection, embody nothing but a memory of what it had once been, all because the revival of her life--a second time--may have been the turning point which had sapped the remainder of its magic. And now it was gone; but she was still here, whether or not it brought him relief. She was not even sure that he himself was certain, deep down, that her revival was what he had truly wanted. 
But she was alive, and owed it to him. The trouble was in that he was hardly receptive to her presence, let alone gratitude...

Reaching into her tunic, the Skyknight pulled the only necklace she'd been wearing from around her neck. The intricate carving of a roc, though stained russet with her own blood, was still a thing of beauty, a reassuring weight against her heart during the time when she had not known of Haraldur's fate. Though it was in no way identical to the bond between Alster and the Atvanian warrior, she could not help but feel connected to Haraldur, her blood sunken into and staining a thing of beauty crafted by his own hands. Nothing less of a treasure, a warm presence in and of itself that had granted her peace enough to sleep, these nights. Perhaps hardly comparable to the powerful talisman that had once been Haraldur's pendant... but precious, in its own right. "...I was given this by someone very dear to me. Before I even realized how dear to me they really were..." A ghost of a smile touched her dry lips, as her damaged heart swelled with the memory. "I haven't taken it off, since. It helped me to remember who I was, when I awoke in fog of amnesia. And it gave me hope, even after I remembered it all, that I had a place, a purpose, a meaning in this world. It grounded me when I couldn't find the ground under my feet..."

Taking a step closer, Vega reached for the mercenary's hand, gently curling his fingers around the beautiful carving as she explained, "Perhaps its power pales in comparison to that of your talisman. But... it helped me, nevertheless. Maybe not in healing, exactly, but it remaining focused on the possibility of healing. Of keeping sight of who I am... and who I can be, and what matters to me. Possibly, it... it could do the same for you."

Realizing that she was likely crowding him, once more inviting herself into a space where she wasn't necessarily welcome. This had been a habit of hers for far too long; it was about time she thought better of it. "There is nothing of which I need to 'convince' myself, Haraldur. You deserve honesty, and so, I will speak honestly: I love you, I believe in you. I have for a very long time, I think... before we were ever properly acquainted." It was no real revelaiton, but the Eyraillian princess felt heat creep into her pale cheeks, all the same. "And despite what you want to believe, nothing has changed. Yes, I am angry and appalled at what I witnessed in the trenches of your mind.. but, specifically, I am angry and appalled that you were ever thrown into such positions. That no one was there to protect you from the unadulterated wrath of a cruel world. It isn't fair; it's not fair that I was sheltered as a child, while the magically adept denizens of Eyraille were put to death for their abilities, on my own father's orders. Or that the poor starved while my plate was always heaped with more than I was able to eat. I was angry then; I am angry now. You... deserved so much better than what you have suffered.

"But that does not change what you have done for me." Once again, Vega's voice softened as it lost its resolve, an unwilling victim of her heavy heart. "If... if I have overstepped my bounds with you, pressured you into feeling emotions that are not really there, then I apologize, wholly. You made me feel as though I mattered beyond my name; and, I suppose, I... it led me to hope too hard, that I could be anywhere but here. That I did not need to prove my worth, but that I was worthy simply for being alive. I was swept up in happiness... so much so, that I did not consider your need for distance. Perhaps much like I am doing now."

Drawing away from the soldier, Vega clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head. "I... cannot change what I feel for you, Haraldur. But because of what I feel, I can respect your wishes, for company or solitude, whatever it might be. I owe you that much. Just know that... you are not alone. Not if you do not want to be."

With a small bob of a nod, Alster conceded, but not out of any belief tied in Elespeth's words. He nodded because he would not dispute her perceived views on his deeds, which looked differently to anyone who could not see it from behind his eyes, or view it from his own perspective. "Whatever the case...it's over now." He finished the rest of the water and set it on the ground beside his chair. "Their recovery is up to them. I doubt I can do anymore. As for you..." His hand, the one that stroked her hair, rounded toward the back of her head and settled on her neck. A small, tingling warmth erupted from his palm, traveling from the top of her spine all the way to her tail-bone. He carefully massaged that area, pulling from it any toxins he felt had gathered in the process. Whilst he worked, he listened to her worrisome request. He faltered in his healing technique, which was perhaps for the best, as his nausea had returned, forcing him to lower his head and pinch the bridge of his nose until the waves had passed. He knew what Elespeth would say: Don't overexert yourself. So he did not resume the session. 

"I..." He opened his eyes carefully, to peer into her pleading gaze, so brimming with determination and unbridled loyalty. It had moved him, to bear witness to such raw devotion, but all the same, it triggered a closure of his throat, the inhibition of his breathing, the seizing of his chest. He focused instead on their hands, like long lost shards of pottery that, even after centuries of weather and wear, still fit together, all snug and complete. "No," he choked. "I mean...I couldn't do that to you, El. How could I, with any sort of conscience, subject you to a death you don't deserve? I won't have it end that way for us. I can protect you. I can protect us. I'll break this accursed spin of death that follows us like vultures. I simply won't settle for it...not if I'm around to stop its course." His knuckles had turned white from gripping Elespeth's hand too hard. With a muttered apology, he released it, released her, and squared his shoulders, fading into himself. "I'm sorry. I just...never want to hurt you again." 

"Yes, it is dark," Haraldur muttered beneath his breath, too self-conscious to speak at an even tone, in fear his snuffed emotions would find purchase there, and ride on those frequencies until they reached Vega's ears. "So dark, that you have to become what you hate in order to survive. I did what I was told...because they taught me to fear death. They claimed it was worse. That killing children was worse. And I believed them!" He balled a hand into a fist and slammed it upon his cot, the only object in that tiny tent-space that he could attack without heavy consequences. "How hopeless must one become? Did you know--" he struggled now with his pitch; it wavered and vacillated, cresting and falling outside of his own control, "that our specific instructions were to maim them? Not just kill them...but to destroy them? I only later found out that this was because...if you could kill a child, and deface one, and torture them until dead...you could kill anyone. Anything. Without a second thought. That is not humanity, Vega. Or strength. Let alone purity," he almost spat. "Yes, I was able to find some untarnished droplet of myself in here. I performed a face-turn. I escaped. But it was all due to that necklace. Now that it's...nothing," he said, almost inaudibly, "will I...revert? Will I lose what I've worked so hard to attain all these years? Will I...shut down?" 

At last, he turned around to face Vega. Tears swam in his stricken green eyes, but he no longer made the attempt to hide them. She already knew of his current, ailing state. To conceal anything from her was to deny himself the ability to address the problem. He was lost. Hurting. Tortured. And it terrified him. "I...didn't have to do it, you say?" He began, taking from the Skyknight's guilt-ridden speech and chewing those words in his head until he found the appropriate response: anger. Because anger was preferable to the complex subtleties that afflicted the hopeless. It gave him power. Control. Something he desperately needed. "And if I had let you die--what then!? What would it have all meant, Vega? Everything that I did...only to have you fall under my hand. Still, you wanted to die that way, damning the very person responsible?! Don't demean my sacrifices, Vega...I in no way have demeaned yours." That anger fizzled, was doused, like a bucket to the flame, leaving him huffing and confused as he sat upon the cot. He clamped a hand over the puffy scar over his wrist--all that was left of his humanity, on display. At least...that's what he first thought.

"Thank you, Vega. Because of your intervention, I can walk again. I won't forget it." Then, he felt a familiar weight upon his hand, intermingled with her soft touch. He looked in time to see her closing his fingers over the small roc carving that he had spent many hours in crafting. Opening his hand, he regarded the figure, rolling it around in his palm, until he shook his head and returned it to her, dangling it before her eyes by the leather thong. 

"No. This is yours. The only significance that it holds for me is that I made it for you." He pulled it over her head, where it hung once again in its rightful spot over her chest. "It belongs there, Vega. I won't take it from you. Perhaps," he glanced, forlorn, at the tarnished pendant to his right, all crusted and black with grime, "it was time. I looked upon this necklace with adulation, for too long. It was unhealthy. It prevented me from truly living, because I believed that it was all I needed--and it would never leave me. But everything fades, eventually. ...Everything dies." Patting his hand on the cot, he invited the Eyraillan princess to sit upon the empty spot beside him. "Even you. Especially you. Someone needs to look after you in earnest--to ensure this outcome never comes true until your body and mind are ready." Slinging his arm over his chest, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in a reverent salute. "Sir Vega Sorde--allow me to be that sword, to be that hand. Let me shield you from all that do you harm. You will find that I do not so easily die--even without my protective amulet." Opening his eyes, he gazed at the woman who so viewed him as perfect for her. Despite all that he had done, she still...loved him. And now that he had nothing left for himself, nothing on which to cling...

It's time....to move on.

Planting his hands upon her waist, he shimmied her close and, after searching her pale blue eyes for unspoken consent, leaned forward and planted her a kiss. 

My necklace is gone. Perhaps even my sanity...but you're not. Not yet. Not yet...

He was inconsolable, and Vega was by no means confident that she could put an end to the cycle, an end to the tears. Never had she witnessed the mercenary in such a raw, vulnerable, bleeding emotional state, and it shook her to realize that someone so solid and steadfast could be reduced to everything that he had strived so hard to hide. "No... no, you're misunderstanding me." Feeling so helpless in the face of his own helplessness, the Eyraillian princess hardly knew what to say. There was nothing she could say to change how he felt. "I did not... want to die by your hand, Haraldur. I did not want to die at all, but if I had to, if I did die... then it would have been all right." Vega closed her eyes on an inhale, recalling the fragmented memory. "I remember dying... both times. The first time, I was cold and afraid and remorseful that I could not say goodbye. But the second time... I can't remember much. Only that you were there, and that I was so aware of your presence that I was reassured. Even if you had dealt me a final blow, you... being there, simply being you, I felt that everything would be all right. And you were forgiven before I drifted..."

He had every right to be angry, she knew, and yet it hurt to be the receptacle for that hard emotion. Maybe I deserve it. Even as that fervor dimmed, and his shoulders slouched, deflated, she couldn't help but feel like the shadow of failure, standing before him. He could walk again, certainly; he could fight again. But was that really what would be best for him? Particularly now that he had lost that last, precious link to his past? "Stop. You know that I would never demean your sacrifices, Haraldur; I would never so much as consider it." Her soft tone carried an edge of firmness, her words purposeful, meaningful. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep herself grounded, focused. Careful, for the mercenary was more breakable than he had ever been in his entire life, more than likely. And she couldn't help him. "But if I had known that you would wish for my revival yet again... and if I had known that it would deplete the magic of your pendant, I would have told you know. I would have refused." I would rather have died than make you lose the most precious thing in your life.

"So... take it. You put your heart into this carving; I know, because I could feel it, whenever I wore it. Perhaps you can find that part of your heart in it, as well, and reclaim it." But he refused. Against her sincerest wishes, she allowed Haraldur to replace the pendant around her neck, where it hung parallel to her heart. Listening, instead of speaking, the Skyknight took a seat next to him on his cot, easing herself slowly down, as if she was afraid her weight on the shoddy bed would further upset his delicate balances. 
And she all but broke apart when, not for the first time, Haraldur pledged himself to her. "Stop. Haraldur..." With gentle fingers, she pried his hand from his shoulder, breaking the salute. "You are not the only soldier here; and I am not in need of protection." Grasping his shoulders, she waited for his gaze to meet hers. "We both lead lives that place us in death's line of fire. And I think we have both accepted that, by now. I do not want a protector, or a champion; I do not need one, contrary to what my close calls might tell you." Close calls were hardly the right term, for one who had not only greeted death, but had allowed it to take her by the hand and lead her soul away from her body... But that did not make her weak. It did not put her in a position where she needed protection. If anything, she stood stronger and more durable than ever before. She had cheated death; perhaps she and the mercenary were more alike in that way than she had thought.

But although the idea of a protector seemed absurd to the Eyraillian princess, having someone who looked out for her, who not only cared about the status of her wellbeing, but about her as a person... Guiltily, Vega was forced to admit that there was some appeal to not suffering alone. To having company when injured, or care when ill, or even an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on those nights when she could not bear the weight of that invisible lead upon her shoulders. The weight of a kingdom and abandonment, of responsibility and status... all things from which she could never truly be protected, things which she could not avoid.
But that did not nullify the possibility that Haraldur could be of help to her, in these areas. The question remained, however, whether he would want to be there for her in those ways. After all, he could not deny that her ressurection had affected him, had distanced him. And she could not be sure that his foray into the most forbidden recesses of his mind had changed his stance on what their relationship meant.

Even as his hands encircled her waist, and his lips met hers in what seemed like the first time in ages, uncertainty spoiled the sweet moment for Vega. Hands still resting atop his bare shoulders, she was helpless but to return the kiss. It was a gesture that she had craved for so long--in fact, since the last time they had held one another so intimately. It felt so long ago that it might as well have been a dream. And in the here and now, she was so exhausted, and so dumbfounded by his revival, that at the first warmth of a tear trickling down her cheek, the gradual deluge that followed was beyond her control. "I don't want a protector." The Skyknight reiterated when they separated, inches between their two tear-strewn faces. "Before I... died. Before my soul departed that first time, I got to know someone who made me feel like I am more than a piece in this war... Someone who saw value and worth in me as a person. Someone who... who made me feel worthy. And I didn't even have to prove myself." Hastily wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she smiled gently. "No one has ever made me feel valid for merely existing; no one has made me feel valid, at all... I was sure that I would traverse my life, always looking for the next opportunity to earn my right to be alive, especially after deserting a throne that was intended for me."

Brushing blood-crusted locks of hair from Haraldur's forehead, Vega offered him a soft smile, one that embodied all that was left of her hope for a future--however long the future would last--that was not defined merely by name and blood and ties to her kingdom. Haraldur represented the potential for that future. "I don't need to be protected. But I do need... I do need you, Haraldur. Can you be that person, again? That man who was not afraid to show me his scars, and did not judge me for my own lack of them... because that person did better than merely protect my life. That person... he renewed my faith in leading any life at all." Searching his eyes, so tear-filled with raw emotion, she wanted little more than to hold and comfort the tortured soldier until it all stopped hurting. But it would never stop hurting; and Haraldur had too much dignity for that. "Stay with me; be my equal. And we... we will protect each other."

"That does not make you noble, Vega." A hard splinter of anger bit itself into his discourse before he could prevent its insertion. "I'm not misunderstanding you, because you're delivering the same argument. You would have refused my help, my aid, and allowed yourself to die from wounds that I caused--all so I could keep my pendant alive? That is what you're saying?" His mouth twisted into an agonized grimace. "This is all my doing. I paid the price. The pendant is gone because of me. You wouldn't have helped by saving it. The pain of having to watch you die twice..." He shook his head and failed to elaborate, though his silence spoke more than any words he had intended to say--if he had intended to say anything at all. 

In another instance of wounded anger, he snapped his eyes open when, in midst of his salute, she had interrupted his stance, pulling his arm free from its respectful deference. That was when he counteracted her refusal of his service with a kiss, long and lingering, purposeful, needful. Like filling holes on a pockmarked, unsteady ground. He was using her, he admitted to himself. She happened to be there, at a time of his greatest need. And he, selfishly, took advantage of the physicality that her presence had offered him. The soft, vibrating hum of her lips, the press of her bosom against his chest, the hurried, staccatoed notes of her breathing...

But it did not last. She broke away, and spoke her continued denial of the only genuine aspects of himself he found most suitable to give: his body, his service...his life. What else did he have, then? How else could he show his ultimate devotion, and ensure, not only for her sake but for his own, that he was capable of keeping her safe, if not for his pledge? Yes, she was clear in expressing that she wanted only his love, but he was not comfortable in reciprocating if he could not reinforce their relationship with protective measures. If she was to be as important to him as his pendant, then he was determined to keep her safe and, most of all--alive. 

Of the many superstitions he had on death, he was understandably concerned with those who had cheated it. And Vega had gone a few steps further than he, in regards to crossing over the threshold and back again--no thanks to his interference. This disregard of the rules of nature could mean that Vega was in near-constant danger of falling back into eternal sleep. Already, she had succumbed once, and almost twice, in the span of several weeks. And while he considered himself unfit to be her protector, as he had almost destroyed her life anew, he would not make that mistake a second time. No. Too much now hinged on her remaining alive. She was his last and final reserve. His singular reason for fighting. Something precious that required protection. And he would be damned if he did not perform his duty by her, in spite of her claims that wished for the contrary. 

He wanted to tell her all of this, to tell her with unwavering gaze, with staunch, disciplined ardor, that he would see to her life no matter what, and if she did not like it, then may all the stars in the sky strike him down. It was not enough just to be by her side. He wanted--needed for her to feel safe, and to be the one to provide it. He wanted to express these desires to her with confidence and grace. Instead...he bowed his head, and took her hands into his own. His tone became supplicant, his eyes pleading. "Please," he began, quietly, "let me protect you. Even if it's by name only. You may not want a protector, but I need...to protect. You have to understand...it's the only way I can move on from my past. Let me do this for you." He removed his hands, and indicated them at the bare top half of his body, beset with all his ruinous scars--complete with new ones. "I am as open to you as I ever have been, Vega. I will be here, this time. I'll be present. I will love you...but do me this one favor. ...And I will stay. Except..."

He suddenly remembered his promise to the necromancer, Vitali. The debt he owed him--no doubt doubled now that the glib and chipper man had gone out of his way to free him from Messino's camp. With a groan of a sigh, he ran a hand past his eyes, drying them of their tears, and then resting his palm upon his forehead. "I do have a prior commitment. I don't know when it will come to pass, but when it does...the necromancer. He owns me by now."

Tivia was afforded only the tiniest of peeks into the drama that surrounded a newly-rescued Haraldur and the trials that he and those involved had needed to endure. Were she more included, she would have volunteered any of her services to help. After all, the mercenary had saved her life, and he had always been kind to her, and...her heart did ache whenever she saw him--try as she could to deny the silly notions of her most girlish of fantasies. It was unrequited, she knew. The hot-headed Eyraillan princess had intertwined her destiny with his own, and the stars seemed to confirm as much. But still, she liked to dream that she, instead of Alster, was the one who had delved into Haraldur's mind, and was instrumental to the healing of his legs. That if she had the capability for such talent, Haraldur would overlook Vega Sorde in favor of Tivia Rigas, and...

And then what!? 

For one, she was hideous. What man would find her half-charred appearance charming, or even adequately appealing? She was once a beauty, her long silver-blonde hair often tied or braided in ribbons, her long-lashed round eyes expressive, owlish...inquisitive. And now, her two greatest features were practically gone! One eye remained, and two inches of patchy, wiry hair crowned her head like tufts of weeds. But maybe, he would have seen past her wretched, wrecked, waifish form, in favor of what she truly carried with her on the inside. Two, her family would never allow fraternization with an outsider--although, she argued, Chara and Alster were having resounding successes in their extra-familial affairs. Why, then, couldn't she? And third...she was young. At seventy-two years of age, she scarcely qualified as an adult. And despite her youth...it did not stave off her steady loss of her sanity, her hearing, or her ability to parse truth from dream. Day by day, she was feeling each of her toes raise away from the ground. And, now that Alster had returned to preoccupy Elespeth's attention, and whatever stirrings of a relationship with Vega had ended, and the hope of engaging Haraldur failed before it could ever take wing, Tivia was alone. Why, then, would they ever care about some pathetic Rigas as a companion, when all they needed was each other? 

She suddenly felt inadequate. Meaningless--save for whatever insights she could provide to whoever had asked. The stars, in comparison, felt much closer. More accessible. Perhaps if she turned her attention on where she was needed, instead of focusing so much energy on where she was unwanted...

Tivia trekked around camp in the dead of night. She was silent, stealthy, but she needn't worry about discretion. It was not like the Tadasuni guards regarded her presence as anything worth noting, or protecting. They were more likely to view her as a non-entity, a spectre--something they should avoid. The feeling was mutual. 

Finding an ideal vantage point just shy of the boundaries of camp, Tivia sat cross-legged on the cool but dry grasses of the now-empty training field--and she looked up at the stars. 

"Maybe you can answer a question for me, this time," she told them, a little heat in her words. "Where...where is my future? As a slave to you? Always to you!?" 

She closed her good eye, and the unmarred side of her mouth contorted into the permanent scowl that was branded into her left side. Might as well add symmetry to my ugliness...

He was so... fragile. A word that Vega never thought she would associate with the sturdy, seemingly invincible warrior. But his slate green eyes were like fractured pieces of glass, shimmering under a weepy layer of tears, and it tugged the Eyraillian's heart all the way to her stomach. That extra weight in her gut interfered with her emotions, with her sympathy and concern, and though she likely should have let the topic drop and tell Haraldur what she knew he wanted to hear, the Skyknight found herself wholly unable to oblige. "Noble? I am not trying to be noble, Haraldur." Fortunately, in spite of the low, humourless murmur of her words, they did not replicate that splinter of frustration that the mercenary's emanated. "I am trying to be human--just like you. And I am subject to the same flaws as you. And if I have to apologize for valuing your life, for mistakenly thinking that your pendant was worth more than my survival... then fine. You have my damned apology."

The bitter undertone was short lived, expiring as soon as Haraldur bowed his head... and begged her to agree, to comply. His struggles with his own sense of guilt and how it compromised his self-worth was no mystery, particularly not after what she had witnessed in the hellscape that was his subconscious mind... But the extent to which he sought external validation, beyond even what she sought in her own right, was appalling. It shattered her to think that he would consider himself worthless without something to protect, some purpose for his physical body, for what he was trained to do. You fool--why can you not see that you are worth so much more to me than that?! Vega wanted to shout at him. She wanted to slap sense into him, physically and figuratively, but knowing how breakable he was right now, and how desperate he was for meaning, to move on from the past that still haunted him...
Now was not the time to address how wrong he was in how he weighed his value--and frankly, the princess was not one to talk.

Taking his face gently into her hands, Vega pressed a kiss to his bowed forehead, her lips lingering for several seconds before she withdrew. "If this is what it takes for you to heal, Haraldur... if this is what you feel you need to put the past behind you for good, then I accept. But only on one condition." She waited for him to look up, for his glass-green eyes to meet hers. "If you are to be my protector, my guardian... then I implore you protect not only my living body, but my heart, as well. I am tired of falling to pieces, all alone in the dead of night. And I am tired of turning to wine as my only source of reprieve. Time and again, and more often than not, I will need someone to remind me the importance of persevering... are you willing to take on that task, Haraldur? To be more than just a sword and a shield?"

Before he could answer, the Skyknight seized his mouth in another kiss; a demanding one that spoke volumes for her own strong will, while simultaneously clarifying that, regardless of what he wanted to be to her, however he wanted to define their relationship, she was not willing to let him slip through her fingers again. "You are so much more than your ability to wield a sword." Her lips murmured against his, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders again, before one dropped further to cover his heart. "Can't you see that? You did not ask to be born into this world; you need not look for reasons to remain a part of it, to live your life. Slowly... I am learning that lesson myself. With your help; you are helping me realize that my heartbeat... in and of itself, it is enough. It is worthy. And so is yours." Pressing her palm flat against his breastbone, she felt the reassuring rhythm of his strong heartbeat, a feeling that warmed her chest and her cheeks. No, she could not lose him again; not to Andalari, not to the necromancer... not to anyone. 
Haraldur had fought for her, taken measures that she never imagined anyone would pursue for the lkes of her. And she would be damned if she did not reciprocate, whether he liked it or not.

Determination flickered in her azure eyes, a dangerous glint that suggested whatever was on her mind was driven by passion and emotion, with reason only secondarily coming into play--if at all. "No. Nobody owns you but you, Haraldur. From this day forth, you will not bend to the will of any other man--do you understand? You are your own person, and should anyone take issue with that, then they can answer to your sword... or to my lance." As if sudden revelation struck, Vega withdrew her hands from Haraldur's person, and was on her feet in seconds. "The necromancer--he is here, is he not? He was the one to bring you here, on horseback..." A dangerous, perhaps reckless look befell the princess's features, like a solar eclipse in her eyes. "I will gladly inform him that he can find his recompense elsewhere, from someone else. I care little that he was the one to drag my soul past death's threshold; you are not his pawn, to use as he pleases. Those days... for you, those days are over."

"Are you preparing for a future argument with a fortune teller? Or is one merely to assume that you are insane?" From the shadows, the necromancer had been watching the young Rigas caster since she had found a seat, all alone, upon the trampled grass of the training ground. It was mere coincidence that their paths had crossed, for the fact that the Tadasuni had only just determined he was not a threat to them, for the mere fact that they could not find him guilty of anything opposing their wishes (that, and he had yet to reveal to them not only that he was magiclly adept, but the nature of his abilities), and had thus let him go. It struck him as odd that the first person he would cross after being freed of his incarceration was yet another Rigas caster. She had to be; he could practically smell the pretentious air about them a mile away, and she had the telltale physical traits, the blonde hair and blue eyes... well, at least one side of her did.

Stepping into the starlight, hands plunged into the deep pockets of his violet waistcoat, Vitali approached the young woman who spoke into the night like it was her companion with whom she was at odds. Immediately he noted how she spared him a single glance before looking away, tucking the disfigured side of her face into her shoulder. What an shame for her, he thought with a tsk, knowing well the family's vanity and superficial tendencies. He couldn't help but wonder if it would make her an outcast; then again, there must have been a reason why she wasn't hiding away in her ivory tower in Stella D'Mare, along with the rest of her kin. The only Rigas caster that he expected to see in the dregs of this shoddy encampment was Alster, and only because he had known all along that the Atvanian warrior would successfully sabotage his attempt to kill himself (to think, the fool had been so certain that he would no find out!). "So quick to take offense, hm?" Shaking his head, he decided this wretched-looking creature was worth his curosity (though perhaps not much more), and took a few steps closer. "I only jest, Miss; on the contrary, I have always been a strong believe that those who speak with the unseen are in fact too sane; they know too much, see too much, hear too much... After all, sanity is merely a social construct, relative to the expectations of the people who define it."

Still, she said nothing. Maybe a few crucial components of her mind were crumbling to bits, or else she was just being rude. Either way, he was not particularly deterred. "You are a relation of Alster and Chara Rigas, are you not? Apologies for my prying; I only ask for the fact that you bear a striking resemblance to that particular family. My name is Vitali; I have worked rather closely with some of your kin, this past handful of months.

In his current state of appeasement, Haraldur appeared contrite, somber, and willing to comply to any one of Vega's demands--or well-meaning haranguing. It was his extensive soldier's training, and later, his mercenary path, that made it easy for him to obey orders and contracts, much as he liked to think he'd departed from such unconditional obligations. He was no longer a slave; however, his road since then, while an autonomous one, was always linked in service to others. Refugees, lords and ladies, armies, his varied clientele--he worked alongside them all. He, therefore, could not help but see many of his discussions as contracts-in-making. But he prepared himself especially for the Skyknight's ultimatum, as he foresaw it as something far different than what he was used to providing.

He was right. 

It was a tall order. For five long years, he had denied his heart, thinking it no longer capable of love. And while he had earlier assured her that he would love her, his new idea of love compared to hers was different in conception--and execution. Honestly, he did not know if he could still feel romantically for another as he did with Arina. While he harbored strong affections for the Eyraillan princess, enough to risk his freedom, his own two legs, and his pendant, he did not feel right in calling it love--because he did not know for what reasons he fought to preserve her status upon this world. Out of guilt? Devotion? A purpose? Past dues? Recompense he felt was owed to her? The satisfaction of martyrdom? Or...was he in denial? Did he love her? 

Only time would tell. 

Their lips locked again, sudden and swift but with a passion that tasted of fire without the burn. He accepted generously, launching into her assault and caring not for any wounds he'd sustain in the slinging of her mouth against his. But when she withdrew, he felt a chill that, if possible, left him more exposed, more baby-soft and newborn and breakable, than before. She was accomplished in filling his void, an able remedy to his surfaced troubles. However, she was just as adept in scooping up his insides and yet again leaving him hollow--an empty chamber of solitude. His hands sought her cheeks, those apple-red mounts that burnished beneath the pulsing of his thumbs. He didn't want their connection severed, or the radiance to smolder and fade. It was when he realized that even if he did yet love her, he would not find satisfaction in merely protecting her from harm. The core, her heart--he wanted that, too. 

"You'll have it," he promised, his whisper like streams of smoke ready to rekindle into flame. He kissed her nose, then her eyelids, as his fingers thumbed her pert, swollen lips. "A sword, a shield, and...someone to hold your heart. Just don't think that mine, in turn, will be great company. It's...far too malformed to match up to your expectations. And...I know I can do more than wield a sword, Vega," he offered, his eyebrows knitting together as he prepared to dredge painful revelations. "I practically raised my sister. Tilled a farm in place of my drunken father. Led groups of displaced peoples over mountain ranges. Loved. Married. But all those endeavors have been catastrophic failures that have almost always ended in death. My only successes thus far have been in the taking of lives. That's why it's imperative for me to protect you, Vega. To prove...that I can redefine my sword. And maybe then...I can find value beyond it yet again." 

He leaned forward, about ready to cinch his words with another kiss, but he recognized the sea-froth pushing to shore in her churning blue eyes, and his own eyes lit with alarm. Anticipating her thought process, he shot to his feet in time with her irrationality-fueled rise, grabbed her shoulders, and skewed her balance until she fell easily atop the cot--with him following shortly thereafter. As he towered above her, he pinned her arms and legs--as he had done once before, when Elespeth had prepared to sear her open flesh shut with a heated knife. He was there to burn a wound closed--of the sort. Only, he used his mouth, and branded it upon hers in a long, enduring kiss. Only when he felt her relax and settle down did he release her from his prison of arms and legs and lips. But he continued to remain in a position to block her, in case she still planned an escape.

"As your protector, I advise you to stand down, Vega," he said, breathy but firm, his brow gathering into a knot of warning. "Vitali abides only by his own law. He won't care for whatever trifles you have with him, because it won't matter to him what you think. You are alive because of him, and can just as easily die because of him. The man is dangerous, but I'm familiar with his ilk. Leave him to me, Vega. And stay out of it. We made a fair bargain--and I will not saddle someone else with a duty that is my own to face." He sat up on the cot, his entire body following suit with its mechanical, calculated pivots--a cold-hearted soldier in full form. "If you're worried that he'll rise against me, I can overtake him if need be. Forbanne," hesitation crept in his voice, "...many of us...were taken from magically gifted families or parents. They...experimented on our latent gifts. That's why they wanted us young. Flexible. They tweaked us mercilessly. Twisted our potential to their liking. ...Until we showed favorable results: magic resistance. A brutal combination with a sword. It's a cushion. Extra reinforcement." With one hand, he reached over to snatch the black-corroded necklace from the edge of the cot. In one fluid motion, he attached it around his neck. The ruined pendant swung in pendulous motions. "And I still have this. I'll wear it until it crumbles. Now," he leveled his eyes at her, "promise you'll let me handle this. That you'll defer to my expertise in this matter. I am, after all, a mercenary. And in a way, so is he." 

Startled into a sharp gasp, Tivia reflexively hid her face into her sleeve and whipped her dominant half towards her aggressor. Even with her eye well-adjusted to the night, she could scarcely see the discourteous man, owing to his dark dress, his dark locks, and his overall dark...presence. He oozed with noxious energy, so familiar in scope to the Serpent, with elements of Alster's own unmistakable make-up that had blossomed over the last few months...and she knew now of the company she had attracted. A reflexive shiver rattled at her bony shoulders. Vitali. The man who had cursed Alster to sleep, who had, for a price, contributed to his awakening. The necromancer who used his most unholy powers to pry a dead woman from the netherworld, and the desperate warrior who had accepted his demands for the sake of who he had lost...

He was also the same necromancer who fished the aforementioned warrior out of Messino's camp, thus solidifying his chances of recovery. Yes, the rescue was to the sniveling one's own benefit, but she could not discount the benefits of his actions, even if they were for ill reasons. 

However, she still did not like him, despite his...understanding, even insightful views on her situation, which bespoke of something akin to...commiseration. She shook her head fervently, and banished the thought. This was not what I meant by company, she groaned inwardly--and wished she were alone, again. 

"I am Tivia Rigas," she ventured to say, the only words she could think to utter, which would not give away any implied emotion--though it was not for long. The confirmation of his name sent hairy spider legs up and down the back of her neck. "I know who you are," she snapped, bordering on hostility. She held her arm over her face, as if to use it as a club against him. "You are a leech. Despicable, what you've done to my family. Using them for your own ends...helping and hurting and helping--all for your private gains. Without an ounce of remorse! And how, praytell, are you going to use that mercenary?!" She tried to sound detached when she uttered mercenary, but her cheeks flushed a pale rose, and she lowered her head to hide her reaction. 

"And now you are here to--to what? To mock me? To find something worth using, so you can have proper leverage the next time you want to make a bargain with a Rigas? Do me a favor, and just dis--"

But her final, biting note did not arrive. A sharp, stabbing, but familiar pain gouged at her ears, followed by that oh-so haunting screech of trillions all expressing their demands into her too small, too unprepared vessel. She shivered and writhed, her teeth twisting into her bottom lip, drawing blood, which her ears had begun to dribble in dark, oily droplets. 

"Now you decide to speak up?!" She hissed, batting at the air around her as if warding away pesky gnats and mosquitoes. "One at a time--do you not understand the quantity of ONE? Or one THOUSAND?!" she roared, too distracted to resume fighting with someone she saw as no longer worth her time--not when a whole auditory congregation worked her head like wrenching pulp out of an orange via its navel.

Caught off guard by Haraldur's forceful hands on her shoulders, a flash of panic seared through the Skyknight's veins when she found herself immobilized on the cot. Brief flashbacks of cauterizing her flesh wound shook her to the core, but the residual trauma did not last. Not as soon as she felt the warm pressure of the mercenary's lips against her's, and the weight of his body quickly became a reassurance instead of a hindrance. Heat stirred low in her abdomen, as she--against her better judgment--submitted to the passionate moment, temporarily ridding her mind of what had been plaguing her with concern; and, of her intention to confront the necromancer.
The spell only broke (much to her disappointment) when Haraldur pulled away and removed himself from the cot.

Irrationally, that stirring heat in her abdomen changed colour and began to boil, and what had seconds ago been passion for the moment and the man who had initiated it transformed into frustration. Sitting up, she heard Haraldur out in his demand, noted the fear in his eyes at the very thought of her confronting the necromancer, Vitali Kristeva. So this is how it is going to be, she thought with disdain, pressing her lips into a thin line. Was he so afraid for her life, so determined to protect her, that he would refuse to allow her to put herself in harm's way? Or was it merely that he feared Vitali and what he was capable of to such an extent, that he dreaded the result of their encounter? More than likely, it was a bit of both, and neither of them sat well with the Eyraillian princess. She commanded the Skyknights of her kingdom; she could not, would not live behind the scenes of this war for Haraldur's peace of mind, and he would need to come to accept that. Eventually.

But now is not the time, she reminded herself. Not while he was newly healed, physically. And not while, mentally and emotionally, the wounds that were not visible continued to drain of them toxic contents.

Her mouth twisting into a shape that suggested she was far from appeased. "I will not deny you the title of my protector, Haraldur. In fact, when this war comes to an end, I will have it written officially, and you, if you so desire, may even wear the Eyraillian uniforms that our soldiers sport." Running a hand over her braid, she noted the thong that tied it at the end must have come loose at some point, as her wavy copper locks shifted loose of the weave and draped down her back. "And if you wish me to leave the necromancer to you... then have it your way. I will not interfere. But know that I will not stand down from my position as a soldier of my kingdom to cater to your need to keep me alive, because I cannot do that. I plan to fight Andalari; I want to take on Messino, for all the pain that the man has caused. And I will; so in that, you will just have to trust my capability in keeping myself alive. I can and will hold my own."

Inhaling and breathing out her frustration on an exhale, the Skyknight stood, her face drawn and tired, but the spark of her blue eyes determined. "But know this: I will not let another man claim you, your services, as his own. Especially not the necromancer. You can deal with your bargain as you will, but if I suspect for one moment that he means to enslave you in return for restoring my life..." She trailed off, looking away from Haraldur's warm, green eyes, knowing she would not like what she found in their depths. "Know that I will not allow it to happen. He cannot have you, and if you cannot stop him, then I will."

The air between them in the aftermath of their declarations felt unsteady, uneasy, and Vega found herself unsure of what to do. Was her presence more of a hindrance than a help? Was the mercenary better off taking some time to himself, without her to stir up uncomfortable emotions and worries?
Eyes softening to a calmer, sky blue, the princess rested her hands upon Haraldur's shoulders, and gently kneaded the knots out of his muscles. "I'm sorry; I don't want to argue with you." She felt the need to apologize, not quite regretting her frustration, but regretting the duress under which the mercenary fell because of it. "You should relax, after what you've been through. Tell me what you need, and I can retrieve it for you. Water, blankets... whatever you desire."

"How lovely, that my fame has reached the ears of those with whom I am hardly acquainted. I am flattered." The smug grin that ruled Vitali's fair features widened, and he inclined his head politely. "A pleasure to meet you, Tivia Rigas. All the better to get to know the broad expanse of your family. Contrary to your opinion of me, I have found your eloquent lot rather enjoyable to work with... Well, with the exception of your venerable leader. Though if my intuition serves me, I do believe that death awaits him at his doorstep." At least, that was the feeling that had stirred in his gut, the last time he had had dealings with Adalfieri Rigas. And if his years of expertise had taught him anything, it was that his gut feelings never let him down. Which, he thought in hindsight, might likely be a source of despair for the woman before him, although he couldn't help but wonder if her loyalties to the Rigas head held quite as firm as they had before, especially given her condition, and the fact that she was stuck here among the Tadasuni as opposed to resting comfortably in her Rigas villa.

Whether or not she took offense to his prediction, it was clear (although not at all surprising) that she did not take kindly to his presence. Considering thta few did, her words did not deter him from this curious encounter. "Something tells me you are one of the lucky ones, however. Death came close, didn't it? Left its haunting fingerprints all over you... and then some." He eyed the ruined half of her face, not in disgust, but intrigue. "What was worse, Tivia Rigas? Your excruciating run-in with the afterlife, or what you are focred to live with in the aftermath?"

Unsurprisingly, his not-so-innocent inquiry was met with a rather entertaining bout of fury. She was a Rigas, all right; spoke like one, sounded like one, only it was evident in every one of her obious tells that she lacked the confidence of the steadfast Chara Rigas, and even the determination of Alster. An outcast, he thought; perhaps by choice, but regardless, what she had suffered her would differentiate her from the rest of her kin forever, beyond her shocking appearance.
And no sooner did she suddenly cease her diatribe, condemning him and wishing him away with vehemence, that he realized just how right he was.

The necromancer took a step back to allow the frantically hysterical woman room to scream her rants. But... at whom, exactly, were they directed? Or, rather... at what?
Looking skyward, Vitali had his answer right away.

"Interesting... a Star Teller?" Figuring that the Rigas woman would violently refuse help if he offered any, the necromancer watched and waited while Tivia suffered her episode, blood seeping from her ears and onto her clothes. He waited and waited, until she quieted, crumpled upon the cold ground in a pathetic heap, before daring to near and pull a handkerchief from his coat pocket. Kneeling next to her, he offered her the small, square cloth to sop up the blood, though had the courtesty (not to mention the good sense) not to touch her. "My, you bear a hard burden, don't you? That ability..." His brows knit together pensively. "I was a child, the last time I witnessed it. Rare, beautiful... tragic."

"Vega." The residual intensity had rinsed from Haraldur's concentrated features; suddenly, he appeared much older, haggard--tired. His militant zealousness petered out of him in a sigh. And, to demonstrate a more cooperative side, he returned to the cot and sat upon it, broadening the space between himself and Vega, and affording her a clear exit from the tent, should she so desire it. Spreading his legs wide, he slumped forward, idly wringing his hands together. "I said I would protect you, not inhibit your freedoms. I'm not looking to control every aspect of your life. Then I would be no better than a slave-master with a whip." He looked a little sickened by that analogy, and his hands wrung tighter. 

"I'd never expect you to resign any of your posts and responsibilities. You are Eyraillan's princess, a Skyknight, and its chief commander. Lead your men. Go about your duties as usual. But in all of that, I will watch your back--and you won't ever need to know I'm there." He checked the beds of his nails: all grown back from the pendant's healing so flawlessly, it was as though they had never been wrenched from their moorings. Yet, he still felt the phantom pain of their slow, ceaseless snapping, the ripping of nerves, the unrelenting pressure and that most profound of releases. The culmination. The reward. The punishment. Haraldur burrowed his nails beneath his palms, hiding them from view. 

"I've fought alongside many brave, skilled, fearless warrior women. Eris is one such candidate. I would never dare strip you of your will to fight. I never have with any of them. I've only ever stepped in when necessary. That's what I'm doing now, Vega. I'm stepping in. Vitali is not the man you prod with a stick, and I will not see you surrender your life to the one who made its restart possible. He holds far too much over you. And he won't have me, either. Look at it as a simple transaction. He did me a favor. Several, in fact. In turn, I owe him the same. If I see his terms as unfair, or unequal, then I will take the appropriate action. That's all you have to concern yourself with now, Vega." He tried to soften the severe lines along the ridges of his mouth and eyes, but all he managed was a halfhearted nod in her direction. 

However, he did manage to relax his shoulders, and it helped doubly when Vega joined him on the cot and worked at the tender spots that were all bunched up in the same, unruly bundles across his back. With a satisfied grunt, he craned his neck to view Vega from his periphery, silently admiring the wave of fire-red that erupted from the crown of her head, tousling down her shoulders and back. "I need water, some food, and," He sniffed the air, "a bath." He shifted off the bed and found a pile of clothes left for him by the Tadasuni healers. He slipped on a shirt, a pair of trousers, which he slid over his ratty ones, and some sheepskin boots. "But I'd like to accompany you. Now that I can walk, I don't want to while away my hours inside a tent, resting upon a cot. But,," an eyebrow shot testily upward, challenging the Skyknight to read his thoughts, "afterward, what I really want...is you. That is what--who--I desire."

Whatever Vitali had relayed to Tivia, it buzzed past her ears like a vibration. When the stars deigned to speak with her, they did not follow proper social etiquette or politesse, and interrupted earth-bound conversations by projecting a clamorous riot, thereby interrupting each other...until all was an unending patchwork of sound. These encounters were now commonplace for Tivia, but they still came as quite a shock, initially, and took concentrated bursts of magic and meditation to either silence, or to hone--depending on what she hoped to gain from the encounter. Unless, of course, a star thought its Word was of most import, and somehow found the means to scream the loudest--in which case, she could not control whether or not she wanted to receive the message at all. Oftentimes, this was the result. And, as she suspected, one star in particular made itself heard, and rattled each bone in her body with such force that they felt detached from their joints. In spatial, disarrayed limbo. 

Once the sensation had ended, she opened her good eye, all bubbly and bleary as if it too had almost melted into her face with the force of that star's poignant energy passing through her very mortal, very breakable person. She stared out at a series of black dots, her sight so saturated by pure, celestial light, that she feared these frequent encounters would permanently blind, as well as deafen her before long. 

Now that night surrendered into some semblance of order, and the only sound in her ears was a high and low-ringing buzz, she could at last hear and see the contours of her most irksome 'gentleman' caller, including the handkerchief he procured for her. Defeatedly, she took it from his hands and dabbed around her throbbing ears with the white cloth, all the while viewing him carefully beneath her hooded lid. 

"We call them...sky-seers," she said, with faltering voice as she lapped up the blood. "And thank you for your commentary. I am well aware of the 'tragedy' behind my unfortunate affliction. That star in particular was adamant about having its voice heard above all the other raucous seagulls up there. All fighting in competition for one measly crumb." She pointed at herself, then sighed as she continued to dab at the blood. "Is it true, what you've seen of Adalfieri Rigas? Because that star...Adalfieri's own star visited me. Powerful, chthonic resonance surrounds him. Swallows him. And with it...a darkness to overtake all of Stella D'Mare. Once he dies...there are unprecedented horrors in store for all. And the star told me our venerable head's plans," before she continued, she remembered her audience, and grimaced. "...about which you should know nothing!" Rising, no, stumbling to her feet, she twisted one way, then the other, too disoriented to find any noticeable landmarks in the sprawl of camp. "I should...get to Alster. Where is....where is..." but she could only take one step, for her head, so overtaken with vertigo, could not navigate upright. She trippled and landed into a heap upon the ground.

Whether he realized it or not, the mercenary had a way of reaching her with his words, and one by one, they untangled the knots of frustration that caused the Skyknight to bite the insides of her cheeks until they tasted raw and metallic. Perhaps it was through his solid friendship with the Atvanian warrior, Eris, with whom the Skyknight had much in common. Both women wieldng weapons made for men, driven to fight and protect instead of be protected, the two of them had a lot to prove, not only to the world but to themselves. And no matter how much she loved Haraldur, how fiercely she wished to heal those wounds inside of him that still bled and drained of infection, she was not sure she could agree to reinvent herself, her purpose, for that sake. She had to fight for Eyraille, for her brother, the King, because so long as she was still alive to believe it, there was still hope. And she could not give up on the initial cause that had taken her to wield her lance and take to the skies in the first place.
Not even love could distract her from that... Although, since becoming more intimately acquainted with Haraldur, that was something of which she had needed to remind herself, time and again. Particularly when, for the first time in her life, her mere heartbeat meant so much to someone.

"...thank you," Vega sighed, raking a hand through her locks. "For not forcing me to choose between my sworn duty and... the needs and desires of my heart." Relaxing her shoulders, as she came down from the tight confrontational stance that had seized her in the face of his insisting he protect her, at all cost. "Only you can know what is best for you; and if you wish to deal with the necromancer's bargain on your own... then I will stand back. But only in the event that I am not at risk of losing you forever, Haraldur. You must understand..." Pressing her lips together, she took the hand that had curled into a fist, and massaged it into relaxing, gentle but persistant. She noted with quiet relief that the fingernails on that maimed hand had grown back, pink and rounded and healthy. It was as if he had never been injured at all; a shame that his amulet's power could not go so deep as to heal his injured soul the sa,e way. Perhaps later, when he was better rested, more himself and more open to suggestion, she would see if he would sit down with the Sybaian healer one more time, if only to help continue to mend what was broken inside.

Looking away out of couresty while he dressed, she met him at the front of the tent, and offered her hand. "Let's get a meal into you. I'll see to it that you will have a hot bath waiting when you finish." 
Good as her word, she accompanied the soldier to the campfire, where servings of supper were just finishing. Given the line, and the dwindling supply of food, she almost feared that Haraldur would not receive the substantial nourishment that he deserved, but when the soldier serving the food looked up and took note of the Skyknight commander's face, he was prompt to act according to camp etiquette. "Sir Vega Sorde; hope you have not been waiting for long. Here." Heaping a plate with meat and vegetables and rice, he delivered it to her personally. After all, she was not only an ambassador from an allied kingdom, but one with royal blood, at that. and he would not be chastised for failing to respect an authority.
Vega offered a small smile in return, and handed the plate to Haraldur when no one was looking. "And don't even think of refusing," she cautioned the mercenary quietly. "I have far more important things to do but eat. I'll be back soon."

And so the Skyknight commander left him to eat, to return to her tent and commence heating water over an alternate fire outside to fill the pewter tub tucked away in the corner. While the other soldiers, for the most part, bathed shamelessly in the bordering waters (at least, those who cared a thing or two about cleanliness), the Tadasuni had kindly--albeit reluctantly--provided the Eyraillian princess with her own means of bathing, to save face and ascertain her safety and privacy. When Eris had arrived, Vega felt les guilty of the luxury, and had of course had invited her fellow female warrior to make use of it, at well. Haraldur therefore could not insist that she was going out of her way for him--aside from heating the water, perhaps. But she had felt the knots in his back, and would argue that he would be a far more capable fighter if his muscles were more limber.
He was just finishing up his meal when she went to fetch him, offering a hand up. "I know I cannot convince you to take a day of rest, but I can at least hope that you will find it in you to relax for a while. Follow me."

Vega leg him to the steaming tub of water that awaited him, in the privacy of her tent, and spoke up before he could deny any special treatment, despite his close call with death. "Sorry if the tub is a tight squeeze... your knees might get a little cold," she sheepishly apologized. "But you'll feel better than you would, bathing in the cold waters of the lake... Take all the time you need." Not wishing to overstay her welcome, especially when the mercenary deserved a moment of peace to himself, the princess left him to clean and relax as she went in search of a clean and better fitting uniform. Finding one among the basket of newly cleaned laundry, she slung it over her arm after ascertaining that it would suffice for Haraldur's tall, broad stature, and returned to her tent to deliver it. Only she wasn't quite thinking clearly, and only when she pushed through the flaps of the tent did she realize her misstep. "I..." Quick to turn and shield her eyes, she felt that telltale heat of guilt warm her cheeks at her social folly. "I apologize, Haraldur--I was only... I found you clean uniform. For when you are finished. But take your time! I do not mean to rush you..." And it was all she could do to press her lips together and contain her nervous laughter at such a faux-pas. After all, just because the two of them shared a mutual attraction did not give her a right to waltz into his personal space while he was in a state of undress...

Vitali was not a seer, not a fortune teller of any kind. And although his keen sense of intuition seldom led him astray, his predictions could not be considered concrete. That said, he felt he could decipher death's intentions fairly accurately, and was not mistaken when he saw its cold hand reach for its next victim. When he had last visited with Adalfieri, the two of them spouting their thingly veiled pretenses, there had been something about the man's aura that had tipped him off; a certain shadow that darkened the colour, that faded the edges and began to pepper the substance with tiny holes... Whatever the venerable Rigas head was in for, it would be dark. Final. And he was doomed to experience it.
"You seem to have answered that question on your own, my dear." The necromancer shugged, nonchalant and indifferent. "And I know well of your venerable leader's plans: as does Alster, whose escape, I might add, was only possible due to my charitable assistance. So, rest assured, you need not overexert yourself to deliver this news. He already knows."

But Tivia was already clambering to her feet, frantic and hurried, and a mess of limbs that did not seem to want to comply. Before she could take a single step, she became reacquainted with the ground, a pitiful heap on the trampled grass. The necromancer did not take action right away, instead taking a moment to passively watch the pathetic creature sob in frustration, and considered leaving her to her cognitively challenged state of mind until she was ready to rejoin the land of the sane. The only thing that gave him pause to reconsider was the fact that she still bled, dark, crimson substance staining the shoulders of her tunic... Who knows? She could be useful. That ever-present voice of opportunity rang loud and clear in the back of his mind. The Rigases had been very promising clients, thus far; he would do well to keep himself open to further transactions.

Closing the distance between the sniveling Rigas seer, Vitali took the noble (albeit self-serving) route, and knelt, offering her a hand up. "Come," he sighed. "You'll grow ill of exposure if you spend the night wailing away, out here. If the company of your brethren is what you seek, then I will show you to Alster."

"Of course, Sir Sorde," Haraldur said, his tone respectful as he honored her title. "I am not one to force a commander's resignation. You've a kingdom that needs you to be strong, to helm the troops, and to stay alive. There's a lot that you must do. Let me help you to succeed with that last bit, at least...because I'd still like to see Eyraille rise from its troubled past. You could say that I relate to your kingdom and its plight, were your country a man who wanted to move on from his sins." A smile, the first one he sported in over a week, touched upon his face. It was small and it only lingered for a moment, but it was proof that he was ready to heal from the inside--or at the very least, trick his body into some modicum of placidity--even if it was apocryphal and only for Vega's sake. 

Together, they roamed out of the tent and to the mess area, where Haraldur was presented the first full meal he'd received since the last time he was appeared at Tadasun's camp. Blessed with an enormous appetite which, after days of near starvation, had ate away at the insides of his stomach, thinning him out in places that now required extra stuffing, he took Vega's gift with a grateful nod, holding the tower of food in careful balance, afraid it would topple and fall to the ground. "I wasn't going to say anything," he admitted, as he took the thing of beauty over to a nearby log to eat it. "I was too busy admiring it to even consider asking if you wanted a share."

As Vega excused herself, Haraldur first watched her leave, initially concerned about her motives or if he had distracted her enough to ward her away from matters involving Vitali. Once assured of her task, he faced his wondrous plate of food, and devoured the entire serving, right down to the sauce and crumbs. He knew that eating too quickly, and eating too much when he had been so deprived of sustenance during his long, torturous days as a prisoner wasn't so wise a decision, but his tenure under Andalarian rule was short-lived...and he so desperately wanted to feel alive again. Along with his rice and lamb and potatoes, he downed large jugs of water, his parched throat singing in gulping ululations as he guzzled his beverage with all the enjoyment of a drunken man locked inside of a wine cellar. 

By the time he was finished, Vega had returned and bade him follow. When they arrived at her tent, and he saw the luxurious bath set up inside, the steaming waters wafting into his nostrils, he gave a questioning look to the party responsible for the excessive service. 

"This wasn't necessary. I don't even remember the last time I had a tub all to myself. Or a tub at all. ...Thank you." He turned to Vega and, before she left him to his privacy, took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Once she departed, he stripped himself of his too-tight clothes (most men in Tadasun were short and lithe, and his body-type was hardly compatible to even the bulkiest of their warriors) and waded into the bath. The water was a pleasant hiss against his fresh skin, which, despite healing to near-perfection, fired off phantom injuries all over his body--including his legs. He flinched as he tested his ankle and knee, fearful that they would both bust open at the slightest incident. What if his healing was only at surface value, something that would break apart in the water and leave him, once again, disabled? He clutched at his corroded necklace as he negotiated himself into a sitting position in the tub, closing his trembling fingers over the remains of his family's legacy. Of his legacy. Please, he prayed to the gristle of metal that abraded against his skin, please let this be permanent. I have to keep standing, to keep fighting...now more than ever. Now that those images...

He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw it all. The flashes of memory. The blood and fires, the screams and the mutilated children, the graves, piling high over his head, made from bones, miniature skulls, breakable in the wind. Kindling for the fire that blustered in arcs across the snow-filled sky. He shivered in the water, and submerged himself, to silence the pounding in his ears. He invited the lapping of water, the heat that folded around him like a box, and the ceasing of air. Not even a breath to ripple his grave. So peaceful. Peaceful...

A distorted sound from outside, from up above, drew him out from under. He surfaced and looked to the tent flaps just as Vega entered, flustered and stammering at him as she held fast to a change of clothes. The telltale colors suggested it was Eyraillan made, and hence a far better fit for one of his size. But she watched him, eyes as agape as her mouth, until she turned away and sputtered endearing little apologies at him. Despite his mental state from just seconds before, he smiled. "Vega...it's nothing you haven't seen before." He hit the surface of the water, which made a slap-slop-splash sound. A few errant droplets took to the air, landing on Vega's cheek. "Well, now that you're wet," his smile broadened, "...there's room for you inside...if you want a quick bath. It's your tub, after all." He shrugged, draping his arms over the rim. "I'm just a visitor." 

Tivia pounded at the ground with her fist, as would a small child in midst of a tantrum. "You tripped me," she seethed, ripping away hunks of grass, thinking that by doing so, she was delivering the earth a hefty punishment. Dirt caked under her nails as she slowly propped herself upright, in time to see that infuriating man and yet another instance in which he had his hand outstretched for her. "Tell me, necromancer. Is this a fun pastime for you? To play-act as some nobleman helping out a woman in need?" Her cheeks heated, but from ire--from the indignity of sitting at the mercy of a shameless opportunist. An amoral man. A dangerous man. "You've made a fool of my family long enough. I will not have you do the same to me." She snubbed his hand, smacked it away, and slowly, climbed to her feet. Once standing, she positioned her hands in front of her face, as a buffer in case she fell forward once again. 

"Perhaps, if you were a better man, I'd find your offer helpful. Kind, even. But that hand has cursed more often than it's blessed, of that I have no doubt. It may be in service to me and my family now...but all one has to do is make an offer, and you'd surely poison me with that open palm just as quickly. Shunt me to sleep and to darkness. You, sir," her words skated to a whisper, "are no friend of mine. Here." She threw the soiled handkerchief back into his still open hand. "Contend yourself with my ear blood. Now if you'll excuse me," she pointed her toes in a random direction. Just exhibit confidence about your path, she assured herself. Even if you do not know where you are going. Then, he will leave you alone. "I'll go there on my own. I'll find out what Alster knows. And I'll find out, from him," she emphasized, "if what you speak is the truth."

Step by step, she half waddled, half stumbled, towards the closest row of tents, ignoring the likes of her unfortunate company, were he still there, as she focused, not on the sickening spin of her head, tumbling and tumbling without cease, but at her feet. As she kept looking at them, however, they broadened in distance, pinching shut in the middle and fanning out at the ends, swerving and shifting and rocking her further and further and further forward...

This time, she caught herself, but knew she couldn't stay standing for long--at least, not without help. And, despite what the unethical knave behind her had claimed about her outdated knowledge, she needed to speak with Alster about Adalfieri and his star. With a sound that slithered between a hiss and a wince, she craned her neck just a little over her shoulder. "Are you still there? Do..." she hesitated, tears of embarrassment and frustration pricking at her eye, "do you know where he is? I...I really...everything looks the same right now. Like the same tent standing before one hundred mirrors. I step and I crash and it breaks...but there's still ninety-nine mirrors to go. And...and what if I am a mirror, and I crash, and..." She folded her hands over her ears as her knees swayed precariously--violently. "I don't know anymore...I just," the tears dripped down her face, "I just don't."

"Yes... yes, know, but last time... The last time, it was intentional, and consentual, and you wanted to show me." Vega's cheeks burned so hot that she could feel her the frantic pulse of her heartbeat in her face, and she bit down on her lower lip in a futile attempt to subdue her nervous energy. "I hadn't so rudely violated your privacy! I mean, I could have called before strutting right in here while you were... while you're... It was highly inexcusable of me, okay? I hope you can accept my--"
Vega's long-winded apology was cut short as several droplets of water hit her blazing cheek, and without thinking it through, she turned and wrinkled her nose at the mercenary for his childish gesture. "Keep that water where it is contained--do you know how long it took me to heat and lug it in here? My arms practically feel boneless..." Who was she trying to fool? She couldn't even pretend to feel offended, let alone make it seem convincing, and before she could stop herself, she covered her mouth as her shoulders shook in a short fit of chuckles. Clearly, Haraldur was not too concerned about her intrusion on his privacy, and cared little for her embarrassment or apology... Was that enough, then, to glean consent for her curious eyes to drink in his form, once again?

Her fit of laughter died out quickly enough, and the Eyraillian commander cleared her throat, though the smile did not fade from her lips, nor did her cheeks pale to any softer a shade of crimson. "Don't be ridiculous. You, alone, can barely fit." She gestured to the tub, which was only about two thirds the warrior's length, forcing him to sit with his knees sticking out of the water, while only about half od his calf was awarded the soothing properties of the warm liquid. "The two of us would be an unmistkable disaster waiting to happen. And anyway... did you even bother to wash, or just sit there? Really, Haraldur..." It was her best attempt to make light of a situation that had her heart hammering, and practically all of her warm blood redirected to her face and abdomen. For a confident woman, it appeared that she had found the chink in her own armor, and that was in the heat of intimiate encounters--however unintentional. "I gave you a washcloth for a reason, you know. Did you mean to simply fall asleep in the tub? Because in that case, it is a good thing I intruded."

For fear that she was coming across too much a stammering fool, Vega reached deep down for her own feminine confidence, enough to unfasten her tunic and toss it aside. It left her standing in her boots and trousers, and a simple strip of fabric wound around her chest and tied at the front to bind her breasts--an Eyraillian custom that women of other kingdoms found strange. In part, it ensured modesty, but for a Skyknight, it also provided a good deal less discomfort when leaning against her mount as they soared through the air. Picking up the unused washcloth hanging on the side of the tub, she positioned herself behind the mercenary, and ran the rag gently across his shoulders and arms in slow, massaging motions. "The warm water--it loosened you up," she commented, noting how the muscles in his back and neck nad begun to relax, no longer a sequence of tight knots. "After your ordeals, I figured you might need this--for your mind as well as your body. Visitor or not, you are welcome to this, anytime." Because Vega would never complain to find the bare, sculpted form of Haraldur in her own tent--a thought that spread the heat from her face down her neck and chest, and she was suddenly relieved she had shed her tunic.

Drawing on a bold impulse, the Skyknight drew herself up higher from her kneeling position on her knees, and swept the washrag in gentle, alluring motions down the mercenary's bare chest, her warm cheek flush with his such that he could feel her breath on his damp skin. "Back in Eyraille... should you choose to accompany me, the bathing tubs are much larger. Possibly enough to fit two people, if you are careful." Leaning forward a few inches, tendrils of copper hair fell into the water as the washcloth traveled over his rippled abdomen, all the way to his defined hipbones. "And, even better, in some areas of the mountains atop an eternally dormant volcano, you can find hot springs. Not quite as private, I suppose, but... the rocs won't care." Her lips tugged into a playful grin, and she planted a kiss along Haraldur's jaw. "If that's not enough, I am sure I can find more incentive for you to come with me..."

It was all that the necromancer could do not to admonish the fooling girl with 'tsks' and roll his eyes. So headstrong, these Rigases, that they thought their innate obstinacy was enough to see them through even the most dire of situations... And while their suspicion of his was not ill-formed, they should have at least been able to tell the difference between the binding act of a bargain, and a self-serving, yet no-strings-attached act of 'kindness'. All the same, it was Tivia's will, and he, frankly, did not care enough to change her stubborn mind. 
Pocketing the bloodied handkerchief without a care in the world (for if he so saw fit, that blood could easily be used against her, in the form of a spell), Vitali followed several paces behind the silly, stumbling woman, almost embarrassed for her in the way she resembled a drunkard struggling to find his way to bed. And, much to his lack of surprise, she did not make it very far before succumbing to the earth once more, helplessly, pathetically, lost as a result of her own cursed abilities.

She sought him out with her one good eye, and for a solid minute, he did not respond. Let her think she is alone, and ponder where her foolishness has brought her, he thought, arms folded smugly across his chest. He waited to hear the extent of her plea, to see the tears begin to drip, and was disappointed that she neglected those pitiful words, 'Please help me'. They were embedded, of course, and he could decipher them without any effort expended. But he had wanted to hear them all the same--to hear her drop her pride and beg for his help--and when he did not, a childish pout took shape upon his lips. "My condolences that your white knight is not here to whisk you away and comfort you, but last I checked, he is far too enamored of the Eyraillian princess to pay you any heed." He had not missed the fervent concern in her voice when she had demanded the details of his bargain with the mercenary, and chose to capitalize on that tidbit of truth, if only out of spite. "But if I must be a secondary stand-in... then yes, I do know where your Alster can be found. And since you will not take my word for what he knows, and our commisseration..."

Without a warning, the necromancer--far stronger than his lithe frame suggested--picked up the wretched woman, one arm around her back and clutching her shoulder, the other beneath her knees. He hadn't the patience to be a crutch as she hobbled her way through a landscape that all looked the same to her. "Complain even once, and I will drop you without a second thought," Vitali warned, meeting her good eye and raising his eyebrows to emphasize that he made no empty threats. "You Rigases as so full of your own pride that you cannot even tell the difference between a service transaction and a simple favour. Believe me, there is nothing that I desire from the likes of you; what use could you be, a slave to your own curse?" He shook his head, satisfied that he had planted just the right seed of doubt in her that, should he ever see a need to loop her into his debt, he might find the opportunity to exploit it. "However, Alster owes me, and I do not take lightly to those in my debt. The least I can do is see one of his own kin to safety. It won't to to find him reluctant to pay his debt when the day comes, now, would it?"

He made his way not to Alster's tent, but to Elespeth's, knowing he would find the Rigas caster likely locked in the Atvanian warrior's embrace. They had been near inseparable, since she had foiled his plans for martyrdom, and now that Haraldur's injuries had been addressed, there was nowhere else he would reasonably be. "Here's hoping they're decent," he said, without really appearing to care, and swept through the tent flaps, regardless of invitation. Fortunately for the duo, they were, in fact, both decently dressed, with Alster resting, yet awake on the cot, and Elespeth polishing her blade beside him. They both looked up, simultaneously, but it was the Atvanian warrior who reacted first. "Tivia!" She gasped, eyes narrowed at Vitali as she stood, assuming an offensive stance. "If you have hurt her in any way, necromancer,--"

"Now, now. Don't get ahead off yourselves." Vitali brushed off the duo's angry concern with a shrug, carefully lowering the Rigas woman in his arms into a standing position. "Just doing my duty as a good samaritan and helping out one of yours, since she was unable to find you following one of her episodes. And, no, she is not indebted; I think the words that you seek are, 'thank you'."

Haraldur's wide grin transitioned into a light chuckle, amused by Vega and her yammering attempts to justify wandering into this, the most dire of situations. While he could be an intimidating figure, and often struck fear into weaker men whenever he adopted the right mindset, he was not in the right context for regular intimidation tactics. They were reserved for the battlefield, when the moment required vigorous aggression, not when he was sitting naked in a bathtub, watching his inamorata flail about in a desperate bid to remain ruffled, and in charge of herself. And, because of that, he couldn't help but push her discomfort levels even higher. "Like I said," he spread his legs open, though the water shielded her from seeing anything beyond his waist, "there's plenty of room...on top of me. I'm a soldier, Vega. I know how to navigate tight spaces. But," he thumbed his chin, running it along the scruffy beard that was growing along his jawline, "I seemed to have misplaced my washcloth. There's no possible way I can get clean, now. If only--" 

But he never finished his well-meaning badgering of his gracious hostess, before she removed her tunic, which revealed her shapely form, boxier than an average woman's physique, considering the strains and rigorous training required to fight with a lance atop a giant avian. The groupings of her muscles, subtle but defined, kept her streamlined, soft to touch yet firm to press. But that dastardly strip of cloth barred him from appreciating the gifts of her womanhood, bound and wound so taut against her chest, that he wanted to reach out and free them from their asphyxiating construction. He jerked his head at the bound area in question. "Do you plan on doing any flying tonight?" If not, and you still need a mount... But he was glad for his self-control, for it kept those ridiculous lines in his head only--where they belonged. 

He sat up in the tub to welcome Vega's kneading, needful hands stroking across his back and shoulders with the warm scrub of water. He closed his eyes as she worked, feeling only her and the drip drip drip of his hair forming little faucets that splashed upon his nose and meandered down his cheeks. "I didn't realize how much I actually did need this," he agreed as he took in all other senses now that he had shuddered his sight. Vega's sweet-musk sweat, her slow, streaming breath, the tickle of her hair upon his neck, the direction of her hands, starting at his chest and sailing further and further south...

He connected his hands to her own, just as they made contact with his hip. He folded them over, massaging her palms with his callused thumbs. They were so much smaller than his, hard-lined and callused like his own, but thin, tapered...graceful. "You'll have to take me up there," he said, his baritone as soft as the lapping water betwixt their fingers. "I don't mind if we have rocs as our audience. Sounds a little adventurous." He smirked as he twisted his head, and positioned those uplifted lips just over the rim of her ear. "I'm curious," he whispered, hot breath drifting into the opening of her ear, "what further incentives did you have in mind for me? They'd better be good. I'm a hard man to please." He lowered his head a fraction to tug at her earlobe, the gentle nibbling of his teeth. Meanwhile, the hands that were submerged over her own urged them lower, and lower, and lower...

In a manner of seconds, Tivia transformed from on the verge of sobs to flagrant shame and embarrassment. Immediately, her cheeks reddened. The tears froze in their route from her eye to her mouth, or the tip of her chin. She did not look in Vitali's direction, well-aware that she could discern the smugness of his words, which no doubt radiated from his person without having to seek visual confirmation. He knew about her infatuation with the "white knight" in question...and it made her stomach flip with dread. Made her physically ill. She wanted to vomit, and to vomit all over him for making her feel that way! 

"He saved my life," she said, in a strange amalgam between snapping and sniffling. "For no reason at all other than to rescue it from the flame. I doubt the same could be said for you." However, she tried to hold her tongue, for this very man, which she continued to insult (though he was deserving of it), was to help reunite her with Alster, and by extension, Elespeth. With a forlorn sigh, she began to hobble towards Vitali--but he hadn't waited for her readiness, as he swooped her from the ground and into his arms with such intensity and force, that a small, short whoop of a scream squeezed out of her lungs. "What do you think you are--" but she registered his threat just before she finished her complaint, and the rest of said complaint sighed out of her mouth in overexaggerated grunts of distress. 

"So if this is an actual favor, necromancer," she began, closing her eye to distract herself from the dizzying spin of tents and lights and ground and color, "would you have done this for me if you had never interacted with my family? If this was the first time you met a Rigas? You only want to increase your rapport with us. Even if my curse is useless to you," she gulped down the words, very much believing the same; that it was, indeed, useless, and more pain than worth, more agony than progress, "other Rigases are very influential, and--" She jabbed a finger into his face, sticking it dangerously close to his own eye. "...You want Alster to always be beholden to you. Even if he's not, or never was, you'll do all these so-called 'favors' for him just to build his debt from the ground up--and then come to collect your dues when it's convenient for you. And you'll keep suckling and suckling from the breast of the powerful until there is nothing left. Y-you," she stammered, as she struggled against his hold, contemplating on if she should escape it, "you really are a leech." 

But she did not have the time to act on her desires, for they had arrived at Elespeth's tent where Alster, predictably, was staying. The second that the necromancer rested Tivia to her feet, she hobbled over to her Rigas brethren, who had risen from his cot to alight beside the Atvanian warrior in the developing stand-off between magic and sword. 

At first watching the exchange with silence, Alster finally stepped forward, placing a hand on Elespeth's arm and shook his head in an unspoken gesture to lower her sword. He glanced at Vitali, eyebrows lowering with suspicion. "Did he hurt you, Tivia?" he asked, holding the other Rigas upright once she reached him. 

Much as she wanted to say "Yes!" she sighed and shook her head slightly, from side to side. "No. But he is an insufferable prat and I wish him gone." 

"Thank you," Alster told Vitali, entirely without feeling or emphasis. "A good samaritan act, then? I hope that thank you is all you're expecting to receive in return." He waved a hand to the flaps of the tent. "Well, at your leisure," but his tone meant everything but, "you may go."

The bath had cooled from hot enough to pinken the skin, to more of a moderate, comfortable warm, and yet the proximity of the mercenary's body was enough to bring invisible droplets of perspiration to Vega's skin. Paired with his carefully selected words, the heat creeping through her body alone was enough to make her want to shed her clothes further. "I hadn't planned on flying today," she admitted, glancing down at the strip of cloth that bound her chest. "For your knowledge, this is a customary modesty that all Eyraillian women adorn... not just for women who choose to take to the air." And what did anyone care about modesty, right now? A voice at the back of her head taunted, and it was only then that she took the hint in Haraldur's otherwise innocent question: she had no need to wear it. And, frankly, she didn't want to.

With one hand, she untied the front of the cloth, and the bindings fell onto her lap, her ribcage and breasts free of its confines. If only to tease him, the man who was so intent on having her join him in the bath, she pressed her bosom against his back as her hands were free to roam his sculpted front... only to find herself to be the one taken by his ministrations. The pressure of his thumbs as he massaged her palms was curiously sensual and relaxing, enough to relax her body against his from where she half-knelt behind him. And the hot breath in her ear, the tug of his teeth on her earlobe... The Skyknight shivered, slowly coming apart at the seems, a burning feeling that continued to intensify until her hands, guided by his own, passed his taut hip bones, only to come into contact with an appendage that was equally as taut. Vega's breath became caught in her throat as her fingers stroked the length of her paramour's manhood with the curiosity of unexplored territory. Was she doing this to him--her, with her lousy attempts at allure and unnecessary bashfulness? Sure, they had been intimate before, but it had felt like such a blissful rush, neither having really taken the time to explore or appreciate one another's bodies to the fullest extent... It hadn't occurred to her that her alone, and the suggestion of intimacy in her voice, could spur such a reaction.

There was no room for shy modesty in her small tent. Not now that Haraldur had successfully banished the last of it with his open invitation to give his body over to her touch.

"I can think of plenty more incentives..." The Eyraillian princess breathed, her low words a hot whisper against his skin. "But what would be the fun in spoiling the surprise? Perhaps... I will say that you will have to follow me home, to find out." Slowly drawing her hands away from his more sacred regions, and her chest away from his skin, Vega resumed a standing position just long enough to shed her boots and her trousers in a silent heap. And that was when a brief, foolish panic set in: I have no idea what I'm doing. This was not merely a series of intimate ministrations; it felt like a full production, a seductive dance between the two of them... and yet, only one of them was confident enough in the steps. She, on the other hand, was merely relying on improvisation, in hopes that it would appeal to him. To say that she had never felt more put on the spot in her life would have been an understatement, and it was embarrassing...
But not embarrassing enough that she couldn't follow through with what she had started.

Rounding the tub, she accepted the room that Haraldur had made for her in the bath, straddling the mercenary's hips with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The firm press of that eager member against her more sensitive parts, the one that her hands had explored just a moment before, was enough to entice a shudder. "I should give you fair warning..." A sliver of that flustered uncertainty flickered in her half-lidded blue eyes as she met his, warm and green and full of desire. "Just because I know what I want doesn't mean I know what I am doing..." She could mount a roc in a heartbeat; she needn't even think about it. But a man?
She had a suspicion that it was not at all the same thing. At the very least, she knew she had the powerful thighs and the core strength to learn. "I might... need to rely on you to show me." And to shatter the awkwardness for which she felt at fault, Vega cupped his face and drew him into a long kiss, tracing the swell of his lower lip with her tongue...

"While I do enjoy a good transaction for my services, my dear, contrary to what you obviously believe, I am not all about seizing a good opportunity." Vitali drawled, shrugging off her hateful (albeit, not entirely untrue) remarks without a care. "Do I want your family to be beholden to me? Well, there is no hiding the fact that it benefits me to have a powerful family at my beck and call. Alster, especially; for if he does manage to solve this mess in Stella D'Mare, should he survive the war, then I predict that he should earn a good deal of influence among the Rigases. So, yes: this favour to you, I have no doubt it will benefit me, if for no other reason than you are a Rigas and related to Alster. However..." The necromancer twisted his lips pensively, as if it were the first time putting these thoughts into concrete words. "I also believe in balance in the universe. One good deed always deserves another, does it not? While my dealings with others does tend to ensure I am rewarded accordingly... I am willing, every so often, to play the good neighbour, regardless of my benefitee's affiliations. So to answer your question..." He met her one good eye with a captive stare. "There is a very good chance that, were I to find a woman with a half-burned face and incapacitating psychic powers in need of assistance, I would lend a hand. Rigas or not. It frankly depends on my mood."

Vitali could not fault her for being suspicious, however; nor could he fault Alster or Elespeth for their alarm, when he emerged from outside of their tent with a seemingly helpless and confused young woman in his arms. Naturally, the Atvanian went on the offensive, ready and willing to fight should he have harmed her in any conceivable way--but Alster, who was far better acquainted with the necromancer, stayed the headstrong warrior before she could do anything that she would regret. Namely, picking a fight that she could not win. "Really, Alster; do you think me so sadistic that I derive joy in harming innocent people for no good reason? Paritcularly relatives of those with whom I will end up working one day, in one way or another?" Not that Alster was likely to have forgotten his dealings and that he owed Vitali; but just in case. "Your young kin, here, suffered an attack born of her own, ill-fated abilities. One moment, we were having quite a lovely conversation, and the next, she is bleeding from her ears and blaming the sky."

Much though Elespeth was loathe to believe it, Vitali's story checked out. She, too, had witnessed the debilitating effects of Tivia's ears for the night sky, and it all occurred just as the necromancer described it. What bothered her, however, was what had motivated the untrustworthy man to extend his hand in an act of seeming altruism. "Don't you even think of signing them to further servitude," she warned, still gripping her sword by its hilt. "Alster did not ask for this favour, and Tivia... if she was in a compromised position--"

"Tsk. It is not all about direct give and take with me, you know." Vitali arched a pristinely shaped eyebrow and shook his head. "But I have already had my fill of explaining that once tonight. Anyway, your little Tivia, here, is not the first whom I have met with a call to the sky..." Turning to Alster, he flashed a winning smile--or as winning as it could be, considering it came from the likes of him. "Rest assured, Rigas, your gratitude, and the young woman's safety, are reward enough."
Offering no more than a nod and a shallow bow, the necromancer took his leave as silently as he arrived, with a swish of coattails and a trail of shadows.

Not a beat after the insufferable man departed, Elespeth rushed towards Tivia. "Are you all right? If he hurt you... if he made you agree to anything, you can tell us." She placed her hands on the young woma's delicate shoulders, a pang of regret nestled in her gut. Since Alster's return, she had not seen much of the woman who she had more or less made her charge; her friend. How lonely must she have felt, of late? "...I am sorry," she felt the need to apologize softly, averting her gaze, ashamed. "That I have been absent. I have not been fair to you..."

It was a good size, of that he knew well. Superior officers at the First Regiment had commented upon it, and they, in charge of damaging little boys and young men (of which their intimate sessions with the soldiers-in-training were by far their favorite "methods" of breaking down the spirit) were not one to hand out unsolicited compliments--or compliments at all. "It is only a shame that you are not Mollengardian," one training coach had sneered as he gripped Haraldur by the front and spat in his face. "Your good parentage is wasted. Utterly wasted on Wilds scum like you."Nothing was more validating than to hear that he didn't belong to Mollengard, nor would he ever belong, despite the fact that he fought their battles and abetted in their victories of conquest many a time--with naught but a kick in the shins as a show of gratitude. 

As a militant nation, Mollengard, at least, was more equal in their treatment of women--in that they ignored her reproductive needs, or any of her pleas for better-fitting clothes. Higher-ups would scoff at the requests, thinking it bizarre that she should need such specifics in order to fight with equal footing to a man. "Next you'll be asking us for differently crafted weapons. Everyone's issued the same livery. Don't like it? You are welcome to die." For the support it offered, Haraldur understand the benefits to the modesty undergarment which Vega had shed off her body and introduced to the ground. It served its practical purposes, yes, but also barred him a view of her body, which he craved, desired...needed. 

The removal of her cloth band, however, also revealed something else--something he did not quite expect. A very distinct scar stared back at him, raised and pink and wrinkled. He remembered the shaft of splintered wood he yanked out of that very spot, her body lifeless in his arms. He remembered that she had once been dead, that he had forced her to surrender a sleeping eternity in exchange for a continuation of the endless, futile struggle of the living, whose every breath was already one beat closer to death, to silence, to unmaking. 

These thoughts nearly shook him out of his desire. He still hadn't been able to reconcile, with himself, the changing hands that had put her body through so much transition. She was dead, and he didn't know if he could...

But she climbed into the tub with such readiness, even when voicing her uncertainty, her inexperience. She was eager, regardless of the awkward positioning in which she found herself--because she trusted in him, and had wanted him, too. Broken pieces and all. Despite what he had done to her in that dream, what he had put her through in the interim, before Vitali freed him from his imprisonment, she still persisted in her feelings for him, which by now, were so steadfast, so unshakable, that they seemed almost supernatural in their strength. 

His confidence reinstated, Haraldur hooked his hands around Vega's waist and adjusted her balance, her positioning, holding her steady as he gave her a reassuring, understanding smile. "You're fine, Vega. No need to feel ashamed about it. I'll guide you through it all." They locked lips then, as Haraldur's member sought the space in between the Skyknight's legs. And as he continued to hold her close, he entered, gently but fluid at the same time. The water that sloshed around them both acted as natural lubrication, helping them to slide into each other with relative ease. Once in position, he grabbed her hips and incited her to move them against him. In an inhibited pose as he was, fused against the tub with his legs forcefully bent, he abdicated to her control, her power, but also gave her the steps that were necessary to use that control for her own. 

Eventually, they found each other's rhythm, swelling and undulating against each other in syncopated beats, timed with the slapping of the water. He pushed and pulled, testing out the levels of his rougher play, always checking on her verbal and non-verbal responses as he did so. 

Going on a gambit, he explored deeper, moved with more abandon, his hands roving to her breasts as he pressed around the areola, plying fingers traveling all about her chest, tracing her scars, her collarbone--fondling every bit that he could. His mouth never rested, either. He went from her mouth, to her neck, to her ear and back again, nibbling and suckling, teeth grazing, tongue licking. When it was time for him to come, he separated their bodies before the juices could penetrate her, allowing it to empty into the water in the now lukewarm tub. He reunited their bodies, but not their reproductive parts, as he leaned into her, pressing his head into the crook of her shoulder, arms wrapped sensually, protectively, around her form. "You've," he began, breathless, "you've convinced me...to come with you to Eyraille, Vega." And he smiled as he kissed her shoulder. 

"Sadistic?" Alster raised an eyebrow as he tried to keep an even pitch. "I do seem to recall that you poisoned my family for no particularly good reason. Considering it was to gain an audience with Adalfieri, I'd say your tactics do tend to err on the extreme. So forgive me for assuming the worst from you."

"It was not a lovely conversation," Tivia whispered moodily from her position behind and between both Alster and Elespeth, as if having to converse with Vitali was akin to the "worst." However, when she chanced a peek at the necromancer with her one good eye, she noticed, with some surprise, that the candle-lit illuminated tent favored his features in quite a complementary way. His skin was like milk, smooth and unmarred, and his eyes, intense, were like dark voids in a sky devoid of stars. Devoid of noise. Before she could continue to scry, she quickly looked away, at her feet, and coughed so to distract herself from uncomfortable thoughts. 

Alster looked back at her with concern, but soon returned his hawk-like attentiveness to Vitali. "I'm glad that you see it as enough, Vitali," he said, with an unflappable look, his mouth a straight line with just the slightest downward curve that denoted his thinly-veiled disdain. "Well then, good night." Once the necromancer took his leave, Alster pulled down the flaps of the tent--and tied them together, for good measure. 

Immediately, Tivia looked to Elespeth, who had taken her thin frame into her arms, spouting apologies and dominating her with attention, as if to compensate for the days' long neglect of her existence. "I am all right," she assured the Atvanian warrior, as she looked curiously over at the flaps from which the necromancer made his stylish egress. She frowned. "He was quite civil, actually. ...In a rude way. But no, Elespeth. I would not be so daft as to agree to anything that the likes of that churlish man has to say," she spat. 

Moving out of Elespeth's arms, she slowly wandered over to the cot and sat upon its surface, relieved, at last, to be sitting. To be safe. In good company. Regretting company. Hurting company. I'll receive their attentions because they feel horribly for their abandonment of me, she thought, almost gleefully. Alster sat beside Tivia, and with a clean, water-dipped rag, set upon washing her ears of the blood. "Good," he said. "I only work with him out of necessity. He's a powerful man, and useful in a pinch. He's better to have on our side, under our watch, and we're able to pay his prices with gold and influence."

"Some people don't have the luxury of gold and influence," she muttered as she took the wash-rag out of Alster's hands. He, as if knowing what she meant, sighed and nodded his agreement. 

"If you're referring to Haraldur, I tried to pay the necromancer's price. I wanted to. But the mercenary is stubborn. He was adamant about taking the debt on his own." 

Then I'll just have to talk to Vitali about it, myself, Tivia thought, the patchy remains of her eyebrow furrowing on the undamaged side of her face.

For all of her embarrassment and uncertainty, Haraldur's kind words, in his low, sultry voice, put the Skyknight at ease as the two of them connected in a passionate kiss. She lifted and shifted her hips to allow him entry, and was eternally grateful not only for his care and gentleness, but for the water that helped him slide inside of her with no discomfort. It felt different, being the one in control, with the sturdy mercenary beneath her and at the mercy of her desires; but that did not stop her from accepting his careful guidance, his hands on her hips as she moved with ease, thankful for her strong core and her inner thighs. It was so simple, falling into a rhythm that accommodated her partner, whose hands and lips kept set her already warm body aflame with pleasure, and she was quick to realize how silly she was to have ever overthought it at all.

The pressure inside her built, and built, further titillated by the hands that explored her breasts and body, the lovebites that kept her on her toes and the kisses that soothed her. There was no sense in holding back the extent to which he affected her, and so she didn't. The pleasure and satisfaction was written all over her face, in her slightly parted lips and the crease between her eyebrows, in the soft sighs that escaped her lungs, unbidden and beyond her control. And when at last she peaked and welcomed that deluge of warmth that spread through her abdomen, all the way to the tips of her limbs, she fell forward, catching herself on Haraldur's shoulders and catching her breath, which she hadn't realized had left her in the throes of her ecstasy.

Reconnecting with her lover after she pulled free, Vega buried her fingers in the locks of his hair, heart still hammering in the aftermath. "You won't regret it," she murmured against Haraldur's lips. "You won't have to fight another day, if you don't want to. I will see to it that you will have everything you need, and then some... I will make it worth your while, that I promise. Whatever you want, so long as it is in my power, I will make it happen, Haraldur. Eyraille can be... it will be the home that you need." As if the promise of her company was not enough; which, honestly, she felt it wasn't. There was nothing special about her love and affection; she was not, and never could be, Arina. Perhaps he would never find it in him to love her the same way. But... if she could see to it that he was comfortable, content, happy, then she would. It was the least that he deserved, given that he had saved Eyraille's own and only princess from an untimely death.

Noting how he looked at her--or more specifically, what has drawn his gaze, however, the dregs of shame and embarrassment returned. Before she knew what she was doing, Vega closed her arms across her chest, shielding from view the unsightly scar between her breasts, and the rune over her heart that would forever remind the beholder that she had, if only for a short period of time, belonged to death. "I guess... I can no longer complain for a lack of scars to mark my trials," she commented, suddenly very self-conscious. "In addition to flying and modesty, I've taken to binding myself for the mere sake of it. So that I... I don't have to see them. I'm sorry if they make you uncomfortable..." A wry, humourless smile tugged at her lips. "Makes me regret ever wishing my skin could wear my battles... perhaps one of the Rigases, or a Clematis healer, might be able to rid me of these accursed marks."

It was true; Tivia seemed alright, relatively unharmed, if not a little exhausted from the episode that she had suffered. At least she has us, the Atvanian warrior thought, albeit not without the weight of guilt on her shoulders. How could she have been so callous as to forget about one damaged Rigas caster, in favour of another? Tivia... she had been kind to her. As king as a Rigas could be, barring Alster's irrevocable love and affections, and she deserved to be cared for in return. She is not much younger than Priya... she even resembles her. Or... did. Was that why she had taken to being the young woman's guardian? Because, deep down, she reminded her of the family that she had--for all intents and purposes--lost? Elespeth hadn't realized it until now, but was ashamed to admit to herself that perhaps her will to protect and look out for Tivia Rigas had less to do with her being Tivia Rigas, and reminding her more of Priya Tameris.
She couldn't determine what hurt more; remembering what she had lost, those hands that so carefully, so expertly, had braided her hair on the day that she was supposed to have died... Or that her camaraderie with Tivia was misguided, or at least, was not solidified for the right reasons.

If there was ever a time to make up for it, then it was now. This was Alster's kin; for that reason alone, she decided, it meant something to her to look out for the girl's well-being. "It is not so much a matter of being daft that spurs people to barter with Vitali Kristeva," she murmured, soft and understanding. Knowing. "But rather, desperation... and that can manifest in many a different person for many a different reason. Regardless, I am sorry that you had to have dealings with that wretched man at all. As for Haraldur..." Flashing a smile that she thought would be reassuring, Elespeth gave Tivia's shoulder a light squeeze. "I do not think that you need to worry for him. Whatever he owes the necromancer, he also has ties with a powerful Eyraillian princess. I am confident that Vega Sorde will not let him fall into that man's hands..." However, as soon as she noted the way that Tivia's shoulders drooped, she wondered if she had made a mistake. Certainly, Haraldur was already a willing prisoner of his love for Vega Sorde, and she doubted that much would change that, just like her love for Alster. But this Rigas woman... she seemed young, in so many ways. It was not impossible for her to become infatuated with a taken man...

"Please, stay here tonight," she besought, standing to grab a shawl to drape over Tivia's shoulders. "I have not yet regained my full strength, but I believe I am beyond being contagious, at this point... and we would be within arm's reach, in case you need anything."

After some gentle cajoling, the two managed to convince Tivia to stay the night (although both Elespeth and Alster suspected she had already made up her mind long ago, and was merely playing hard to get), and offered the young woman the cot and warmest blanket. Unfortunately, that left the ground for the two of them to rest, merely a blanket between them and the chilled earth. Beneath the only other woolen quilt, the starcrossed lovers huddled together to keep warm, arms and legs linked so close together that they might as well have been the same person, all rolled into one. "I worry for her," the former knight confided quietly, her breath warm on Alster's cheek. "She is fragile... and wanting. Wanting what she has lost; and... what she cannot have." Both which few to none could offer her: aesthetic beauty, and love in the absence of it. Tivia wanted what every young girl desired, and that was to be loved for who she was, flaws and pending madness and all. "In your absence, she was kind to me. But since your return, and since I fell ill... I have not been present for her. And for that, I feel terrible."

Pressing her chilled cheek into the Alster's warm shoulder, half-convinced the two of them would fall ill anew overnight, she heaved a deep-seated sigh weighted with her own remorse. "She reminds me of my sister... superficial, yet a hopeless romantic. Stubborn. In a way, I feel as though I have been kind to her in a futile attempt to reconnect with what I have lost. I haven't been fair to your kin... I am sorry."

The aftermath of their intimacy thrummed all around him, warming him in a manner different to the steaming bath that had housed a different kind of steam, often observed in young, passionate lovers. Haraldur remained locked to Vega's embrace, his quick, throbbing breaths subsiding into a calming patter in his chest. "Whatever I want?" A sly little grin appeared on his face. "I can be insatiable, Vega. Would you really be able to follow-through with such an ambitious promise?" He teased his words into her ear, buzzing them, nuzzling his nose against her outer rim. "As a youth, before...well, before I was captured, I often dreamed of living in a big house, with vast stores of food of the most exquisite kind. Tender meat that falls right off the bone and puff pastries filled with rich, churned cream. My own room. My own bed, stuffed with eiderdown feathers. Silken sheets, threaded with gold. I never thought these childish dreams of mine would evidently see me at the service of a royal who has access to these very things." He spared a chuckle. 

"I'm sure my child counterpart is jealous and impressed by my supposed knack for attracting one of such a high station." He drew away from her ear and brushed his fingers along her slender neck. "One could say my preoccupation to the tangible, to materialistic pursuits, more or less led me to the life of a mercenary. I wanted the money to pay for the luxuries I've never been able to afford. But I have to say, my tastes have changed significantly since I was a child. Because all I want now are intangibles. Things you can't buy. I just want," he closed his eyes, hesitating for a beat, "...a home. ...And all that a home entails. Which means that I..." his breath lodged in his throat. He choked on the words before they had the ability to leave his mouth, and his statement was rendered incomplete.

I want a family...

He opened his eyes, which addressed the scars on his companion's bare chest, including the unsightly rune-mark, with its jagged edges and cruel, too-familiar stave markings. Though he could not read or write, he grew up in a territory up north that boasted an alphabet with very similar designs. Even his necklace, which resembled a tree, seemed indicative of one letter in particular. A powerful, three-staved rune of protection. He watched as Vega made attempts to cover the scars, and that rune, from view, but he wedged his hands from beneath, and forced those arms of modesty apart. "No," he said, his voice a determined whisper. He leaned forward and touched her rune-scar with his lips--however much it pained him from within to acknowledge the representation of her death. "This mark is proof that you...that you conquered death. Hiding it from view means that you are giving it cause to conquer you." To prove a point, he flicked his right wrist into her view, the jagged, raised scar made even pinker and puffier in the water. "I used to do everything possible to conceal this scar from my sight. I'd always wear bracers or gauntlets. Wristbands or long sleeves. Until I realized that forgetting it's there...doesn't make it go away. It's part of me. And that," he nodded to her chest, "is part of you, too. I am wrong to look upon it with trepidation in my heart. You don't have to hide it from me." 

With just a small nod of warning, Haraldur withdrew from the bath, pushing up to his feet. He offered a hand for Vega to stand, and together, they climbed out of the tub. He reached for the one dry, clean towel available and offered it for Vega first, before using it on himself. 

"It's late. Too late, I think, for me to try on that uniform you've provided me. I'm sure I look fetching in your Eyraillan colors, but I'll have to see for myself, come morning light. So that means," he placed a thumb under his chin, in thought, "I'm stuck in your tent. Naked. Do I hide in your bed until then?" He gave her a wink as he bowed to sling an arm across his chest. "Command me, oh commander." 

However much she heard Elespeth's reassurances in terms of Haraldur's "servitude" to that chthonic mage, and his macabre wish-granting abilities which were as sinister as a jinn with a vendetta, Tivia did not heed the advisements to not worry. On the contrary, Elespeth and Alster had both expressed how desperation was the key to Vitali's appeal--desperation, which they, Alster especially (considering his frequent work with the necromancer) had in scads. Who were they to tell her not to worry, when Vitali was capitalizing on concentrated doses of their worry, and making for himself a mean profit? It was hypocritical of them, really. And did the Atvanian put that much stock in the breakable Eyraillan princess and her supposed "power" and clout? She almost wanted to laugh. A drunkard with the inability to handle predictable news? A woman who could not stay afloat in the sky without crashing to her death? Haraldur deserved better. Much, much better.

But she was no better, either. 

A dispassionate sigh rippled through her, as self-pity threatened to set her mood for the rest of the night. However, she did remember the entire reason for her visit, and turned to Alster, relaying for him the message of Adalfieri's star. He listened attentively until the very end, when he mentioned, with grim voice, that all of his suspicions were, unfortunately, true. Adalfieri did wish to unleash the Serpent onto New Town. That he was using chthonic energy as food for the hell-beast to grow in strength. That he wanted Alster because he was the only living being to ever have made successful contact with the creature. And--most important--Adalfieri's time was drawing to a close, of which the Rigas head was well-aware. Too aware. 

Alster thanked Tivia for the information and prepared her cot for bed, insisting that she recharge her depleted energies so she would not fall victim to another attack from the sky so soon after her recent encounter. Though she did not wish to sleep, Tivia conceded with a bleary nod and curled up under the sheets, using the time to plan her own course of action on an entire number of matters: returning to Stella D'Mare, requesting an audience with Adalfieri to convince him to cease his Serpent obsession (or to at least ask for clarity. Why, after all, was he so willing to destroytheir city, and potentially, their family, when other, less maddening options were available to them?) And, lastly, how to clear, or lessen, Haraldur of his debt to Vitali. I must have something that accursed necromancer wants. I am not as useless as he claims. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not...

And it was that strained mantra that eventually saw her to a light, tossing slumber.

Alster lay beside Elespeth on the ground, shortly after Tivia drifted into an even breathing rhythm. He cocooned himself with the ex-knight, sharing his body heat and a small spell that projected warmth from his hands and arms, which he wound around her in places of increased circulation. Though his eyes were closed, he was not asleep, as indicated by his gentle nods that acknowledged Elespeth and her confessions. "No...I'm the one who's to blame. My arrival has been nothing but disruptive. I forced away your attentions, and in turn, did nothing to help her--and I fully admit that my reasons are petty. I haven't forgotten...how unkind she has been to me, in the past. And I couldn't see beyond it, though I know she was hurting and in need of an empathetic hand. So," he opened his eyes halfway, "you're not the only one who feels terrible." 

"Also," he rested his chin upon her head, "you're not being fair to yourself. We as humans are always seeking connections. Searching for the familiar, for the comfortable. I will admit this to you." He sighed as his shoulders tensed, nervous to relay to Elespeth this bit of news. "There was a huge factor in why I was so determined to help Vega, after she awoke from death. And it was because," he flinched, expecting Elespeth's ire, deserving of it for being so emotionally unfaithful "...she reminded me of you. And I treated her like you. Right down to...to comforting her by using the same means. Singing, and...holding her in my arms, and..." he flushed in shame. His fingers curled around his lover, steeling themselves for her backlash. "I'm sorry. It was unprofessional of me. A betrayal of your trust...to act so intimately in your...in your absence."

Everything that Haraldur had to say was true; it all had merit, especially from someone who was no stranger to scars that bore the memories of horrible events that he would otherwise forget. A mark was just a mark, and it did indicate that she had escaped the hands of death--at least, she could say as much for the puncture wound between her breasts, from the wooden spear that had managed to take her life from her. But that rune over her heart, the symbol that she had been brought back... It was too hard to reconcile, and frankly, the sight of it sickened her. Unnatural and crude, a constant reminder that she should still be dead. It wasn't until she had found herself looking at it each and every day that she finally understood Haraldur's repulsion to it.
And, above all, it was a permanent reminder of the mercenary's debt to that wretched necromancer. A fate that Vega never would have wished on anyone.

"I will consider your words of wisdom, Haraldur," she conceded at last, rising from her position in the tub to allow her paramore to sit upright, and then stand. "But I... it does not feel as simple as mere acceptance. Call me weak-spirited, but I just want to forget it all. Leave that dark patch of my life unacknowledged and to just... move on. Like you wish to move on." With a hopeful smile, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. "I think... we can help one another with it. With moving on from the past. And with making... with making better memories."

Already, he had provided her with memories enough to combat her despair: the warmth of his arms, his promises, the overwhelming relief that he was alive and well and still wanted her in his life. That would be the driving force of her focus, from now on... the future, not the past. "Whatever you want, however insatiable you claim to be, I will do everything in my power to provide you with what you desire. That is my promise to you." Drawing the towel around his naked waist, the Skyknight pulled Haraldur toward her until he was flush against her body once more. She stood on her toes in an attempt to compensate for the height difference. "But for now... I won't have you dirtying that Eyraillian uniform by traipsing around in the dead of night. You might as well wait until tomorrow to don it; I have no doubt you will look like an impeccable soldier."

Stepping away and dropping the towel, she watched with a roll of her eyes as he slung an arm across his chest in mock salute. "Are you mocking my authority?" She demanded, but not with a coy smile. "Because I can be authoritative, soldier. Do I need to prove myself?" With a glint of mischief in her eye, she pointed to the empty cot. "Into bed with you. There is no other choice since you haven't any other clothes to wear. And anyway..." As soon as he obliged, Vega sauntered over to him and climbed atop his body once more, playful and predatory. "I did not yet say I was finished with you tonight." Now that she knew what she was doing... she was not yet through with seeing what she--and he--were capable of.

"Petty or not, we are beyond that, Alster." Elespeth murmured and pressed her warm lips to Alster's neck. "You thought, at the time, that was you were doing was the only thing that you could do to be of help. I... know that feeling, well. The need to be useful and relevant instead of deadweight or, worse, a liability." She knew; she had known it all her life, being born into a family that lived to serve. Struggling to shy away from traditional female occupations, only to find the alternative was to live up to the expectations of a man... she could not begrudge him the way he had thought. It did not mean that she had to like it, but at the very least, she understood. And she'd have done well to demonstrate that she understood earlier on, instead of stewing in despair while Alster stewed in guilt.

They had both been in the wrong, it seemed, for very different reasons. Such was the power of self-righteousness. "But... it's true. Your family has not been kind to you--or even to me, for the most part. I think... I am fairly certain that Tivia only changed her mind about me because she had no one else to trust, and no one to look out for her... and, she is your blood. Your kin. So..." The Atvanian warrior sighed softly, her breath tickling the hairs on Alster's neck. "It was... the closest that I could get to you. I needed a cause to keep me going, somewhere to focus my energy. However undeserving she might have been, or still be, I would not wish it upon anyone to be alone." Because she knew that pain; and it was hollowing, cloying. The poor, ruined Rigas caster had enough to contend with as it was.

Loneliness... it did strange things to people, led them to make decisions they would otherwise never consider. Vega had drunk her loneliness away; Elespeth had kept herself busy worrying over another's needs and safety in lieu of focusing on her own. And Alster... he, too, had his means of warding it off. But it was not what she would have expected of him.
Falling silent, she let him explain the situation in which he had found himself with Vega Sorde. Elespeth knew that she and the Eyraillian princess bore similarities; it was why they had become drawn to one another as friends. But to the point where Alster would have derived comfort in those similarities, striving to be close to her while she was so far away... it stung. She could not deny that it stung to know someone else had been on the receiving end of her lover's care at a time when she had needed it so, so badly...

But she could not begrudge him; nor could she begrudge Vega, who had been so scared and alone and confused...

"...Vega was... vulnerable. Alone. She needed someone... and who else would have lent her the kind of help that you offered?" Swallowing her hurt, Elespeth breathed out slowly, closing her eyes to ward off tears that threatened to gather in the corners. "What you did... it was the right thing to do, Alster. To help someone in need. Someone who was... frankly, more deserving of your care than I was. Perhaps, if not for you, Vega would not have recovered quite as quickly, and she is as integral a force in this war as anyone. So... there is no need to apologize. You did no wrong. I did. I never... should have left you, Alster."

Moving on from the past... Beyond his jagged, tendon-cutting wrist scar, the past was one wound he could not mend and certainly would never forget. As Vega's affirmations rang into the air, he only responded with a nod and a thin, firm smile. Though he was, for the most part, oriented towards the present, as it was necessary for survival, when he did think of the future, he tied it to his past, convinced that one could not follow without the other in close pursuit. It, therefore did him little good, to fantasize about will-haves, speculating on what-ifs, when the memory of his destructive years as a bloodthirsty, mindless soldier still dictated his course. Of those Forbanne that managed to escape their captors, most of them returned to their old ways, unable to reintegrate into a non-militaristic society, or they killed themselves, too guilt-ridden to live on in a world that reviled their existence. Adjustment was difficult, nigh impossible, and he was no exception. Despite having left the Forbanne over ten years ago, he was still adjusting, still learning how to move, let alone to move along. To move forward. 

But he was willing to try. 

With his hand poised in its position of salute, he listened to the demands of his Commander, adopting a stern, obedient mien upon his features. "I do not mock, Sir," he said, his eyes like slate, betraying nothing more than well-behaved intentions--at least, on the surface. He bowed his head, lowering his stance so that their heights were level. "The only one here who needs to prove anything--is me." He wandered over to the bed and lay upon it, as commanded, waiting patiently for Vega to join him. And she did, pouncing above him like a jungle cat with her claws pointed and outstretched. "What did you have in mind, Sir?" He raised his head to meet with her lips, but they did not touch; they only lingered, a hair's breadth apart. His hands clamped around her waist, sliding past her well-defined hips and ceasing their movements right where the small of her back met the rise of her buttocks. With the flick of his wrist, he smacked that area, the flat of his palm making a brisk, stinging contact that cracked softly, briefly, in their ears. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, the top row of his teeth sliding across her bottom lip. "And I'll do it. And if you don't know what you want,"he bit down on that lip; a small, punctuating nip, "I'll find out."

Together, they experimented, learning through the demands and desires of the body, of the blooming, consistent rush of heat and sensation and unmitigated surrender that assailed them in that bed, in that tent. It was a journey, at times blissfully long, at others unfairly short, but each a step that narrowed the scope of their needs as a couple. They were learning to communicate without saying a word, and it was a rewarding process when, in the end, they reached a certain threshold, a breakthrough, and ended in each other's arms, exhausted but satisfied. Finally they drifted to sleep. At first, it was a euphoric swirl, the press of her body like a blanket over his hypersensitive skin. He snuggled her close from behind, feeling safe, feeling protected in her company. Feeling like nothing could seize him and attack. 

But the nightmares returned in full force, and for the first time in many years, he felt defenseless to stop the onslaught. Arrows with tips like porcupine quills needled into him, rupturing scarcely-healed injuries. War hammers hit him with such force, he felt all the bones in his arms, in his legs, breaking apart, splitting in half like dry, brittle twigs. They protruded from the skin at odd angles as he was left bleeding, supine, on the ground. 

He was surrounded by children. Their faces were ghastly, purple, wide-eyed and gaunt-cheeked. They carried pikes in their tiny hands, jabbed them into his legs, his torso, his shoulders...and tore him from the inside out. Their chapped, blood-peppered lips erupted into vindicated smiles.

Haraldur startled himself awake a few hours dawn. He stumbled out of bed, minding that he didn't wake Vega, and immediately checked his body for injuries. Nothing, save for the scratches and love bites from the previous night's love-making with the Skyknight commander. He barely slung on his new Eyraillan uniform before he bowled over and vomited his dinner in a bucket outside of the tent. Holding his stomach as if releasing would spill his internal organs on the floor, Haraldur limped into camp, towards the weapons tent. 

Sword, sword, sword...

He found a practice sword. It was of unbalanced weight and fit awkwardly in his hands, but he accepted the abrasive, yet comforting feel of the coiled wire hilt against his callused palm, and took it out with him to the training grounds. He practiced in the dark, and well into the morning, until his old tendon injury erupted with so much pain that he tossed the weapon aside in favor of a few good swigs of hard, concentrated liquor. 

"It's something that I must shake." Alster stared up at the canvassed ceiling, a pained memory floating into his eyes like dust motes, or purple blooms of light. "There's memories that I'm still trying to recover from...well, before I was asleep." He tiptoed around the subject delicately, his voice taking on a purposeful hush, as if speaking any louder would summon the sleeping curse and attach to him anew. "Mostly it's from the time I traveled with my parents, after my exile from Stella D'Mare. But I do remember a few things. Sad moments. Desperate moments. And during all those instances, at the height of my guilt and despair, I've tried to," a noisy sigh escaped his nostrils, "end my life. It was just too much, to live with that weight. To live knowing that people--people like my mother--were suffering simply because I was alive. And I just couldn't stand to be...to be a parasite. To cause harm to someone every time I took in air. To be, as you said, a liability. And so, even with my father's intervention, I instilled in myself this belief that I just...had to die. But," he slid his warm, radiating hand over her back in massaging circles, "you came along, and you changed my perspective. And I had to have known this from the start, but I was too dumb to catch on until now. Perhaps I'm still trying to accept...that I don't have to die. I don't need to die."

He turned his overbright eyes from the ceiling to Elespeth, watching her reaction to his previous confessions, fearful of the subtle but noticeable turn in her countenance: the way her mouth trembled and her voice broke as it tried to keep an even pitch, and the way her eyes leaked, hurt, always hurt...by him. By his actions. Could he do nothing else for her but burrow continuous barbs and thorns into her weeping chest? 

"You don't need to make excuses for me, El. I know what I did, and what it's done to you." He removed one hand from beneath her to prevent the warming spell cast upon it from overheating. "It was so easy for me to latch on to someone else. With Haraldur unconscious, and later detained, who else could have reached her? But I took her care too much to heart. And maybe it's in my nature, to overexpose myself until I'm raw and bleeding, but I'm not that altruistic. It satisfied something in me, to help her...but it hardly filled the hole." He traced the scarred rune-markings on his palm; faded, but never gone. "Know this now, and I'll reiterate it over and over...as many times as I need to say it to make you believe. You can't be replaced. By anyone. By anything. And I'm sorry that I tried to. ...Several times." He pressed his fingers against his eyelids, forcing himself to breathe evenly as his throat closed on him, threatening to grip him with panic. In out in out in out...

"I...I caused it all, El..." he said, his voice pinched, harried, sounding his words with difficulty as he attempted mastery over the anxiety-ridden shut-down of his basic functions. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, warding away the sudden blossoming of a splitting headache. "I drove you to leave. It's my...my..." He shook his head, his breaths coming out in short spurts. He grabbed his throat, jabbing nails into his neck. Holes so he could breathe. Puncture. Deep. Deep. Air...I need...

He shot up into a sitting position, mouth open and gasping. Tears of effort pooled in his eyes and slid past his cheeks. Control. Control it... Control it!

"I'm sorry," he wheezed out as his fingernails filled with blood, throat streaked in trailing lines. "It'll pass. It'll...I'm all right." A dry sob shook his shoulders. Gasps and heaves. Gasps and heaves. "I'll be...fine."

I won't be fine...

Vega sucked in a short breath as the ghost of Haraldur's hand on her buttocks continued to sting for seconds in the aftermath. Her lips tugged halfway towards a cheeky smile, but the rest of her was all allure, and anticipation. "Well aren't you bold, the Skyknight teased, hanging on the mercenary's every word. What did she like? Was that something she was supposed to know, given her gross inexperience? Fortunately, it appeared to be a rhetorical question, one that Haraldur was already apt to answer--and she was just as apt to give him leave to do as he said. "Then," she breathed, her lower lip faintly swollen from his feisty teasing gesture, "I trust you to help me find out what it is I like. If you are, in fact, as bold as your gestures indicate..."
There was no doubt about it that the warrior's skill was by no means exclusive to fighting--something that had already occurred to Vega, but was now solidified as fact as they engaged in mutual experimentation, exploring one another's body with every sense available to them. The Eyraillian princess, somewhere in the throes of pleasure and ecstasy, had forgotten all about her penchant to be timid and held nothing back from her passionate lover; every sigh and moan and shiver was genuine, visceral, and sacred.

And when the storm between them quieted, leaving their sore, hypersensitive bodies to the mercy of one another's warmth, neither was in need of final words of confirmation that what they were, together, was right; and Vega Sorde had never fallen asleep so quickly, and so soundly, in her life. Nor did she awaken when her lover stirred and jolted awake, plunged too far into sweet dreams to awaken to Haraldur's nightmares...

But the mercenary did not find himself all alone for long as he departed the Skyknight Commander's tent. 
Vitali, as if himself drawn by nightmares and utterly lacking the need to sleep, sensed the mercenary's presence on the training grounds before he even saw him. Curious, he stood by long enough for the warrior to take out the agitation that he obviously needed to expel, before making himself known. Haraldur wasn't as likely to up and run away with all of his energy spent and a desperate need to calm his nerves with spirits. "Truly, Haraldur? Not enjoying the privilege of being alive and well again?" The necromancer tsked, hands stuffed into the pockets of his waistcoat as he took to the mercenary's side, taking note of his defeated profile. "Not even in the arms of Eyraillian royalty? Do not linger out here, basking in your woes for too long, now. Your lady will be apt to worry; as ladies are wont to do, about you." As to whether or not the mercenary was aware as to Tivia Rigas's unrequited affections for him, Vitali did not know--but the fact remained a fact. 

"Come, now, chin up! The aftermath of Sybaian interference cannot be so terrible as to drive you to drink, when you have a willing, red-haired means of comfort awaiting you just on the other side of this encampment." Grinning, he nudged Haraldur's shoulder. "Is this not what you wanted? A clear pathway to another chance, another life? One that entails a home, and love, and a future family? Really, I did not drag that princess's soul from its limbo and drag your half-dead carcass miles and miles on horseback for you to fall apart at your own demons." Haraldur, of course, had never divulged as much to Vitali; not about his wants and desires, his desire for a family and stable ground beneath his feet. But it had taken no great amount of effort for the clever necromancer to deduce as much, given what he picked up from conversations and hearsay. The soldier's mind might have been guarded against prying magics, but his demeanor, his weaknesses, revealed far more than he likely thought; or hoped. "You will not win this war in self-defeat, soldier." Vitali commented, more solemn, or at least, more serious. What use would this man be to him, really, if he forever remained a captive of his own, macabre past? "So stop looking within yourself for enemies; you'll be of use to no one, that way."

"Alster...?" Elespeth took to alert before the Rigas caster, plagued and attacked by his own amplified sense of guilt, fully succumbed to a full-blown panic attack. His fingers scratched his throat, drawing blood from the barely healed scabs on his neck, and she was not quick enough to stop him from reopening the gruesome wounds. But as soon as she gained control of the situation, wrapping her arms around the Rigas caster and gently gripping his wrists. How was it that one could be so ailed by the demons of his own guilt, that it drove them to take out their anxiety on their own innocent flesh? There was no immediate threat; she harboured no anger towards him, and no resentment towards his decision to have helped the Eyraillian princess the way that he did. But then... that almost appeared to make it worse for him. Like he craved that ire and backlash, if only for the reassurance that it would assuage the guilt that poisoned his heart.

But the former knight could not do that. She had once before, expressing how she was through with his indecisiveness regarding their relationship, and that had ended well for no one. And, regardless of past events, she could not muster that anger that Alster so felt he deserved. She could not berate him when she did not blame him for what he had done... however it might have served him on a personal level.
Like everyone else involved in this limitless war, he was only striving to survive. "Breathe, slowly. In and out. I'm here... remember, I'm right here. So breathe with me, alright? Can you do that?" Holding him close to her chest, so that he could feel it swell with breath and sink on every exhale, Elespeth endeavored to bring Alster back down to earth--not only for his own sake, but for fear that his fit would awaken Tivia, who was in need of good rest. In a calm voice, her breath tickling his ear, she murmured, "Keep it up, slowly. In and out, on a count of eight, each... Remember why we are here. Remember what we must do. There is no room in your mind to become your own enemy; gods know we have enough of them as it stands..."

She was as patient as she was stubborn, and the Atvanian held him firm and tight against her body until his breathing grew steadier, even, fluid. Until his rigid body relaxed, until his arms and hands no longer struggled against her hold to claw at his raw neck. When he felt all but limp in her arms, several long moments later, she loosened her hold and slowly drew away from his defeated form and moved to face him. "I am not making excuses for you, Alster. I make excuses for no one." With gentle hands, Elespeth unbuttoned the collar of his tunic, which was now stained crimson, and dabbed at his neck with one of the damp cloths that had earlier been pressed against her forehead to treat a fever. "You took care of me, looked out for me even when I turned your back on you and walked away. Which, frankly, was far more than I deserved... you have nothing to be ashamed of, and I hold nothing against you for what you did for Vega Sorde. In any case... we could all do to care for one another more, these days."

She cast a glance towards Tivia momentarily, relieved to find the star seer still fast asleep upon the cot, plunged too deep into sleep to be bothered by their conversation. Would she have felt quite as inclined to care for the Rigas caster, had she not been related to Alster? The former knight was not in the right frame of mind to know. "The same goes for you, you know. If I am irreplaceable, so are you. And not only to me, but to your family, to Stella D'Mare... to your very own legacy, Alster. You are irreplaceable in so many more ways than I am..." Bowing her head, she pressed her lips against his, and whispered, "I only wish you saw your value... and valued it as I do."

The spots before Alster's eyes expanded, one bleeding into the other, broadening and widening, until he was assailed by a dark, near-opaque veil. His panic doubled, and he clawed through his throat in vain, for there was no end to the darkness, to the suffocation, to the vising of his insides, and to the voices that bounced around in his head, without relent.

Worthless. Useless. You slag of meat. Groveling and pathetic. I wish you hadn't been born!

They were all uttered in the high-pitch whine of his mother, and sailed around him like auditory satellites, eclipsing the sounds that existed in his immediate surroundings. But if he strained to hear, he could determine a soft crooning from beyond that gently reminded him to breathe. To count. In out in out. One, two, three, four...

...Four...

He was stuck on four. 

A cough interspersed with a sob rattled his shoulders.

I wish...

"Worthless," he breathed, in a shaky whisper. "Born...you wished I was never born..." He stared at a fixed point ahead, not yet registering Elespeth, but instead, some presence behind her. Someone dead, someone gone, but someone who still haunted him with brusque reminders of his failures as a son and as a decent human being.

"Mother...I tried." His hands squirmed from their grip in Elespeth's hands. Scratch scratch scratch. Need to...need to scratch it all away!

Breathe... breathe. That sympathetic voice sailed into his ears again. A caress of air. The proximity of arms that bore him close. Safe. You're safe, here...

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

Slowly, gradually, his breathing stabilized. With that stabilization, the darkness receded from his vision, his insides stopped wrenching themselves into a knot of oneness, and the voices silenced from his brain. His throat opened, releasing the pressure of choking, and the sobs subsided. All was silent. Calm. He had survived.

Alster tightened his blood-stained hand over Elespeth's own, his open and aware eyes looking at her in sad desperation. His episode had ended, but the experience still affected him with a lingering emotional paralysis. 

"El...I'm...she..." He paused, trying to gather his convoluted thoughts. "She... my mother, she told me that she wished I was never born. It was during one of her moods, I should have known. I should have sensed..." At the press of the washrag at his neck, he shuddered and flinched, doubly affected by both the pain and the slight compression. He took the rag from her, to lighten the uncomfortable weight. "Three days later, she was dead...by my hand. I let those words get to me. They fed into my darkness, gave it a form. A weapon. Access for the Serpent to...to wriggle Its way through the holes in my mind...and attack. Those words...they had to have been the catalyst, El." He buried his head against Elespeth's chest, and wept soundlessly. "How then, can you see value in that horrific act? In me? What else do I have to do--to equalize all the wrong I've done with all the good? How do I surmount it all? ...Is it even possible?"

He shook away and withdrew from Elespeth's comforting hold, concentrating his attention on the washrag and the smears of blood that lapped away from his raw, throbbing, itchy-red throat. "No, I....I sincerely apologize, Elespeth." He rubbed the tears from his cheeks with the rag, using their disappearance as a means to regain any semblance of composure, of mastery over his own mental self. "It's unfair of me to ask you those questions. I--they're....they're unimportant. What's most important now..." He swallowed, but the spittle that traveled down his throat agitated the bleeding scratches. A hand instinctively rested there, as protection. "It's important that we...we need to make plans to return to Stella D'Mare. Tivia's newest update..." He glanced over at the small, blanketed figure curled up on their cot, relieved to see that she had slept through his shameful, destructive behavior, "...It's...it's Adalfieri we must stop. His death, should it happen...We can't let it happen. That's where my focus should be, not on..." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, gripping large clumps in a fistful. "Not on something so unnecessary. So...pathetic." 

When Vitali seemingly materialized out of shadows, of which there were scarce few at this time of day, Haraldur tensed at the arrival and had instinctively tightened his hold on the sword. As a warrior, he was always keen to know whenever someone tried to sneak up on him. It was an instinct teased out of him through brutal forcefulness of Forbanne training, and one that bordered on animalistic. It was worrisome, indeed, that the necromancer slipped by his notice undetected, and while he could blame it on his preoccupations, or the flash of swill he had acquired from one of the Tadasuni soldiers, Haraldur had a suspicion that the man could expertly wear the shadows like a cloak of concealment, and suppress most to all trace of his presence whenever it suited him. It explained how easily he absconded from camp to camp, and how he saw through the illusions of others. 

This information did not cheer him, nor did the necromancer's attempts at idle, long-winded chatter. Nosy, invasive, well-informed, perceptive chatter. A frown etched on his face. "I wasn't going to die," he said, with a defiant air. The knuckles on his sword hand grazed the black-corroded surface of his deteriorating pendant. "You can rest assured on that point. You brought me here to camp with time to spare. I'm up and about. On my feet--enjoying the privilege, as you say." As if to punctuate that statement, he took a swig from the flask. His wrist still ached terribly, but, all thanks to his self-medication technique, it was more bearable--with the added bonus of making the necromancer and his revealing prattle more bearable. 

"A bullshitter. And a good one. That's what you are," he said, his words lazy, running together sloppily from out of his leaden tongue. "Have you considered reading fortunes for revenue? You'd make a killing among the superstitious Tadasuni." He took another swig as he loosened his fingers on the blade hilt, not registering Vitali as enough of a threat to maintain a readied, offensive position. And with the drink in his opposite hand, he didn't think he'd be as effective in inflicting damage, should the situation call for attack. Though his wrist screamed for attention, he refused to massage the tendon and thus show further weakness to a man he was beholden to for an as yet disclosed and indeterminate amount of time. Already, so much of himself had been compromised, so much leaked, exposed, to most everyone in camp. He was no longer an unshakable, unbreakable pillar. He had been toppled and felled--a once resilient force, now so vulnerable and painfully human. He was unused to it all, wandering about his new reality donning so little armor--both inside and out. 

"You can quit the act, now. We're not familiar; don't go pretending that we are. But I'll give you the reassurance that you want." He screwed the top on his flask and clipped it back to his belt, a gesture of stability that, while not convincing, was at least better than admitting to his client, of all people, that the demons ran amok in his head, unchecked and unbalanced. "I'm able-bodied again. Healthy. And I haven't forgotten our arrangement. I've lived most of my life surrounded by demons of both flesh and smoke, and never lost my ability to fight. You don't need my mind; you only need my body. Just let me know when you want to make use of it."

He was about to turn away and leave it at that, but he felt the approach of someone, light of foot, but not nimble. Tentative in movement, but uncertain in step. Clumsy. He whirled around to face this new arrival, and puzzled when he saw Tivia Rigas, who had tried and failed to duck behind a tent. She froze, the unmarred side of her face turning as red and blemished as the half that had seen the flame. He nodded to her in acknowledgement, and voiced a greeting, but it was not by mere chance that she found herself in their company. Or so he thought.

"Do you need anything?" He asked her, head tilted to one side. "Did Elespeth or Alster send you?"

She flushed a deeper red, and shook her head emphatically from side to side. "No. I...I ah," she pointed at the necromancer, as if in afterthought. "Just wanted to speak to him."

Haraldur raised his eyebrow, then glanced at Vitali, his suspicion mounting. His green eyes flashed in warning at the man to his side. "What do you want with her, Vitali?"

"Alster." Elespeth's voice, though even and quiet, resonated with a sharp hiss. Reaching for the frantic and near-psychotic Rigas caster, she gripped his forearm, and squeezed until he returned his attention to her face. "Stop, and just... just listen, for once. Listen to me--listen to yourself. Can't you see that you are falling into the very same trap that held you captive for years? The very reason you lost touch with your celestial magic? Please..." Releasing his arm slowly, fingers relaxing one at a time, the Atvanian warrior let her hand drop. "I thought you had vanquished that. I thought you had finally seen that you are not the bane of your family's existence that you so believe. You are merely a product of what you were brought up to believe... someone who deserved far more love than what he received."

When would it end? What exactly would it take to convince him that he was more than the past that continued to aunt him? And if even she could not lift him up, far beyond his regrets and nightmares... then what would? 
Maybe he is right. Maybe that is not what is important right now... But then, what would empower him to pursue what was important? Moreover, how could he possibly anticipate success when he continued to think so ill of himself? It would surely manifest, in one way or another, and when it did, she feared it would be beyond his control. Do not fall victim to your self-loathing, Alster... it will benefit no one, in the end.

Pressing her lips together, she struggled to see the validity in his conviction to return to his home city--for the reasons that he proposed, that is. "To hell with Adalfieri," the former knight murmured, raking an irate hand through her brunette locks. "Who cares if he is slated for death? After what he did to you... holding you captive, in hopes that you would unleash the Serpent. Why should we care about what befalls him? It sounds as thought Stella D'Mare is long overdue for a new... better leader of the Rigas family." She did not pause to consider that her beloved might still hold an iota of respect for the Rigas head, because she did not care: the man was blacklisted in her mind, and had been from the moment she learned that Alster had only made it back because he had fled, against Adalfieri's will. Little would change such a heavy bias as it weighed like lead in her heart. "But you are partially correct. We need to return to Stella D'Mare. If destruction has been foretold, as seen by Tivia, then it is sure to unfold if we remain useless lumps in this encampment. But for now..."

Sighing, she placed a loving hand on Alster's shoulder. "We need rest. Come to sleep, Alster. It's freezing, the both of us are still recovering from uprecedented illness, and... I have long grown tired of falling asleep, alone."

It was all the necromancer could do not to snort at Haraldur's rather botched attempt to come off as confident and nonchalant. Neither attribute was particularly characteristic of inebriation, and not even a fool would miss the way his words slurred together with little to no inflection. No wonder he and the wayward Eyraillian princess were so drawn to one another; their coping mechanisms (which expanded little beyond overindulging in alcohol) were strikingly similar. "I fear the Tadasuni would sooner execute a fortune teller than be drawn to one for insight," he commented with a dismissive gesticulation. "And I have never fancied myself a seer in any way. Though I do appreciate your thoughts on my potential aptitudes, mercenary."

Watching as the taller, broader man replace the flask at his side (which sat suspiciously close to his sword--hence Vitali's close attention), he couldn't help but grin at Haraldur's acknowledgment that he planned to honour their bargain. Of course, that came as no surprise; he wasn't an idiot, and needn't have the consequences of trespassing on such a powerful man's trust articulated to him in any layman's terms. "Rest assured, my friend, I am not in need of your reassurances. I already have them--in more ways than you possibly know." The necromancer drawled, toying with the cuff of his sleeve, just as their conversation was rather rudely interrupted by someone who he had not expected to see again--or at least, not so soon.

The timid stature of the young Rigas caster should not have come as any great surprise to Vitali, and yet he had not anticipated that Tivia's girlish infatuation with the mercenary (whose heart belonged to another, at that) would actually draw her to her titillated heart's desire. He could not help but feel embarrassed for her, given the more than evident fog of confusion that briefly touched Haraldur's features. Perhaps he imagined it, but he could have sworn he also detected deep-seated pity in the large man's grey eyes. Then again, who, in this encampment, did not feel pity for the wretched creature that was Tivia Rigas? With her ruined aesthetics and fleeting sanity, she was the very embodiment of pitiful, and why wouldn't someone with a strong sense of chivalry such as Haraldur appeal to her need for tenderness and concern?
But what took Vitali aback the most was the meaning and intent behind the fragile woman's sudden appearance; the specifics of which the mercenary did not take too kindly.

Putting a hand up as if to dismiss so ludicrous a thought, as well as to place distance between himself and the much stronger (not to mention armed) man, Vitali shook his head. "Her? I can assure you, sir, that I have no dealings whatsoever with this woman. I endenture those to me whom I can make use of. People who can serve a purpose to me down the road. People like you; strong, survivors, with great skill and instinct. That said," he looked to Tivia, arching an eyebrow at her diminutive form and the uncertainty in her one good eye. "I have rooted myself sufficiently in the lives of enough, far more stable Rigas casters, as it stands. I have no need for this pitiful creature. But..."

Heaving a sigh borne of dramatic flare, the necromancer dropped his arms to his sides. Tivia was here because she wanted something from him; and he was determined to find out what it was. "I'll lend you an ear, Miss Rigas, if you believe you have dealings with me."

"A lot has happened since I regained use of my celestial magic," Alster said, with a quiet, morose sigh. He stared at Elespeth's hold on him, forceful and pinched, but it was nonetheless a comforting pressure that he invited. "Since then, I've lived through experiences that have often left me...unseated. Uncertain. Testing my faith, my sanity, the very core of who I am..." He used more delicate words, afraid that he would sound accusatory in inferring that Elespeth, in her abrupt departure from Stella D'Mare, was a contributing factor to his now overflowing hatred of himself--when really, it was, as it always had been, a blame that sat and fitted perfectly upon his shoulders alone. "It will take some time, Elespeth. To return to that height. And I'll get there." He closed his eyes, but a smile carrying the vestiges of long-ago hope brightened his countenance. "It'll be so much easier to fend off these cloying insecurities of mine...because you're here. And I'll struggle and relapse and fall, again and again, but...the landing will get easier and easier, every time. Of that I'm certain." 

His smile faded, however, when the matter of Adalfieri came to roost on those burden-ready shoulders of his. They slumped as a result. Opening his eyes, Alster nodded, agreeing with Elespeth's emphatic dismissal of the Rigas head, in all his many faces and many nefarious plans--though he himself did not share in her views. "I understand, El. He's done a lot of radical, unnecessary acts, and death would be the ultimate punishment for him--but that's not the case, here. According to Tivia, Adalfieri's death is part of his plan. Perhaps it's a contingency plan. Perhaps we did succeed in thwarting him in some way, but I've no doubt he has conceived of several different outcomes, all of which play to his favor. If his death is to bring destruction, and is the catalyst that Tivia claims will unleash the Serpent in full, then..." He met her eyes, and they brimmed again with the determination that, while previously hidden behind a shield of clouds, returned with a sun-bright intensity, despite the redness around his lids and the moisture that still clung to his face."We can't let him succeed." 

"Tomorrow. We'll have to act tomorrow and not a moment delayed. This is our final chance. My..." he almost choked, almost faltered, almost retreated again into his head, but he shook it away and took a deep breath. "...It's my chance. To find my worth. I suspect it's there, right where I left it so long ago: in the Serpent's maw. But," calming significantly at Elespeth's light touch, he acquiesced as he enfolded his arms around her anew. Together they reclined, reuniting under the sweeping quilt blanket. His hands resumed in generating a gentle heat, which he laid against her back. "This is fine. This is...just what I need. Who knows when we'll ever have another chance...for a restful night. Like this. As one." He kissed her gently on the lips, then, and allowed himself to drift into some semblance of slumber. 

"In more ways than I know?" Even in his tipsy state, Haraldur felt his hackles rise from that rather offhanded comment, spouted by a man who epitomized the very essence of offhandedness. What did that mean? A threat? Did Vitali, somehow, still control what could happen to Vega, were he to will it into being? That runic symbol on her chest...maybe it wasn't just a scar, after all. It was a promise. One that, should he fall out of line, would not be for long. It said, I hold the upper hand. Never forget that. You hold no power. You are mine. 

His mouth grew sour, as if he had imbibed curdled milk instead of subpar swill. He about withdrew from the necromancer, so wrenched by the fear that for every second he was away, Vega's risk of danger multiplied. But then Tivia stepped into the scene, and he was temporarily mollified by her distracting presence. What was she doing, associating with this man? Was it a Rigas matter? Was she an envoy speaking on Alster's behest? 

He looked at her with a steady gaze, puzzling over her intentions. For some inane reason, he believed Vitali's claims that he had not negotiated any "dealings" with her--which worried him all the more. It meant that she planned on extracting a want, a desire, from him, and in exchange...

Before he could finish that thought, his legs vaunted forward until he was mere steps away from Tivia's meagre form. She balked at their proximity and hid her face, but he did not ease away or allow her any breathing space. "Tivia," he said, in a low, sibilant hiss of warning. "Be careful." His eyes were almost sad, behind all that hardness. "Don't sacrifice your freedom. Whatever it is you want...if you can get it elsewhere, then get it elsewhere." 

Tivia, her limbs like fire, bundled up the bottom hem of her dress in knots, while her free hand acted as a makeshift mask upon the ruined half of her face. Her good eye remained downcast, but she chanced a few, shy looks up at him. She was paralyzed by his presence, and it took her a while to respond, let alone meet his gaze even halfway. 

"I...I only wish to speak with him. I'll be fine." She shuffled her feet. "But thanks...thanks for--for the concern, Haraldur." 

"I'll be nearby." He nodded towards the small Eyraillan encampment just a few stones from the training field. "If you need me. But I'll trust in your word. Just...don't make any bargains with him." For her sake, he managed a small, but kind smile as he gently squeezed her shoulder. "All right?" 

She could scarcely respond with a nod before he retreated. He gave Vitali one last pointed look, and then he was gone. Back toward Vega's tent, no doubt. 

It took Tivia a few moments to dim away the glow of an encounter she did not expect to happen at all. And certainly not like that! She cradled her shoulder, feeling the lingering aftereffects of his touch, tingling and warm and reassuring and...

Remembering, at last, the entire purpose of her trip, she snapped to attention and honed in on Vitali, looking at him without really seeing him, as it was difficult to see anything other than the visual manifestation of her rapidly beating heart splotching its colored heat before her eye. "I'm not here to make a bargain," she began, feeding herself with whatever morsels of confidence she could forage from within. "I only want information." For now, she thought, her lips pursing. "Can you approximate the day when Adalfieri is slated to die? We need to act, and in haste, before he succumbs, before the Serpent...before..." she trailed away before her voice could diminish, grow small and trembling and terrified. Opting for a more nonchalant tone, she added, "And on an unrelated note," she looked around, in case Haraldur was in earshot, "what is the extent of your hold and control over the recently resurrected?"

"Tch. Ye of so bleak an opinion." Vitali rolled his eyes and examined his clean fingernails, unperturbed by the warnings that the mercenary presented the vulnerable young woman, whose knees practically trembled before the mere sight of him. Was he truly blind to just how smitten the pitiful creature was, or simply inclined to pay stupid? "Rest assured, she knows who I am and what I do by the infamy of my name. There is nothing you can tell her that she doesn't already know. And, really--grant her a modicum of dignity, hm? Never have a met a Rigas woman who had not been able to hold her own." Of course, the majority of his dealings with Rigas women have encompassed his brief conversations with Chara... But, fragile though she appeared, the necromancer suspected that beneath that forever ruined vanity lay a strength of which even Tivia was perhaps not aware. And for that, he knew to proceed with caution.

Waiting with a vague air of impatience for Haraldur to be through with his diatribe and thorough warnings, Vitali let the man finish. But he had long since decided that he had had his fill of pestering someone who was still so relentlessly haunted by their own demons, and could not say he was disappointed to see him go. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but do you not have a certain Eyraillian to return to? Do not leave her to worry." Judging by the direction he took, making for the Eyraillian encampment nearby, the thought had already crossed the inebriated mercenary's mind.
And speaking of the Eyraillian princess... It appeared as though Haraldur's mind was not the only one preoccupied with her copper-haired image.

"So you are not here to make a bargain, and yet... you still seek me out for information to which you believe only I am privy." The corners of the necromancer's mouth turned upward in a smirk, one that was more amused than cunning. "And since when did I ever give the impression that I offer information for free? Was helping you back to Alster's tent not sufficient as an act of kindness?" Pausing long enough for her to stew on the rhetorical question, he waived whatever response she pondered with a dismissive gesture. It was not as though he planned to bargain with someone who had so little to offer him, in any case. "As I have said before, I am no oracle of death's master plans. I have merely detected that its hand has fallen upon your venerable leader's bony shoulder. He could fall to its power seconds from now, as we speak; or in a few day's time. But in all honesty, it would be generous to predict his survival for another full week, in my humble experience. Though, as for your other question... might you be referring to a certain flame-haired royal to whom the object of your infatuation is so drawn?"

By the colour that bloomed in her face, Vitali had all the confirmation that he needed; not that he required any confirmation at all. There was no one else to whom the Rigas caster could possibly be referring. "I don't know why you bother with curiosity; the mercenary is beyond infatuated with the Skyknight commander. He has all but cut out his own heart and offered it to her. Unless, of course... you seek to disrupt that harmony?" Arching a slim eyebrow, he raked a casual hand through his hair and lowered his voice, lest he be heard by ears other than her own. "I will tell you this much, Miss Rigas: all magic is but a weave, and can as easily be unwoven by the weaver. Necromancy is no different. The Eyraillian princess is alive and autonomous because of my ability; and she remains so only because of Haraldur's promise to uphold his end of the transaction. And, frankly..." Touching his chin with a finger, he paused in thought, as if reconsidering something, but just as quickly shook his head. "I feel that there is little that might persuade me to rescind on what I have done to the Skyknight's benefit. And anyway, what makes you think that my interference in her life would distance Haraldur from her, such that he might start to see you in such a rose-coloured light?"

Vega Sorde had slept more soundly upon her uncomfortable cot that evening than she had in years and years, encompassed by the reassuring warmth of of Haraldur's form, which blanketed her from behind in an all-encompassing feeling of safety. Though her exhausted body hardly budged in the stirrings of sleep, her heart continued to flutter, light and hopeful. Hopeful that the mercenary's recovery was an omen of the darkness finally lifting from their lives, of better things to come, even if the outcome of war could still tilt in favour of either side, at any moment. She slept on the wings of that very hope for hours and hours into the night...

Until that fragile peace in her heart broke, seconds before she opened her eyes to abrasive morning light leaking through a break in the tent flaps...
Haraldur was gone.

"Haraldur... Haraldur? Where did you..." Suddenly chilled from the lack of clothes (as well as a bed companion), the Skyknight sat upright and scrambled for her clothes. Her limbs strained through the subtle aches that had resulted from shenanigans the night before, the intimacy that had left her winded and spent in the most satisfying of ways, but that was not the first thing on her mind. In fact, we it not for the twinges in her muscles, she might have wondered if it had been all a dream... And that he was still as lost to her as before. "Where are you? Haraldur..." Why would he leave? Had he awoken with second thoughts about his intentions to move forward with her? Had he decided her scars bore too risky an omen, that he thought her more a curse as a result of his decisions instead of someone with potential?

Or am I merely a disappointment to him?

Latching the belt around her waist, the Eyraillian princess was nearly out of the tent when she ran straight into the solid form of a tall, broad man. Haraldur looked somewhat worse for the wear, sleep deprived and with a glazed look about him that suggested he had been well acquainted with alcohol for at least a few hours. It was a look with which she was terribly familiar, having seen it in her own reflection many a time. Needless to say, her worry was far from assuaged. "Tell me I haven't driven you to drink so soon," she mused quietly, struggling with a smile that didn't last. With no small hesitation, the Skyknight placed a hand on his arm.

"Is everything... are you alright?" Voice unsteady, she cleared her throat in an attempt to strengthen it. But the panic in her eyes betrayed whatever facade of composure she sought. "You weren't here... I worried. That you decided... to..."

To leave... again.

Dignity. The necromancer saw it in himself to "defend" her dignity? Her remaining eyebrow dug into the folds of her eye, contemplative in her analysis of Vitali's words. Why did he insist on stressing her ableness and competence when, just the other night, he was quite gleeful in pointing out her abject uselessness in her bum ability? As self-destructive as it was actually helpful? 

Once Haraldur departed, leaving her to bask in the residual energy of his passing, she began to turn these words, and their motivations, together in her mind. Did Vitali see her as viable? As someone who was worth a bargain, or at the very least, worth his time? Or did he only say such complimentary phrases to mollify Haraldur, and encourage him to reroute his attention to his--she sighed hopelessly--inamorata? Tivia banked on the latter conclusion, but refused to dwell on her defeatist, yet realistic, perspective on herself. I am a Rigas, she echoed in her head as she straightened her shoulders and pointed a fierce eye at the necromancer. I deserve respect. I do have dignity. 

But the even keel of her vessel, her body, had threatened to founder when she observed, really observed, Vitali's overall appearance. She had caught glimpses of it the night before, but it was in less than ideal circumstances: too dark, too blurry, and she, too frantic with information to care as much. But now, the daylight hours were as kind to him as the shadows he boasted about wearing on his person like extra clothing. His glossy black hair was like a raven's wing, so dark, so iridescent in flecked shades of green and purple. His face was porcelain-perfect, crack-free, a construction that most women with an entire room full of powder could not recreate. And those eyes, smoky glass, volcanic, serene, crinkled with just the smallest bit of mirth (though she knew from where that mirth stemmed), were embedded with the precision of sewn buttons on a vest. They were both beautiful. Both so painful to look at that she wanted to howl with frustration and send a fire spell soaring into that impossible face. The symmetry in those smooth contours grated her. Crack open, damn you!. The smoke in those long-lashed eyes smothered her. Erupt. Lay waste to yourself! 

Before she lost whatever composure she had so tenuously gained by her little pep talk about the strength of a Rigas, she lowered her eye, and busied herself in staring at his feet. Words, words, words. You're here for words, to listen, not to bemoan the face of such terrible, mocking beauty. It's offensive to look at. Do not even try!

"Can you hazard an idea on how His Lordship Adalfieri is to die?" She said, in an air more calm than how she felt inside. "If his body is to remain relatively undamaged...if we could reach him in time..." She pulled at her sleeves, hesitating, "would you consider...? Our cause is dependent on his survival. If Andalari discovers that he is dead, they will hold nothing back on our most assured destruction. And if his death is to cause the downfall of our city...perhaps his revival will mitigate it. That's why I ask about control of the resurrected!" She sputtered, a puff of anger spreading across her already red cheeks. "Why should I care about that Eyraillan princess and whether she lives or dies!? You said it, yourself. Haraldur is well and truly enmeshed in Sir Vega Sorde's affairs. I. Ask. About. Adalfieri." She said between her teeth, emphasizing every word on its own to drive home her point, and to distance her as far from the possibility of bargaining for some sort of...disruption in the well-being of Vega's remade existence. She could not admit, even in the chamber of her most guarded memories, that she asked that question in part because of the princess's status as the necromancer's glorified puppet. He need only say the word, and he could...he could do what? 

"I wanted to know if we, if you could control Adalfieri, in this hypothetical situation where he is revived. What are you able to make him do, or act, or say? Could you have complete autonomy, if you wanted?" She raised her eye, but not high enough to clear her vision of his boots, or the ground. "His policies, his plans...they're extreme. They're radical, and they will ruin our prestigious family, our beautiful city. However, we cannot lose his face...but we may be able to save our face if his is in tact." Poor choice of words, Tivia, she berated to herself, as she cupped her burned cheek. "That's what I want to know, and I would like it if you didn't think me so ridiculous as to presume that I'm looking to disrupt the happiness of Haraldur and Vega. That poor mercenary..." she gently touched her shoulder, "he deserves joy, and love, even if it's with her." She almost spat. "Unless the specifics of your bargain, once you come calling for it, disturbs the happiness he shares with the princess, then," her perpetual, one-sided grimace spread to her entire mouth, "I'll decide on what kind of interference I'll cause on your life, Vitali." 

As Haraldur went from the training grounds to Vega's tent, worry, which the necromancer invoked in him, increased the pacing of his steps. Concentration quickened his gait, such that he noticed, a second too late, that he crashed into the Eyraillan princess just as she was emerging from her tent. He caught her, steadily gripping her shoulders while his eyes roved all about her to ascertain that she was...alive. Unaffected by Vitali's pull--whatever his "pull" would suggest, would wreck on her body or her mind. When he confirmed that she did not appear affected by any sort of manipulation (though there was no certain way in knowing that she hadn't), he relaxed his muscles, and dropped his arms to his sides.

"No, no, you haven't," he said, covering up his weariness, his fears generated by Vitali, the horrors in his head and in his dreams, by easing into a smile. "I just wanted to get an early start this morning. It's been too long since I've practiced, and I wanted to see for myself if my legs were in top form. Then," he lifted his arm, turning his scarred wrist inward for her to see, "the old blooming pain flared up again. Needed a little pick-me-up to dull the ache. Sorry for worrying you. I'm not..." he caught those final, unsaid words and leaned forward to peck a quick kiss on her parted lips. She was still warm. Alive. As alive as she'll ever be. Aren't you still kissing a corpse? A well-dressed, well-acted corpse? His thoughts bounced against his skull, stirring the beginnings of a headache to the fore. He kissed her again, shaking away his reservations. "I'm not going away, if that's what you think."

He unclipped the flask of swill from his belt, took a ready sip, and offered her a swig. "An aperitif before breakfast, my good Sir?" he said, his smile broadening, hoping that it compensated for whatever concerns that his disheveled appearance alerted in her. "Now that I'm wearing your livery, I figured I'd play the role of a respectable, cultured soldier. Unless you still fancy the roguish type who plays by his own rules." He backed away a few steps to present her an unadulterated view of the new uniform that he sported: a brigandine of the appropriate size, splashed with Eyraille's colors and coat of arms, an undershirt, and trousers tucked under knee-high leather boots. "I've never felt so conspicuous as I do in this," he chuckled as he pointed to the coat of arms, then took her hand. "Are you ready for a good meal? The fighting and the drinking and, well, last night," he winked, "worked me into an appetite. Let's eat."

A sigh heavy with trite annoyance left the young necromancer's lungs, and he pressed a hand to his cheek in emphasis of that sentiment. All melodrama, of course, but such was only characteristic of the man. "I thought I had already long-since made myself clear in my abilities and limitations," he mused, with a shake of his head. "Well, nevertheless: open your ears, for I do tire of repeating myself, and had I a piece of gold for every time someone posed this question, I would be rich as a king. I am a necromancer, my dear; I can raise the dead. Speak with the dead. I can spot the shadow of death as it nears and looms over its chosen victims. But it makes no real reservations as to when it will come, or in what form. By fire or blade or poison or sickness or simple old age, falling off a cliff or overindulgence in alcohol... I am afraid your guess is as good as mine; I cannot say for certain.

But, as for your second question..." Vitali paused to think, onyx eyes squinting in thought, before his slender shoulders lifted in a shrug. For a moment, it truly had seemed that he would consider her plea. "I make no promises, I'm afraid. Gods know I have already made enough intervention on behalf of your family, wouldn't you say? And after all, Haraldur did so sincerely plead you not to make any transactions with the oh so terrible likes of me." His eyes sparkled a moment, with the obvious amusement he derived from the mercenary's criticisms. "But, should you wish me to accompany you to Stella D'Mare... I might just find myself bored enough to pull a trick or two. After all, even if I am unable to pull your venerable leader from his grave and exercise my skills in puppetry, that is not to say that I cannot convince Andalari that your Lordship never died to begin with."

Of course, Vitali Kristeva was no fool, and as noble as the Rigas woman tried to sound in light of her proclaimed stance on Haraldur and his happiness. For one, no act of altruism was ever in itself wholly selfless; there was always something to be gained, even as much as merely evading the guilt of jealousy and sabotage. But more likely, as was evident in Tivia's tone of voice as she referred to princess Vega Sorde, was her reluctance to see the mercenary happy with another woman. It was a typical adolescent-type infatuation, one as common as any other, but it seemed to run deep in the wrecked young woman's veins--if for no other reason, than perhaps for the fact that she truly believed that no one would ever again see her as someone as having value. Someone worth saving, someone even worth love. Not with her ruined face, the instability of her newly developed condition, and the loneliness and isolation that stemmed from both.

It was, if nothing else, a solid fact to keep in mind; after all, what better way to manipulate people than by using their feelings against them? 

"Of course; I have no doubt that you could make quite the impact on my life, should you so choose. In fact, in light of your boldness, I am almost inclined to invite you to try!" The necromancer made no attempt to suppress a chuckle. "But you need not don a cloak of chivalry for my sake, Miss Rigas. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to vouch for the happiness of the very man you covet. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me. And if you are so deeply resigned to your vehemence in my pact with the mercenary..." Though there was no one else about to pick up on their conversation, and Haraldur was long since out of earshot, Vitali leaned in close enough to rest a pale hand upon Tivia's shoulder, and lowered his voice. "It may be beneficial to speak with the princess herself, as see if she might not take Haraldur's burden upon her own shoulders. After all, it was her life I saved, and it would remove the threat from the mercenary's future. Think about it, at least, and when you come to a decision..." His lips curled into a grin as he withdrew his hand. "You know where to find me. I could certainly find a use for one with status such as Vega Sorde's."

Something was not right. Vega was certain of it the moment she took note of his eyes, which betrayed a vivid concoction of fear and anger and exhaustion; all far too visceral to have been prompted by a morning of training and a a sore wrist. She noted the way he had looked her over from head to toe, almost as if he needed to reassure himself that she was real, not a dream, alive and not a corpse.
And still, there lingered a dim flicker of doubt that set off an ache in her heart and caused the scar over her chest to sting. He still has doubt... but what more can I do to convince him?[i]

Promptly, the Skyknight's thoughts returned to events of the previous night. When his skin had been warm and hers had been warm, both flushed with fervor and passion, both so united and so [i]alive. As alive as she had felt the first time she had taken to the skies upon Aeriel...
But was she? How could she even be sure it was not all an illusion, not a dream as she hurried towards death, as Alster almost had? Vitali was crafty in his work... what if he had, in al hopelessness, granted her a sweet departure from the world of the living, one filled with love and passion and belonging?

"You look too good to be true." The Eyraillian princess commented with a smile that hid the sadness blooming deep in her chest. Too good to be true... Here, hand in hand with Haraldur, who led her out of her tent and into the bright light of day. Did her insecurities run so deep that even an imagined version of the mercenary was on edge just being in her presence? Unbidden, Vega pressed her free hand to her chest, and found little relief in the steady thud of her own heartbeat. No. No, I'm alive... this is real. It has to be, or... or...

They had not ventured far when a familiar pair appeared in their line of vision, both bound to one another by their linked fingers. Alster and Eris... No, this had to be real. There was far too much unhappiness in this place for it to qualify as a pleasant daydream, for even the faces of the fated couple before them, though reunited at last, were weary and anxious. None of this was too good to be true; it was reality. And it was hard.

And the longer she had to stand and swallow Haraldur's insincerity regarding his true feelings, the more likely she was to break. "Look who it is," she commented to Haraldur, redirecting attention to another subject. As they neared, she lay a hand upon Eris's shoulder, at which point both she and Alster both acknowledged her and Haraldur with small, tired smiles. "Alster, Eris. It brings me relief to see that you are both well again..."

Though she listened with rapt attention to Vitali's long-winded (as per his nature) discourse, it was the last bit, which he added almost carelessly, that piqued her entire body forward before she could stop herself. He knew how to play her heartstrings like a harp, knew what, rather, who, she fancied, knew that her mannerisms could not cover the sloppiness caused by mere mention of Vega Sorde and her handsome, irresistible lover...

She cupped her cheeks more protectively than ever, shielding both the burn scars and the transient red rash that spilled out onto the unmarred side of her face. But it was already too late to wall away the effect that Vitali's suggestion had roused in her. She could speak with Vega, loathe as she was to request an audience with her sorry ilk. The necromancer, after all, was not wrong. It was her life that was restored, her burden to carry. Haraldur was merely a circumstance, an unfortunate sacrifice, and should be rewarded for his quick-thinking that contributed to Vega's revival, not punished. It was fair. It was just. She saw little wrong in shifting the cost to one who would be more than willing to pay the price, considering that the price was her life. Yet...what, exactly, would Vitali gain in return? He already reaped the benefits from one powerful, influential family. What imbalance would he inflict on the political circuit should he draw favors from yet another influential family? Better yet, what benefit did other families, other men and women of means, receive from this skeevy, slimy figure? And what did he take from them, in turn? 

"I-I will consider your words and place them under my own scrutinizing review," Tivia blurted, instinctively shying from Vitali's invasive touch, which he thankfully retracted. "All of them. Like I said, I did not come here to make a bargain with you, necromancer. Only to talk. To weigh my options. To weigh those of my family. If we cannot reach Adalfieri in time, I may have to call upon your, ah," she shivered in thinking how he had delivered his chilling proclamation on her Lordship, how eerily he had stressed the notes in the title, how he seemed to relish the prospect of puppetry, like sliding a hand through a tanned and gutted animal hide, dead and gone but jerking to and fro in a grim travesty of real life...

"Services," she finished, dropping one hand to the side, but keeping one folded firmly over the burned half. "But you have satiated my curiosity for now. I no longer have need of you," she said, trying her best to channel Chara, though she was a poor imitation of the confident Rigas commander. "And as for the other matter," she bit her lip, trying to maintain her false bravado, "...that will have to wait. Adalfieri takes precedence. That is all." With a clumsy half-turn that thought itself graceful, she spun on her heels and bounded from Vitali, off to some destination that she did not yet know. 

Haraldur almost frowned at Vega's uninspired response, but flattened his lips in time with his mental chiding, which called him out for his ridiculous hyper-vigilance. Now, he was even running her throwaway words, ones meant as a compliment, into a sieve, grinding down the detritus to sift through the fine powder--of what was left behind. But he sighed and gave up his inner probing, knowing that his concern for Vega and her physical and mental vitality bordered on paranoia. 

He focused on the path before them, which led to the mess tent in the center of camp. The varied smells of sweat, dirt, and cooking meats distracted him from his thoughts as he eagerly weaved through the crowd to reach the end of the line, his stomach rumbling. En route, they met with Elespeth and Alster, who appeared to be heading to the same place. Though he greeted them, he didn't acknowledge them further until they were all settled on the line. He had his priorities--and he wanted food. 

Alster offered a wan, but genuine and relieved smile, which crinkled at his red-rimmed eyes. He nodded his good morning to Vega and Haraldur, using that nod to give the two of them a quick once-over, as if to check on their health and wellness. He, however, lingered on the black-corroded necklace still displayed upon Haraldur's chest. 

"No," Alster looked up from Haraldur's necklace, restoring his smile, "that should be my line, Vega. The two of you had quite the ordeal the other day. But I really am happy to see that you're both on the upswing." He shook his head with wonder, his sight again roving to Vega's abdomen and to Haraldur's legs. "The fact that you both healed so quickly, so completely..." he squeezed Elespeth's hand, either in excitement or anxiousness--or both--"it's really amazing. More than I thought was possible at the time."

"Why are you acting so surprised?" Haraldur said, inquisitive. "It was your doing. Yours and the Sybaian's. Thank you, by the way." He bowed his head until it almost sat on his chest. "That must have been incredibly taxing on you. And," he hitched a breath, paling, "uncomfortable. But it means more than you can ever know...to walk again. And," he gazed over to Vega, but was bereft of words. Alster, however, seemed to understand what was both said and unsaid, and responded by pointing to the black, ugly thing hanging on its black, ugly chain.

"No...it was your necklace. You know this, too. You managed to tap into its power, using its last vestiges to heal you and Vega. Were the healing placed solely on our hands, it would have taken longer to stitch you back together, especially with your magic resistance fighting us at every step. And you reached Vega quick enough to ensure her survival, too. You saved yourselves, both of you." Alster placed a few tentative fingers upon Haraldur's pendant and hesitated. "The power may be gone, and the necklace ruined, but your mother's spirit is not dead, Haraldur. That pink light you saw...that was her. Always, she'll be your guardian, with or without that necklace. She was--still is--a gifted sorceress. That much I can tell."

Haraldur, his eyes widening, increased the distance between himself and Alster, so that the Rigas caster's hands slid uselessly from the pendant, from his chest. So hasty was his retreat, that he bumped into a soldier ahead of him on the line. He turned to blurt an apology, which he used to segue into some halfhearted conversation with the man, thereby succeeding in withdrawing from his previous company.

"I'm sorry," Alster muttered, looking from Vega, to Haraldur's back, to Elespeth, then to the ground. "I..." Figuring it was best to change the subject, he turned back to the Eyraillan princess, shuffling his feet as he did so. "I was wondering...Eris and I...and Tivia," he added, with a nod, "we have to return to Stella D'Mare. We've just been informed of a dire situation that's to take place there, if we don't haste in time to stop it. Would you be able to aid us, if you could? With your rocs? I assure you," he laughed without humor, without conviction, "this won't end in my death...if I can at all help it."

Blushing a faint rouge in contrast to her otherwise fair complexion, Vega turned her gaze downward to stare at her boots, unable to meet the beaming and sincere gaze of the Rigas caster as he commented on her and Haraldur's successes. Because she could not make claims to saving her own life; once again, it had all been Haraldur, and the magic of his now dormant pendant. "Haraldur deserves the praise," she argued, turning her attention to the stoic mercenary and giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "He made a great sacrifice for the both of us, calling on the power his mother had bestowed within that pendant..." Her wish had been to ensure that he would be alive and well; that she was able to stand next to him and witness that, was a bigger blessing than she felt she deserved.

Donning a pinched look of worry as Haraldur retreated from Alster's touch, unwilling to dwell on the subject of his mother and the pendant that now lay devoid of power, she did not press him to stay. That he had an appetite at all was reassurance enough for her that he was well on his way to recovering from the festering wounds of his past, and she had demanded enough of his attention since he had awoken from that deep and troubling slumber. "You have hardly just arrived from that accursed city." Tearing her eyes away from Haraldur's back, she looked to Alster with muted curiosity. "You wanted so badly to escape the imprisonment in which you'd found yourself... What could possibly be so pertinent that you wish to return?" But that is not my business, the Skyknight gently chided herself as soon as the question had passed her lips. Who was she to question the intentions of someone who had already given her so much? To whom she owed the return of her memories, along with the sense of her very identity? Was lending him and his the aid they required not the least she could do?

"I apologize... that is not my business." The Eyraillian princess quickly amended, dipping her head apologetically. "I might owe Haraldur my life, but I owe you my very being for helping me restore my memories. If there is any way that I can be of help to you and yours, then I will gladly call on my knights and their rocs to escort you back to Stella D'Mare, as unstable as it is..." His half-hearted chuckle unsettled her, following his comment pertaining to his intentions the last time he requested transport via rock. "Do not even jest, Alster. There is no humour in what you attempted," Vega chided, heaving a sigh. "Though... I do understand why you did it. And I should not have judged you so harshly for it." And I am grateful that your camaraderie endured in spite of that... She almost went on to articulate, but figured that it all went unsaid, anyway. Instead, she offered a tentative smile.

"Give me a day or so to organize the trip among my Skyknights, see who is available and well enough to make the trip." Vega offered a solid nod and straightened her posture. "We will have need for another cloaking spell so as to fly under the radar... but I trust I can depend on you and Tivia for that part."
And speaking of the wayward sky seer...

"I need to step away for a bit; will you tell Haraldur that I will return if he comes looking for me?" Vega did not await the Rigas caster's response before turning and hurrying away from the mess tent without further explanation. Moments later, she found Tivia in her tent, and entered with a sheepish, hesitant smile. "Apologies for the intrusion... I have just stopped by to inform you that I'm offering both you and Alster a way back to Stella D'Mare. He speaks of a dire situation that needs to be addressed, and I wish to do my part to help, especially after all Alster has done for me. And..." The Eyraillian princess pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth, pale eyes downcast. "I... did not treat you fairly, when last we spoke. I sought you out for my own benefit, and I should not have. Especially not after what you have suffered."

Daring to look up, it was with hope that Vega met the Rigas caster's good eye. "Will you accept my apology? And my help? I would like to make amends, if it is at all possible..."

When Haraldur retreated, and Alster turned his attention to the Skyknight Commander, Elespeth seized the opportunity to reconnect with her enduring, faithful friend. In part, because it felt unhealthy to cling, so steadfast, to Alster's side since she had gotten him back, in addition to the fact that she had not had a proper conversation with the mercenary for what felt like an eternity. How long ago had those days been, before either of them had suffered to the point of breaking? When they had still been capable of making merry and drinking and laughing? Times already are not so simple anymore. And the most depressing part of it was, it had never been simple to begin with.

"When this is all over and done with... I think you and I are due for a drink or two." The Atvanian warrior offered a tentative smile when the mercenary turned to face her. "A social drink; not one in which to drown our sorrows. I am glad to see you well again, Haraldur..." Grabbing a plate as she lined up for a much needed meal, it was impossible to take her eyes off of his new attire. Not so unlike that of Sir Vega Sorde's... That their spark had grown and endured brought a sense of relief. This is what he deserved; and like her and Alster, the mercenary and the Skyknight at least had one another, and did not have to face this uncertain future alone. "Eyraille's colours suit you well." She added, almost as an aside. "You look as though you already belong among Vega's kin." Belong... will I ever feel as though I belong among the Rigases? Is it foolish to even hope that I might ever find a place among them, after all of this?

Elespeth was not granted the opportunity to dwell on that grim thought, when an unexpected presence pushed through the throng of people and approach the two of them. At first glance, she thought she might have been mistaken, until the figure neared, and she saw that her perceptions were not, in fact, off.
The girl--definitely a girl, hardly looking to have surpassed twelve years of age--was draped in Sybaian attire that looked to be at the very least one size too big for her diminutive frame. But her features, youthful as they were, bore the steadfast confidence of a matured Sybaian healer, not unlike Daphni Adela. There was no mistake that she was merely posing the part. "Haraldur." She addressed the hulking man as if Elespeth were not there at all, engaging in casual conversation. Knowing, brown eyes met those of the mercenary's. "My sisters have requested you seek us out today at your leisure to ascertain the progress of your recovery. I must stress that this is crucial, given the extent of what had to be done to revive and restore you. I hope you will heed this encouragement and seek us out."

She sounds older than twice her age,, Elespeth thought, and could not help but wonder just how old a Sybaian daughter need be to be considered useful to the cause. Was she ever really a child?
As soon as she was there, the young Sybaian took her leave without allowing Haraldur so much as a word of response. So sure that he would heed and follow suit for his own good, requiring no further explanation. And while it should not have made her gut churn rather uneasily--after all, the girl was not a soldier nor on the front lines--the former knight could not help but feel that the young Sybaian was wholly out of place, in the middle of the war. And if Haraldur's suddenly tense face meant anything, he was not far from her train of thought.

The nervous simper that appeared on Alster's face transitioned into contortions of embarrassment, as he again looked at his feet. "I apologize. I know my death isn't funny." He released his hand from Elespeth when her tugging indicated her want to spend time with Haraldur, who still had his back turned from them in his singular desire for food. Transferring his sweating palms to his trousers, he sighed. Ever since he revealed to Elespeth his...unprofessional relations with the Skyknight, it was difficult to communicate with her on a level which they had previously enjoyed. "But if I can't laugh at my own folly, these are going to be a hard few weeks ahead." Lowering his voice to a whisper, he dared lean closer to the Skyknight, to discourage eavesdroppers. "Believe me, if I didn't think it was vital that we return to Stella D'Mare, I wouldn't be bothering right now. But we have to stop the death of our leader, and," he shifted in line with the other eager, hungry soldiers, "Tivia told me to find another way. To...to defeat the Serpent. I have to be there when everything unravels. I'm sorry to involve you, Vega, but I only need the cooperation of your rocs and your Skyknights for a quick transport. We'll do the rest--to ensure no one is injured or spotted." A twitch of a smile made its way to his lips. "Thank you."

"And don't worry about what you've said before." Though he tried to maintain a calm, unruffled poise in his posture, he ended up wringing his hands together as he inhaled a few ragged, uneven breaths. What he had done--or failed to do--still affected him to the point where he still had trouble accepting the truth, much as he made light of it or tried to discount the grim, horrible facts. Just another wrong he had to live with, another regret that would never fade. "I don't blame you for speaking your mind. I deserved it."

He nodded his goodbye, accepting her terms for preparation, though his brow knit in worry as he watched her retreat from the line, wondering if they even had a day or two to waste. Could they afford to wait? Whether it was his anxiety working in double-time or something sinister he read in the airwaves...he feared the worst was just around the bend. 

Although Haraldur had retreated from the conversation, he still kept his ears alert, listening in on the exchange between Vega and Alster--until Elespeth saw fit to join him at his side. He glanced over at the Atvanian warrior, returning her smile, though some strain sat behind his green eyes as he observed the pallor on her cheeks, her shriveled up form, and the unsteady way she kept on her feet. A bad fever had swept her, it seemed, and he wanted to inquire after her health, inquire about her reunion with Alster, why they looked so harried and a little uncertain of each other, and what exactly had happened during his absence from camp. But she appeared so in need of banter, of an airy topic, lightweight and without indentation, that he followed her lead, and answered her with an open, receptive stance.

"Well, I'm glad one person thinks these colors work for me." He self-consciously picked at the collar, but it was all for show. "Silver and blue? Too clean, too noble. I'll get them properly dirtied in no time at all. Now brown and rust? That's my standard." As he filled his plate to brimming, he peered over his shoulder, only to see that Vega was no longer on the line. With a frown, he looked to Alster, who nodded assuredly and mouthed, She'll be back. Though he wasn't keen on her sudden disappearance, he nodded his acknowledgement of the message and faced forward to readdress Elespeth. "If you wanted to get an early start, though," he patted the flask attached to his belt whilst he balanced his food tower of a plate with the other hand, "I've got you covered."

But just as they exited the line, carrying their long-awaited meals to the nearest available log, a youthful voice uttered his name. He twisted around to face the voice, confusion plying at his features, until he spotted the source of that child-like timbre--and confusion turned to unease. She wasn't child-like. No, not at all. Her mannerisms were polished, practiced, and alarmingly mature, as though she were thrown into a responsibility she had no choice but to accept. But there was no mistake that she was, in fact, a child. Was this some kind of cruel joke employed by the Sybaia clan, considering that one of their number actually witnessed his wanton and indiscriminate slaughter of children this girl's age and younger? Why would they send this girl to him, even as an envoy, when his nightmares had been focusing almost exclusively on the young, defenseless victims of his bloodlust? And did that Sybaian girl, with those luminous, scrying eyes, know his secret, know all that he had done? 

She departed before he could say a word, though he doubted, had she given him time, that he'd be able to respond at all. His eyes refocused, though still unseeing, on his plate of food, his tower of gore, of maimed limbs and trailing organs, and his appetite quickly left him. He set the heaping plate on a log, and backed away. 

"On second thought," he said, pulling out his flask, "I think I'll just go off for my own drink or two. You don't mind?" He took a swig, then another, until there was precious little left for him to imbibe. "Then I'll...I'll go to that healing session. Tell Vega that's where I went. I'll see you around." He wandered off before Elespeth could stop him, leaving behind his food and whatever cheer he had dredged up for her company. As he ambled to the tent where the Tadasuni routinely stored their barrels of wine and swill, he determinedly decided not to show for the Sybaian healing. 

I don't need it, he told himself, convinced himself. They'll only make it worse. I'm standing. I'm healed. I can move on, with Vega. He clutched his deteriorating pendant, as if for confirmation, feeling flakes come away on his fingers. I'll be fine. Just like always...

Alster, who had watched the curious exchange, though unable to interfere, as he was too busy ladling rice into his plate, joined Elespeth on the log just as Haraldur made his leave.

"Did the Sybaia really send a child to speak to Haraldur?" he asked, gnawing at his lip as he considered giving the reserved warrior chase. "After all that he's relived?" Then, realizing he had not revealed to Elespeth all that he had seen in Haraldur's wounded mind, he blanched a bit and occupied himself by picking the rice and flatbread off his plate. He didn't know if he should tell her, if it would dampen her camaraderie with the mercenary. She may be able to make concessions for me and what I've done, he thought, staring at the scar tissue of the ritualistic rune marks upon his palm, but would she, for him?

Tivia just arrived back to her tent when, not five minutes later, she had acquired a visitor, and her surprise increased manifold when she discovered the caliber of such a visitor. It was Sir Vega Sorde. No--no--she was not quite ready to face that entitled Eyraillan princess. Not when her conversation with that horrid necromancer still pumped blood against her temples, reminding her of his slick words regarding Haraldur's debt--and how else it could be repaid. 

Instead, she concentrated on the woman's reason for her rather abrupt entrance, feigning a cordial mien as she listened. So, the arrangements had been made. They would return to Stella D'Mare, as promptly as they were able. She almost smiled, in gratitude for this Eyraillan's aid and her honorable, near immediate response to...

To a debt she felt was her due to repay. 

"Apology accepted," Tivia said, perhaps a bit too brusquely, and impersonally. "And--thank you. Your help is much appreciated. Stella D'Mare is in need of our interference." And I want to go home.A slight moisture on her lower lid surprised her with its sincerity. I want to go home...before everything I love is destroyed. In flames... She swallowed away those hiccups that threatened to gurgle out of her throat, and willed that tear to evaporate before it had a chance to show. This is not the time. Don't show humanity to her. Or weakness. She is not my friend. Just an ally...

"Have you," she found herself blurting, without preparation or preamble, "considered what you'll do after this war? After you return to Eyraille? I know when we last spoke, you weren't so sure. But are you...now?" In those words were a hint, subcontext: Because you have him...

"Haraldur..." There was no way to explain the pallor of the mercenary's face, none that Elespeth could think aside from downright ghastly. It was as if the two of them beheld a different thing in the young Sybaian healer: she, a child, and he, a ghost, demon, something that simply should not be. It shook him visibly, and for a man so well practiced in concealing his emotions behind the facade of a soldier-for-hire, that spoke volumes to the tumult that must have been occurring inside of him. But was it her place, as a mere friend, to comment on it? "Save some for me, will you?" Trying not to look forlorn, she ventured a small smile. "Drinking is not an activity to be enjoyed alone... particularly not for the wrong reasons." And Vega would protest, she thought, but did not say. That was a discussion to occur between Haraldur and his lover, should the topic ever be breached.

When he departed, Elespeth waited out the line and filled a plate to share with Alster, who waited where he she had left him. "Vega left?" She asked, though the answer was obvious, as she found a seat upon a log where she put the plate between them. "So has Haraldur... I am worried for him. I fear he has a long way to go in his healing." Longer than he perhaps thought, she feared, and drowning his anxieties in swill as both he and the Eyraillian princess were wont to do when the world turned a cold shoulder. "But then, I guess..." Voice softening, she recalled that unspoken distance that had settled between the two of them ever since Alster's heartfelt confession for how he had cared for the amnesiac Skyknight back in Stella D'Mare, "so do we."

Elespeth was not alone in her appraisal of the mercenary. And fortunately (or not) for him, the young Sybaian messenger who had first approached him had anticipated his reluctance to return for a follow-up among her sisters. After nearly an hour from searching the grounds, she came upon the man's tall form behind a provisions tent, flask in hand. Her fury sparked for a moment, in brief response to the stress emanating from his aura. Had he been sober for so much as a moment that day? And why was he so adamant to avoid help? "That flask is of no help to you. Or to anyone else, for that matter; what use can you be as a soldier if you are too drunk and lost in your own inebriated stupor to properly fight?" Her wide, brown eyes narrowed on Haraldur in judgment. There was no mistaking her legitimacy as a member of the Sybaian clan; she had inherited their haughtiness and self-righteous demeanor. "I don't need to read the colour of your aura or experience your sentiments to know you are far from alright, Haraldur. But you are alive and well because of the Sybaia, and if you will not seek us out, then we will seek you out, instead."

With a boldness that exceeded her size, the young girl breached the distance between the two of them, and took the flask from the dumbfounded mercenary's hands, tossing it aside. It landed behind her, out of his reach, though she noted that it was already near empty. "If you think me merely some useless child, then you're wrong." There was a challenge in her voice, as if she dared the mercenary to speak aloud his thoughts. "My name is Shayl, and I am as qualified as any of my elder sisters in the task they have assigned me. The hard part I already done: you're alive and well. My job, until you are deemed well again, inside and out," she folded her arms across her flat chest, "is to ensure that you continue to mend. And it is an insult to both me and my clan to deny us the opportunity to ensure the quality of our work."

What else could she expect but a cool, otherwise unfluttered response from the fragile Rigas caster? Vega had not been kind to her; she had solicited her help for her own gain, and then overreacted when Tivia had declared she could not be of assistance. She has no obligation to show me kindness in return... or to accept this half-hearted apology, for that matter. And yet, she did, agreeing to sweep the dirt of the past into the wind and continue on better, more favourable footing. "I will be of any help possible to you and yours. I owe it to Alster, and... well, to all of you. And... I know what it feels like. To be stuck in a state of trepidation for the outcome of the future." A half-smile pulled her lips to the side. "And to hardship... You are due for better happenstances, Tivia Rigas. In my opinion, anyway. If I can take the edge off by returning you to your home, then I am much obliged."

The Skyknight's laborious smile faltered, however, in light of the other woman's seemingly innocent inquiry. She was no fool, after all, and could read between the lines: the real question was, what future did she have planned with Haraldur in the picture? But of course she would wonder that; I was a wreck over his absence, not even a week ago. Nonetheless, she was far from feeling settled with a final, steadfast answer.
"I... well, I suppose, realistically, I will continue to command my Skyknights." Vega explained, taking the most obvious response by the reins. "I have been flying for far too long, and my roc and I are to bonded for me to consider another occupation; I'd feel lost, not taking to the skies as frequently as I do. But... If it is Haraldur to whom you are referring..."

It wasn't her place to speak for him. Particularly not while the mercenary was still healing, and had time to consider--not to mention reconsider--his options. Who knew if he felt differently from the night before, when they had discussed a mutual future? "Of course... he is free to make his own decisions. He wants a place to belong, a place that he can call home, and I have as such offered him a place in Eyraille. And... I suppose, from there, all that we can do is witness how we adjust--and re-adjust. It's foolish to plan anything for certain." Particularly when I might still only comprise half the human being that I was before I... before I...

Vega blanched, suddenly so uncertain, and so afraid to hope, that she wasn't sure of the possibility anymore. Tivia Rigas, however, was not the one who deserved to hear her concerns and neroses. "What about you, Tivia? What do you plan, once this war has come to an end, and Stella D'Mare is restored as a safe haven for the Rigases again?" Quick to chance the subject, she offered the disfigured woman a chance to speak. "I know what it is like to miss home... however unwelcoming and uncertain it can be, at times. Though your family will no doubt be relieved to have one of their own back on their proper soil." Helpless to stave off the wry grin that formed, she added, "I cannot say the same for what is left of my own family. But I've long since become accustomed to their scorn."

Alster sat beside Elespeth on the log, but not with any comfort. His knees skittered together, humming with an energy he could not lasso to a standstill. Surrendering his plate of food, which rocked and shivered in his grasp, to place upon the log, he noticed another untouched plate perched right beside it. After inquiring about it from Elespeth, he found that it belonged to Haraldur. As it was piled in folds and folds of thinly-sliced lamb, Alster, who did not eat meat (save for fish, on occasion), offered it to his Atvanian companion. "We should hold this for him, in case he returns. That man can eat the entire mess tent of its food, and still have room for another round, I wager. It's...concerning for him to leave this behind. And Vega," he clamped his lips shut as a shamed blush crept into his cheeks. Even if he was mentioning her by name or as a necessity in conversation, he still felt like he was picking at a wound that had hurriedly scabbed over the two of them, agitating the scar afresh. He left his words unfinished by gesturing to the plate and leaving it at that. He stuffed another piece of bread and rice into his mouth, and chewed in the silence between them. 

"But she's agreed to our transport," Alster said after a time, unable to ignore the Eyraillan princess and her gracious offer to fly them back to Stella D'Mare. "I can only guess she's left to make some of the arrangements for us." Electing to change the subject, especially when he could only answer Elespeth's comment about their need to heal with a wince and a guilt-ridden nod, he took a few refreshing gulps of water and cleared his throat. "Maybe if the Sybaia actually approached him with a little more decorum, Haraldur wouldn't have run off. I'll have to talk to them about their reasons. Even if it's oversight, there has to be a reason." Hesitating, he lowered his voice, "I'm not one to share with you what I saw in his mind, but I'll say only this. Sending a child to him, even if she's only an envoy, was not the best idea. Not this soon, anyway." 

Haraldur was on good terms with the soldier in charge of the provisions tent. While swill was a precious commodity, and rationed alongside their dwindling water supply, which, due to the drought and their unreliable, muddy stream, was drinkable at best, the soldier harbored some Northern sentiments, having relatives that lived in the disputed lands near Central Mollengard. And in exchange for some extra rum, Haraldur would regale the man with information, albeit outdated information, about the state of the country. It was a militaristic superpower that threatened all Northern nations as its armies and resources steadily grew. How the Rigas family, and by extension, all of Old Town Stella D'Mare, cinched an alliance with the conquest-hungry, land-guzzling country, Haraldur didn't know. But it worried him. 

With one too many disturbing thoughts clouding his mind, he compensated by taking in more drink than he would typically consume so early on in the day. Considering he skipped breakfast (which his grumbling stomach was quick to remind him of), it wasn't long because he reached a pleasant, fuzzy state of being. 

He settled in an abandoned alleyway, strewn with empty barrels that shielded him from onlookers. As he leaned against one in particular, he enjoyed the emptiness that flooded across his senses, numbing his thoughts and eliminating his ability to track time--until someone else joined him in his secret drinking spot. Only, she was not there to participate.

She was there to haunt him. 

He pushed to his feet, swaying, as the little Sybaian girl entered his space, nearing closer, and closer. Instinctively, he backed away, but flinched when his heels hit the curve of a barrel he before used as a stool. It was too late; she was upon him. Would she grab for his throat? Twist it until it popped? Stab him forty times in the chest and leave him for dead? Brand him in the eyes with hot pokers until he melted all over? 

"Just get it over with," he heard himself saying as he stared at the ground, unwilling to look the vengeful ghost in the eyes. "I'll take whatever punishment--"

But she simply reached for his flask, and tossed it aside. 

Blinking into some semblance of reality, he dared to raise his eyes, to look at those twin brown flames that smoldered at him in condemnation. But no, she was not condemning him for his sins. She was condemning him--because he denied healing? Awareness slowly swirled around his addled mind. That was right; she was Sybaia. She had come for him, for--he assured himself--healing. But what was the difference, in the end? Healing and punishment...they were interchangeable. As different as they were the same--biting and harsh and neverending. But, though her words were bitter, and indicative of what awaited him if he joined her, he could not help but react to them, to her, with tenderness. Fear, too, but all was said with a soft, rolling gentleness. As if he were appealing to a rabid dog, so it would not bite and infect him. 

"I don't think you're useless." Though his words were slurred, they were a whisper of honesty. "But you're young, Shayl. And I don't want to--I won't hurt you." The sadness redoubled in his eyes, eyes which lingered on her too-big clothes, and her too-small body. "I'm not here to insult your clan, but you've done your job. I'm healed. I can walk again. I almost killed someone l..." he paused, "someone I may love, last time I went there. That's a risk I won't take with anyone else. It's not worth it. And I really am fine." He tried for a smile. It came easily, but faded just as easily. "I've made it this far without Sybaian help. So thank you for what you and your sisters have done...but I decline."

Though he rocked and quavered on his heels, he bent to fetch his discarded flask with a steadiness that belied his condition. "And I'm a great drunk fighter," he added, as he softly touched the Sybaian girl's shoulder, moving her aside so he could pass her and escape the alleyway. "Please stay safe," were his last words as he hobbled away from her and merged back into camp. 

Tivia pretended to care when the Eyraillan blowhard detailed unimportant drivel about flying around on her roc and commanding armies and whatever else she thought to cover. She nodded mechanically, until she remembered something and froze in place, before she brought a hand to rest over the disfigured half of her face. It was fast becoming habit of hers, even amongst those who had the time to accustom themselves with the sight. Nonetheless, she found it harder to function with that destroyed half so exposed, especially when she was surrounded by these beautiful women (namely, Vega,) and their handsome suitors (namely Haraldur). It churned doubt and anger and self-loathing deep in her gut, which only soured her days. And this woman's ill-intentioned visit worsened what already was unmanageable! 

But with this annoying visit, she was afforded an opportunity. Tell her a sharp-tongued voice demanded. Tell her what else she could do...to solidify her future. Do it. Do it!

She had waited too long. Already, the Skyknight commander had changed the subject--and rather abruptly--to speak of things that Tivia was not comfortable in discussing with this...outsider. Don't act like you care, she had wanted to say. You don't. Instead, she elected an aloof sort of civility, and answered the question: monotone and completely devoid of feeling. "My newfound ability will condemn me to insanity and deafen me. Whichever comes first. And it will break my parents' hearts. More than likely. Others will probably use me for their own ends. Then I'll die--probably at an early age. And that's if my city and everyone in it--including me--isn't destroyed and dead first." She shrugged. These rogue thoughts plagued her at night, and were often what drove her to an uneasy, sobbing sleep. But before such an unwelcome audience, she did not desire to elaborate on the emotion, the pain...the hopelessness of her situation. She only wanted to shut down Vega's casual--and therefore fake--curiosity, by being as blunt and apathetic as possible. It apparently had worked. 

Sensing an opening in the awkward silence that passed between them, she reinstated the subject that fascinated her the most. She was going to do it. Whether that made her a pawn in Vitali's hands or not, she had to do it, had to mention this possibility for Vega. And it all started with planting the seed.

"Well, the two of you can't even begin a future together until after this war, and evenso...how about that bargain with Vitali? Doesn't that muck up your plans? Everything is on hold for you and Haraldur until then," she feigned a look of abject concern, "right?"

There was no room in this war for jealousy among allies, that much Elespeth knew. But she was as human as the Skyknight in question, and hearing Alster converse so favourably about a woman for whom he had cared in her stead, much of the information he meant to convey was lost on her ears. How was it fair that while she'd wasted away in the Tadasuni encampment, Vega had been recovering with the aid and care of the man she longed for? She did not envy the Skyknight for having died, having suffered her amnesia... and yet, hadn't she nearly succumbed to death? Hadn't she seen her brother again, impelled to climb atop a horse and ride with him somewhere far, far from this world? Ultimately, it had been her choice to leave...
But he had made the move to suggest they part ways. At least, for a while.

Don't be bitter. There is no place for it. "Hm?" With a start, Elespeth realized she must have tuned out at the point when the subject had returned to Haraldur. Blinking, she shook her head and tucked stray hairs behind her ear. "Oh. I didn't realize Haraldur had such an aversion to children..." Perhaps aversion was not the right word. But she was not privy to whatever secretive information that Alster held regarding the mercenary innermost psyche, and did not care to be. "I can't say that I blame him, regardless. The Sybaian's method of healing is not appealing to everyone... though I do hope he finds the help that he needs. I don't want to imagine what he might have experienced, in Messino's hands..." Namely because it was all too easy to imagine what he might have been subjected to. After all, she was no stranger to the cruelty of the mad prince and his followers.

"I will keep this for him and find him later," the former knight declared, taking the heaping plate of food that Haraldur had left behind. "See if I can convince him to partake. All of that healing that he endured will be of no good to him, and ultimately have been in vain if he relapses due to negligence in self-care." Nevermind that she hadn't so much as touched the plate that she had filled for herself and for Alster. While her fever and feebleness had almost entirely subsided, Elespeth's appetite had yet to return, leaving her body a more sunken version of what it had once been. But her mind was so full that it impeded on her stomach and its desire to digest meals, thus rendering eating a chore that was wholly unappealing.

Who would have thought love and loss and jealousy and grudges could be so physically detrimental?

Regardless, she was certain to see the mercenary later that day, and if not, she could at least locate his tent--and Vega's, figuring that there was where he would most likely be found. "I suppose... I should see to some training, at any rate. Get my strength and forme back. Lest the Tadasuni cease to consider me useful among their masses." She shrugged a single shoulder and forced a smile. "I look forward to getting out of here... and I'm sure you are eager to return to your home, as well. Even in its wartorn state." With any luck... some part of Stella D'Mare was ever a home to him again.

Vega frowned at the dismal picture that the wrecked Rigas caster predicted for her own future. Was this simply typical Rigas melodrama, blowing troubles out of proportion when they did not sit well with their plans? Or was she dead certain that there was nothing again to which she could ever look forward but sorrow and tragedy? The Skyknight noted the way Tivia covered the ruined half of her face, how she turned strategically away to hide what she did not want to show, and that small tell alone was enough to provide Vega with some insight.

Tentative and gentle, she reached forward and placed a hand on the arm that hid her face, urging it to fall away. "I can't speak for your condition; I am not at all familiar with magic and what it can cause." The Eyraillian princess conceded, solemn and honest. "But regardless of what becomes of you, Tivia... you have a family to return to. Parents and brethren who care for your well-being, and who I know for certain will not have you merely fall victim to the downfalls of your psychic prowess. And... if for some reason, they do, and see you only as a means to an end..." She paused, considering what she was about to offer, wondering if it was a feasible and favourable move to make on her part.
The princess did not consider for long. "Then know you have an ally and a friend in me; and in Alster, and Eris. And we will not see you fall. That is my promise to you, on behalf of all the Rigases have already done on my behalf."

Or what Alster has done on my behalf, more specifically, she thought, but decided the details did not matter. Tivia was in need of friends, in need of a ray of hope: and what did she have to lose, extending a hand in friendship?
In any case... she did not fully expect that Tivia would accept, for all her steadfast pride.

Quick to turn the subject to a different topic, Vega couldn't help but feel taken aback by the Rigas caster's almost invasive observation. How was she so sure that there was no possibility of a future between her and the mercenary as things stood? And who was to say that Vitali Kristeva would ever truly call upon that favour that Haraldur now owed to him?
But, then... what if he did? What if...

The colour in her cheeks dimmed, as Vega tugged at her lower lip with her teeth, visibly perturbed by the possibility that the necromancer could for all intents and purposes choose to ownHaraldur, should he choose. And she could not allow that to come to pass. Regardless of whether their futures intertwined, or whether she was in the picture at all, she could not allow the mercenary to compromise his first chance at freedom. "I wanted to confront the necromancer as soon as Haraldur awoke, alive and well," she confessed, her voice taking on a quieter tone. "But he forbade it; he'd sooner see me physically restrained before he consents to my interference with the necromancer. It is a burden that he is determined to deal with all on his own..."

But can you live with that? seemed to be the subtext to Tivia's inquiry. Vega was no fool to the possibility that the hard-headed sky seer might be attempting to instill her with guilt; unfortunately, she was helpless to resist the aching sentiment's heavy weight upon her shoulders. "...I don't know what to do. Or which is worse." The princess ventured, with intensified quiet. "Forfeiting the trust of the man I love, forfeiting his wishes for a gain that may not necessarily come to fruition... or losing him altogether."

He caught the faraway look in her eyes, tinged not only with sorrow, but with something approaching bitterness. Ever since his attempted sacrifice and the ensuing fallout that spanned between them, Alster had been more attuned to her emotions, ever watchful of them in case they turned on him. Not that he wasn't fully accepting of her wrath, for he knew he deserved every forlorn stare or lambaste of her tongue, but his shoulders hunched with anticipation whenever he felt the mood shift--awaiting the storm.

It was a silent storm, this time. A swirl of unspoken disappointment and almost tangible melancholy--so much worse than the more overt tells in her tone or the subtle shifts in her body. Sometimes, and he hated to admit it, he wished he were back in Stella D'Mare, for were he back, his attention would be preoccupied with more proactive matters. He could be useful in his bid to stop the Serpent, to defeat it. An unkillable monster, somehow, seemed easier to subdue than all the multifaceted wrongs of their bruised, overripe relationship. And it's my fault. As always, he thought moodily as he tore pieces of bread. Shredding, but not eating.

He couldn't stand to see her this way. So gaunt, so dismissive of her own health. So swarming with her dark, amorphous energy that no amount of his healing could wash clean. And what could he do for her? He had failed her so many times that it all seemed so hopeless, so unfixable, like a broken dream...

An idea slowly dawned on him, brightening his eyes and raising his head in an instantaneous response to her rise from the log, as she made to dismiss herself. "When you're done, El," he reached for her hand, holding it with a fleeting touch of tenderness across her knuckles, "come find me. There's something I'd like to show you." He gave her a small, encouraging smile before he dropped his hand and let her go. 

He finished what he could of their shared meal, and packed the rest away for later, which he placed in her tent and upon her cot--a blatant gesture that denoted: You'd better eat this or I'll stuff the food into your mouth if I have to. He was done with seeing her starve herself. How can you hope to protect us, Elespeth, if you're a walking bag of bones?

Snorting rather noisily, he exited Elespeth's tent, only to see a familiar figure walking about camp, conspicuous in her too-small outfit and prideful march across the dirt and grime-strewn grounds. Increasing his pace to catch up with her gait, he nodded his acknowledgment at her until he was sure to gain her attention. "I saw you earlier today," he said with a cordial smile. "And I couldn't help but eavesdrop. Is Haraldur--did he end up attending the healing?" When given the expected answer of no, he clasped his hands behind his back, silently deliberating. 

"Perhaps," he began, after a few beats, "Sybaian healing isn't for him. At least not right now. Not to undermine the procedures of your sisters or anything, but Haraldur did have a very trying time of it the other day. He doesn't like invasive techniques. He lashed out. It could have been disastrous. It...was disastrous. And with all due respect," he said, sucking on the inside of his cheek, "your presence will not make it easier on him. Could I ask why your sisters chose you for this task? It has nothing to do with your age, I assure you," he blurted, apologetic. "Only...I wonder if you're the best fit for this man." 

On the other side of camp, Haraldur, who was properly sloshed, had traveled from alleyway to alleyway with a regularity that he hoped would vanquish any other children that might be searching for him. So far, he had been successful, and calmed down enough to enjoy the last of his swill. When he stumbled out of the alleyway, he had come across Elespeth, en route to the training grounds. 

"El...E-Eris," he stammered, rounding her in just a few strides. Draping an arm over her shoulders, he laughed at her mild surprise, but made no action to remove his hold on her. "Ghosts are chasing me today," he announced with a heady, sloppy voice. "All over camp. Kinda relentless. 'll give 'im credit, though. One 'lmost snagged me." He lifted his flask, which was now empty. "You should come an' drink with me. The two of us--we can ward 'em off, yeah?" 

When Vega reached for her face and tugged against her sleeve, forcing away her protective shield, Tivia whimpered and scrambled free of the woman's touch, eyeing her from the corner where she now crouched like a feral animal. "Don't touch me!" she shrieked as she used both hands to conceal her face in its entirety. After she used those moments in the corner to cull her rapid breathing and the tears that threatened to well up in her eye, she stood upright and wound her sleeve even tighter around the offensive blight that rippled her skin like warped leather. Slowly, she removed her other arm, displaying the normality once again--the only half that mattered. 

"I'm sorry," she said in a drowned whisper. "I don't...just please don't--you're not helping, so leave it alone--all right?" With another shaky breath that did nothing to eliminate the frenzied energy alight in her, the tirade of her words continued to spill forth. "You don't even know me. Quit the condescension. We're only allies. Your offer is hollow and I want no part in your friendship." By now, she had allowed her tears to fall, unhindered, down the smooth rise of her unblemished cheek. She knew it was petty, to deny this woman what she wanted out of spite, and perhaps it even paralleled her early dealings with Elespeth, who had made the same declarations of friendship not so long ago, and who Tivia had also snubbed. But she didn't need another warrior woman to take her in out of a sense of charity. And at least Elespeth had needed her, once, in desperation and in loneliness, and not because of her faulty ability, or her status as a Rigas (though it was no doubt because of her associations with Alster). What did Vega want? A way to patch up her guilt for past actions? A noble cause to help the poor, disfigured caster, and bolster her own self-righteousness? It didn't matter. Any attempt made by that Eyraillan pissant would always result in the same twisting pang in her gut that reminded her: she was a mere liability. Something that was tolerated. Even Haraldur pitied her. He too would never see her as a thing of beauty, or a thing to be loved. She knew this, and this knew this well--which spurred on her next heated point, which she lobbed at Vega. 

"And don't you think you're being a little selfish? You're Eyraillan royalty! You have it all, whereas Haraldur has nothing to offer Vitali but his ability to fight. Of course he would have to practically give himself as payment for Vitali's debt--especially for a debt that high! But you," she pointed, with a shivering finger, "you, who has influence, who has money--you could give him exactly what he wants, and quickly, while still maintaining your freedom. Besides, this is your debt. You'd simply be paying for your own life. Is that not fair?" Her chest fluttered and her ears tingled with the echo of her words, but she shook away her body's reaction by stepping into Vega's space until their foreheads almost touched. "It's up to you, Vega. Either way, you'll cause him hurt. But if you take this responsibility on your own, at least your future will be more solid--with him."

"Now please leave," she muttered, stepping away from the Skyknight. "By your own admission, I have support. Yours...is not necessary."

Shayl would have chased after him, had she not been so dumbfounded by Haraldur's complete disregard for her expertise. What a fool, judging her for her age and not her ability! But someone who was not ready for a Sybaian's presence in their mind, or who was otherwise reluctant and uncertain, was no prime subject to be healed. He would have to come around, eventually, and her patience was as relenless as her will.

As it stood, Haraldur was not the only one who doubted her abilities, and overall participation in the mercenary's healing process, it seemed.

The young healer faced the errant blonde male, a deep frown pulling downwards upon her youthful lips. "My dealings with my clients are none of your business, for one." Shayl snapped, folding her arms across her chest. Small though she was, her steadfast demeanor almos seemed to lend her a few more inches. "And for another, we go where we are needed, and we must all start somewhere. My sister... my blood sister, Eilona. She performed the procedure that also happened to involve you, and the mercenary's lover. But she..." She seemed to pause and consider her words carefully, a hint of colour bleeding into her fair cheeks. Then she turned her eyes away. "She was overburened. Overworked, among the Tadasuni and others who required help. And as such, she has fallen gravely ill in spreading herself so thin. And my other clan sisters are otherwise occupied. I am... all that we have to spare. But,"

She jabbed a finger at the Rigas caster's chest, and stood upon her toes to look him in the eye. "It is not your place to question any of that. And my abilities are not subpar to those of my sisters. Regardless of what sort of mess the man suffers in his subconscious, I am not an unsatisfactory compromise. Do you understand?"

She did not wait for Alster to reply, stalking off towards the residential tents. There were others who needed her help, and appreciated it more, Eilona included. When Haraldur came around, she would be there to help, just as any of her Sybaian sisters would be. Even if he was little more than a foolhardy drunkard, favouring blissful apathy in lieu of more deep-seated, permanent healing. It is his suffering, in the end, she thought bitterly, through the hazy fog of her too-intense pre-pubescent emotions. At least anger was, as it stood, her default: powerful enough to filter sadness and grief, and with enough vigor to help her stay strong. Even at those times when she knew she was not.

"...Haraldur." Elespeth had just finished solo drills with her sword, which left her weak and light-headed from lack of properly nourishing her thin body. But she was nowhere near in the sort of shape that Haraldur was: inebriated beyond his own comprehension, possibly hurting over something that was too intense to bear. Her heart sank as his heavy arm slung across her shoulders, at the realization that he had noe heeded the Sybaian's advice. Not so unlke Vega, he chose to avoid his pain, instead of address it. "No, Haraldur. There are no ghosts in this camp. I promise you that. Come on." Patting his hand, she flashed a shaky smile. "You look like you could use a little rest--and a lot of water. No doubt Vega is concerned to have not seen you all day long."

Without waiting for consent, Elespeth led the mercenary's alcohol-heavy body towards the Skyknight's tent. It was no mystery that he was sharing it with the Eyraillian princess, and eve if he wasn't, it would ascertain her finding him there later. And perhaps then she could help the poor mercenary in ways that the former knight could not. "You know you're safe here, right? No ghosts, no demons, nothing. Just friends. We are all here for you... whatever it is you are suffering, you know you do not need to suffer it alone." Helping him over to the cot, she crouched in front of him and took one of his massive hands in her own. "I don't know what happened to you--in the past. And I won't ask, because it is not for me to know. But if you ever need an ear to listen... know that I am free of judgment." A faint blush spread across her cheeks as she realized the position she had put herself in. Would Vega be livid to find her taking her lover by the hand, as she did now? Would she jump to conclusions? That bitter part of the Atvanian's mind urged her not to care, for she had certainly occupied her fair share of her own lover's time and company. At least she wasn't hanging off of Haraldur like a lifeline. 

"I will drink with you, Haraldur; we are long overdue for conversational air." She told him with a sight, releasing his hand and straightening to her full height. "But not right now. Under different circumstances; you may call in the favour when you are feeling more at ease."
And with a final nod, she left, in hopes of running into Vega and informing her that her drunken paramor should probably not be without supervision here and now.

Maybe she pitied her too much: the separation from her family, her deformity, the ill prognosis of her future... Was it really any wonder why Tivia responded to her with such aversion? Perhaps she was trying too hard, taking it too far, and ultimately causing her god intentions to be perceived and superficial or insincere.
But... could she really blame her for feeling so? "I am sorry," came her mumbled apology, dropping her hand to her side. "I'm not trying to condescend. I'm just... remembering how it felt to feel so alone when I woke from death. And how Alster reached out and helped me. I just don't want you to feel that you can't reach back to those who reach out. But..."

But she was right: she did not need her friendship. And pushing, insisting on the issue, was doing exactly the opposite of what she intended. "If all you desire is allyship... then I can at least offer you that much, regardless of--"

And there it was. A word that she struggled not to become associated with, a word that had plagued her all her life for the decisions that she made. Of course, she should have known that it would be a Rigas to articulate one of her most deep-seated discomforts in light of more recent decisions. "I've offered Haraldur all that I have, and all that Eyraille can offer as well." It was a challenge not to mirror Tivia's affronted tone. "If Vitali wanted me as a means to an end, he would have come for me. And I would gladly take on Haraldur's burden... but you must realize that he would interfere by any means possible. Even if it means further endangering his own life all the more."

Was it truly inevitable? That not conceivable future of theirs would be void of hurt, and all because of her...? But I just want him to find happiness. And peace... Tivia was right, though. There would be no security for him if he found himself forever tethered to Vitali, for a debt that should not even belong to him...

Without a parting, diplomatic word, the Skyknight complied with the Rigas caster's request and took her leave, flustered and uncertain and completely at a loss as to what to do. The necromancer... I need to find him. Finding herself unable to heed Haraldur's wishes and leave the issue to rest, Vega set out in search of the only man capable of pardoning the mercenary's debt. Nothing good could come of this... and no good will. 

"It's a strange feeling, knowing that someone seeks you. Like an annoying itch that you can't scratch, because you cannot locate it." Ultimately, it was the necromancer who happened upon the princess, in the midst of her own search behind the barracks later that evening. With an easy smile, he flourished a shallow bow, coattails billowing gently in the breeze. "How can I be of service to you, your highness?"

Vega's heart leapt to her throat, and she spun around, immediately on the defense. This man, with his polished and assured demeanor... His presence exuded a miasma of mistrust and mischief, of the deadliest sort. Because there was no doubt that he knew precisely why she had sought him out... and precisely whatever it was he wished to gain from her in return. "I wish we could forego the pretenses." She maintained a subtle tone, in case of any prying ears nearby. It was frankly an encounter that she wished to end as soon as possible; every second she remained, she was reminded of the dark voice from which he had dragged her... "My life--mine, is what you restored. That debt, therefore, should be mine to repay... not Haraldur's."

"Of course; so be it." 

"...what?" It couldn't be that easy. Vega's jaw all but dropped. "You will allow me to take on his burden?"

Vitali stifled a chuckle. "You thought I'd refuse? I would be more than happy to call upon Eyraillian royalty for a favour. In fact... I might already have something in mind. That is, if you don't mind going on a minor excursion upon your roc."

In the dimming light of day, Vega listened to his proposal, weighing the severity of his words, and the feasibility of his request. After a moment of contemplation and quiet negotiation, the princess concluded with a nod of assent and a brief handshake that chilled her to the bone. It could be worse... so much worse. I can do this; I need to. For Haraldur.

"Wait-" The young Sybaian healer stormed off before Alster could so much as solidify his stance on their operations. He massaged at his temples, sighing aloud."I would have helped," he said, in a mutter, to her retreating form. Sybaian he was not, but he remembered the heartfelt words spoken by this young girl's blood sister--Eilona. Perhaps you would consider working with the Sybaia more often. If they needed extra assistance, he'd be more than happy to contribute his own...rather limited expertise. While only a novice as a healer (and "healer" was too ambitious of a term; he merely struck a lucky series of combinations), he was no empath, and therefore not as burdened by strong, almost debilitating reactions--Vega's intensive sessions notwithstanding. But he was also in recovery from the sympathetic illness he may or may not have contracted from Elespeth. It reddened his eyes, strained his throat, and pressed against his head in the form of searing headaches--but it was mere inconvenience compared to what the wounded and infirm, and by extension the Sybaia, were suffering. He only wished the child hadn't run off so quickly, for he would have inquired about her blood sister, and offered to soothe her ails.

She's prideful. Like a Rigas. he thought, as he stared at the direction she turned, and contemplated if he should follow. I could really show them our own unshakeable determination by bursting through their tents and forcing them to accept my aid. He clenched his scarred hands into loose fists, but uncurled them, rejecting that sudden onset flare of indignation. It was as if he had adopted it from the child and took it on as his own. And here I am thinking that I'm not so empathetic. He shook his head and turned away, knowing that, much as he wanted to offer his magic to their cause, he had needed to rebuild his own strength for the infinitely more daunting tasks that lay ahead of him in Stella D'Mare. Besides, he had to uphold the promise to himself...

To heal Elespeth. 

I can in no way call myself anything approaching a healer if I don't at least try...to help her.

He waited for Elespeth's return in her own tent, lacing his fingers together and preoccupying his time with fire spells, points of concentration in his palms to help induce a calm, inviting meditative state. He needed such moments of relaxation, much as he denied them or thought them a waste of time when he could be outside, making himself useful. At least out there, in the noise and tumult and chaos of the world, he could sometimes forget the chaos in his own mind. It was a thing with teeth that clamped and tore and thrashed around in the darkness, unseen but felt everywhere. Always chewing. Always destroying. Always hungry. 

Shuddering his eyes to a close, he invited that darkness, let it sit with him, but did not encourage it to turn its teeth to his throat, as it frequently did. The scars were there to prove its past conquests. But I will not accept you, this time. Not in that way. Only as a friend, but not an enemy...

You are not my enemy...

When he opened his eyes, he heard a shuffling of the tent flaps. He thought he'd only been resting for an hour, at most, but by the lowered trajectory of the sun, which he glimpsed from outside, it seemed like he was gone for half the day. He rubbed knuckles against his lids as he watched Elespeth enter, sweat-covered and dirty from training. With a small smile of welcome, he waited for her approach, then offered her the plate of food he saved from breakfast. 

"You must be hungry," he said, as he pushed the plate into her hands. "And don't say you're not, El. I can see your bones poking through your skin." Folds of concern wrinkled his forehead. "Don't do this to yourself. Please eat. Besides," he forced a modicum of cheer to set upon his haggard features, "we're going on a trip. It's not a physical trip by any means, but..energy is still burned while asleep, and...I want to show you something." A nervous glisten covered his exaggerated smile. "When you're ready, of course. And...only if you want to." 

Although she had wanted Vega gone, Tivia was not quite done with the Eyraillian woman. In terms of speech, yes, but she was curious as to where her sojourns would lead her, once she departed from the tent. 

She gave Vega a head-start. One minute. Two minutes. Three... Then, she emerged, squeezing through the flaps, and...aimlessly wandered about the camp.

It was obvious that she had no sense of direction. She could scarcely remember where Elespeth's tent was situated, let alone where Vitali inhabited--if he had any quarters at all, considering he just appeared in camp the other day, with no Tadasuni seeming to register his presence. He couldn't have been staying in a tent. But somehow--he had a place of his own. Somehow, even with her strategy of having no destination, which would invariably lead her to her destination, she knew where to go. Step by step, she walked. And step by step, she found them. Existing as only voices.

She dipped behind a tent and listened. Clearly, she heard them speak. Vega and Vitali. They were making a deal. The necromancer, true to his word, had accepted the bargain. As far as it sounded, Haraldur was exonerated of his duties. Tivia released a silent sigh of relief, glad that the spoiled Eyraillian gnat had done something right.

But...was it actually right? Was her interference the best decision? What would Vitali gain, and what would Vega lose--and how would Haraldur react, should he ever catch wind of their secret meeting? 

Instead of feeling victorious, Tivia felt a little...confused. She had done right...hadn't she? 

Hadn't she? 

Haraldur complied with a nod and followed along with Elespeth, seeming like he wanted to hold her upright instead of the other way around. It was not through sheer bravado that he claimed to be a well-functioning drunk. Blessed with a tolerance that would make any Mollengardian proud, and equipped with a trained soldier's balance and unruffled stamina, he walked with a steady gait--if but a little shuffling in its swagger. But what he could not hide was how his entire demeanor changed. The typically closed-off mercenary was open and compliant...and sloppy in his speech, his mannerisms. Perhaps...even a little frisky. 

As they traveled to Vega's tent, Haraldur had, on one occasion, tried to lower his hand to brush over one of her breasts, but he thought better of it and pulled away at the last moment. He punctuated his self-thwarted attempt with a half amused laugh and an apology. 

When they at last had reached and entered Vega's tent, Haraldur plopped upon the cot without the need for Elespeth's encouragement. The cot groaned beneath his weight as it tried to account for his heavy plunk against the frame. "Friends?" He stared down at his hand, the hand that the Atvanian warrior squeezed with an ever-gentle push of her fingers. Nodding in response, he patted her hand in kind. "It's fine. If you want to know about...any of it," he waved his flask, his empty flask, towards the exit, "you could ask Alster. He knows. Too many people know now, anyway. It's a secret...no longer. But I still can't say it to you out loud. It's better not to ruin..." he took a short, unsteady breath, "the last of...well, whatever we have here. Friendship?" A titter of a laugh emerged from his lungs. "I suppose it has been." But he said those lines with a finality, as if this meeting was the last time she would view him in such a favorable light.

"Take care, Elespeth." He dropped his hand, but gave her a smile as she departed from the tent. "Maybe next time, then?" 

Once she left, he sucked dry the last of his liquor, threw the flask to the ground, and crashed upon the cot. The wooden frame heaved again, in protest, as he settled down, closed his eyes...and dreamed. 

He was with Vega, in what looked like a massive bedchamber that could only belong to the castle at Eyraille. She was lying in bed, surrounded by a physician, assistants, and a midwife, while he stood aside, nervously keeping his eyes on the window. Shouts and screams peppered the air. He closed his eyes to it, hoping that it would help to close his ears to it--but to no avail.

Finally, the screams had stopped--but for one. It was a thin, keening siren's wail, and when he looked up, the midwife had placed that shrieking bundle in his arms. A baby. His baby. 

"It's a girl," the midwife said, beaming. 

He stared at the shrunken, pink, hairless thing that writhed in his touch, as if adverse to it. As if knowing...what he had done. 

He stared and stared at this worm of a human, too fresh and pliant and mindless and dumb. Yet...it still knew. 

With trembling hands, he took the baby by its short, bulging, delicate neck...and snapped it.

The baby stopped crying. 

Haraldur jolted awake and was on his feet before the vertigo could swim to his head. But then it caught up to him, and he stumbled forward, almost to the ground, panting and gasping in horror until his senses adjusted to his hasty awakening. He grabbed for the flask on the ground, knowing it was empty, but pried the last and final droplets out with his tongue. There was nothing else to absorb. 

Squeezing the flask with one hand, his deteriorating necklace with the other, he strode over to the tent flaps, desperate in his search of more to drink.

But Vega's entrance stopped him short. 

"Vega," he said, as he tried to reconfigure his huffing breath, the wideness of his eyes, the relentless shifting of his limbs, and the flask that he held so dear. "I was just going to..."

We are all here for you... He recalled Elespeth's voice, and lowered his head, sighing in surrender.

"To...find you," he amended, releasing the flask. It tumbled, again, to the ground. "Something is on my mind. Well," he remedied, "a lot is on my mind, and I..." he hesitated, "I need to tell someone. I need to tell...you. Before anything else can develop between us."

"Eavesdropping is rather rude, you know. And curiosity is no excuse." It was as if the man could manipulate the very air around him to transport him wherever he pleased. Not a moment after his brief dealings with the Eyraillian princess had ended, the necromancer Vitali managed to, without a sight or sound, find a place directly behind Tivia. Of course, he seemed to derive pleasure in seeing her startled. "Checking to see if that seed you planted in the Skyknight commander's mind blossomed into the guilt you had hoped? Well rest assured, my dear, for your beloved mercenary is no longer within my sights. His paramour gladly took those strings upon herself."

It did not require any elite grasp on observance to see that the Rigas caster, however determined she had been on her decision, was not having second thoughts. Something Vitali picked up on almost immediately, inciting a silent chuckle that shook his shoulders. He waived her unspoken concerns with a dismissive hand gesture. "Really, now, miss Rigas. I am a necromancer--not a demon! I did not demand her soul, her unborn child or an eternity of servitude. In fact, I feel that our bargain truly leans in her--and her lover's--favour. Rest assured there is no need to lose sleep over your interference.

"And, I suppose... I should be thanking you." Vitali's grin broadened, as he turned a shoulder on the Rigas woman. "There really was no better way to snag such a priceless opportunity than by having you play upon the princess's own guilt. I couldn't have been nearly as convincing."

A cloying feeling of foreboding followed Vega Sorde long after her impromptu bargain with the notorious necromancer. What have I done? What does he want from me? Will it be worth it?
The answer, of course, was yes. Haraldur's life and freedom were priceless, and if she could ascertain it for him, then selling her very soul would be worth it. But that fact did nothing to placate her apprehensive mind. The mercenary had been so hell-bent on keeping her an arms's length from Vitali Kristeva at all times... What sort of devil was he, to earn such a reputation among all who dealt with him?

But Vitali and all thoughts pertaining to him went the way of the wind as soon as the Skyknight approached her tent, barricaded by a familiar broad form. "Haraldur..." Vega's gut twisted in all directions. What was the source of the man's red-rimmed, wide and haunted eyes? Or the reason for the strong smell of alcohol on his breath, punctuated by the tinny sound of his flask hitting the ground?
Before her stood a frightened, shattered man. And the Eyraillian princess's heart ached for her lack of a solution for his ails. The Sybaian procedure that he had endured might have lanced the festering emotional wounds to let the pus drain, but those infections still lingered, untreated in the aftermath. Haraldur needed help: and it tore her apart from the inside out, realizing that she alone could not help him.

"You haven't been sober a single moment all day long." The Skyknight spoke the words not with an air of judgment, but of understanding. She knew what it was like, feeling so lost in hopelessness that the bitter burn of alcohol down her throat was the only thing that could possibly take her mind off of it. That was a feeling that she did not wish upon anyone. "Please, Haraldur. Whatever is ailing you... tell me. Let me know and let me help."
No sooner had she taken him by the hands that she led him back onto the cot, and placed a small decanter of water into his hands. "Look. If it's me... or something about me now that causes you to reconsider..." Her cerulean gaze trailed downward, until it fell upon her chest--where her scars marred the freckled skin beneath her clothes. "Tell me what I need to do... please. I'll rid myself of the scars, I will do anything to prove to you that I am still alive--that I am still me. Just... just talk to me." Vega found his gaze once again, forcing a smile upon her lips. "Haven't you realized yet that I will do anything for you...?"

It was with a good deal of unease and uncertainty that Elespeth left Haraldur back in Vega's tent, with those words of foreboding and the haunted look in his deep green eyes. Did she really want to know his secret? How dire could it be that he was so determined she would think differently of him, and that it would leave him such a hollow shell of a man? It isn't my place to know or to wonder. That is Haraldur's place alone... But would he be alright? And would Vega be enough of a buffer against the guilt dredged up from his past?
Then again... who was she to give thought to any of this, provided the state she herself was in? Thin, not half as strong as she used to be, barely recovered from an illness of the body and mind and soul...

And who was there to remind her of her shortcomings but the one person to whom it stood out the most?

No sooner did the former knight enter her tent that she felt she had made the right call in not heckling Haraldur for his poor decisions. The concern in Alster's eyes swam and reflected like glistening pools of cerulean: a judgement borne only of worry, and for wanting the best for her health and well-being. But there was no hiding the fact that she had been out of sorts earlier, and that uncomfortable feeling continued to cling to her insides like a parasite. And for that, she could not stand to have her very weaknesses pointed out to her. "Alster, please." Elespeth sighed so deep that her shoulders drooped in unison with the exhale. "I have spent the day training, and I have been ill; is it really so hard to accept that it has taken a toll on my body? Or that I might not have become reacquainted with an appetite since I--not so unlike Vega--returned from the brink of death?"

Her words carried far more of a bite than she had intended, such that she winced and looked away from her worried lover as soon as they concluded. What are you doing? Has he not suffered his guilt enough? She had wanted so badly to start over with him; to put that gap in time behind them. That would never come to fruition if she kept the gaping wound open and bleeding with the fickleness of her emotions...

"I'm... sorry." Taking a seat upon the cot, the Atvanian warrior exhaled again, this time to steady herself and regain her composure. "I know I'm not well; I know I need to eat. But I... I still need time, Alster. Every day I am recovering a little bit more, but I cannot force it." Though the plate of food rested in her hands, she made no move to eat. Not yet. "I can't rush to heal myself the way Haraldur did. But I... whatever you would like to show me, I would like to see it. In just a little while." Putting the plate back down, the leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Alster's forehead before standing again. "Give me a minute to wash the day off my skin in the brook behind the encampment. I'll feel better, and that autumn chill will be enough to drive me back to you in no time." Flashing a half grin, Elespeth grabbed a clean tunic folded at the foot of her bed and took her leave of the Rigas caster. But, she was true to her word, and not a half hour had passed when she returned, hair hanging damp and wavy down her back and shoulders, her skin cool to the touch, but her eyes bright and alert and far clearer than before. "Thank you for waiting for me," she smiled, taking his warm hand into her chilled ones as she took a seat next to him; relaxed, collected. "It's a relief to know that you trust I will always come back to you, Alster..."

No sooner than the conversation ceased and she was certain Vega and Vitali had departed did she hear another voice pipe up--from behind her. She jumped and screamed at once, whirling around so quickly that her arm detached from its cushioning position upon the marred half of her face. There, the necromancer stood before her, his expression so smug that, aside from fear, her dominant thought was to smack that look clear off his disturbingly perfect mug and far into oblivion. 

"Don't...don't do that!" she hissed, replacing the arm upon her face. "Should it matter that I'm eavesdropping? I've done you a favor, and corralled the Eyrallian over to you. The least I should get in exchange is information." 

She forced her shoulders to drop, to relax, but her heart still hammered in double-time from the scare, from the man's presence, and she had since given up on trying to silence it. "What, praytell, is this bargain? Does it, in some roundabout way, affect him as well?" She wanted to cross her arms, to demonstrate a more casual and nonchalant side of herself, but she refused to move away her protective "mask" and her protective stance. Besides, nothing about her posture suggested calm or steadiness. In fact, his last words sent shivers all over her body, raising her skin into prickly rows of gooseflesh. "But I'll make this very clear. I don't work for you--so don't expect me to be going around, changing people's minds just because I am more disarming than you. Because this was a one time deal. And you'd better hope," she threatened with a pointed look--but really, what leverage did she hold against him? "that this bargain is a fair one, or so help me, I shall bring the wrath of the Rigas down upon you!" 

With a defeated nod, Haraldur allowed Vega to guide him back to the cot. Her hands were like a salve upon his skin. And her pulse, so inviting, so alive, reminded him that, though Death once had claimed her, warmth now coated his touch like a welcome cocoon. The soft thrumming of her heartbeat exited her bloodstream and entered his own. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. He closed his eyes to it, wanting to remember its patter, its pitch, its pace, and brand it upon his own heart. You're alive. You're here, and you're alive.

But her hands had withdrawn, replacing their soft warmth with something cold and hard. He opened his eyes and stared down at the water decanter that swished around in his tremulous hold. Reality set in to his thoughts, in his throat, from just that small, unconscious transfer. The reality that--he could never have what he wanted. 

With a soft shushing sound, Haraldur silenced Vega and her mounting concerns that bordered on frantic. "No, Vega...This has nothing to do with any of that. Just...let me get this out." He took an inviting gulp of the water, a long resigned sigh, and began. 

"Shortly before Arina died," he stared at the far canvassed wall, using it as a constant in case his voice and his composure surrendered on him, "we had gotten into a fight. She wanted a child--to move on from the one she lost years before we were even married. She yearned to be a mother again. That's why she wanted to adopt Thora. But I refused. I...couldn't. And not because I didn't like children. I," he pressed the pads of his fingers against the decanter, "I really do like children. I've thought, again and again, of having one of my own. I know--or at least knew-- how to raise one, from my youth. I loved my sister, even though she had so many problems, and she died so young. I loved Thora--perhaps I still do. But," his sight transferred from the wall to the ground, "I knew that it could never be."

"I wanted so badly to tell Arina that I wanted a child. A family, with her. I'd even convinced myself, a few days later, that it was something I'd like to try. But by then, she had died from the avalanche, and I lost my chance. I've had all these years to think about that decision I almost made, and realized...no. I could never be a father. Look at what I've done. You've seen it. All those young lives I've ended." He wet his tongue and swallowed, hard, as if to swallow all his emotions. His posture remained ramrod still. Statuesque. "It's gotten to the point where I can't even look at a child, or talk to one, without thinking...that I could so easily snap her neck." He flinched, remembering the dream. "That I'm afraid I would, for no other reason than because I'm capable of it. I could never be a father...because I'm terrified that I would kill my own child."

He closed his eyes, and kept them closed, too ashamed to look at Vega, or see her react to his grim, horrific news. "Don't expect it from me, Vega. A family. It's something I can't give, much as I..." the last words were so strained and tight and defeated, they nearly wheezed out of him, "want to." 

Whatever smile that lingered on Alster's lips faded immediately. He hugged his arms, making himself small. Nonthreatening. Trying so hard to appeal to her and to stave off the ire that pointed direct and at his heart. He nodded at her emphatic explanation but did not meet her eyes, like a dog that had been reprimanded. "I understand," he said, and set the plate to the ground. "I'm sorry." He said those words as an echo of her own, which impelled him to lift his head and wonder if he heard her correctly. But he had. She was sorry, too--though she had nothing to feel sorry for. He was the sole cause of every wrong that had befallen her since they met. She was justified in her stance towards him; it was owed to her to lash out and punish him for his terrible treatment of her. Just like the other Rigases, who had every right to call him Serpent Bane, or use him as target practice for their spell casting. A direction for their hatred. It's all right, he wanted to tell her. I'll accept it all. Especially from you, El. I won't fight back...because I love you.

"You don't have to apologize," he began, but silenced his dialogue when she explained her stance--which made him feel even smaller. He was responsible for those rush healings. Of Lilica. Of Vega. Of Haraldur. They were done out of necessity. They were all on a time constraint. And perhaps...he wanted to see them well, with a swiftness that would defy his own slow-burn of a recovery. They can't be like me. I won't let them be like me. On and on and on, with no end in sight. I have to give them something...anything.

The press of a kiss on his forehead awakened him from the desperation that regurgitated thoughts at him in such an unrelenting, messy stream. He blinked up at her, and managed the tiniest of smiles as he saw her off--and waited for her return. During that half hour (which felt far longer, contrary to his earlier meditation), he worried for what he had planned to show her. Was it just another case of "rush healing"? A bid for her to recover before time ran out, as he was so certain it would? 

But when she returned, aware and receptive and ready to receive him, he took a courageous intake of breath, and reached for her hand. Just trust yourself, Alster, he told himself, as his hand gently propelled her down on the cot beside him. 

"And it's a relief to know that you trust me at all," he said, with a self-deprecating laugh. "Here, take my other hand." With his blood oath hand, he sought the one that bore the same scars, and closed it taut around her fingers."It'll make our connection tighter. Easier. Now...close your eyes--and I'll take you there." 

First, there was darkness. But soon, that darkness bubbled and coalesced, moving about, forming pictures--brightening. Little by little, the picture broadened about them, integrating into their new reality--and taking them inside.

The two of them stood on a long stretch of shoreline. Mottled aquamarine and deep, royal blue waters lapped up at their feet, revealing the bright iridescence of abalone shells in the sand, which glinted in the high noon sun. Behind them, vast crags shot skyward, draped with kelp and seaweed whose aromas drifted about in the breeze. Below the crags, small caves revealed yet more treasures hidden in shadow and by the crashing of waves against the porous, walled surfaces. 

"This," he began, his hand still wound into Elespeth's, "is my dream." He paused, checking his lover's face, worried he'd see an adverse reaction. "I...I retreat here a lot, now. I know it's not the best method of facing reality, but it really has helped me to cope these past few months...without you. I fear I'd be much worse off without this place. But," he sighed and ran his fingers through his wind-blown hair, "it's not fair to you, El. To keep this from you, that is. You've no place to call your own, and I...I've been selfish. So, to make up for all the harm I've caused you...I'm offering this to you. This space. You can do with it what you will. Keep it as is, change it, or," he tried not to flinch, "destroy it completely. But what I really hope," he chanced a smile up at her, "is that we can remake this place, together. Because I want to make it clear that...that you're always with me. That you always have a place at my side. That I won't leave you this time. Or ever...if that's what you want."

Without releasing the mercenary's hands for even a second, Vega listened to his words with more patience and openness than she ever had before. Suddenly the broad and seemingly indestructible Haraldur was falling apart before her very eyes, coming undone at the seams with the secrets and burdens that he had kept to himself for so very long. And she could almost feel herself falling apart with him, every word like a blade in her heart and gut, but not blades that were at all meant for her. It was as if she had thrown herself in the path of spears all aimed at the mercenary, yearning to shield him from any further pain and suffering. But like lovers often did, all that it accomplished was that the two of them, ultimately, shared that very pain together. Not alone.

At a loss for words, the Skyknight pressed her forehead against Haraldur's shoulder, helpless to stay the tears that spilled from her eyes and onto his lap. Somehow, this... this soul-deep self-mistrust was so much worse than whatever anxiety her newly-revived condition was causing him. "...I do not accept your words, Haraldur." She breathed at last, tightening her grip on his callused hands. "And I will tell you why."

Wiping at her damp eyes with her sleeve, she sat upright, and met the suffering warrior's gaze with such intensity that she could have broken his very heart with the look, had she wished it. "I don't accept them because you already made the decision, a long time ago, before I was ever in the picture. That you wanted to try; that you wanted to raise a family that you can call your own. You gave yourself permission with Arina, long after all of the terrible things that Mollengard had you do for them. You wanted a family, Haraldur; and you were ready to take that leap. And yet now you are shying away, all over again, for reasons that you had already conquered long ago--and you didn't even realize it."

She didn't realize the vigor of her own conviction, of her faith and belief in her paramour, until she noticed the tremble in her hands and arms. Vega was angry; not at Haraldur directly, but rather, over what he believed. What he had settled for in a future that could otherwise--especially now--be so prosperous... "This has nothing to do with me or what I want. Don't think for a half moment that it is." The princess squeezed his hand in her trembling fingers. "If you decided tomorrow that you want nothing to do with me, Haraldur, yet you still maintained your vision for a family... Then I would walk away with a broken heart, but high spirits, knowing that you have not given up on yourself. Because you do deserve a a child, a family, whatever it is you desire. I cannot think of a man who would make such a devoted and loving and protective father, compared to you. And that is the truth."

You are taking it too far... That inner voice cautioned her, enough that she released her hold on his hands. He was still a man hurting, healing, and finding a way to push his demons out of his life. Touching the side of his jaw, Vega pressed her lips against his, gentle and understanding. "I can't make you strive for something if you do not want to; maybe it is none of my business. But I hope that you will try to take advantage of the freedom you have gained... and that you will find in Eyraille. Should you still choose to accompany me when the war is at its end."
Her conversation with the necromancer was still fresh and raw in her mind, and all that she could think was, Please take advantage of my sacrifice. Do not let it all be in vain... "You are still healing, Haraldur. At least give yourself that." Vega's voice quieted, as she released one of his hands to press her warm palm against his cheek. "Before you decide to make any lasting, steadfast decisions."

Seeking Alster's other hand, Elespeth was unable but run her thumb over the raised scar on his palm. Her fingertips tingled with a faint current of what felt like electricity, sending warmth straight to her heart: their connection was still there. Or at least, it was reestablished. Part of one another again, on the most profound of levels... That, alone, served as reassurance enough. That he did not wish to sever their bond again. It really made it seem like they would be forever... if it was, ultimately, up to them. "But I never stopped trusting you, Alster," came her quiet reply. Part of that unconditional love and trust had, after all, been at the crux of her very pain. But she chose not to articulate that, for the fact that she was willing to bet he already knew.

It was then, with that unshakable trust, that the former knight closed her eyes and let her lover take her to what he wanted her to see, with no further comments or questions ventured. She smelled the salt on the air and felt the sticky brine in the breeze before she opened her eyes to the crystalline shoreline.
Elsepeth knew where she was before her green eyes beheld the vista before the two of them.

I have been here before. Though it had been under drastically different circumstances that she had last set foot in this tranquil haven... She had stood before not only Alster, but a utopian duplicate of herself. And it was then and there--or here as it was--that she had begged Alster to hear her out and return to the world of the waking. He had not been the same since... And it was with a great deal of difficulty that she tried to look upon this place as a safe haven at all.

"You don't need to apologize about having a safe place to escape." Elespeth sought the Rigas caster's hand and squeezed it gently. "Stop feeling guilty; you have shouldered enough of that to last a lifetime, and we all seek ways to cope with the stresses of everyday life." And just because her imagination was not clear or meditative enough to form some mental sanctuary of her own did not mean that Alster should find himself deprived, as well.
But, all that considered... did she really want to take this place for herself? To share it with her beloved, as if it wasn't attached to the past's steadfast strings?

Yet to destroy it... no. That ventured beyond too drastic and unfair. She could not bring herself to so much as consider the possibility. "I know and love you better than to shatter something that is yours; cherished and with purpose. But..." Turning to face him, Elespeth's other hand sought Alster's. "But I have been here, before; when you were still under Vitali's spell. And I... do not want a place that represents a time when I was not truly present--one that is linked so closely to our times apart. I want... Really, what I want is a place built from the ground up. Constructed piece by piece, collectively, by the two of us."

The former knight turned her gaze toward the water, pressing her lips into a thoughtful line as she drifted into deep contemplation. "I like the sea. It's lovely and soothing," Elespeth said, after a beat. "But... I also like the meadows and the hills. With green grass as far as the eye can see." Her gentle smile turned despondent when she met Alster's eyes again. "Though I suppose it is all for the fact that I shall always miss Atvany."

At the conclusion of his heart-rending admission, Vega did for him what he, at that moment, could not for himself: she cried. Tears splashed from her cheeks in a manifestation of the pain suffused upon her face. It was as if she had shared this secret, for how much it reduced her into brokenness. 

For Haraldur, the pain manifested in a different place, hidden from view, but not from his notice. His wrist throbbed terribly, even under the numbing effects of the alcohol. So profound and intense and sharp the sensation, that Haraldur was forced to retract his hand from Vega, to rub that injury out of existence. But instead of abating at his touch, the pain spread, down his forearm, and enslaved his heart. He crooked his fingers in reaction to the near-paralyzing jolt that racked him so immeasurably from the inside--until Vega's words gave him pause. When he met her eyes, her look was one to send currents through his entire system, it radiated with such ferocity. Enough to stop hearts, or melt them. He winced from reflex, his fingers tensing outwards, away from the sight. 

"I woke up. That's what I accepted," he said, but he hadn't the pep to match her ire, or any other emotion. The words were dead things on his lips, and no manner of breathing life into them could revive them. Not like Vega, who had been given a second chance and who would make good use of it, with all the fire she contained. "There's plenty that people want in this world, but can't have. I was ridiculous to think that having...that a family was one of them. I'm even more certain of this now, after I..." he left his final thoughts blank. After I was there, in my head. After I almost killed you. After I condemned you to a fate like those children...

"This has everything to do with you. You can't say you've never thought about this in your life." There was a waver in his throat, but he tried to clear it, tried to eject it from his being, but to no avail. Even Vega's planted kiss upon his lips did nothing to stave the chill that began to creep in every spot the pounding, ceaseless pain had stabbed him. He could almost see his fingertips turning blue from it. "Because I see...I want a future with you. Unless you no longer desire that possibility. Which I...can't fault you for, after what you've witnessed from me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you don't...maybe I shouldn't have said anything to you at all." With a grunt, he hauled himself to his feet, sloughing away from Vega's comforting, albeit intense, touch. "This was a mistake. I suppose I wanted you to know...in case this was something you wanted, as well. And I tried to be, was encouraged to be...more open. Especially to you. But I took it too far, too fast." He bounded across the tent, towards the exit. The abandoned tin of water sat, barely touched, on the ground near the cot. 

Before he left, he half-turned to Vega. His hand was cradled and slung against his chest, grazing that sad, crumbling necklace. "I couldn't start a family with just anyone that comes along, Vega. No matter how much I want it. I'd first have to find someone who...who I'd trust with my future. I'm sorry." He bent over to pick up his flask, dusting off the rim with the edge of his uniform. "I won't...I'll leave you alone, tonight." He swished through the tent flaps, and trundled down the streets of camp in the dark...like a beggar with no place to go and whose only salvation was the drink. Drink it all away...

"That's what I want, too," Alster mused with a nod. His hand temporarily detached from Elespeth. Moving forward, his bare feet dipped into the gurgling waters on the shoreline. "I know this dream holds a good deal of sorrow for you, for what it represents. That's why I took you here. Because I'm going to use this sanctuary as a starting point...for something new. Something we can both share. A place that is always open to you. A place where we can go. A place you won't associate with my disappearance, down a path you could never follow. And if ever I make mention about this haven, in our disheveled reality, it won't bring you so much pain--because you'll be much a part of it as I am. So," he cracked his knuckles before reaching again for Elespeth's hand, "let's make this happen." 

He closed his eyes, but not before taking one final look at his oceanside paradise. He knew he'd have to leave it eventually, that it could never sustain itself in a life that ran parallel with his love for Elespeth. The two were contradictory ideas, and could never exist harmoniously together. But that didn't mean he had to rid of about the only place which still brought him joy. While he needed to destroy in order to create, and recreate, it was all for a purpose with the same end goal. This sanctuary would again bring him joy--but this time, it wouldn't be so exclusive. He didn't have to live in it alone, or stew in memories that never happened, mourning the fantasy--when he had the reality at his side. A miracle in its own right, that found its way to him despite the rigors and trials of life. 

Our time together...really has been a miracle. And I won't let that go. Even if it means letting this place go.

He took a deep breath, and concentrated. The seashore scene folded in on itself, warped...and changed. Rippling seas of ultramarine became rippling seas of grass. Towering cliffsides became towering trees, which watched from a distance. The kelp and the seaweed became fuzzy moss that clung to rocks and to errant branches, providing their own earthy scent. The seashells became wildflowers, purple and gold and as blue as the sweeping sky above. A stream meandered and gurgled around their feet, with a shine that caught the sunlight like a mirror. And in the middle of the field, standing like a silent, weeping sentinel, was an enormous wisteria tree. The thin, willowy branches hung in curtains all around its sturdy trunk, and almost touched the ground. But most captivating of all was the color. Coated in vibrant, humming purple flowers, the tree danced in the breeze, peppering the air with a rainstorm of petals. 

As Alster opened his eyes to take in the final result, he pointed at the tree, and his smile turned sheepish. "It's a little gaudy, I'll admit. I can remove this tree, if you want. It might clash with your original vision for this place. But I couldn't help but add it...in memory of, well," he released his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, "when we kissed under the flower trellis. Do..." he paused for a beat, then ventured again, his nerves getting the better of him. "Do you like it, here? It doesn't have to be the final result. We can tamper around until we have it right." 

He hid his apprehension and tears with another smile. It's gone. That dream. How easy it was to erase, like an oil painting on canvas. But it's too late to regret it, and I shouldn't...I won't. This was the right decision. The only decision.

She was losing him to her own words and misunderstandings; Vega could practically feel it in the air between them, because he was not hearing her words the way that she intended. Although it was probably her own fault, for the fire that had heated her voice and face in light of this vision of the man she loved entirely giving up. "Of course I have thought about it. I don't deny that." The colour in the Skyknight's face paled a shade. "Admittedly, not until I met you... but that is not what I am trying to convey. Not that I don't love you or that I don't want to have a future with you. Because any future with you is more than I ever could have dreamed. Because I... because you loved me. And I never dared to dream what that would feel like." And if I were ever to have children... Then I would want them to be yours.
But was that what he wanted to hear? Was she going about this the wrong way? Did he... want to push her away?

"Where are you going? Haraldur--wait." Vega felt her heart leap into her throat as the mercenary rose, preparing to leave. She refused to let it end on this note. "You're wrong; this wasn't a mistake. Whatever decision you make, whether or not it is to start a family, just know that you have my support--but that I will not let you give up on yourself so easily. That is what I am trying to say..." 

Evidently, it was not enough.

Haraldur was determined to leave, to give up, regardless of what she said. Perhaps it had been his intention all along... Not to have been inspired by a seed of hope, but rather, to concede defeat. "Haraldur... listen, please! You're not understanding me..." But it was too late. Flask in hand and water abandoned, the broken man left the tent and retreated with long strides before she could make him reconsider. An ache spread through Vega's chest, all the way to her throat, as she suddenly feared the greatest anchor tethering her to her own sense of hope might now be beyond her reach. Running on determination alone, she sprung to her feet and hurried toward the tent flaps, pushing them aside as she called to Haraldur's receding form; "The only guarantee that I want for my future is that you are a part of it!" And then, more softly, added, knowing full well that he would not hear, "If only you knew the extent to which I am trying to secure that... for us."

"I'll be back with fresh water." Shayl stood from her ill sister's side, clasping an empty flask. "Promise me you will drink it."

"You are far too worried for something so minor." Ilona sat up on her cot, cheeks aflame with a fever that had yet to abate, yet looking far more composed than her younger sister. "Though perhaps it would do you good to find yourself in a different environment... and maybe me, as well. Your concern is stifling; as thick in the air as fog upon the sea. Makes it hard to breathe..."

The young Sybaian snorted, but was not placated by her sister's apathetic attitude towards her condition. She pursed her lips. "I wouldn't need to worry if you were not so carefree about the fact you can hardly stand," she grumbled and straightened her shoulders. "I will be back; please, try not to overexert yourself in my absence."
Flask grasped tightly in her hands, Shayl left the Sybaian's recovery tent and proceeded on her mission toward the clear, chilled spring to the west of the encampment. She was not on her feet more than a few minutes before, as fate would have it, she encountered the wayward mercenary... Stumbling, still clasping that damned flask of swill (which he hopefully had not refilled since their previous encounter). If it were possible, she could have sworn he looked worse for the wear than before...

Letting him slip away the way he had was irresponsible. She could not, in good conscience, allow him to continue without seeking Sybaian help. "You--do not walk away. We are not through with our conversation from earlier. You..." The cracks and uneven tones of his aura were near nauseating to behold, let alone the pain in his eyes. Shayl visibly winced. "You are... positively wrecked."

He changed it before her very eyes: the water, the shoreline, nothing remained the same. Seas of velvet blue bled and evolved into seas of royal verdant grass, tall and healthy and warm beneath her feet. What was left of the ocean's fluid droplets shrank to nothing more than a playful stream that nourished the flora around their feet, crystalline and sparkling in the sun's offered light like the reflection of a night sky.

And then, turning her eyes away from the water to refocus on the original creator of this land, her attention was instead seized by the awning structure of a magnificent tree. It was none that she had ever seen before in Atvany, but nonetheless captivated her interest. Like something that was almost too beautiful to be real, it swayed, so gentle and hypnotic in the breeze, that for a long moment she couldn't take her eyes away. "No... no, it's perfect." Her eyes didn't budge from where they focused on the magnificent flora in front of her, a splash of brilliance against the lush and vibrant landscape. "It's not... home. Not Atvany. But I need to put Atvany behind me..." Pulling at her lower lip with her teeth, the former knight managed to turn on her heel, away from the captivating wisteria. "I will always cherish my earlier memories, but it is no longer my home. But this... This encapsulates the best of the past and the future. Familiarity with the hope for change for the better. Alster..."

Placing her hands on the Rigas caster's shoulders, Elespeth pressed her forehead against his. "I want a place that belongs to the both of us. One that he can build upon; not one that I would ever wish to destroy... And this is perfect." Her lips pressed, deft yet meaningful, against his own. "I... we can heal, here. I can feel it."

Standing from behind Elespeth as she marveled upon the tree, Alster wiped away his tears with the back of his hand--but refused to wipe away his smile. He couldn't have even if he wanted to: her look of pure wonder was just what he needed to see in order to help him move on. To separate from his apocryphal dream world, and slip into one of their own creation. 

"We have trees like this in Stella D'Mare," he said, moving beside the Atvanian warrior, shoulder to shoulder. "I couldn't have conceived of something like this on my own. I'm not that creative." He let out a low, light chuckle. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he guided her to the tree. They settled by its multitudinous branches, which swished and snagged in the wind, rustling the flowers like scores of soundless bells. 

Their foreheads touched when out of Elespeth's mouth came the words of validation that he had been pining to hear. When they flooded into his ears, the breath he didn't think he'd been holding for the long weeks since he planned to end his life released, in a long, welcome sigh. 

"We...we can," he affirmed, and returned her kiss in kind. One of the branches sailed over their heads, tickling them with the briefest of caresses, and he released her with an amused snort. "We're going to have to prune this thing," he said, as he placed smiling lips back over her own, and closed his eyes. 

In the deep of the night, Tivia found Alster and Elespeth in their tent. Sleeping upon a tiny cot with hands entwined, they looked much like an old married couple embracing death. 

"No," she muttered under her breath as she lunged for them on the cot. "Not yet. Not now. We have to get out of here." 

She had experienced another vision earlier that night, once she returned to her tent after her not-so-surreptitious visit with Vitali. Though she was starting to grow accustomed to the shrill, earth-rending screeches that affected both body and mind, this episode was one of the worst so far. 

In the vision, she was walking around in the war-camp, alone. She tread down each thoroughfare, each alleyway, calling out in the muffled silence. Was camp always so quiet? Even her footfalls didn't make a sound. Then, she paused in mid-stride, horror bleaching onto her face. Had she gone deaf, much sooner than she anticipated? She grabbed for her ears, choking back a sob. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground.

A ground that was no longer there.

Beneath her was a cavernous abyss. It stretched on and on into darkness, sitting like a shadow upon the former boundaries of camp. Nothing remained. No tents or people other than herself. Everything had been swallowed.

Then, as if someone had turned on a switch inside of her, all sound returned, all at once--a collective of thousands screaming beneath her. Falling beneath her. Dying beneath her. They streaked like falling stars at her feet, one by one by one. Ephemeral trails in the abyss, each with a sound like the universe crackling, splitting apart. And when the noise couldn't reach a more unbearable, high-keening pitch, she heard a nearer, more pressing scream--and it came from her own lips as she fell, fell, fell...into nothing. 

She woke and fell out of her cot with a pained shriek, but wasted no time to recover, or to staunch the twin streams of blood from her ears. They stained her clothes as she threw them on over her head.

Darting out of the tent, she yelled, as loudly as her voice would allow, warnings to all that were still awake at this hour. She was wild with fear. "Get out! Everyone, get out of here! We'll all be swallowed! The hole will take us all! Get out!"

Her frenzied exodus from camp led her to Alster and Elespeth's tent, where she now presided. If anyone will heed my warnings, it's them. 

She tore through the flaps and jumped them on the cot, screaming into their ears. 

Alster shot out of bed, eyes open and alert in an automatic response to impending danger. His hands shot out, towards Tivia, twin fire spells spinning around his fingers. Though he looked unnerved, as if she had snapped him from a boundless reverie, he was responding to her summons with open attentiveness. 

He turned a deadly glare to Tivia. "What are you doing?" he snapped. But his spell dispersed, and he lowered his hands, which shook from the sudden exertion. Tivia wasted no time and gripped his hand and Elespeth's, who had also awakened to her call. 

"Vision! I saw--this camp. An explosion. An abyss. We'll be swallowed! We have to leave--we have to leave now!" 

There wasn't any time to dispute, and she wouldn't allow them to calm her down. She pulled at their hands, and screamed, and pulled, and screamed, until finally they followed her lead, followed her pace. By now, a few curious heads poked out from their tents, and sentries on guard demanded to know what was happening.

"Swallowed! We'll all be swallowed!"

"This place is going to blow!" Alster translated. Their querulous faces opened into understanding. 

With a small entourage in tow, Tivia, Alster, and Elespeth made their escape, darting past the border sentries and scaling up the hills outside camp--as per Tivia's instruction. As they and a few dozen others were making it far and away, they all heard Eyraille's rocs cry their collective cacophony and take to the air.

And just as they reached a place beyond the hills where Tivia deemed as safe, they heard it all. A rumbling, beneath their feet, which turned into a violent quake. Which turned into a subterranean explosion, deep and glottal and throat-tearing.

The camp before them was swallowed whole. 

Part of her future...

Was he fit to be part of anyone's future? 

Haraldur, while heedful of the words that sprang from Vega's lips, fled from her tent, from her presence, because it was all too easy to run. Because he abhorred looking so needy and vulnerable and lost, of playing this role because others insisted it of him--so that he could heal.

But he felt no better in opening himself to Vega, and of seeing the look of pity in her tear-rimmed eyes intermixed with burning, passionate concern. It was all too much, the emotions too great, when all he wanted was to retreat into his soldier-ready indifference until he was ready to plunge beneath the surface again. But no one liked that persona of his, either--and no one, including himself, liked this shattered, drunken wretch of a man who they all wanted to fix. What, now? Who could he be, how could he be, when Vega, Elespeth, Alster, and that Sybaian girl would not letgo the matter of his soul? 

Do they not trust that I can pull through this on my own? As I always have?

But his late-night musings eventually led him to the Sybaian sector of camp. After wandering around looking for drink (and disappointed when the new sentry-on-duty for provisions denied him even a sip), he flitted about camp for hours, refusing food and water so he could benefit longer from the lingering effects of his stupor. Towards the end of the night, it began to wear, and he found himself so horrendously thirsty that he could no longer stand the scratch in his throat. In defeat, he filled a canteen of water and drank until his mouth felt sated. It did not stave off the splitting headache that formed, but at least the pain (accompanied by his still-throbbing wrist), distracted him from any deep, crushing thoughts. 

Still, he was inebriated enough to stumble into the Sybaian quarters and wonder how, and why, he had gone there, of all places. Chalking it up to random, unconscious choice, he turned to leave--but was stopped by her. The little girl with the mature stance and those rigid, too rigid shoulders, which denoted her authority as much as they did their weight.

"What do you want to discuss?" he said, tired and so very, very weary--but not yet defeated. His crossed arms made it quite clear to her that he would not concede to her "healing." But still, his eyes were gentle for her. She was, after all, a child--much as she denied it. But...

Was I even a child, anymore, at her age? I shouldn't look at her in that way. The world sure as hell hasn't. 

"Wrecked?" He sighed, then gave a little bob of his head. "Maybe. But I get over it. This is far from the worst struggle of my life." He clamped a hand over his wrist, feeling the feverish pulse thrumming and weeping. "Save your energy for those who need to heal. Your clan is already stretched so thin, and--"

But he paused in his speech when a strange tremor kneaded the earth. Then, he heard them: the rocs. Screeching warnings, flurried wing-beats. Screaming from the far side of camp: "Swallowed. We'll all be swallowed." Another rumble. This wasn't just an earthquake. Awareness clenched his muscles. Eyes widened. 

He whipped towards Shayl and grabbed her shoulders. "Run!" But when she started to protest, he lifted her into his arms and kicked his feet into motion, all instinct and survival pumping him forward. Get out get out get out. He saw the borders of camp, saw others running, felt the ground twist and warp and liquefy. It was too late. They wouldn't make it! 

A ripple and a boom. Haraldur hugged Shayl against his body as the earth gave out beneath them. 

Haraldur felt a wall at his back. The edge. They were at the edge of the explosion. Sliding instead of falling. He implanted his foot into the steep walls as everything crumbled around them. Tents and people and chunks of rock and dirt, wagons, weapons, wooden fencing. He kept his grip tight around his charge as he grit his teeth and sank his foot deeper, scrambling for purchase, for anything that would slow their inevitable descent into the maw that had opened below them. 

In a final, desperate bid, he threw his back into the wall. Jagged, pointed rocks tore into his clothes and skin, but slowly, they lost speed. Slowly, they made it to a shallow bowl at the bottom. Losing balance in the changing grade of the wall, they were thrown from the sides, and tumbled towards the concave of the bowl. Haraldur took the girl into a protective ball as they rolled, and rolled...and stopped. 

"Are..." he gasped as he lay at the bottom, refusing to release Shayl until he thought it safe, "...are you all right?"

Elespeth could have sworn that her heart stopped for a second, the moment she opened her eyes and sat up in her cot, one hand still clinging to Alster's arm in a steadfast reluctance to let him go. "What... what is... Tivia?" Through the residual fog of her deep slumber, the former knight took a moment to register the frantic face of Alster's cousin, fraught as she was with a concern that only she knew. "What is going on?"

She almost regretted asking.
Hysterical was not quite the word that she would use to describe Tivia as she rambled in frantic urgency about a vision with which she had recently been plagued. And despite her unmistakable madwoman-like raving and ranting, too far beyond being placated, the most terrifying part was not the premonition itself. Rather, it was the fact that whatever it was Tivia had witnessed, in great detail or otherwise... it was sure to come to pass. After all, she had predicted Alster's near-untimely demise; a tragedy that would have taken place had she and the Skyknight not acted when they had.

"Tivia..." The Atvanian woman began to speak, but just as quickly realized that calming the vibrating Rigas caster was not the solution. Alster was keen enough and familiar with his cousin's condition, and as soon as Elespeth witnessed him on his feet and ready to act, she did not hesitate to follow suit. "Let's go," was all that she said in acknowledgment of the young woman's warning and Alster's decision to heed the urgency, following suit when Tivia hurried out of the tent. We'll make it; whatever it is, we will be safe, she began to reassure herself, over and over. But... though it might be true for them, the small few in the know...

What about everyone else?

"They won't listen to her; they think she is mad," Elespeth hissed into Alster's ear, gripping his wrist with such intensity that it possibly hurt. "Tell them they need to flee--more than anyone, they will take you seriously!"
And he did. Hauled along by Tivia, Alster warned those in his wake of the danger his cousin foretold, and Elespeth could only look on in pity at those who brushed off his words as simply reinforcing his cousin's paranoid delusions. They will be doomed she thought with dismay, throwing furtive glances over her shoulder, only to feel Tivia tug harder on her arm, nearly pulling her off her feet from time to time.

At last they came to a stop, the trio entirely out of breath, yet seemingly none too soon. Faltering on their feet as the ground reverberated, Elespeth gasped and clutched Alster's shoulder. "What... what is happening..." Wide-eyed, the former knight turned, only to witness the collapse of the Tadasun encampment.
Along, likely, with the lives of some very dear friends and allies.

"Haraldur... the Sybaians, Vega... Alster! They're out there, they need help!" Turning to face Alster, green eyes swimming with anguish, she laid trembling hands upon his shoulders. "I... let me go back, I can bring them to safety!"
She was all too through with being a survivor when it meant the death of those who she loved and cared for.

Shayl felt the creeping panic before she heard the shouting across camp. Something was happening, and it was fast, and it was inevitable. Or, at least, a good deal of people were assured enough to experience this communal sense of fear. "But what--"

Haraldur scooped her into his arms before she could finish her words; and the ground beneath their feet dissolved before she could finish her thoughts.

They were falling from all sides, up and down and left and right. Instinct drove the barely-pubescent girl to cling to the mercenary's solid form, too busy in the midst of shock to put up a fight as he shielded her from the buffeting and scraping as they tumbled and tumbled and finally hit the ground. Everything went still at last, but moments passed before Shayl's racing heart slowed, and she gathered enough courage to move--only to find Haraldur's arms secure as a vice around her small frame. "Let go--let me go. I'm fine!"

Squirming until he released her, however reluctantly, the young Sybaian healer climbed to her shaky feet and looked up. From the pit in which they were trapped, the sky looked suddenly, frighteningly far away. Pieces of debris littered the ground beneath them, and she could only imagine what horrors had befallen those who had suffered the brunt of the explosion. In fact, she already knew:
So many souls... it feels so quiet. To quiet. They... they did not survive...

"Help...! Help us!" Shayl cried out with whatever power her small lungs could muster, in hopes that her words would breach the depth of the pit and reach someone's ears. "Is anyone there? Please, help!"

Nothing. All was still, quiet... too quiet, too still. Nobody was coming for them.
Perhaps nobody was left.

Sliding against the wall of the pit, the young Sybaian noticed for the first time that her arm throbbed whenever she moved it. A fracture in the bone, more than likely, but nothing that couldn't be remedied with the help of her sisters... If she had any left, at this point. "We're trapped... but we just have to wait. Someone will come for us." She cradled her throbbing arm delicately against her chest. "I just know it... are you all right?"

Leaning on each other for support, Alster, Elespeth, and Tivia watched, of what they could see in the darkness, the entirety of camp blinking out of existence. First, the fires were all snuffed out at once, as if a giant leaned over and breathed out a quick, strong puff. Then, the quakes and tremors appeared as cracks along the surface, and opened a maw in the earth. Everything slid inside the void, until a grandiose smoke cloud appeared, obscuring the view. But Alster could still hear the destruction. The piercing of rock, the creaking and popping of the ground. Detonations--but not from under the earth. They came from the munitions tent, where the Tadasuni kept their explosive weapons. But all the destruction paled in comparison to the screams of terror, the diminishing shouts that echoed and then faded into nothing. Death knells rang all around them, multitudinous in their rings, like the discordant unmaking of song. Dashed melodies, a mockery of music. An end, a crash. Then--silence. 

He stared, transfixed, his entire body slack and without response. Even with Elespeth pressing all around him, he did not react to her urgency. It was easy to process such information in dreams and meditations, for they were only images, symbols and representations of a person's bruised psyche. But to see the culmination of all those stark symbols manifest into realness, into tangible shape...

He couldn't fathom it all. 

"...Yes," he said, at last, shaking himself out of his stunned gawking. The pressure digging into his shoulders accompanied by Elespeth's frenzied gaze at him helped guide him out of the haze. This is real. This is all real. We're not in a dream...

He snapped out of it fully when she insisted that she help, that he allow her to go, and his brow knit tight, lips pursing into a thin line. 

"You can't do this alone," he said, resolute. He drew his hands to her wrists and tenderly massaged their grip from his shoulders. "I'm going with you. We have no other tools to help them but magic, and those rocs..." Trailing off, he stared at the quadrant of sky where the rocs had made their flight, but he could see nothing in the trailing smoke. "But without Skyknights to fly them...do you think Vega made it there in time!?"

He paused, in movements and in speech, when he heard a strangled shriek in the sky. The fwick of an arrow sailing into the air. More arrows nocked on bowstrings. A litany of terrified avian cries. A ponderous body crashing to the ground. Alster bit at his lip, his fingers threading through Elespeth's hand--both as reassurance and as prevention against her dashing into the fray without a plan. "They're out there...Messino and his men. Clipping down the survivors. We can't just run out there, El. I can shroud and conceal us, but that won't protect us from--"

A death grip squeezed his other arm, almost to the point of breaking. He winced but looked over at Tivia, whose fingers were digging into his skin.

"Behind...you," she said, her voice small, tremulous. About to die. Following her heed, he turned around, expecting what her words, in their minimalism, had suggested. Behind them, behind their meagre count of about fifty survivors, was a large battalion of men, swords drawn, arrows at the ready. 

And it was led by Messino. 

Haraldur's arms opened, allowing the young Sybaian girl to wriggle free. With a groan, he sat upright, his chest still heaving from the pounding adrenaline that swam in his veins, concealing any sensation of injuries he might have sustained. He ran a hand up and down his torso, to check. His Eyraillian-issue brigandine was torn up in places where the steel plating did not cover, slashing up the canvas outer-layer on the lower and upper back end. He felt for small cuts, where pieces of pebble and debris lodged themselves into his skin, but they were by far a danger to him. His legs were also a little scraped, though nothing of concern. But in his evaluation, he noticed that his left arm felt sluggish and burdened. As he ran fingers over the skin, he found the problem. An iron spike had lodged itself almost through his entire forearm. 

Cursing under his breath, he tested its grip in his flesh, and found it to be stable. It wouldn't budge unless it was forcibly wrenched free, and he wasn't liable to do so until he had reliable means of securing the wound. Though blood gurgled from the point of contact in a ready flow (no thanks to his recovering sobriety), it would stay plugged and stoppered...for now. And, to his unending relief, he could move his fingers. No lasting damage, it seemed. 

Staggering to his feet, he joined Shayl at the base of the wall, though the cavernous darkness made it near impossible to distinguish any light, save for the slight gloaming of the sky far above their heads. They looked to be about one hundred feet submerged. It was an impressive feat--but awe soon gave way to dread. 

The rocs were alive--but was Vega? Did she have enough forethought to check on them in their pens, and escape unscathed? 

No...focus on what you can control. That's all you can do.

He pinpointed Shayl's location by her voice, and planted himself beside her. "I'm fine," he lied, positioning his impaled arm behind his back. The darkness concealed them like a thick blanket, but by the morning, he wouldn't have the luxury of cover. She would find out, sooner or later. And she would want to heal him--through Sybaian means. He had to deal with it before she did...and quick. 

Touching a section of wall, he focused on the tactile bumps of rocks beneath his fingers--a relief examination of the earth, and its unique geology. The clay-like material crumbled and turned to silt at his touch. It was slippery, lacked grip. A fine, powdery sand that allowed no footholds. It could not be climbed--at least, not this area of the wall. 

"Soon, it'll be morning. Once it's brighter, we'll look for a section of wall that can be scaled. We'll also be able to forage for things that fell in with us, like rope, or other provisions." Bandages, he thought, a far-flung hope. 

He reached out, found her shoulder, and held her steady with his uninjured arm, in a bid to calm her. She shuddered under his touch; she was also injured. "And be cautious," he said, withdrawing his gentle grip so as not to hurt her further. "We don't know who's up there. No doubt this was orchestrated by Messino's army. Our cries for help could alert the wrong people. We'll just have to make do down here. Tend to our injuries, first. We'll be fine as long as we keep our heads and our health in line." A reassuring smile spread across his lips. She may not have been able to see it, but she could hear it. "We'll survive this, Shayl. If anything--I'll get you out."

"The rocs can mind themselves." Elespeth's assertion was perhaps colder than what she intended. Alster's mutual concern of their Skyknight ally struck a chord in the former knight, an agitated panic that near spurred her into action, had the Rigas caster not caught her by the hands and insisted she not walk away alone. "Do what you can--shroud us, sweep them into oblivion with your magic, but we cannot just stand here while our allies are falling at the hands of Andalari! We--"

That was when TIvia interrupted the both of them with a hand on Alster's shoulder, a silent yet solemn warning to take a look behind... and for good reason. The arrows were the least of Elespeth's concern, knowing the rocs of Eyraille, so commonly bred as war companions, were trained to evade skyward assault to the best of their ability. It was the man at the forefront, the true and ultimate danger to everything that dared cross him, which were not limited to Stella D'Mare alone.

"Messino." His name was like breathing a curse, a hiss on the wind, and the Atvanian found herself reaching behind her shoulder for the sword that Alster had enchanted especially for her. Of course, she did not find it in its sheath, having fled in such a hurry as they had. Elespeth Tameris had made due with less than ideal circumstances in this past and made it out on top, if not entirely unscathed, and this sure as hell would not be any different. "The survivors will have to wait. There will be none left if we let this heinous disease spread his misery." Grabbing the slender, twin daggers that she kept sheathed in the back of her boots (a trick that she had learned from Haraldur, back when their conversations had still been casual and he had not been so raw and shy of his own pain), the former knight turned the storm in her eyes towards Alster, in hopes that hers was not the only storm brewing. "We were partners before, Alster. On the battlefield, before anything else; before we were even friends. Now... Now doesn't have to be any different than before, though we now oppose that monster openly. We can help Tivia find cover, and then..."

Elespeth clutched the hilts of her daggers with cold, white knuckles, but the blood in her face burned. This had gone well beyond personal a long time ago, and now with the lives of her closest allies in dire peril, she would not be talked down. "And then we eradicate this disease before it destroys everyone and everything we love."

Because one thing was for certain: and that was that Messino di Andalari was not facing the same struggling and uncertain warriors that he had once recruited. For under his very nose, she, Alster, and everyone who had deserted his infected cause had all grown and evolved into forces to be reckoned with in their own right--both individually and collectively. But especially collectively.

"No... no, morning is too far away. There are people out there, they need help--my sisters might be in danger! We need to help them!" Shayl would not be placated. Injured arm braced against her chest, she felt along the slick walls of the pit for something, anything that would help. Provisions or jagged, variegated edges to climb; it might do further damage to her arm, but perhaps it wasn't impossible. While young, she was no child: she was Sybaian. Strong. Determined. She would find a way to reach those who needed her most, and if she could not find one, then she would make one.

As it turned out, she needn't look much further than her own companion in sinkhole.

It might have been fear or shock or mere trepidation, or any combination of the three, but Haraldur's aura felt jarring and unstable to the young girl. In the dark, she could scarcely make out his form, but he had reached for her and as such had given away his position. And when he had touched her, fingers placing unintended pressure on her throbbing arm, her own pain was so trivial compared to what she felt through him vicariously. So intense was the searing, deadening ache that Shayl shuddered, her breath catching in her chest before she could inhale. Something was wrong; he was far from fine. "You're lying. Do not lie to me!" Without waiting for consent, the young healer placed her hands on his shoulders and slid them downward until one came into contact with something very dangerously out of place, and the gasp that it wrenched from Haraldur's lungs confirmed her suspicion.

"You're hurt. Neither of us is going anywhere if you are hurt, and you know it." Withdrawing so as not to cause him any further damage or pain, Shayl sat back on her heels and reconsidered her approach. "Listen. I don't blame you for feeling adverse to the way we conduct our... practice. Nothing hurts more than what's inside; believe me when I say I know. But..." Sighing in defeat, she ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. "It works, fast and efficiently, and you are always better off to endure it. But I can't help if you won't let me; your psyche is yours to guard or to share as you please. I only hope that now, given the circumstances in which we find ourselves... you will let me fix your arm, at least. Otherwise we might both be doomed to die, and I know without seeing into your innermost thoughts and feelings that you have found something--or someone--to live for."

Perhaps that was her caveat: the woman. The Elandrian with whom he was so terribly and irrevocably smitten. Shayl had dealt with people like Haraldur before; those who couldn't care less for their own well-being, until it came down to directly or indirectly impacting the safety and well-being of a loved one. This man was not lost yet... Not as long as his lover remained a key player in his motivations. "If you will not accept my help on your own behalf... then accept it on behalf of her! Your health and strength could be our only way out. To her. To... to my sisters, as well. How many of us do you think there are left?" For a beat, panic flickered in the girl's wide eyes, as she clutched her injured arm. "This is not just about you... it never was, you fool!"

Messino hadn't yet recognized them. But he saw the three of them, clumped together in a formation that was laughable when facing against an army of hundreds. And in those hundreds, Alster had no doubt that the animated dead were within his ranks. How could they ever defy those odds, even with Tadasun's fifty-odd survivors fighting alongside them? 

"This isn't practical," Alster warned Elespeth under his breath. "Head on like this, and we'll die!" Eyes flitted around the Andalarian troops frantically, making calculations to determine if he could"sweep them into oblivion," as per Elespeth's claim. On the contrary, his cut of magic was of a tactical nature, specializing in defense and precision. He was not like Chara, who fancied explosions and impressive shows of power. Though she hadn't much magical aptitude or inheritance, she honed her limited talents to destructive, and effective ends. Alster, on the other hand, formulated his magic into explorations of art and science--as a contribution to better society and the self. His celestial gift was of a softer persuasion, which he doubted was capable of wanton obliteration. The only times he fought with sheer force in mind was when...

He used chthonic magic. 

But the last time he used it, used it actively and not in dream, it had risen up from the ground and speared him in the chest. While he had made peace with the chthonic energies that focused on and thirsted for his death, as it intermingled with his celestial powers in a harmonious whole, he had never put it into practical use since. It could still backfire on him, on Elespeth. It could wrestle from out of his control, or kill an ally. 

Don't forget, Alster, a voice inside him snapped, like a whip, your celestial magic has caused the most damage. It riled the Serpent, who killed more than your little smoke serpents have. It influenced your chthonic magic to kill your parents. It nearly killed Elespeth, and you're still harming her with sparks and flares that blister her skin. All your chthonic magic ever did...was try to kill you. And who could blame it? It was doing what you wanted.

Even with his mind made up, he wasn't ready to condone their outrageous odds. "Stop this, El," he warned her a second time, his whisper like a roll. "We can vanish right here and now. Let me--"

But he knew she wouldn't budge. And Messino, now with a sliver of torchlight framing his wild-eyed face, turned his attention to them--and recognition set in. 

No longer had they the element of surprise. All chances were dashed. 

Alster dropped his contact with Elespeth. "Look, I'll buy you two some time," he whispered. "Get out--I'll join you soon." Knowing that they wouldn't listen, he sighed in resignation and stepped forward--blocking both from Messino's scrutiny. He would make one, last ditch effort to save them without a fight, though he knew negotiations were never to happen. He hated Messino with about as much rancor and detestation as he could hate another human being, but he hadn't the energy to direct his hatred. He was still tired, and overwhelmed, and wanted to save lives, rather than destroy without the guarantee that he'd live to the end. And he, they needed to see the end. They could not die here. 

In a confident strut, he approached Messino, his golden armor looking like a false sun in the dark. All arrows and swords pointed at Alster, but the mad prince kept a staying hand on display. They would not attack--not until given the order. 

"I suppose you won't hear us out?" He called out to the man who masqueraded as a prince, outlined in a cruel shade before his army. "Even for Alster Rigas? Better to be on the side of a man you can't kill than against him."

"And you think I'm stupid enough to believe your show of clemency?" Messino barked, raucous laughter screaming out of his lips. His entire body shivered in anticipation, in gleeful derangement. He had been thwarted at every step, denied the pleasure of seeing an insolent Rigas caster die. He couldn't even keep a mercenary prisoner for more than a few days, or hold the attention of a capricious necromancer. He couldn't send a notorious fugitive to her death, or respect a powerful chthonic user at the height of her power. No--too much had been taken from him, but he had this victory, at least. Tadasun, consumed. Their numbers, subsumed. Months of planning and cooperation with earth mages, all for this moment. No; there was no reasoning with Messino. Stabbed so in the chest by Elespeth, his heart had died. Now there was nothing but the throbbing pustules of revenge that oozed and oozed without cease. He was a tumor riding upon a man once known as Messino, and there was no saving what remained. He needed to be excised. 

"If only you were that stupid. Then you could prolong your life," Alster said, holding up his hands. A threat. "I'm giving you a chance to turn away. To prevent your own death, and the deaths of your men--though you hardly deserve it." 

But Messino was no longer listening. "I'll show you what I deserve," he seethed. He threw down his hand, and a volley of arrows peppered the entire landscape, reaching for Alster, Elespeth, Tivia, and the three dozen Tadasuni soldiers that remained with them to fight. But all the arrows bounced uselessly away from every target. By then, Alster had activated a large-scale shielding spell, protecting all within his radius. He used the ensuing chaos to retreat back to where Elespeth and Tivia stood. They had not moved, as he'd feared.

"Fine," he huffed to Elespeth. His spell-tingling hands grabbed for the twin hilts of her daggers. "We'll fight together. We'll do this... as a unit."

"And I'm fighting, as well," Tivia's small voice piped up from the rumble of hundreds of men rushing towards them at once. Her hands filled with etherea. "You forget...I've done this before." 

When Alster released Elespeth's weapons, they were glowing a cobalt blue, a familiar sight to them both. It hearkened back to their first practice fight as a compound unit, at a time that felt like centuries in the past. "They'll slice through armor and skin with ease," Alster explained, in a hurried yell. "And you'll be able to direct energy from them, and cut into long distances. Everyone on our side is protected by a shield of etherea--but I don't know how long it'll last. Cover me!" He bounded behind Elespeth as the charge, fronted by Messino, engulfed their minuscule opposition. "I need your protection!" A tendril of black, viscous tar emerged from the earth, forming into smoke around his hand. Into a chthonic serpent, with fangs like volcanic glass. "So I can sweep them into oblivion." 

"I know you want to help the survivors," Haraldur said, the smile in his voice fading in favor of the hard truth. It was more in line with how he felt; devoid of anything but the will to survive. "But we can't do anything if we're wounded. If we use up our energy all at once, we'll be too exhausted to get ourselves out, let alone others. We have to assume we're the only ones here, and the only ones that matter. Because we are." He turned from the wall, and faced the cavernous opening which they had yet to explore. While the adjustment of his eyes to the dark allowed him to see faint contours of the walls, all was still an abyssal, indiscernible muddle. "We'll look for provisions for our injuries. We'll see how far we can get in the dark, but we need to take it slow."

But before he could put their compromise to his plan into action, he tensed when her voice grew loud, almost into a scream. Her fingers met with the protuberance in his skin, and he sucked in a breath to hide the pain. There was no use hiding emotions from an empath, he learned. Lies only emboldened them. Steeling himself for what was forthcoming, he already began to reason out a retort in his head, before she even spoke another word. 

"I know," he said, deadpan and straightforward. "I don't plan on keeping this embedded in my skin. That's why I'm looking for provisions. There is more than one way to treat a wound. And until I came here, to this camp, it was the only way. And," he lowered to his knees, then to the ground, to join where Shayl had seated herself, "I felt how you were cradling your arm, before. It doesn't seem to be in much better condition. We're both compromised." He tore at the bottoms of his trousers, ripping away strips of cloth. But at mention of "her," he faltered.

"And she could be dead, for all I know," he said, beneath his breath. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I intend to survive, as always. And I intend to get you out of here. That hasn't changed. In fact," his hand, his killing hand, throbbed, which took away from the true pain lodged in his left forearm, "your healing methods...they may," he hesitated, "disrupt any usefulness I'd have to you, to myself, or to your sisters. I'm here to survive, not to reminisce. So call me a fool," he tore another strip, "but your procedure...it could make things worse. You're not safe in there." Emotion crept into his voice. He snuffed it down with a swallow and cleared his throat. "I'll only cause more damage. To my mind. ...To you. I'll hurt you. I can't...I can't have that. I'd...never recover." 

He wrenched another strip free, with a zeal that was cover-up for the admittance he never wanted to voice aloud: I'd never recover if I hurt you... 

"Here." After knotting the strips into longer lengths, he shifted closer to Shayl, distracted by his new purpose. "Turn your injured side towards me. I'll tie your arm into a sling. Then I'll work on my wound--and we'll get out of here."

"You fool! Where do you think you are going?" Alster was just barely out of Elespeth's reach as she shot out a hand to catch him by the arm, in hopes of convincing him to reconsider running head-on towards the enemy. But if the two of them shared anything in common other than unconditional love for one another, it was pure, unbreakable obstinacy, and the Rigas caster could not be swayed. Elespeth might have taken off after him, had it not been for the presence of his fragile cousin, who, after the last devastating siege, was by no means in any shape to fight--physically, mentally, emotionally, and otherwise.

But... could she live with herself if she let Alster run to his own death, for fear of leaving Tivia alone?

"Go. You need to hide," she told the star seer, gripping those daggers, white-knuckled, in her hands. "I can't let him run off to his death; I'll come back for you as soon as I can." And with that, the former knight charged forward, bladed weapons wielded and at the ready--only to run head-on into nothingness. An invisible, impermeable barrier blocked her course and her intent, at once spiking her anger and her despair. "By the gods, Alster!" For the very first time since they had met, his name felt like a curse upon her tongue. In a barely contained fit of rage, she kicked the forcefield with the heavy toe of her boot. "You would lock us out while you run to your own damned demise!"

No sooner did the words leaves her tongue that she witnessed, to her horror, a large volley of arrows, all which cast shadows upon her and Tivia. And with no time to react or retreat, all she could do was stand and stare...
One by one, the weapons bounced off the forcefield several feet above the two of them, sliding harmlessly to the side. Why did that not occur to me...? Of course Alster would not think of leaving them without assuring their safety--whether they liked it or not.

Not long after, the Rigas caster himself came into view, a look of frantic defeat written across his features. Elespeth would have smiled in triumph, had it not been for the gravity of the situation. "Leave it to me. I'll be your shield." Grabbing Alster by the shoulder, she pulled Alster close to her and captured his mouth in a fierce kiss, before turning to face the oncoming enemy.
And from then on, she wasted no time.

Alster's enchantment was a blessing. Close-range melee combat when facing a hoard of enemies alone was a recipe for suicide, but with swift and accurate sweeping motions of her blades, the Atvanian warrior cut down both the living and undead within a distance of several feet, not a drop of blood staining her hands. In no time, enough had fallen that a clear path to Elespeth's main target. The mad prince himself stood before her in no time, a study in haughty arrogance; enough to set her blood aflame. This man, who stole the lives of friends and family, who tortured comrades, who destroyed the sanctity of Alster's home...

Their eyes met, and the daggers burned in her palms. "You made a mistake coming here." Jaw tense, she bit down on the insides of her cheeks, making no move to back down. "Your bigger mistake was ever thinking to cross us. Before... you were a distant plague. But not now; now, this has become personal." Hatred stirring in her gut, the former knight stood tall, confident. Challenging. "I will make you bleed the equivalent of every drop of blood you have caused another."

"She could be dead--you're right. But what if she isn't? What if she is stuck somewhere, injured like us, in need of help? You are throwing away your potential to help in favour of your obstinacy!" Shayl huffed a sigh, watching with an air of annoyance as the mercenary tore strips of fabric from the bottom of his sleek Eyraillian attire. He went from looking regal and honourable to looking like an urchin having scavenged for clothes that only remotely fit; it was almost an insult to the garb, and to the woman who had given it to him. Had she been wrong about this man? Did his pride and fear still override the depth of his love?
No. It's there. She could see it in his aura, feel it in the air when she mentioned the possibility that the Skyknight might need help. He worried for her; he cared for her. But his fear remained an insurmountable wall and powerful adversary.

Shayl was not likely to change his mind or make a difference in his opinion. But she could play his game, if for no other reason, than to spite him. "My arm is fine. I'll live." The young Sybaian sniffed at the fabric that Haraldur intended to use for a makeshift sling. Instead of turning her arm to him, she turned her back, staring up towards the inky black sky. "If you are not going to let me help you, then it can go both ways. So what if we don't escape, or if I die here? If I can't get out soon, then I won't be of any use to the survivors. They'll die without me, and I'll die without trying. And you," She shot him a glare over her shoulder. "You will die without trying, too. Because it is easier to yield to your fear and pretend like there is a better, simpler, more comfortable way to tend to your injury." Even if it hurt; even if her fragile, fractured bone throbbed and ached with every minuscule movement of her body. She could play stubborn, too.

"I do not know what kind of provisions you think you will find, especially in the condition you're in." Injured arm pressed against her body, the young healer pawed at the dirt and carnage of the pit, despite that she knew she would find little, if anything at all. "We are trapped in the dark; we will sooner be found by the enemy and killed before we can make it out of here because we can't climb. Our best hope would be if you could manage a foothold on some of these crevices and find your way out of here to send for help." But that was a useless suggestion, as long as one of the mercenary's arms was out commission. As long as he was prone to bleeding and infection; as long as he was determined to be useless.

She, on the other hand, could not sit so quietly and allow time and opportunity to waste away. And that was when she saw a way out.

"Look--look! Overhead!" So excited she almost forgot her pain, Shayl pointed to the skies. Overhead, a handful of large avians cut through the air, some with riders and some without: the rocs, and the Skyknights. "Over here! Look over here, we are trapped--please! You have to look!" But among the avian shrieks and the cries of the wounded and the fighting, her strong yet small voice was lost. And the possibility of rescue passed by Shayl's very eyes, disappearing into the fog that fell into the night.

And all the young Sybaian could find in her to do was fall back on her heels and begin to sob.

The surprise of Elespeth's sudden-onslaught kiss nearly caused Alster to lose the form of his smoke serpent. When they separated, he looked into her eyes, hoping it would not be for the last, determined not for it to be so. He nodded. "I have your back, El. We'll make it through, yet," he injected, with as much sincerity and confidence as he could muster. 

"And I'll have yours!" shouted Tivia from his rear, who was hurling disks of etherea at the heads of a few unsuspecting soldiers. "So concentrate, Alster!"

But as swiftly as Elespeth moved and cleared the space ahead, sending them deeper into the fray, Alster found that he could not keep up and deliver his first wave of upset to Messino's army, vis-a-vis the eradication of his undead soldiers. He needed a few moments of still, and worried he'd have to leave his dearest companion behind to strengthen their odds. For now, all he could do was send his serpents out like whip lashes, which would grab hold of a stray soldier or two and constrict their necks with a force that snapped. The snaps were so loud, they reverberated in his head, but he had to, needed to tell himself it was his imagination. Hyperbole spurred on by guilt and stress, which had no place on the battlefield. Stop stop stop stop he chanted as he strove to keep pace, all while trying to rekindle his lost persona, who fought in past battles, and had a better stomach for them. But much had happened since then. He'd been carted off into dream of curse, lost his loved one, pursued the path to heal and mend, prepared his sacrificial pyre with desperate finality... But through this journey, the throes of sword, shield, and magic converging were long avoided and, though ashamed to admit, it relieved him. For it sickened him to be among the battle frenzy, the lust for carnage, the swarm that bit and stung and buzzed and died, buzzed and died. And snapped.

It was impossible for him to concentrate. 

Messino, who had earlier commanded his expeditionary force with a methodical, flippant air, had become unhinged at the sight of Alster Rigas and that damnable woman who had stabbed him through the chest. Elespeth Tameris.

He had almost died that day. While healers reached him in time and prevented his heart from stopping, it no longer seemed to matter, when the heart had little blood left to pump. But he broke through the fever and delirium, weak and otherwise out of commission, but alive--albeit with a now erratic heartbeat. It skipped, or sometimes stopped beating altogether. Not knowing if he'd fall asleep and never wake up, or suddenly drop dead, he underwent another operation, different in scope but for the purpose of keeping him alive--or some semblance of it. He had the red gem, which powered the dead to rise, inserted in his skin, just under the clavicle. 

"If I should die," he told his most trusted adviser, Renalto, "pray it not be for long. The gem will keep me in a fugue state of unliving until my heart comes back around. Until we sort this out, you are now my minder. Keep me on task." 

It was the expected decision of one with the moniker of "mad," but he refused to die until he saw all his grandiose plans come to fruition. Many had failed, but his sink-hole assault on Tadasun was a masterpiece of construction and cooperation, toiled over for months, by skilled earth mages--many of which had died during the project, from cave-ins, overexertion, and the like. 

And now--he could sweep and take out both Alster Rigas and Elespeth Tameris with ease. The prospect filled him with such deranged glee, that he stepped from mere facilitator of his unit to main aggressor. Gone was his calculated calm--because he finally had trapped two people he most wanted to kill, and gods be damned if he let them survive this time. 

With the whole of the army at his command, Messino sent his men to target them (and that third, breakable looking Rigas in their retinue), barking his orders to attack as if their lives depended on it--because they did. So far, the traitorous trio held firm, beating away assault after assault. His heart fluttered in his chest like hummingbird wings, and threatened to vibrate out of control when he turned around--and saw Elespeth Tameris before him, bathed in rage and words. A litany of them, all equally inane. With his sword aloft in his hands, he laughed at her, shrill, piercing, and hungry.

"I assure you, Sir, I am just a man, not a river made of blood, but my, did you make a valiant effort, last we met. Only a trickle though." He laughed again, and clutched his chest. From behind her, he saw Alster Rigas, struggling through the ranks with tendrils of magic that hadn't the conviction to stay in coalescence for long. Oh, they wouldn't survive--even if Alster succeeded in dispatching the whole of his undead units--which only comprised about twenty-five percent, in sum. 

A certain fear came over him, then. Alster Rigas could take it all away. The power of the gem. Render it useless, ineffective. Even that of his own. The Rigas brat needed to die before that happened. He almost raised the order, to alert his men of their location and slice Alster Rigas into ribbons. But his chest--his poor, burdened chest, saddled with too much excitement and anticipation, shuddered to a halt. One beat, two beat, three beats, four. Gone, gone, gone gone. But something kept him upright. Alive, in a way. The gem, activated by the death of his heart, lurched him forward, at Elespeth, sword sailing with wild abandon toward her and at her. He was like an unstringed marionette without a master to guide his actions--which made him a dangerous, unpredictable fighter. 

Alster, who shadowed Elespeth and worked in tandem with Tivia to wipe out any who came close to their vicinity, was having difficulty in enduring his chthonic magic for long intervals. It had been months since he used it in this fashion, and it was wearing on him, breaking him down. 

Tivia, who threw her disks of etherea in effortless flicks, noticed his waning momentum, but endeavored to keep away her burgeoning panic. "Alster!" she screamed as she danced over to his side. "Chthonic magic is too hard on you! Use your celestial!"

"It shouldn't be!" He roared, blinking away the sweat that dripped in his eyes as he took down two men with the serpent whips. "It comes from the ground. Energy from death--and there's a lot of it here! All my etherea shields are down!" He added, with an exhausted huff of breath. "I couldn't maintain--"

"Pace yourself!" She sawed the throat of a soldier, who gurgled to his death. "You're using two different magics at once! It'll kill you! Use the celestial!" 

Alster obeyed. He dispersed the smoke serpents and upturned his palm to allow the etherea to flow through him. But what erupted out of his hands was a curious amalgam of both. Dark, sinuous energy swirled around white-hot burning vivacity. Never had he seen anything like it, nor heard of such a phenomenon happening before. Two disparate magics weren't able to blend--were they?

He remembered Canopus's words, like a long echo from a chasm far away. They were meant to complement each other. ...By nature, light and dark were never meant to clash. They meld... 

But the magic faltered, and sputtered out of his hands when, overhead, he heard the ponderous wing-beats of rocs swooping into the battlefield, overtaking the clatter and curdling yells of the battlefield. 

"The Skyknights. Vega," he muttered, in wearied relief. But he hadn't the time to celebrate when, facing Elespeth, he saw Messino rushing at her in a violent charge, with speed and an unpredictability that he was too slow to counter with magic. At a loss of what else to do, he pushed her out of the way. He was successful--but now Messino's sword was twisting toward him. Targeting him. 

And his magic wouldn't come. 

"I can't think like that," Haraldur said, with his affected indifference. "If I do--if we do--we lose our ability to make solid and practical decisions. We need to stay here, in the moment." He felt along at the exposed, frayed ends of his now-ruined Eyraillian uniform, but he couldn't, and wouldn't, extend any sentimentality to clothing that was easy to replace. He was acting upon his survivalist tendencies. They needed bandages, for their injuries, and since nothing of the sort was to be found, he had to improvise. Should he come across Vega again, he was certain she'd understand--but he shook away the thought, or any thoughts pertaining to the Skyknight Commander. Focus, Haraldur. I can control only this. Nothing more... 

"Can you do that, with me?" But she was making a fuss, and refusing aid for her arm, even as he neared her and tried to place a light touch upon her shoulder. She slapped it away, indignant as she was unyielding. She was reaching a point of near-hysteria, and his bid to remain calm and aware seemed to agitate her all the more. That wasn't entirely it, though. It wasn't the emotionless aspect of his mindset that had offended her; it was on his refusal to heal. She had no faith of his ability to survive without the use of a magical, invasive salve that only she could provide. And he had no faith of her ability to undergo the procedure unscathed. Because he had no faith...in himself. In his strength beyond the physical. Beneath the skin and bone, muscle and sinew, he was some half-formed creature, intent to destroy. No matter of separating from the Forbanne and playing the role of "savior" could remove that executive order carved into his soul. The order to kill. 

Kill what threatens you...

His jaw clenched, fighting the anger that Shayl had riled in him. She was backing him into a corner, rendering him little choice but to use force. But using force would do harm to her, and he was already so staunchly against striking any hand to wound. The second alternative was to agree to her terms, and accept her empathic healing process, but that option was even worse. But to whom? Was she correct in her assessment? Was he afraid of what he'd find there, more than what he may do to her? These two thoughts, however, influenced each other. Were linked into chains, which shackled him from further movement, and action. She, fully knowing her audience, had bested him. They were at an impasse. 

A dark shadow blotted out the slowly-brightening sky, leaving their capacious dungeon in deeper blackness. But it was temporary, and it flickered, and he heard the pumps of wingbeats, and Shayl's scream of surprise. He looked upwards, and saw them. Rocs. Skyknights. That meant...

Vega. She had to be safe. He could not be sure, but the sight gave him some hope. A hope that was stronger than mere survival. A hope that could combat fear. She wasn't dead...he had to believe that. They were gone in a blink. The hole was not their destination. Something pressing, a battle, he surmised, had claimed their attention. They would not come for any survivors. Not yet. 

As his mask of indifference began to crack, the young Sybaian healer caused it to crumble into dust and ashes in one fell swoop. Sobs of anguish, of abject despair, haunted his ears. Those emphatic sounds grappled his chest, seized it, squeezed. He had failed her, due to his cowardice. And he was hurting her, inflicting the very emotional scars that he was so afraid of receiving, himself. You're not protecting anyone at all. You're hiding. And she's suffering...because you won't help her.

With a close of his eyes and a deep, encouraging breath of air, he took hold of the protruding iron spike and wrenched it free of his skin. Pain shuddered up and down his arm, immense and electrifying, but he made no sound. Considering his imprisonment from a few short days ago, he was used to the torture. Almost welcomed it, in fact. 

Bunching one strip of cloth into a ball, he pressed upon the wound with it to staunch the intense gush of blood. He thrust this arm toward Shayl, and placed her uninjured hand upon it. "We'll get out," he said, sounding revived and inspired. Now, he was driven towards more than survival. "But first, you'll have to heal my arm."

A chill traveled through the former knight's body, as her warrior's eyes honed in on the mad prince, and the sudden, subtle change in his demeanor. Something was off about Messino; she could tell from the moment she saw him, the way he moved, the way he brandished his weapon, with purpose and yet the indication of some unseen handicap. He is wounded..., she surmised, and yet the realization did not send a surge of elation through her fiery veins. Something wasn't right, and whatever it was, the anomaly could in no way be to her advantage.
Why, after all, would Messino lead his army in the siege when he was hardly in a position to fight? Even for the mad prince and his erratic, dangerous plans, this did not seem characteristic of his methods.

"I made a mistake not ensuring your death, last time." Elespeth hissed the words, brandishing the daggers that had yet to be sullied with blood. But she was not entirely sure that the Andalarian prince had heard... Something happened, between his words and her retort. A sudden jolt of his body, the way his icy eyes seemed to struggle to focus on her menacing stance. She could have sworn that the man was seizing, a misfire of signals in his brain to the limbs that they commanded. Yet he did not fall, hardly so much as staggered in response. And when at last he decided that he tired of bold words, he lunged for her with reckless abandon, yet with the precision of someone who could have planned their every move.

Needless to say, it was not what the Atvanian warrior expected.

Quick on her feet, Elespeth managed to allay the frantic swipe of Messino's long blade, redirecting the point away from her vulnerable core. He was surprisingly quick, much moreso than she remembered, so driven to see her fall that he didn't even stop at the dagger she managed to embed and then withdraw from his back. And that was where she fell short of having the upper hand. Any living being would have cried out, lurched, or reacted in some way to a punctured lung, if not for the shortness of breath than or the searing pain. But that was, she realized too late, the issue.
Messino wasn't breathing--and likely hadn't been, for the past handful of minutes that they were engaged in combat.

That moment of shock, one which really only lasted a handful of seconds, was enough to open Elespeth up to a moment of weakness. It should have come as no surprise that the mad prince took advantage of her temporary inaction, swinging his blade towards her waist. It was sheer luck alone that allowed her to pivot out of the way in time to avoid incapacitating injury; unfortunately, she was not fast enough. The razor edge of Messino's sword drew across her upper thigh, enough to cut through muscle and sinew and cause her to stumble, nearly losing her grip on her daggers. 
When she fell to the ground, it was not for her own lack of balance, however. Picking herself up, from her elbows and onto her good knee, Elespeth witnessed, with a surge of horror, Alster standing--unarmed, with no magic at his fingertips--directly in crazed Messino's line of fire. 

Adrenaline alone picked her up from the ground and back onto her feet, just in time to return the favour and shove Alster out of the way. The Atvanian warrior caught the mad prince's blade between her two daggers, sacrificing one of them in order to flip the weapon from his hands, before turning a furtive glance to Alster. "Something's not right! He...he is not entirely alive!" Staggering away from the now weaponless, hostile marionette that was Messino, Elespeth hurried towards Alster, one hand pressed against the gushing wound at her thigh. "He isn't fully alive... so he will not fully die! Alster, whatever we do... I cannot do this alone. Not with my weapons. Your magic... we need it, we need something else. Hurry!" There was no time to spare for commisseration. The former knight found just enough time to dodge a handful of enemy undead, whom she felled with quick and precise swipes of her dagger, only to find herself nose to nose with the prince once again--armed this time not only with the sword that he had retrieved, but with her single, lost knife, which now served a new master. He won't fall. He will keep going as long as all of his limbs were intact...

Cautious about finding herself too close, Elespeth cut through the air with her lone dagger, dismayed to witness Messino ducking out of the attack, only to find herself a recipient of that very strategy when he sliced through the air and caught the top of her shoulder. She gasped, resisting the urge to cover her new fleshwound with her hand, as he could not afford to lose her last weapon. Not that it seemed to matter, considering Messino--for all his lifelessness--was evidently still clever enough to take note of the fact that the knives were enchanted. "Alster!" She called again, a desperate plea for his assistance, for she knew that she could not make it out of this alone. In fact, she had never intended to; not alone. Not when she maintained her part as a single half of a compound unit.

As the whole of her hope was carried away on wind and wingbeats, the young Sybaian healer did what all Sybaians were discouraged from, and gave herself permission to despair. Her tears and sobs tinted the air, the atmosphere, and she knew they would, for the very nature of her being. An individual with the power to sense and influence emotions and feelings was burdened with the responsibility to maintain a calm, to dissipate heavy and negative energy with her own positive influence, but the young girl--too young for her responsibility, she knew, deep down--was finally breaking under the pressure. Perhaps this stubborn mercenary was a case that no one could solve, an egg that refused to hatch and find the light; she would not take it personally. But with the world practically falling to pieces around her, any the possibility of either of them finding their way out of the pit alive faded by the moment, there seemed to be nothing left to do but despair.

A pressure on her good arm interrupted her sobbing long enough for her to open her eyes. Kneeling before her, Haraldur had placed her hand upon a blood-soaked rag, staunching the dire wound that was left behind from the wooden spike that he had pried from his arm. Startled by the sudden change in stance, Shayl was left speechless, but only for a handful of seconds. He was at dire risk of bleeding out, and in the moment was but ready for and accepting of her potential to help.
And that was something that even despair could not interrupt. Not with her sense of purpose renewed.

Finding the calm and steady Sybaian demeanor that she had spent her short life training to perfect, Shayl painstakingly moved her injured arm so that both hands lay atop the rag, shouldering the sharp pain with careful breathing so as not to show it. "You have to let me in," she informed him, knowing that he knew the implications. "Put your shields down... too much resistance could kill both of us." A fact of which he may or may not have been aware, but a fact, all the same. They'd be of no use to anyone, dead in that hole. "It will... I promise, it will be all right."

It was just like any other healing procedure she'd ever done; she had to tell herself that, despite her awareness that something more way at play with this man. She would have to deal with that when it surfaced. Gently, but with purpose, Shayl pried past the mercenary's mental barriers, layer by layer, like dead skin that he likely had no idea existed. And it was not without effort on her part; Haraldur was likely unaware that some of those barriers were enforced, against his desire to let the shields down. But for someone who had spent their life on the defense, that was to be expected.

Then, in a moment's transition, she was there. No longer in the cold, dank pit of earth with a broken arm and an incapacitated man, but a house. Small and simplistic, boards of wood reinforced by whatever means the desperate carpenter could find. And in a corner, minding a small, stone fireplace, was a child: thick, chestnut curls tucked behind his ears, warm green eyes gleaming with reflections of dying fire. Shayl knew this child... or, at least, she knew the man that he became. "Haraldur...?"

Magic. Magic. Not again, dammit! It can't fail on me now! Alster's thoughts cascaded through his brain with a rapidity that temporarily blinded him. He couldn't see Messino run at him with the sword, or Elespeth's hand pushing him aside, as he had done for her. But when his senses came to, he was on the ground, and Elespeth was back in combat with the Mad Prince. He honed in on her newfound wounds: blood gushed from her thigh and shoulder, but still she carried on fighting for the both of them, while he...

While he remained of no use to anyone. Dried up and done, a husk of expired magic, his stamina weak and brittle. He bore no other weapons, could scarcely fight with one even when pressed. But he knew he had to do something. Elespeth was in danger of death. If Messino did not kill her, then her wounds would surely issue the final blow. Her eyes pleaded for him to help, her shouts mounted in desperation. His name rang in his ears like a discordant, cracked bell on the brink of shattering. 

But everything seemed so far away to him, fuzzy and soft. His head spun, swimming, heavy, then drowning. Senses were fading, consciousness waning. A flicker of a fire, guttering into wisps of uninspired smoke...

"Alster!" Tivia knocked out another man and knelt to his side, seizing him upright by the shoulders. His eyes had rolled back into his head, unblinking. Gone. She shook him, but he didn't react. He appeared dead in all but heartbeat. 

She couldn't rile him, and guarding his limp body would put the both of them in greater danger. Slowly, she returned him to the ground, praying to all the stars that the army and Messino would think him dead, and leave him alone. Rushing to Elespeth's side, she took the place of her lover and battle partner. She warded off Messino's enchanted blade by erecting an etherea shield over herself and the Atvanian knight. Together, they managed to push back his sting of attacks. 

It was not for long. Something stirred again in Messino. An awareness. An awakening. His aura returned, but it was fractured and ill-formed. A patchwork of life and death, stitched haphazardly together. The heartbeat pounded and the blood ran trickles from his punctured lung, but he did not breathe, nor had need of it. Half-dead, he was able to survive a number of varied attacks on his body. Half-alive, he wielded cognition and the ability to reason. Intelligence fueled his hand to swipe the weapon with precision. Resilience fueled it with unbridled ferocity. Tivia's shield broke from the strain of holding back the flailing weapon. She cried out as the dagger bit through the fleshy patch between shoulder and breast. A gurgle of a laugh emanated from Messino's throat, wheezing and bloody but unfazed. Death took away his fear or feeling of pain, but not his emotions of pleasure and delight. 

Meanwhile, Alster lay upon the blood-soaked ground. He was not dead or unconscious, and had not yet surrendered his will to Messino and his army. At first, he accepted his fate. With his magic depleted, and his physical and mental faculties shutting down, there wasn't anything he could do to prevent the spiral into his oblivion. 

Until...

I can still perform magic, his mind intoned, piercing through the fugue and defeat. My body shut itself down to preserve energy. And, he felt his hand brush the earth, so many have died, here. I can siphon all this death energy with my chthonic magic. And if these two magicks truly work in tandem...I can convert that energy into the celestial. 

I've no other choice...

His hands feebly gripped the earth. He felt the darkness bubble from the surface, like oil slicks spilling out from their deep, submerged pockets. Straining, he used the very last of his stamina to pull that slimy quality of the chthonic from the earth...and into himself. 

It was like taking in Vega's death shroud one hundred times over. Dying emotions, all intense, pierced and trampled and crushed and suffocated their way through his mind. He was an open avenue to the very height of their collective pain. But among the unbearable dissolution of his spirit and his self, he saw the pinprick of a star, no bigger than a grain of sand. It expanded to meet that swamp of unending agonies, and dispelled the muck, transforming all into...he couldn't explain it. It was like staring into existence itself. Dark as the primordial, but as bright and fierce as the surface of the sun. The making of creation by destruction, and vice versa. Destruction created death, and death created life. Rebirth.

Something snapped into place. A convergence. A harmony.

When Alster opened his eyes, he had arisen, on his feet and aware. Before him, an apparition of flame culminated before him. Only it wasn't a fire: it was a ghost of a fire, all dispersed smoke and pulsing, wild light. It was a phoenix. Or a construction of one, by the combination of his twin magicks. The representation of their marriage. It bowed its head to its master, its massive tail feathers tapering into pinions of smoke.

"Purify them," Alster said in a trembling vibrato. "But don't harm my allies. Elespeth. Tivia. The rocs. Leave them be." 

The phoenix-like construction complied with another bow of its head and took to the air. It traveled low in the sky, its wings sweeping past the battlefield like a spectre. It traveled through each soldier, not by way of their body, but by their soul and spirit. The creature did not discriminate. Everything, both undead and alive, dropped to the ground, in a state of unbecoming. Lastly, the creature alighted above the crazed abomination that Messino had become, and he, too, ceased existing. Its task complete, the thing of magic disseminated into a flume of white sparks. They danced off into the dying night like stars finding their way back to the heavens. 

A disquiet fell over the battlefield, so extreme in context that it was surreal. Deafening. First there was life, too much of it, and now...all was gone, save for Elespeth, Tivia, the rocs and Skyknights, and a few stray Tadasuni men. The bodies of several hundred soldiers, plus Messino, were all in splayed heaps on the ground, immaculate in preservation, as if they had all sundered into sleep, instead of death. 

Alster spoke first, a sorrowed whisper that broke the unsettling silence. "What--" he stared at Elespeth and Tivia, then at his hands, confusion and--above all--indescribable horror lodged in his exhausted eyes. The little finger of his right hand was gone, a cauterized stump of smoke and cinders. "What did I...do?" He dropped to his knees, too dazed, too stupefied, to say or do anything else. 

Outside, the winter wind was howling. It rattled the rotten wood-plank walls of the tiny one room hut, welcoming a draft that sputtered the tiny flame in the hearth. The boy whose name was not yet Haraldur threw more peat moss upon the fire, which it guzzled into its amorphous maw like a starved dog. In the low-light of the hut, a man was sprawled in the far corner, passed out with an empty flask rolling out of his hands. And before the boy, who was no older than eight, an even younger girl lay upon his lap, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow, almost imperceptible. She was wrapped in blankets, and the boy held her as close as he dared to the fickle fire and its wan, candle's width of warmth.

He looked over his shoulder at Shayl's approach, his worried green eyes only in half recognition of her identity. 

"Help her," he said, quiet and mournful. He brushed a few strands of greasy locks from the young girl's damp, perspiring forehead. A necklace hung around the boy's neck, a silver piece resembling a tree. His hand traveled upwards from the girl's face, and closed over that charm, as if in prayer. "This fever...it's killing her. It..." A feeble cough sounded from her throat, but otherwise, she remained unconscious. "I don't know...what to do." It was a significant admission for a boy who, even at so young an age, was self-sufficient and highly responsible. Without a mother, and with a father who squandered their meagre savings by purchasing liquor and drinking himself into a dazed, unhelpful stupor, the boy was the only capable hand in the household. The girl was too young, too simple, and her legs atrophied beyond the use of standing. And now--the rest of her body was atrophying away at an alarming rate. She was starved, and cold, and so very, very sick.

"What do I do?!" But his emphatic appeal was spoken too late. The girl's eyelids sank into her skull. Her entire chest deflated, and the remains of her breath sighed silently out of her mouth. Her precious heart trilled its last, half-formed beat, then slowed, then stopped. 

Tears ran down his cheeks. Cradling the poor, skeletal girl against his body, he began to sob. It racked his bony, malnourished shoulders. "No. No. Klara. No!" He shut his eyes tight, and sat there, his words a meaningless stream. Breaths that he had taken for granted panted in the air over her still-warm corpse.

Slowly, awareness took control of the disconsolate boy. Though he was an accurate representation of the past, knowledge of his older self glinted in the slight droop of his overbright eyes. 

"I killed her. I killed her. And she's only the first." His voice was like the susurrus of the wind. "Don't make me show you anymore." He raised his head at Shayl, entreating. "Please. This is enough. It has to be enough. You're safe here. But they're going to take me away, and when they do..." his entire form shivered, but not from the cold, "you won't be safe. I'll kill you...like I did to her. Like I did to all of them." He gasped when the body of Klara fell away from his hold, sinking into the floorboards, along with the hut, the fire, and his father. He now sat in the middle of a frozen field, surrounded by the mutilated bodies of all the children he murdered. Their torn and bloodied faces shuddered for a moment, then changed, until they all wore the countenance of his dead, emaciated little sister. 

He, too, began to sink into the earth. He made no move to fight, fearing his continued existence would destroy Shayl. And so he allowed himself to be buried alive--with them. With Klara.

They were going to die. Fighting alone, against Messino and his hoardes, Tivia and Elespeth--both whom already sported critical wounds--could not hold up against the sheer numbers alone without Alster's help. But the Rigas caster was unresponsive on the ground before them, which tore at the Atvanian warrior's heart in such a way that she had to fight the urge to abandon the fight and rush to his side to see if he was okay. But there was hardly a chance to to walk away, even with the aid of the rocs above and their spear-wielding, Skyknight riders. Andalari had simply brought too many, and Tadasun, especially now, had suffered far too many casualties and had left far too few survivors...
They were doomed. For all intents and purposes, from every logical, strategic, and mathematical angle, this battle was impossible to win, for lack of man power, lack of strength, lack of preparation...

And yet, deep down in the core of her rapidly beating heart, Elespeth refused to believe it. We have fought worse. We have survived worse... we are going to survive this!

That surge of optimism was short-lived. With her guard faltering in response to her conviction to win, Elespeth did not turn around in time to notice the undead soldier with his heavy axe honing in on her. Not until the blade came into contact with her arm, and the sickening crack that followed, accompanied by wave after wave of excruciating pain, and she didn't realize she had fallen to her knees until the blood-soaked ground was inches from her face. She felt broken; cold from the sweat clinging to her skin, her movements slower from exsanguination, and her vision beginning to blur from all of the above. We're losing... The thought brought more despair and pain than the cracked bone in her arm, the open wound in her thigh and shoulder. They were losing, and she couldn't find her way to her feet, and there was nothing that anyone could do because they had already lost...

Something was happening.
Through the haze of her failing vision, Elespeth watched with passive apathy as, one by one, Messino's men began to fall. Not to a bloody death, but to their knees, to the ground, where they stilled and they stayed. Something, like a shadow made of fire, passed over them as if draining the very life force (or whatever source of magic) kept them on their feet, and as it neared her, she expected the same, closed her eyes and awaited that peaceful reprieve...
It never came. In moments, the battlefield had become still, quiet, save for her, Alster, Tivia, and the Skyknights and their rocs overhead. Lucid, yet mildly delirious from her own waning condition, Elespeth turned her blurry green eyes to her lover, who had by now sat up, looking just as dazed and confused as her. "Alster..." The smile of relief on her lips reached her voice, but she could not muster a word to follow.

It was around then that the rocs, one by one, had begun to land. Two pairs of hands were pulling her to her feet, and she cried out in pain as she was reminded anew of her injured condition. Voices, direct and authoritative, threw around their guesses as to the extent of damage she and her two comrades had taken as they lifted her onto a roc, and did the same with Tivia and Alster, determined to guide them out of the carnage and to a place where they could rest and get the help that they need. "Vega...?" The name passed Elespeth's weary lips as she lay forward upon the avian's expansive back, and a warm body took up its place behind her. But the voice the followed was not one that she recognized.

"No. My name is Sir Gareth," the young man replied, securing the Atvanian's injured arm to her body to keep it stable during the flight. "Our commander... isn't with us. We has not been with us for over a day; we are unaware of her whereabouts."

So this was what haunted him. This was what he had been afraid to show her, for all the pain that it still caused him. A young boy, the primary caregiver of his only dying sibling, while his father chose to forget about the wiles of life by way of the bottle. Shayl could feel his despair immediately, and when he looingked to her, begged her for her help, she could only stare--stunned, unmoving. No. This cause is not lost... I have dealt with this before, she convinced herself, daring to approach the young mercenary, who stared at her with eyes not even as old as her own, but which had already seen far more than she cared to guess. "I understand..." Her voice, uncharacteristically gentle, could barely be heard past the burdened weeping of the boy. "I know how you feel--I know why you feel it. But she... she is already lost to circumstances beyond your control. And it isn't your fault. No one can control the hand of fate..." Shayl took to his side, watched as his sister's sunken body took its last breath. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I can't help her, Haraldur--and by that measure, neither can you. It should never be your responsibility to do so. But listen... please, you have to listen to me!"

She was already losing her grasp on him. As the tears welled in his eyes and sobs wracked his small body, he looked at her with all the culpability of the killer that he thought he was. The killer that, perhaps, he had been forced to be. The very identity that continued to hold him down. "Poverty killed her, Haraldur, not you! The circumstances of her birth, that killed her. You did not fail her. You are the only one in this world who did not fail her--can't you see? She did not take her last breath alone! She was in the arms of the only person in this world who saw her worth, saw her as a person." Reaching out, she wiped away his tears. "You are a hero to her. I can't make you believe that, but you need to..."

The scene around them rapidly began to shift as Haraldur's despair threatened to swallow him--literally. The tiny, rotting house faded away to reveal a frozen landscape, littered with dozens of casualties. But this was not an ordinary battlefield, for the bodies, bleeding and mutilated, were small and unarmed. Children...
It made sense. Suddenly, it all made sense to young Shayl, who stood shivering at the core of this broken man's psyche. This was why he harboured such an aversion towards her help. Why he wanted to help her, instead. And nothing--at least, not her persuasion--would change his mind to his self-damning approach. But perhaps... perhaps, there was one person, one missing link, who could.

She was taking a chance, drawing on a lot of odds and chances that would yield unpredictable results, but it was all that she could think in the midst of this desperate and time-sensitive matter. As Haraldur began to sink into the ground, along with all of the carnage that may or may not have been his doing, Shayl grabbed his hand, his arm, and held on tight. "This is not how it ends for you," she reminded him, calm and certain yet with no judgement on her part. "You know that--and so does she. What would she want for you?"

And there, standing over her shoulder, summoned by what little control Shayl could muster over Haraldur's psyche and memories, stood his mother. Alive, healthy, but sad, hands clasped in front of her. "My son..." Her smile, soft and gentle, was meant only for him. Shayl might as well have not existed then and there. "You are already a hero to her; to Klara. To me. Without you, this world will lose a fighting chance at its own survival--as will everyone who depends on you."
Kneeling next to Shayl, who refused to let go of Haraldur's arm, his mother unclasped her hands and reached for the despairing young boy. "I would not have gifted you with a fighting chance at life, had I known that all of your life would be too strong a curse to bear." She was, of course, referring to the pendant that hung around his neck, still shiny and whole in this realm. "Put your suffering to rest, now; that is all that I ask of you. To help soothe away your pain, one last time."

Tivia, who had pushed her offensive magic to the limits, was losing her ability to function. Commanding her arms to move was a feat, let alone forming the etherea disks that emerged from her outstretched fingertips. She was out of practice, out of her element. Last she fought, it was for her life during the massacre at Stella D'Mare's camp, where she lost everything that mattered, and had gained what never mattered. Now, her unpracticed attacks were taking their toll. 

With one arm injured to the point where she couldn't raise it above her shoulder, her combat effectiveness was sliced in half. Frantic, she threw the remains of her magic at Messino, who was like a charging bull: never slowing from any rend, burn, or tear of his flesh. A sickening grin, bloody and grotesque, remained on his ghastly face, both alive and dead. Even when her etherea landed another mark, which this time burned upon his cheek, he was unfazed, and laughed all the more. His men, as if heeding his laughter as a signal to attack, surrounded her and Elespeth, trapping them in an enclosed, hellish ring of death. All weapons were primed and ready to spear them clean through. With a whimper low in her throat, she reached for Elespeth's hand, wanting just a modicum of comfort before she died...

But then, a weird apparition appeared in the sky. It resembled rolling fog, but it glowed and consumed like a fire. It bore wings that were three times the span of a roc, and glided over the battlefield with a fatal grace. As it traveled through each soldier, it left behind a corpse. Like a noxious mist, it tumbled across the field in waves, and none seemed to survive its persuasive might. Then, it reached them, reached Messino, and she flinched, awaiting the end...

But only Messino dropped to the ground, like a discarded toy. And the strange mist-fire bird exploded into a rain of...etherea. Blinking in wonder, she turned towards Alster, who, standing and conscious, had his hand outstretched. The remnants of his magic arced along his fingers, and nibbled away at his little finger before the excess energy was at last purged from his person. She could only stare at him, dumbfounded. It was like witnessing a miracle, but as all miracles were wont to do, it filled her with both wonder and malaise. 

Before Tivia could address Alster, who had fallen to the ground in shock, Skyknights and rocs rained down around them. They had wasted no time in dismounting and helping the three of them atop the feisty birds. She, like Alster, was in a great deal of shock, and said nothing as they took to the skies and flew a short way, across the vast valley of slumped over bodies, over the vast hole, and then to the other side, where the smallest remnants of Tadasun's camp remained unaffected by the dent in the ground. It was, as the Skyknight in charge of the roc had explained, part of Eyraille's sector of the camp, which was situated in the outskirts, so to better look after their mounts. In the tents, he said, they had provisions, including medical supplies, beds, foodstuffs, and water. When they touched down, and Tivia was helped to the ground, she, Elespeth, and Alster were herded into the tent that had become their makeshift infirmary. 

Alster, who had recovered from his catatonic episode, stood from the bed where the Skyknights had directed him to sit. He was unable to relax, his limbs too spry and full of the lifeforce he had pulled from the earth. "I can help," he urged, and before they could stop him, rushed over to Elespeth and Tivia's side, his eyes sweeping over their terrible wounds. Now that they were closer to him, the state of Alster's hand was on better display, and sure enough, his little finger had been devoured by his magic. Tivia wore her lip beneath her teeth, but her concern was beyond the ability of words. Magic devouring one's body...was the most terrifying of nightmares. One that had become all too real. 

"I need to stop the bleeding," Alster said. That same hand gathered a swirl of etherea, all generated from a body quavering with reserve energies, which still pumped through his system, demanding an escape route. After first contributing to clean their grisly wounds from infection, he went to Tivia, and closed up her shoulder wound. It stitched back together with an effortless zip, like watching someone tear apart a piece of clothing, but in reverse. Then, he turned to Elespeth and performed the same action on her oozing gashes, but frowned when he regarded her broken arm. "I'm not skilled enough to heal fractures and breaks, El," he said, looking to her in profound apology. Every action of his was on an expedited level. Even his words left him at a speedy clip. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he began to pace, until Tivia could no longer take it and grappled his wrists. 

"Alster. Stay still, would you?!" He obeyed, but he still swayed and rocked about on his heels. His teeth chattered, and it was then she noticed that his skin felt awfully chilled and clammy. "What happened out there?" 

"I combined my chthonic and celestial magic," he said, trying to wrestle free from Tivia's grip. "And it...it...and I can't shake it. It's running through my veins. It's like this perpetual loop flowing in and out and in and out of me and I lost a finger and--did you know they can't find Vega anywhere? It's like she just vanished. Oh stars, I hope I had nothing to do with...I had everything to do with this, didn't I? Everything into nothing and nothing into silence and I don't--" He broke free of Tivia and began to pace anew, his thoughts thrumming out of his mouth at a speed too quick to filter. But his words pitched higher and his eyes became more manic and wild. "Why do I keep doing this? Heavens, I feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest. I'm losing it, I can't see straight or, or...why won't it stop!?" He grabbed fistfuls of his hair, his breaths and his words devolving into staccatoed pants, on the verge of hyperventilating. 

"This is for the best, Shayl," the boy told her, with a defeated close of his eyes. He continued to sink. The dirt was now level with his waist. The little Sybaian yanked at his arms and shoulders to help extricate him from his own burial, but he didn't budge. Wouldn't budge. "I won't be part of this cycle any longer. It's taken too much from me, and I, from it. All those children out there...I killed them, Shayl. You might not think I was responsible for Klara's death, but them," he jerked his chin at the circle of prepubescent dead bodies, which never stood a chance to survive his indiscriminate violence, "you can't say I had nothing to do with that. It was my hand, my sword. My actions." The ground had now risen to meet his shoulders. "I can't hurt another. I can't hurt you. I just can't. But if this earth takes me, they can't get to me. None of this will have happened. You'll be safe. From me." Fresh tears glistened in his still-closed eyes. "It's all right to let me go, Shayl. It's all right."

The earth was now up to his neck. He held his breath for the final plunge, but then, a flash brightened behind his closed lids. When he opened his eyes to see what happened, he was staring up at a woman, her appearance both familiar and vague. She was tall, long-legged, tree-like in her unique stature. She sported a head full of golden brown curls, which spilled over her shoulders, looking like a finer, more tame growth of the peat moss that had become his most reliable fuel source during long, cold winter months. And her eyes--they were a vivid green, and reminded him of summer. Of soothing nights, when her song would cart him to a far off land, where the fields were fertile and everyone was wealthy in abundance and in happiness. He continued to stare up at her, mesmerized by her presence. Slowly, the earth that coated him began to recede, sloughing off his shoulders, his waist, and his legs. Standing, he listened to the words that sang from the lips of...his mother. 

As in reflex, he clutched the pendant in his hands. Other than that one gesture, he was paralyzed on the spot. It took every ounce of his willpower just to open his mouth, in response to this woman he hardly knew. Yet, she had been such a fixture throughout his life, in the form of his necklace. 

"Why?" he managed, his voice choked, swallowing back another sob. "Why, momma? It was all too much. I didn't need your protection!" He made a fist over the pendant. "I did everything on my own. Why didn't you let me go? Why did you allow Klara to die, but kept me alive!? Why...did you keep me strung to this life that didn't even want me?" His hand, growing limp, dropped from the necklace and hung at his side like dead-weight. He bowed his head, and struggled to fight his tears. 

She pulled the boy into her arms, and though he stiffened at first from her touch, didn't resist. Cooing into his ear, she stroked his hair, then drew her fingers over the chain of the necklace. "Iwanted you," she whispered. "And I wanted to give you the best chance. I wanted to be there for you, to guide you, to protect you, even though my life was forfeit. I was already dead by the time Klara was born." Her green eyes bespoke of a great sadness. A sadness of regret. "I couldn't reach out to her in time. But I didn't love her any less. You cared for her in my stead, and for that, I can't thank you enough."

"But I've done...so much wrong," he countered. "I was Forbanne. A cold-blooded killer. I tortured. I murdered...children!"

"And yet I still loved you. You were so strong-willed--and you still are. I knew that you'd find your way again."

"But I never did!" 

"You're a protector, Haraldur. Already, you've gone through great pains just to save this girl," she acknowledged Shayl with a nod. "That's always been your greatest strength, even though they took you away for a while, and turned you into what they wanted. But it was always there. That need, that desire, to defend the defenseless. This is the core of your soul. One in which you're caring for your sister. Your true self...was here, all along." 

When he looked up, and observed their surroundings, the dead children were gone, replaced, instead, with the rock-strewn field of his childhood home, and the ramshackle hut where Klara awaited him. 

"Wait," he blinked, rubbing away the tears with his knuckles. "You...you called me Haraldur." 

She laughed, like the ringing of chimes. Releasing him from her embrace, she held him at arm's length, and her laugh transitioned into a smile. "Is that not your name?"

"It's a name I adopted, but it's not mine."

"And why not?" 

"Because...I took it from someone else." 

She cupped her cheek, wiping away the rest of his tears with a tender finger. "My sweet--that has always been your name. You may have forgotten that it was yours, but you never lost it."

"I--" At first, he looked forlorn. Confused. Then, surprising even to him, he began to laugh. It was half-choked and strained, but it was a laugh, nonetheless. "I...after all this time, and it was...here all along. Inside me."

"And you'll never forget it again, I assure you." She said, thumbing his nose affectionately. "Your necklace might be crumbling, but your name is another gift I've given you, and it will never break apart. As long as you don't lose sight of who you are."

He nodded, his eyebrows pressing together in a glare of determination. "I won't. I can't afford to, anyway. There are people in this world...who need me, after all."

She kissed him on the forehead. "Indeed, there are. And I'm still here, Haraldur. Remember that." Then, she was gone, taken by the wind. There and then not. But he didn't feel longing after her departure, or a crippling sorrow. Instead, he felt...hopeful. Validated. Renewed. 

Turning to Shayl, he took her hand and gave her a serene smile. "Let's...go back. People are waiting for us."

And when they returned to the dark cavern, and he saw that his gushing arm injury was no longer bleeding, he threw the small Sybaian girl into a hug--minding her fractured arm as he did so. "Thank you, Shayl," he said, the emotion in his words failing to keep an even pitch. "Thank you."

Her body hurt in so many places that Elespeth could hardly pinpoint any given site of of discomfort, in particular. She knew there was something wrong with her arm, that something about her leg made it all the more difficult to walk, but specifics were all lost in a blur of trepidation and adrenaline and slow fatigue, all of which wreaked havoc on the former knight's sense of awareness and state of alert. As the driven Skyknight made to help her upon the large yet obedient avian, she registered Alster in her unfocused vision, kneeling by her side, hands upon her leg which had gushed enough blood to coat half of her trousers in dark blood. The wound felt suddenly warm with the presence of Alster's magic, and she watched with passive astonishment as the flesh closed and faintly scarred. "Alster... I'm fine. Take care of yourself." She urged gently, when he seemed to deflate at the state of her arm. She tested her mobility, making an attempt to lift it, and winced. Fractured... it's fine. I'll be fine. I've suffered worse. "It's all right--it's over, Alster. Messino is dead. You can see that, can't you?"
And if he could... then why did he move with such agitated jerks, as if he couldn't let his guard down?

Settled against the the warm feathers of the roc, she only half-listened as Tivia demanded he explain his erratic behaviour. Something to do with the intermingling of his two magics, which had inevitably produced that curious ghost that had wiped all of the life from the battlefield, all the while discriminating her life and TIvia's from the enemy's. Whatever he had done, it had taken its toll on him, and he was coming apart at the seems before her very eyes. Radiating energy that he did not truly possess, that was destined to burn him out like a candle if he did not cease. "Alster." Elespeth hissed his name, loud enough that she met his frantic, blue-eyed gaze. "You need to breathe--stop, and breathe. Because we need help; all of us. Let the Skyknights take us to safety. From there, we will... we will figure things out. We need our head on our shoulders. Vega..." She swallowed, the regrettable words of the Skyknight behind her, ready to take off and leave the carnage of this accursed battlefield, haunting her heart and her mind. But she was not awarded the time to lend the issue more thought.

"We need to go. There are other survivors who need us." Another Skyknight, one who approached Alster with a heavy hand upon his shoulder, looked as though he invited no room for argument. They would cooperate, or they would remain here, and forfeit their only chance of being carried to safety.
Fortunately, the trio did not put up any further resistance, and each was accompanied by a Skyknight to their roc. The knights wasted no time in taking to the skies, much to Elespeth's pain and chagrin, the searing ache in her fractured arm near nauseating her now that she had become aware of it.
A small handful of the Skyknights, those who had not taken to the skies to engage in aerial combat, had established a makeshift safe haven for the handful of survivors that their comrades had managed to rescue and direct. A shoddy medical tent had been erected to deal with the critically injured, which was where Elespeth was taken as soon as the enormous avian slowed to a landing. They did not as of then have the luxury of anything but rudimentary healers, none specialized such as the Sybaia or the Clematis, and for the time being all that they could offer was to bind her arm tightly and hang it in a sling in front of her chest. For the pain, they offered concoctions of numbing and sedative herbs, but the former knight of Atvany vehemently refused. Her mind was set on one thing alone. "Where is Vega? What do you mean she is not among you?" The young woman demanded, but as the Skyknights had no answer as to the whereabouts of their commander, they ignored her irate pleas and focused on more manageable tasks--namely, tending to the survivors as they arrived, one by one, by their exhausted comrades.

So Elespeth, naturally, turned to Alster instead. "You can't shake the energy from your magic? Then let us put it to good use." She gripped his good hand with her uninjured arm; it still hadn't occurred to her, however, that he had lost his little finger. "Vega is missing. No one knows where she is, and if her own kin are not going to make an effort to find her, then we owe it to her to do so. No one... no one deserves to vanish without a modicum of closure." Lowering her voice, a fevered, desperate hiss as it was, she leaned in closer, all but begging the Rigas caster to understand. To comply. "I do not believe that they even mean to search for he... The Skyknights, that is. And Haraldur... he will be devastated. A lost cause. And we have far from yet won this war... it is only the beginning."

Haraldur should have known by now the infalliable obstinacy of the Sybaia; should have known that no matter what he thought, hoped or reasoned, once Shayl had made up her mind, there was nothing that would convince her to let him go. For that reason, she endured the strain of her young and meager muscles and held on as the mercenary--or rather, who he had been before he'd become a mercenary--wished for nothing more than to sink into the ground. For hold on was all that she could do, as she mustered the will to tap into the depths of his subconscious and find that seedling of hope, the one that everyone possessed. To some, it was an experience relieved, something that had once given them a sense of purpose, thereby renewing their drive and their zeal for life; for others, it was a simple memory of a place and time when everything had been just right; when everything had been okay.
For Haraldur, that seedling was at once neither of those things, and both of them. That seedling was a person--his mother. Long absent in his life, but whose love had never been a mere concept to him, and instead a tangible foothold that had seen him through some of the darkest times in his life; and then some.

There was no questioning that the woman was a mother; she had that way about her, a certain gentleness that only those who had put their bodies through the love and pain of childbirth could possess. She had a way of speaking, of reaching Haraldur that Shayl knew she never would have been able to emulate, and it was enough that the young Sybaian's strained body almost shuddered in relief. Yes... please, please, keep going. Give him the reassurance that he needs...
At first, it was almost imperceptible. The weight on her arm as she struggled to tug Haraldur from the hungry maw of the ground. Then slowly, ever so slowly, beyond the boy's awareness, the ravenous earth began to release him. Inch by inch it rejected his body as if it were poison, until at last it leveled out, to its previous form, simple, enriched earth beneath his bare feet. Then he turned to her, and he smiled, and he took her hand... And then and there, Shayl knew that she would never perform so renewing a feat as she had today. A feelish of calm washed over her, the sense that even if she never healed another person in her entire life, she had made the impact for which she had been born.

Opening her eyes once again to the cold, dark cavern in which she found herself trapped with the mercenary, Shayl immediately felt something shift inside of her. It was a sort of heaviness, as if she were only now realizing that something overburdened her young soul, and it washed her in a sudden air of malaise. She became aware of Haraldur embracing her, something that she welcomed for the heat that emanated from his body, finding herslf suddenly very cold. "Don't underestimate me," came her passive reply, but she made no move to pull away from him; in fact, then and there, there was nothing that the young Sybaian wanted mroe than sweet sleep. Stifling a yawn, she squinted her eyes and shook her head, the pain of her injured arm a vague, throbbing annoyance about which she wished she could just forget. "We should rest... even if you are no longer injured, it is still dark. You were right; we should wait for help to find us... a much safer decision now that you are not at risk of bleeding out."

Against her better judgement, Shayl began to drift; for how long, she could not be certain. But the shrill avian cries from above, accompanied by the urgent voices of men, drew her out of her semi-unconscious daze, and when at last she opened her eyes, it was to a dawn-blushed sky, with two rocs and their riders standing at the precipice of the sinkhole. They had lowered a rope and were shouting to Haraldur, words such as, "What is her condition?" and "How is she not able to hold on to the rope? Unconsciousness? Injury?"

"...use the rope. So they can pull you up," Shayl interjected drowsily, nudging Haraldurls newly healed arm gently. "I can tie... it around my waist. They can pull me up next. I don't... think that I can climb."

It occurred to Alster that Elespeth was trying to signal his attention, but so inflated was he with on-the-verge hysteria that he didn't register her presence until she took him by his good hand, and squeezed. His concentration, which focused on his breaths and the counting of his steps, was disrupted by her insistence that they go search for Vega. But he was so disoriented, that he could only stare at her for a long while. Then, quietly, he muttered, in a tone that belied his hyperactive, frantic state, "What if I killed her? What if I didn't spare all of my allies? What if--" 

"--Both of you," Tivia snapped before Alster was able to devolve into another series of panicked rants and hurried breaths, "stop and listen to me for a moment. For one," she pointed to Elespeth's broken arm, "you are in no condition to be looking for anyone. Do you really think you'd get far? And Alster," she looked into his wild, half-crazed eyes, "you did not kill her. She wasn't even on the battlefield with the other Skyknights." She rubbed at the splotch of dried blood where beneath, her stitched up wound still pricked and tingled from the aftereffects of Alster's healing. As she dropped her hand to rest at her side, she wondered if Vega had already departed that evening for the "task" Vitali had proposed in their bargain, and if he accompanied her on the excursion. If so, their swift and sure exodus from camp seemed convenient, as if Vitali sensed the major-scale death about to occur and happened to keep his suppositions to himself, leaving all to die and suffer on their own. 

But then...she was no better. 

Of what use did foreseeing the disaster mere minutes in advance do for the survival of the army? They perished, all the same. Of what use were her seer abilities, if they appeared for her so late? Yes, she had saved Alster, who wiped out Messino and his army, and Elespeth, without which Alster wouldn't remain sane (though he didn't seem to fare much better even with her at his side), but so many others had perished. Destroyed. It was a massacre anew, like in Stella D'Mare's camp. And if she had been more perceptive, more open to her newfound clarity...

Then maybe Haraldur could have been saved. They hadn't seen him since fleeing from camp, and she doubted that he escaped in time before the hole opened and swallowed him into its depths. What would Vega say, what would she do, when she returned from her probable journey, which she embarked on for his sake, only to find him dead? 

Unbidden, tears stung her eyes. "What about Haraldur?" she said, her hand clawing over the scarred half of her face like a mask. "You act as if he's still alive. Do you not care to look for him, either? For...for both of them?" Though she was convinced of Vega's whereabouts, she didn't want to reveal to Elespeth, Alster, and the Skyknights of her conjectures when she wasn't entirely sure of their validity. Better for them to search, first, and if they couldn't find her...she'd tell them what she knew. 

"If you're both so insistent on going out there to look, then," she stood from her cot and joined their little congregation, "I'm coming along, too. It shouldn't be as difficult to see, now. The sun is rising." 

As the gradients of black began to lighten into gray all around them, Haraldur witnessed the slow reveal of their habitat, their dungeon. Dead bodies, shredded bits of canvas, wood splinters and detached supply wagon wheels, pots and pans, flags and standards, the glint of dented armor and the contours of crooked blades. He pressed the sleeping form of Shayl closer to his body, in case she awoke and saw the sight. After their return from his mind, he had noticed her bone-weariness, her acute exhaustion, and offered his shoulder as a pillow, his arms as a protective blanket. The last time he held a child so close to his body...it was with Klara, so long ago. When she had died in his arms, and he refused to release her frail, shrunken form to the grave. As with Shayl--he didn't want to release her, afraid that she'd waste away in his arms and die. Or afraid that she'd see the litter of unresponsive soldiers, shrug away from his hold and search for the survivors. Search for those she could heal--and succumb to a fatigue that even rest could not sate. I won't let you die, he promised to her, though he did not voice those words aloud. One child. He had to be able to save at least one child--and prove his mother right. I can protect. I am a protector. 

More light filtered through the cavern as dawn approached. Something else approached, from afar. A sound like shouting. First, it was faint, but then it grew louder and filled his ears with distinct words. It came from up on the surface. Men. And the high-pitched, unmistakable cry of rocs. 

"They've found us," he said, in a calm, audible nudge. Shayl opened her eyes and slowly shrugged from his grasp, right as the rope snaked its way down, down, and to their level. 

Haraldur rose to his feet, and called out to the men--Skyknights, without a doubt. "She has a broken arm! I'm going to send her to you, first. You'll have to pull her up!" 

Helping Shayl to her feet, Haraldur was diligent in tying the knotted up pieces of cloth he had ripped from his trousers into a sling for her arm. Once finished, he led her to the rope that awaited them on one end of the wall. "I'm going to let you go up before me," he told her, circling the rope around her waist and working it into a complex knot that he was certain would hold her weight. "So that if anything happens, I'll be here to catch you, all right?" 

Signalling up to the men with a yank of the rope, he secured his hands around Shayl, and carefully hoisted her up in time with the Skyknights' pulls. "Say hello to Vega for me, if you see her up there," he said, with a taut smile. Off she was elevated, a slow, laborious progress that encouraged Haraldur to remain directly below her with his arms outstretched, in case the rope gave way--but it never did. Eventually, she made it to the rim of the chasm, and the Skyknights dragged her back to the surface. 

At the same time, Tivia was following Elespeth and Alster around the circumference of the giant hole, minding their footing lest they slide into that unforgiving maw. Alster was shining a fire spell into the deep, scouring for survivors or injured rocs that may or may not belong to Vega, but to no avail. They would have to go spelunking to know for certain if those limp bodies were worth saving. 

They met up with a Skyknight rescue crew a few moments later. They had a little girl with them, arm tied up into a sling. She looked like a Sybaian healer, one she had seen flit in and about camp with a holier-than-thou air. 

The Skyknights were busy hefting up another survivor with the rope. After a few more heaves, a large, tall figure emerged, joining the little girl and a Skyknight that had offered the two of them some water. 

When the trio neared, Alster flashed his light spell to better see the faces of the survivors. His brow knit in surprise and in wonder when he recognized who was standing before them, practically unharmed. 

"Haraldur?!"

The Skyknights at Haraldur and Shayl's rescue worked quickly, and to the best of their ability, assessing the situation and making their plans accordingly. Though the pit swallowed Haraldur's voice and they had to call again and again to clarify what he was striving to convey, they gathered enough to come to the conclusion that the young girl sharing a space with the warrior was hurt, and unable to climb or to hold onto the rope that they lowered. They waited a good handful of moments, allowing Haraldur the time to secure the line around Shayl's waist, and did not begin to hoist until he provided a hand signal. It was then, that with the meager effort of two men, that they managed to haul the young girl up with ease, what little of her weight providing no obstacle.

When they attempted to assess her condition, however, noting the way she favoured her arm and the clammy colour of her fair face, she pulled away and vehemently refused. "Why are you stopping because of me? There is still a man down there, trapped in that pit--help him!"
Provided with little other choice, the two Skyknights left her alone and returned to the edge of the pit, lowering the rope once again and calling for the mercenary to hold on and climb. As he scaled the uneven slope of the pit, they hauled and hauled, under Shayl's watchful gaze, until Haraldur breached the cusp, and climbed out on his knees, free of the sunken prison that had contained them.

"Are you... all right?" Shayl approached, weary yet hopeful, still cradling her arm against her chest. "I told you they would find us... but we need to find the others, now. Ilona... she wil need my help."

"Miss; I beg your pardon for interrupting," one of the Skyknights intercepted, eyes fixed on the young girl, "but if yo are in need of help, then we must transport you now to the infirmary tent. It is imperative that we not waste time standing around when there are other survivors in need of our aid."

A small flask of water was pressed into her good hand, but she hadn't the chance to respond before a sudden flash of light assaulted her field of vision. She nearly dropped the precious, crystalline life-sustaining fluid in an attempt to shield her eyes, but paused when a familiar voice reached her ears: Haraldur?
"Rigas..." Shayl squinted at the pale, albeit relieved face of Alster Rigas, his physically deformed brethren, and the she-warrior who had her hands on his heart. Had they gone in search of the mercenary? He did appear to have a loyal following of comrades, particularly in the woman who called herself Eris; who, despite her own immobile arm, made to embrace the rugged man. Her eyes were bright with an overtired gleam, but also, with relief.

"Thank the gods... if anyone were to survive this, then of course it would be you." Elespeth gripped Haraldur's shoulder with her uninjured hand, and pulled away to look at his face. "And barely a scratch, at that... but what of Vega? Is she here?"
The answer to her question became clear to her not with words, but by the pale shock and dismayed look of muted horror that donned the mercenary's weary face.

The Skyknights, busied and sleepless with their seemingly endless task of scouting for, rescuing, and tending to survivors, allowed the small group no time to discuss the details of their concern for the missing Eyraillian princess. After vehemently scolding the trio of newcomers for leaving the infirmary tent and thus makng their job more difficult, they ordered them to wait where they were while reinforcements arrived to (once again) take them back to where they could safely rest and recover. Being the most visibly injured and in need of attention, Shayl and Elespeth were transported first, and then the others some moments later after a trio of rocs and their riders were sent for them.
Despite the meager handful of survivors, however, the temporary safehold was packed and overburdened with the injured and distraught. What few cots available were allotted to those with shattered or missing limbs, unable to move and/or whose lives scarcely hung in that delicate balance of strength and resilience versus outright giving up.

As a result, Alster and the others were merely given blankets seated upon the ground in a small huddle, urged to indulge in a brewed herbal tea to at the very least alleviate pain. Even Elespeth succumbed, eventually, and accepted the bitter liquid which made her feel irresistibly tired, but the young Sybaian healer could not be persuaded; not while her mind was set on a single goal and person. "I don't care if she isn't here; it doesn't mean she isn't somewhere else!" The implacable girl insisted, trying the patience of everyone who tried to help her. "You have no right to declare Ilona dead without bothering to put up a search; you need all the damned healers you can get! What is wrong with you lot? You will not even agree to search for your own commander!"

And that was the topic that had hung in silence on the shoulders of the others: Vega. Her whereabouts and condition largely unknown, to the point where it was anyone's guess. Though none of them wanted to admit to the possibility of the Skyknight commander's demise, any more than Shayl was willing to believe her sister dead without seeing her body for herself.
Elespeth, fighing off the heavy lure sleep, clutched the blanket around her shoulders with her one good hand. The dull but consistent throbbing of her broken bone was at least enough to keep her grounded and focused. "I had hoped... I was sure she would have been with you, if not with her Skyknights." Now feeling overburdened with the fact that she had brought it to Haraldur's attention that the Eyraillian princess truly was missing, the former knight had trouble witnessing his drawn face, and thus kept her green eyes focused on the scuffed toes of her worn boots. "It doesn't make sense, though... Not only that I cannot see her succumbing to this assault while all of her other Skyknights made it out unharmed, but that no one seems to remember having seen her for several hours before Messino's forces infiltrated. As if she was long gone from the area before then."

Noting that the young Sybaian healer's incessant pleas and insults to the Skyknight rescuers had ceased, Elespeth looked up to find the girl sulking some yards away, knees pulled to her chest and her back to the Skyknight who stood over her with a sling, trying to coax her to allow him to tend to her arm. The Atvanian warrior couldn't help but wish she possessed the very same stubbornness. "At least they have not confirmed that they have stopped looking," she mentioned, with a hint of reassurance to not only Haraldur and the others, but for herself. "Their kingdom surely would not allow that they declare its princess lost or dead without evidence. We just... we need to give them more time." But the question is, do we have time? Elespeth needn't look Alster's way to know that he was thinking the very same thing: that Vega had been their way back to Stella D'Mare, to prevent disaster. Through the air was the only way to travel, if they wanted to stand a chance of securing the future of Alster's city...

While Haraldur was beyond relieved to see that Elespeth, Alster, and Tivia had survived, when the subject shifted to Vega, any hope that he had obtained in the pit plummeted back down into the dark. Gently removing himself from Elespeth's concerned embrace, he looked at her with a puzzled brow that furrowed into an expression that revealed one of his greatest fears, revisited. "You don't know where--? I thought she'd be with you. If many of the Skyknights are here and accounted for, then..."

But his queries fell deaf amongst the Skyknights as they herded him, Shayl, and the others back to the infirmary tent. All the while, Tivia trailed behind, her well-placed hand shielding the shades of conflict that crossed over her face. 

Alster, though he accompanied everyone to the tent, slipped away on his own, excusing himself from Elespeth and citing his reasons as a need for air and space. The idea of remaining inside a cramped, crowded tent, confined and disallowed from helping or moving around, filled him with a malaise that churned around as bile in his throat. "I'll be back. I promise," he told them. "I just need...to be alone." 

He wandered off into the morning light, massaging the area on his hand where his little finger once existed. The area, cauterized by magic, was a stump of burns and sores, tender to the touch. A reminder that what had transpired on the battlefield was caused by him. His magic. His intents and wishes.

I killed so many people. Hundreds. Dead and undead...

He stumbled upon the battlefield, wading through the sea of bodies to survey his unfathomable damage. So many casualties. By far the worst he had ever incurred. 

"It wasn't necessary," he told all bodies, slumped forward as if asleep after a night of heavy drinking. "I didn't have to kill you all. I could have taken Elespeth and Tivia, and shrouded us away...flee into the hills unseen. What..." he stared at his hand, a caster's pride, now a grave loss that would affect his dexterity, his ability to cast complex spells. Part of his identity--ruined. 'What...am I?" 

He collapsed to the ground. It was peaceful on the battlefield. The energy was of death, but it was not a heavy pallor, languorous and muddy with despair and torment. Rather, it was like innocuous wisps in the air. Dandelion spores, floating upon the breeze. The dead did not suffer. A steady breath blew out their souls, and their eyes closed, and they slept into death. Painless. Beautiful. Merciful.

The inviting energy slowed his rapid pulse and his stammering heartbeats. His eyelids fluttered, as if to close, but...

No! He snapped them open, and burrowed his fingers into the blood-soaked dirt. "I won't justify my actions," he told their corpses. "I'm responsible. I'm the monster. I did this to you--however peacefully you've all fallen. I can only...keep repenting. And I can start..." 

He brought his hands forward from the muck, watching them quaver in the wan, overcast daylight. They crooked and bent. He forced them into contorted angles. Broken angles. "They need a healer. But a healer...who knows how to fix what's broken. I..."

He kicked off his boots. Exposed his feet, sweat-soaked and filthy. He stretched out each individual toe, and swallowed his courage. "Start small, Alster. Start..." Scooping up his little toe, he pressed and plied at it, then...wrenched it backwards, and heard a sickening crack. A cry resounded in his throat--but he would not be deterred. 

He spent the entire morning breaking his toes and mending them to perfection. If he did not achieve perfection, he rebroke them until he accomplished seamless healing transformation. When he was satisfied, he graduated to his fingers...and began the process anew. 

Haraldur, too, wasn't able to stay for long inside the tent. Elespeth's constant talk of Vega did not help matters for him, either. His legs bounced, restless, eager. Instead, he excused himself, and whiled away the morning near the hole, peering inside, circling the perimeter, and contemplating a way back to the bottom. As the brightening sky cast a gloaming over the pit, he could make out the massive lump of gold feathers and outstretched, broken wings dashed against the rocks on the bottom slope. A roc had fallen, appeared dead. Could that be...Aeriel?

He reported his findings to the Skyknights, most of whom were gathered near the infirmary tent. Shayl was there, too, beseeching the de-facto commander that he locate her sister. He saw the droop in her eyes and in her cadence, her body a shriveling flower, her broken arm a petal about to fall. As he approached the commander, he placed a supportive hand upon her back. "Shayl," he said, firm and stolid--confident. He hid his insecurities about Vega and her whereabouts behind that grandeur, knowing they would do this overworked and distraught Sybaian girl no good. "I'll look for Ilona. I'll do it alone if I have to, because I fully intend on going back down there." He flicked his eyes towards the Skyknight commander, his gaze cool, but challenging. "And I'll look for Vega. If you would deign to help me, I'd be much obliged." 

As the morning crossed into afternoon, Alster returned to the small campsite. Since Haraldur and the other Skyknights began to explore and excavate the bodies from the hole, the infirmary had doubled its size, reaching capacity. He was almost delirious with pain, his fingers all swollen from repeat breaking, but they were healed, functioning, still dexterous and nimble. It hurt to walk with his toes crushed up against the soles of his boots, but he managed the trip without stopping to rest.

"I'm here to help," he said to the Skyknight who he assumed was in charge of the infirmary and its mangled patients. He didn't wait for a reply of protest or argument. It didn't matter what they said. He was a Rigas--and Eyraille was not his sovereign. 

He began his work, milling between each patient with a detached, albeit precise diligence. He cleaned his hands and patients' wounds, open sores, gashes, prioritizing the worst and healing them first. Flitting down the line like a deranged canary, he tended to those in danger of death---and only when he thought he could do no more on the order of flesh wounds, he began to reserve mental space for the healing of bone breaks and fractures. 

Before he was able to start, he was accosted by Elespeth , who had occupied a corner on the floor with Tivia. 

"Elespeth..." he eyed the crooked way she held her arm, so broken and in need of attention. He pressed his nine swollen fingers against it, and gently coaxed her back to the corner. "I can heal that, now. Here, let me..." 

He sat with her in the corner, rolling up her sleeve so he could observe the horrid bruises lined all the way down the path of breakage. With concentration, he began his work, fingers twitching from the memory of breaking and mending, breaking and mending, in a constant, unbearable loop. Apologizing in advance to Elespeth, he set the bone back into place, and threaded his magic from his palms, into her flesh, encouraging the cracked marrow to realign and smooth into an unmarred whole. 

"How--" he drifted over the bruises, smoothing them out as well. "How does it feel? Can you move your arm?"

Tivia, who was adrift in her own thoughts, seemed unaware of Alster's presence or Elespeth's healed arm. She was staring, but not really seeing, at the half-opened flaps of the tent--until that familiar, hulking figure of her affections passed through, a limp body draped across his arms. She was female, and donned the garb of the Sybaia clan. Haraldur crossed through the throng of wounded bodies and found Shayl curled up on the ground with her knees to her chest. The mercenary offered her the body, setting it upon the limited space available to them. His head was bowed, and he said no words. 

"I...I know where Vega is," Tivia blurted, but only in a whisper so that only Elespeth and Alster were privy to her words. "Well, not exactly, but..." She twiddled her fingers, her eyes never leaving Haraldur, though his attention was far and occupied with his dealings with Shayl and the body. "I saw her speaking with Vitali early last evening, before everything..." she swallowed, but continued. "She took on Haraldur's debt. That has to be where Vega went. Stars know where, but...it would make sense. Vitali isn't here, and he hasn't been found, and you can't tell me that cheeky bastard wouldn't have escaped this disaster unscathed. I wasn't sure before, but no one can find her, find them...That must be it." She finally turned her attention to Elespeth and Alster. "One of you will have to tell him. Tell the other Skyknights. I don't think I can..." her voice became strained, meek--guilty, "I don't think I can bring myself to tell him."

Slipping in and out of consciousness, a side-effect of the noxious-tasting remedy that dulled her pain, Elespeth could not be sure exactly when Alster had left, or for how long he had been gone. Realizing there was little to be done in the fog of her drug-induced stupor, she waited for the effects to wear off some hours later before making an attempt to stand from where she had been seated in the infirmary. Her muscles were stiff, and her broken arm ached so much worse than before that it took a good deal of resolve to keep it propped against her chest in the sling. "Still not here... but where has he gone...?" The first thing her weary eyes scanned for was, of course, the Rigas caster who had saved the three of them on the battlefield. But at a glance, the infirmary tent, crowded as it was and already highly over capacity, did not bear an iota of his presence. The Atvanian warrior did not need to see with her eyes to know if he was near. I can't feel him... but why would he leave? Where did he go?

That feeling of loneliness and isolation in a crowd diminished almost as quickly as it surfaced. As Elespeth pushed past bodies, some moving and others stationary, she suddenly saw him re-enter; exhausted, yet with a look of dire determination on his face. "Alster!" She called to him, but he seemed fixated on deal with a certain task, a goal that was only known to him. His intent became evident just minutes later, as he began to circle the injured and assist them in their aliments. Of course... he wants to heal them. Wants to make a difference... Or to make up for whatever false sense of guilt this recent battle had subjected him to...
Regardless, he seemed keen enough in his focus that the former knight chose not to interfere. Instead, she kept her distance and shared her attention between the young Sybaian healer who had accompanied Haraldur, and Tivia, who passed the time by her nervous gestures with her fingers. Though whatever was weighing on her mind was really anyone's guess.

When at last Alster had appeared to have had his fill of proving himself and aiding the injured, he Elespeth out, looking far more fatigued than before. "Alster. Why did you..." Her inquiry was cut off by a hiss as the pressure of Alster's fingers on her broken arm; his nine, very swollen, inflamed fingers. It immediately set her on alert. "What have you done to yourself? All this healing... did that do this to you? I cannot let you do this if you are already in such a state."
But it had never been an offer or a request, so much as a proclamation that he was going to do what he saw fit, and Elespeth was in no condition to forcibly stop him. Her arm was bruised black-and-blue from the fracture, swollen at the break, and her fingers were numb. Unfortunately, the rest of her arm still had sensation, and the sickening jolt of having the bone forced back into place caused her to cry out without meaning to. She could feel the fibers of Alster's magic like a tiny needle and thread working to mend the bone from the marrow outward, a discomfort that bordered on pain such that she slumped against the Rigas caster's shoulder until he finished. When she found she could move her hand for the first time in hours, she looked up, her face a mixture of amazement and concern. "But... how? Alster, your hands..." She took his fingers gently into her palms, to compare the swollen digits to her own. "You must stop. Stop and breathe, and rest..."

The subject changed abruptly as Tivia reintroduced herself to the conversation. The topic of Vega Sorde had not been touched upon for hours, since it had not resonated well with Haraldur, and the mercenary had enough stress on his shoulders than to take on excess worry along with it. But this sudden revelation... something that could hav very well been clarified earlier on, it was beyond worth pursuing. Dropping Alster's hands, the Atvanian warrior struggled not to allow tension into her voice when she asked, "Why did you not say something earlier? Someone... we could have sent someone in search of her, with that information. Perhaps she'd have been found by now..." No; this is not her fault. Elespeth talked herself out of snapping. She knows how it will affect Haraldur... he might become reckless. Her silence was for the best.
"Haraldur needs to know... but I am not sure how to tell him," the former knight confessed, glancing at the mercenary as he spoke quietly to the young Sybaian healer. "He is not beyond drastic overreaction..."

Shayl, meanwhile, had not anticipated that Haraldur would bring back any good news in his search. The young healer, still adamantly refusing the help of the exhausted Skyknights, sat with her knees pulled to her chest, suffocated by the sickened auras of the dying and the hopeless. The emotions filtered through her like a sea of sadness, so intense that she could barely lift her head, heavy and overburdened by exhaustion. It had only gotten worse since she and Haraldur had been rescued from that pit where they might have otherwise been trapped indefinitely; the fatigue, the ache that ran its course through her body, the throbbing of her injured arm. It was such that when the warrior returned from his travels, it was a moment before Shayl thought to look up at the body that he had offered before her. A body that, although dirty and wan, she recognized immediately to be her sister, Ilona. And it came as no surprise to her to find that she had not made it through the attack.

Reaching forward with feeble fingers, the young Sybaian healer brushed aside the hair from her sister's still face, her own visage a study in quietude and humble acceptance. "She was dying. I knew she was... I think we all did, including her. But I still thought... I hoped I could save her." Drawing her hands back into her lap, Shayl's small form deflated with a long sigh. "I knew she must be gone. But I... needed to see. Thank you." She turned her shadowed eyes to look upon Haraldur. "For... this closure."

As Elespeth watched from a distance the fragile exchange between the mercenary and the young girl who looked worse for the wear, she chewed the inside of her lip, contemplating when and how to break the news to this already emotionally-ravaged man that Vega was missing because she had taken on his debt. Would there truly be a 'best time'? Or was it a matter of simply letting him in the know while he was too exhausted to go about some drastically perilous course of action, such as searching for the missing Eyraillian princess all by himself? I'd go with you, Haraldur, but... She glanced sidelong at Tivia and Alster, and faintly shook her head. She could not leave them; not when Stella D'Mare hung in such a delicate balance, as things stood.
Not even for Vega Sorde... her friend. I wonder if this makes me, too, a deserter.

"Haraldur." Accepting at last that she was likely the best candidate to break the news (for which there really was no good time to divulge), the Atvanian warrior approached her battle ally, heart racing a she prepared to deliver what was likely to be a crucial blow. "This has just recently come to my attention, but I... I believe there is something that you should know. About..."

"Where? Are you certain it was her?" Vega's second-in-command, an older man with graying hair tied back with a thong of leather, spoke well above a whisper to a particularly exhausted looking Skyknight comrade. "You had better be certain, for we can spare no more manpower chasing mere possibilities."

"No, Sir, I understand. It is her." The younger man insisted, his words winded and out of breath as if he had been running. "Just west of here... it was the garb. Eyraillian, with bronze epaulettes. No one but our own commander could don such a uniform."

The second-in-command pressed his thin lips into an even thinner line, hope and determination written in the lines on his face. "Then we will depart immediately. I shall not fail our king in bringing back his own sister, nor the lot of you in bringing back our own esteemed commander. Hurry, now--I will waste no time!"

Haraldur had heard it all; Elespeth could see it in his eyes, the way every muscle in his body tensed at once. She gave his bicep a reasuring squeeze. "Go," came her eager whisper. "Help bring her back. I will watch your charge until you return."

Relief smoothed the crinkles in Alster's forehead, though it was temporary. He had done it; he had succeeded in healing a break, and Elespeth's, at that. Touching his forehead against her healed arm, he closed his eyes, and allowed himself to feel the accomplishment. "It was worth it," he muttered, not realizing that he spoke aloud. "To undo this damage. I'll break them all again, if I have to...or...or sacrifice another finger."

"You don't have to worry." He blinked awareness at Elespeth once he pulled away to view her in full. A small, sad smile tugged at his lips, but did nothing to diminish the delirium in his eyes, or the routine shiver that assailed his overworked body. "I'll fix them all. I'll fix everyone. The magic won't stop, so I won't stop." 

He made to rise, to fling himself back into another round of healing, but Tivia's confession had clipped his progress--though not for long. His mind was spinning on a very singular track, narrow and direct. All peripheral senses were stunted. Only one thing mattered, even beyond Vega's whereabouts: Heal. 

Heal. Heal. Heal. 

He slipped away once Elespeth dropped their hand-to-hand contact, and returned to his self-proclaimed duties. 

Tivia had seen Alster escape, but did not draw attention to it. She was too busy fearing Elespeth's reaction. The ex-knight, to her credit, tried to snuff away her anger, but wisps of it escaped out of her mouth and colored her voice into a familiar shade of red. She lowered her eyes, and fidgeted with the ends of her torn sleeves. 

"I didn't know for sure," she said, in defense. "Their exchange took place mere hours before...before this," she thumbed at the massive hole outside, "happened. For them to depart so soon after they made the agreement...I didn't want to worry anyone needlessly with information I couldn't verify. That's...that's all. And--him." Her eyes again watched Haraldur, whose posture and facial expression betrayed only remorse for the young Sybaian's fallen comrade. Otherwise, he appeared calm, in control--a marked contrast to Alster, who threw himself into work to trick himself into wellness. Perhaps Haraldur did it for the same reasons, going on expeditions and unearthing survivors and the dead, but he was able to partition his emotion, and think only in actions. However, she doubted his split mind would act independent of the other for long--not where the subject of Vega was concerned. He already lost her once; this information, she feared, could set him over the edge.

"Be careful how you tell him," she warned, before Elespeth stood up and met with Haraldur on the far side of the infirmary tent. 

Haraldur was silent and respectful during Shayl's moment with her dead sister. However, it was difficult for him to stay impartial. He knew this woman--Ilona. Not well, but she had walked in his mind the first time--and her younger sister followed not a few days afterward. They both had helped him. It was poor recompense, that all he could do in return was deliver the corpse to her next of kin.

Kin...

Throughout his entire search and retrieval, he could not stop thinking of Klara. Her death was raw on a mind still recovering from all it had relived a mere few hours ago. Though he kept himself contained before Shayl, he could not help but lower his head and close his eyes at the sight of the young Sybaian caressing her dear sister. And her ensuing words, unwavering and resigned, about caused something visceral in Haraldur to burst forth. No. You're too young to accept this so calmly. You're too young to have seen so much. You're too young...

He paused in his inner commentary, and wondered: to whom was he speaking? To Shayl...or to his young self? 

"I did, too," he offered, opening his eyes to stare at the dead woman's battered body. "Thought I could save Klara. But I knew she would die. For a while, I knew. But it still..." he trailed away from those words that did not need reinforcing. Shayl knew what he would say, because it reflected her own submerged state of mourning. Instead, he offered his arm of comfort and drew her, carefully, to him. "We'll bury her--wherever you'd like. But first...we'll clean her--make her as dignified in death as she was in life." 

It was at this point that Elespeth entered their space. He nodded to her in acknowledgement, but said nothing in his current preoccupations. But when she began to speak, with grim hesitation, he raised his head to listen more attentively. His stomach churned, flipped, much as he tried to steel it for the worst scenario, the biliousness of which he tasted on his tongue...

But a fresh new set of voices had interrupted her prepared speech, and it made him stand in stone-petrifaction. 

It was her...

Commander.

King...sister...

Gently, he released himself from Shayl. "I'll be back, all right?" He said with a softness that he meant, but did not feel. With another silent nod of understanding to Elespeth, he marched over to where the Skyknights were talking, and presented himself as the terror-inducing Forbanne that was never far from his reach. 

"I'm going with you," he said, and it was not a matter of permission. "If she's wounded and her roc is with her, I know how to ride Aeriel. Come on. I'll ride with one of you." He breezed out of the tent before they could prohibit his involvement, and headed towards the line of waiting avians. 

Meanwhile, Alster, in midst of his second revolution of the infirmary, had reached Shayl and Elespeth. He sidled by the young Sybaian's side, and observed her arm in its makeshift sling of torn cloth strips. His face was ashen, his breathing shallow. Cold sweat matted his hair into clumps, which stuck to his forehead. But he paid no heed to the demands of his body as he pointed a swollen finger at her injury. "Here, let me see your arm. I--" A rare glimpse of clarity shone over his features when he looked at the fallen Ilona with recognition, "I owe it to your sister."

"Alster... please." Elespeth's pleading expression sought her lover's as her hands found his shoulders, and squeezed gently. "Listen to yourself... You cannot fix everyone. You are not meant to fix everyone--nobody is! And if you continue to push yourself beyond limits that you shouldn't even be realistically experiencing..." Her green eyes drifted to the Rigas casters maimed hand, swollen from the practice of breaking and healing, and missing an entire digit for the feat that he had performed on the battlefield. Was this truly the price of magic? To eat up its wielder, piece by piece, until there was nothing left? "You promised you would not leave me again," the former knight said at last, releasing Alster's shoulders. "That we would see the end of this war together. Do not break your promise to me again, Alster Rigas. I am counting on you... I'm trusting you."

It was for fear of succumbing to an emotional breakdown that Elespeth decided taking on the burden of explaining the possibility surrounding Vega Sorde's disappearance was a far more feasible task than convincing Alster Rigas to wind down. She went over the words in her mind as she made her way towards the exhausted warrior, speaking so calmly to the young Sybaian healer. So much death, and no good news... it was enough to drive anyone toward an inevitable state of defeat. It gave her pause to worry what sort of drastic action Haraldur might take in response, but in all honesty, a ray of hope was far easier to spot when you were not sitting stationary in a fugue.
In the end, the Skyknights took upon the burden themselves; and Haraldur's reaction was just as dire as she had feared. "Haraldur... do not go into this with any expectations." The Atvanian warrior cautioned gently, as she took a seat next to the subdued Sybaian girl, whose eyes did not stray from the body of her dead sister. "You do not know what you will find, and you must prepare yourself accordingly..."

Moments later, Alster was at her side once again, his delirious focus heightened on the young girl's injured arm. Much though she wished the girl's good health and recovery, Elespeth came very near insisting that the Rigas caster back away and leave well enough alone. But Shayl spoke before she could put in her opinion. "Many people owe my sister; but the Sybaia do not collect recompense for what they do." Averting her attention from the dead woman, she cast her tired gaze over the ashen visage of the Rigas caster. "Your magic has rendered you sick; it is against all of my principles to accept help from someone in your condition. Besides..." She could not keep her gaze from her sister's face for long, and inevitably that was where her attention returned. "People have been pressuring me with their desire to help since I was rescued. But I don't need that right now; my sister is gone. My family is... I don't have one, anymore. I'm alone, and I... I need time to be alone." Closing her eyes, she withdrew into herself, resting her chin upon her knees. "Please."

Whether or not he heard, she wasn't able to tell, for Haraldur was out of the tent and bound for one of the rocs before the Skyknights themselves. The initial messenger turned his nose up at the unwanted company, but the older man--Vega's own second--paused to look Haraldur over. Surprisingly, he did not dismiss the former mercenary's ambition and strong-will. "You are exhausted and have taken no time to rest," he posited, pursing his lips in thought while considering the benefits and setbacks of allowing this man to accompany the small party. "But if you are determined that you can be of help, then climb on behind me... if your familiarity of flying makes you confident that you will not fall." 

"But sir," the younger Skyknight interjected as he climbed atop his mount, "is the extra weight truly advisable? We know not what state the Commander might be in, nor the state of her roc."

"And if that truly is the case, then we will have a greater need for more help. Come on." Climbing atop the giant avian, the older man beckoned to Haraldur. "Time is of the essence when we do not know what to expect. Spurin, lead the way to where you believe you spotted the Commander."

He did not ask the former mercenary if he was securely seated before bellowing for the roc to take to the air. The two of them took up the rear, with the Skyknight 'Spurin' taking the lead in the crucial expedition. The route was a curious one, taking them in an entirely different direction from where they had been scouring Tadasun's encampment and chasing after what was left of Andalarian infiltrators. Nowhere near Stella D'Mare or even Eyraille, for that matter, they flew over a small mountainscape that crumbled into rocky terrain spilling across a dead field. 
And there, a spot of copper against an otherwise greyish and yellow landscape, lay a figure crumbled on the ground. Unmoving, and eerily alone, with no other sign of life present. Not even that of a roc.

With a shrill, the rocs landed near the solitary figure who was as easy to spot as the moon in the night sky. Neither of the Skyknights needed to have landed to see that it was, indeed, the form of their missing commander; for that, they sprang into immediate action.

Vega's second-in-command dismounted before his roc had even come to a full landing, and rushed over to the fallen figure donning Eyraillian garb. Wasting no time, he turned the body over and checked for vital signs; the relief that donned his weary features was reassurance enough that he found them. "She's alive. She's breathing and alive," he shuddered a sigh of relief, as he checked her body for any obvious injuries. "I don't know what in all hell she is doing all the way out here, but I will not disregard our blessings... and her luck. And..." He looked up to scan the horizon, sky and ground, for any signs of Vega's mount. "I don't understand... her roc is nowhere to be seen. But she is not back at camp, and if I know the obstinacy of that bird, I am confident that it would not leave her side willingly. Particularly not if she is in ill condition."

It could have been luck, or merely the result of her second-in-command pressing on a sore spot, but it was not long before Vega Sorde gasped awake, azure eyes bright and alert. Here and there her clothes were bloodied, some which was likely her own, but she did not appear to suffer any advanced injuries such as broken bones--which was evident enough in the way she pushed herself up on her elbows, panting and enclosing her arms around her body. Tangled locks of copper fell in front of her face as she leaned forward. "So... it's so... cold," the Eyraillian princess breathed, her voice a hoarse rasp that could hardly compete with the whistling of the late-autumn wind.

"Commander. Thank the gods..." The older Skyknight gripped her shoulder while the others rushed to her side. "Where have you been? And how did you even get here? We'd thought you had fallen victim to the attack on the encampment last night..."

"Attack? On... Tadasun?" Pale and shivering, her lips cracked and dry, Vega looked as though she had been missing for longer than just a couple of days. She had the air of one who had been wandering a frozen desert for a week, her uniform filthy and torn and bloodied, some nails missing from her fingers, likely in an attempt to claw her heavy form across the ground when she could no longer walk. And something all the more curious was the wide, deep-red stain at her chest: precisely where the necromancer's rune-shaped scar sat beneath her tunic. 
But she did not appear to be in much, if any pain, aside from being visibly chilled. And even that discomfort slipped from her consciousness as she turned her attention to yet another familiar face, different from that of her Skyknights. At once, her expression softened, and saddened. "Haraldur..."

"With all due respect, Commander, we should not remain here long." Vega's second gently interrupted, and offered her a hand up. Though shaky, her legs at least appeared to support her weight. "Many back at Tadasun's encampment remain in critical condition, and we have all been working to a fullest to be of help. Not to mention... it is perilous to linger, when nobody else knows of our whereabouts. Come."

Merely nodding in response, Vega's gaze fell away from Haraldur, and she let the younger Skyknight lead her to his roc. "What happened out here, Commander?" He asked, innocently out of concern. But the Eyraillian princess made no reply, and the young man knew better than to press his superior as he eased his roc back into the sky.
And although they had found what they had hoped--and that circumstances had come out for the best, the older Skyknight, with whom Haraldur flew once again, could not help but feel that something was terribly wrong. That their Commander had returned to them in pieces, so to speak, for by the dullness of her cerulean eyes, he would have guessed that she was now shouldering some burden about which she had no inclination to speak...

I'm counting on you... I'm trusting you.

Elespeth's words found a place to stick beneath where his thoughts ran rampant, untethered and wild. Though near impossible to catch the beast of his burdens, they somehow succeeded. Alster carried them with him throughout his healing rounds. They clung to dear life and whispered their concerns in a ceaseless loop. You're mortal, they said. You'll die. There'll be nothing left of you. You promised her. You promised...

But instead of encouraging him to cease exploiting himself and his seemingly unlimited abilities, the concerns of his lover crossed into his insecurities--and magnified them into fear.

I can't stop. His hands kept busy mending the bones of patient after patient. He began to lose track of how many he healed. The familiar nibbling sensation, the one which took his little finger on the field, encroached closer and closer. It threatened. It needled. It nipped. I promised her, but I can't stop. I've let her down again. She'll never forgive me. I'm going to lose her. I'll lose her. His heart felt like a wheel that detached from a speeding carriage, careening and careening down a hill that never ended. But I...can't...stop! 

Straddling the line between management and madness, Alster wound back around the tent. Now, he stood before the little Sybaian girl with the broken arm--and Elespeth. Too abashed to look her in the eyes, he focused all attention on the girl. She was an easy fix. Probably the easiest of all he had healed in the tent thus far. 

He reached his hands out to her, ready to piece together the broken. He wanted the gratification, the thrill--the only reason he could find for his sanity to remain, so tenuous was its grasp. But she pulled away, shaking her head. Denying him. 

"Let me at least heal you," he said, and his tone was as desperate as her plea for privacy. "It will only take a moment." He stretched a hand out for her, and again, she retreated. A forced smile spread across his lips, taut and unnatural. It made his eyes bulge, the notes of mania made even more noticeable. "I'm not sick. On the contrary, I've never felt more, more...energized." He laughed, but it was uneasy. Off-kilter and unbalanced. "What I have is near limitless, but I don't know how long it will last. Please..." his pupils were contracting. He was losing whatever composure he had convinced himself to feel. This was rejection. Someone was standing in his way, and he didn't know how to cope with it. Didn't know if he could maintain the construct of being. Felt that if he lost it, he'd crumble away, out of existence, and his promise to Elespeth--gone. Broken and as brittle as bones. 

"I can't fail, and I won't. If you don't let me heal you..." He spread his fingers toward her, aimed for her like a target that he would shoot down if necessary, "I'll do it anyway."

Tivia, who crept up behind Elespeth as soon as she saw Haraldur leave the tent, watched the entire exchange with wide eyes. Alster was volatile. Nigh unstoppable. If he could tear down an entire battlefield, he could do so again with ease, were he provoked into action. 

"Elespeth," she hissed into the Atvanian's ear, "this is delicate. We have to proceed carefully. If we restrain him, or use force, he may lash out. It could destroy him--or everyone. Or both. I'm going to look through the medical supplies--find any drugs that may slow him down. But you'll need to distract him. Whatever it takes, do it. You're the only one who can get through to him." She slipped away, as stealthily as possible, and searched in earnest for any chemicals that had even the slimmest chance of incapacitating him. 

"I will not slow you down," Haraldur said to both the second-in-command and the younger Skyknight. His words were like tempered steel, battered many a time in forge-fire, but made all the stronger from the process. He said not another word as he marched over to the roc waiting area and climbed upon the one as directed by the second-in-command. They were in the air mere moments later. Haraldur, practiced from his trips upon Aeriel, had lashed his legs against the sides of the mighty beast and folded his hands against the older man's waist. He remained steady during the long trip, but his mind was anything but. It sorted through every possibility, channeling through scenarios as swiftly as the wind that tore at his hair and at his half-bare legs, chilled and shivering from the exposure. 

They were flying north, beyond the warm currents of coastal Andalari and the desert-like landscape of Tadasun. The mild weather sloughed away from them as they scaled greater heights in compensation for the mountain range that sailed before him. He didn't recognize the peaks as belonging to Eyraille. They had veered further west, closer to Mollengardian territory than he dared ever go alone. But it was unavoidable. That was where they traveled. That was where Vega had been spotted. And Mollengard commanded such a behemoth swath of land, that he shouldn't have been surprised. But he was. What was Vega doing so far out and so far north? What business did she have, that it couldn't wait another day? Was she running away? Did he drive her to this result, by his dismissals of her help and disregard for her company? 

He paused in his musings as the rocs let out a collective screech and began to descend in unison. He peered over the second-in-command's shoulder, to afford himself a better view of the land. 

It was a rock-strewn field, similar to what surrounded the arid land between Andalari and Tadasun, only it was dotted in places with snow, and complete in its barrenness. Nothing seemed to grow. No grasses or trees peppered the field: only brushes of green lichen clinging to the snow-powdered rocks and boulders. 

He saw her, then. A flash of red, distinct from the muted colors of the field. She was there, but her roc was nowhere to be seen. His worry intensified as they flew nearer to the ground, then landed. Leaping off the mount, not bothering to wait for his legs to adjust to the sedentary earth, he half-ran, half-stumbled over to the fallen Vega, fearing the worst. He would find her dead, gone, leaving him with nothing more to do than accept her fate, as he should have done weeks ago. He saw the blotch of red on her chest, taking the place of the necromancer's jagged runemark, and he paused in his strides, faltering. It's over, he thought, and a shiver, not from the cold, kicked up around his entire body. 

But then he heard the prognosis. "She's alive. She's breathing and alive," and he forced himself ahead again, until he was kneeling on the cold, snowy earth, at her side. Moments later, she gasped awake. He didn't realize that he had grabbed her hand in the interim between unconsciousness and her sudden wakefulness, fingers intertwined. "Vega," he said, but his expressed relief was spoken over by the second-in-command and all the Skyknights in her rescue squad. 

He released her hand and backed away, allowing her men to reach and care for her. They hauled her to her feet and threw a blanket over her shoulders. She recognized him, then, and uttered his name, but she didn't seem too relieved to see him. On the contrary, she appeared guilty, and couldn't even hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. What had happened to her? 

Feeling at once useless and out of place among her men, he drifted back to the second-in-command's roc and remained silent throughout the return trip. He looked behind him, on occasion, to see the mount on which Vega traveled, her arms hanging loosely around the young Skyknight. Lifeless. Dead, in another sense. In spirit. 

When they landed that evening in what remained of Tadasun's camp, he walked over to meet her--but the Skyknights had beaten him to their commander. They pulled her off the roc on which she sat and escorted her to a tent they had erected expressly for her. He trailed behind, at a loss for what to do. This wasn't physical injury--not by much, anyhow. She wasn't suffering from hypothermia. This ran deeper, deeper even than the hole in which he'd been trapped. He stood by her cot as they lowered her onto it with care. While they proceeded to dress her wounds, he, again, could only say her name, a whisper of pain on his lips. "Vega..."

'Sick' was perhaps an understatement of an observation, Elespeth thought, as she witnessed Alster's wholly uncharacteristic aggression toward the helpless (yet stubborn) Sybaian girl. Something was very wrong with the Rigas caster; it was as if his magic was truly driving him mad, the way that Tivia feared hers might someday affect her. This is not you... the voice at the back of her mind whispered. You never use force. Never; not under any circumstances... What, exactly, did he plan to do if Shayl continued to refuse him?
The Atvanian warrior decided that she'd rather not find out--for Alster's sake, if not Shayl's.

"His magic has unhinged him... I doubt that there is anything I can say that will change his mind," she whispered to Tivia, her heart heavy with a defeated, sinking feeling. "But I'll... I have to try. He is a danger to himself." And to everyone else, was the unspoken fact that she and Tivia mutually understood.

Turning away from Alster's cousin, Elespeth risked laying a gentle hand upon his arm, coaxing him to turn away from the injured Sybaian healer who would have no one's interference. "Listen to her. Listen to yourself. Alster, this is not like you. Not like how a healer should act..." She could feel the pulsing of renegade energy beneath her fingertips, a slow burn that made her want to withdraw. He was beyond self-regulation at this point, practically a slave to his own magical ambition. "She is hurting in a way that you cannot help her; she has lost someone. And she deserves time to grieve, broken arm or not. I know that deep down, you must see that as well... don't you?" She managed a shaky half-smile, before adding, "I know you are stronger than this. Let go of this inertia and find your compassion..."

The former knight might as well have been speaking to a wall, for all Alster managed to listen. Worse, the longer she spoke, the longer that she kept him from the very task that he sought to complete, which only caused further agitation beneath his skin. She could have sworn that his skin had become searing to the touch by the time she withdrew her hand, and found the tips of her fingers had indeed pinkened from the contact. He's beyond reason, she fretted, and sought out Tivia, but she was still preoccupied in searching for the supplies she needed.
"There is no time." She hissed through her teeth. "Alster. Alster--look at me!" And no sooner did the frantic Rigas caster turn his head that her fist connected with the side of his face; a blow strong enough to render unconsciousness, and leave a swollen bruise in its wake.

To her great relief (and mild sense of guilt), Elespeth caught Alster before his unconscious form could slump to the floor. He felt heavier than she remembered, but then again, she was still relatively weak from poor nourishment and combating illness. Shooting Tivia an apologetic glance, she half-carried, half-dragged Alster's dead weight to one of the cots, and lay him upon it. "His face will need ice," she informed one of the Tadasuni medics, then turned to Shayl with a sigh of apology. "I am sorry for his actions; he isn't himself. But... you should let someone look at your arm. When you are ready."

Returning to Tivia's side, the former knight hung her head in shame and defeat, looking worse for the wear in light of her decision to act. "Sorry... but he had to be stopped," she explained with a sigh. "I doubt he will be out for long, though, so if you found anything among the medical supplies, no doubt they'll come in handy."

Vega said nothing for the duration of the trip back, and her escort thankfully asked nothing of her. No explanations demanded--at least, not until they landed, and ushered her to the small, private tent they'd erected for her return. "Where were you headed, your highness?" "Why did you not inform us of your departure?" "What happened?" "Where is your roc?" The questions were a bombardment of hurdles that the Eyraillian princess only wished to avoid. And the more they asked of her, the more she seemed to withdraw into herself, until it became painfully obvious that she was shutting them out.

The princess's second-in-command, fortunately, knew a fragile situation when he saw one, and at last saw fit to push back from all of the questions that assailed his commander. "That is enough. She is hypothermic and in need of rest." His voice rose above the din, inciting a quietude in the small tent, with Vega at the very center of it. "Save your questions for later. Commander Sorde will divulge what she feels appropriate all in good time." Although he spoke with confidence, his face lacked the self-assurance to influence others' sense of hope.
Nonetheless, they were not about to speak against the older man. Vega had put him in charge during her absences for a reason; and until she chose to speak again, he was still in charge.

He was not oblivious to the fact that, while the others cleared out of the tent, Haraldur did not make to follow. It crossed his mind only for a second to demand the former mercenary leave Vega alone, before he realized what folly it would be to truly allow the stricken princess to remain solitary and surrounded by nothing but silence. Even if she wished not to speak, it was imperative that she realize she wasn't alone--however she might have wanted to be. And if anyone should be present, then it was clear to him that Haraldur should be that person. He had seen the way the man looked at the princess... That was the sort of company that she deserved.
"Should she need anything," he told the warrior, his voice low, "then we will not be far. Perhaps... she would be more willing to open up to you."

With a solemn nod, he left them alone in the tent, lit only by the dim light of a candle at Vega's bedside. The shadows played upon her face, accentuating the curvature of her cheeks and jaw, and the sunken darkness around her eyes. The Skyknight commander stared at nothing in particular, turned on her side and shivering despite the weight of the coarse woolen blanket covering her form. She wasn't unaware of Haraldur's presence next to her cot; the reassuring shadow that his form cast across the floor, the lulling tone of his voice as he spoke her name, but she could find no words to reply. What would I say? And how? How can I possibly... Unable to even finish her thought, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if to block out the reality before her eyes, the decision she had made, and what it had cost her. I won't... I cannot ever let him know. Not what it cost. And not...why.

Alster's limbs were aflame. Burning, burning, burning. Any hotter and his skin would slough into ashes. His hand was outstretched, poised, ready to release. An amorphous, white-blue disk spiraled into his palm, awash with a healing energy so pure and concentrated, that surely, if he threw it from this distance, it would heal any who encountered its brilliant, pulsating salve. It opened up before the little Sybaian girl, spinning and welcoming. It would rend her open with its healing, but he was not aware of this designation. He only saw release, which could only be the right thing. He wouldn't allow the magic within him to burn, burn, burn him up, destroy him from the inside, consume and engulf and envelop until not even a trace remained. Out. He needed to heal. Heal her. It's all you can do. You promised. Release, release...

He heard exterior voices yammering in his ears. They were insistent, relentless. They grew hands and grappled for his arms, to still him in place. He recognized her, then. Elespeth. She held fast to him, but her words were faraway. He couldn't reach; he couldn't hear. Nothing but roaring, frenzied pounding. The sizzle and pop and high keen of his magic, which boiled, bubbled, pressurized...

"I can't stop," he wheezed, all at once an apology, an explanation, a justification, a cry for help, a fear that trembled, that spoke of his undoing. Tears rimmed his eyes as he turned to face his interlocutor. And then...blackness. 

The spell, neither released to its target or retracted, and with nowhere else to go, ate away at Alster's hand--and took the first segment of his right ring finger. 

Tivia rushed to Elespeth the moment she caught his unconscious form in her arms. She had not yet succeeded in finding any sedatives, but for now, Alster had been detained. Though unconscious, his chest fluttered wildly, and he radiated a heat that she felt even from her position several feet away. Together, she and Elespeth rearranged him on an available cot. A Tadasuni attendant, hearing the request for something cold, rushed over and laid a cloth dipped in cool water over the ailing caster's searing forehead. 

Tivia, daring to reestablish contact, lifted Alster's swollen right hand, and gasped when she saw that a chunk of his second digit was now missing. 

"This...this is really bad." She dropped his hand and twiddled her own fingers, glad, at least, that hers were still in tact. "I fear...that he has Mariana's sickness. Even the Sybaia could not cure her. It..." With a courageous intake of breath, she prepared to divulge yet another series of dire news; it was all she was good for, she realized. Between the camp's inevitable destruction, Vega's whereabouts, and now...it was all too much. 

"When a caster possesses more magic than their body is able to handle, it can cause...complications. Though it is circumstantial. It depends on a caster's constitution, the amount of magical aptitude they have stored, and if the caster in question performs a great feat that exacerbates the vessel of their bodies. Frankly, I'm surprised it took Alster this long to suffer such a physical breakdown. He must have a generous amount of magic resistance. But," she bit her lip," his stunt on the battlefield...it awakened some latent ability in him. Magic is feeding into his system in a limitless loop and his body cannot keep up. At this rate, it'll..." she nodded towards his hand, "and maybe even...attack his mind. Do irrevocable, permanent damage...if it isn't doing so already. He has to find a way to release it--to break the loop. But he can't do that without destroying his vessel and--Elespeth." She hid both sides of her face in her hands, "I don't think there's any hop--" 

She bit away her final word, her one eye widening with a sudden epiphany. "The twin stars. You..." She whirled on Elespeth, transferring her hands over the other woman's wrists. "You can act as buffer, Elespeth! Already, you have. You've used his magic, before. Oh stars, why didn't I think of this? That is what they've been trying to show me all along!" 

To quell her sudden excitement, she sat on the edge of Alster's bed, commanding her voice not to shout. Already, those who were conscious and nearby had shot her looks of disapproval. She cleared her throat, and tried to explain. "The reason Alster has a twin...it goes beyond just compatibility of personality. You--your body--it's compatible with his. You can handle his power. The two of you were brought together because he cannot possibly exist without you. And I mean that, literally. He would disintegrate. The magic would eat him alive. This is how you save his life, Elespeth. What you did a few days before, pulling him out of his ritual...that wasn't what my visions showed me. Wasn't what the stars screamed. It's..." She pressed Elespeth's hand over Alster's mangled one, and pressed them together, "it's this. He'll make it to the end. I see him facing against the Serpent. And to save him, to save yourself...you must be by his side the entire time." 

The other Skyknights made their retreat as per the second-in-command's directive, but Haraldur did not budge. Fortunately, the older man seemed to understand his predilections towards Vega, and left him alone in the tent. The silence, an eerie contrast to the earlier bustle of a half-dozen chatting men, was too real an echo for him to endure. The repetitions of the last day and a half...he needed to break them, lest he fall again into comfortable habits. Forbanne-sanctioned habits. 

He approached the bed. Placed a hand upon her frozen cheek. She shivered; her teeth chattered. If not for those bodily reactions...he'd think her a corpse. 

No, you can't think that way. She's alive. And she'll stay that way...

But the wool blanket would do naught to help reclaim her hue and constitution. And her health, of present, was more important than her mysterious disappearance or the toll it had taken on her and her missing roc.

He began to pull off his boots, his belt, and his tattered trousers. He unbuckled pieces of his brigandine and peeled the armor away from his torso. Last, he yanked away his shirt, the final piece. Now naked, he crawled upon the bed beside Vega, and placed his hands over the front of her uniform. "Take off your clothes." 

He helped her through the process. She, too sluggish, frozen, and disoriented, could nary unbutton or unbuckle, let alone move to manipulate the clothes off her body. Soon enough, she was naked, and he wasted no time. He curled himself around her, and held her tight against his warmth. With the folds of the blanket situated over Vega and himself, they succeeded in trapping all the heat, and basking in it. 

"I don't know what happened," he whispered as he kept skin rubbing against skin, "but that's not important right now. Keeping warm is. Let's stay focused on this task..." he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, "all right, Vega?"

"But what does that mean? Surely something can be done... there has to be something." Elespeth did not like the glint of defeat in Tivia's one good eye when she spoke of what ailed her cousin. "We can't just let his magic eat him alive! I won't allow it... Stella D'Mare could very well be doomed without his help!" And so could I, she thought with dread. The former knight hadn't realized just how much of herself she had invested in the Rigas caster until she had lost him; and without him, she had crumbled to a shadow of her former self, lost in the crevices of her own broken heart. I can't lose him... especially not like this.

Taken aback, the Atvanian warrior nearly lost her balance when Tivia grasped her wrists in sudden hopeful fervor. "Me?" Came her breathy plea for clarification. "But how can I..." Then she remembered: in their flight from Messino's undead soldiers, she had attacked them with a power that was not her own. She had felt the buzz of magic course through her veins, finding release through her fingertips, and had suffered a fever in the aftermath. But she had done it: she had channeled Alster's magic through their bond. If she could wield it then, she could wield it now, and relieve her lover of some of the burden that chewed away at his mind and body.

Biting her lower lip, she nodded, and gently removed Tivia's trembling hands from her wrists. "I don't know how I managed to tap into his magic last time," she confessed, green eyes focusing on the still, feverish form of Alster upon the adjacent cot. "But I will figure it out. He severed our bond, but I accidentally reinstated it when I saved him from his ritual. Maybe... no. I will tap into it again. I don't have a choice."

With a sigh as heavy as the burden that she was prepared to take upon her shoulders, Elespeth took a seat next to Alster on his cot. For the hour that followed, she cooled the cloth on his forehead with water whenever it grew too warm, smoothed the hair from his brow, and tended to the bruise that had begun to blossom on his cheek from her blow. Just as Tivia had said, she did not leave his side, for fear that he would take a turn for the worst in her absence. The relief that flooded through her when he opened his eyes--eyes that shone with some of the clarity that he'd lacked when last he was conscious--was almost palpable.

"Alster. I can help you... I can protect you from yourself." The former knight ventured a shaky smile and ran her fingers gently over his bruised cheek. "Your magic... I can take it into me. Just like I shared a wound to the heart that would have killed you. But you need to let me... please." Lowering her face to meet his, her chestnut hair tickled his neck as she leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss upon his lips. "Alone, we are vulnerable. But together... we are strong. Unstoppable. Share your burden with me." Entwining her fingers between his, she pressed her scar against his own ravaged palm, feeling the familiar warmth of electricity between them. "Please."

She didn't know where the cold began and ended. Inside of her, outside, surrounding her. Vaguely aware of the voices speaking to her, Vega chose not to respond, dwelling in the fugue that was the limbo between wakefulness and sleep. But then, there was another voice; a familiar one that spoke her name, and then coaxed her to follow an instruction. Clothes... She didn't have the mental stamina to be defiant, yet didn't quite understand what she was doing when her trembling fingers reached for her buttons at the front of her uniform. Numb as her hands were, she could hardly find the buttons to properly undress, but continued to try nonetheless.

The Skyknight commander only gave up the task when another pair of hands began to do the job for her, stripping away her soaked and tattered clothes until they were discarded. It left her pale form naked and vulnerable to the cold, but only for a moment, before those helping hands encircled her waist and pulled her into a warm and comforting embrace. Her desperate skin soaked up the body heat like a thirsty sponge, and as her numb appendages began to thaw, they throbbed with the sudden change in temperature. It was painful, but not enough to want to pull away from the familiar feel of that skin, the soothing murmur of a voice that resonated deep in her heart.

"...Haraldur." His name left her lips, a whisper of relief that tickled his neck with her breath. He was here, sheltering her, keeping her warm without demanding the details of what had come to pass. Which was exactly what she needed, then and there. "I... I'm sorry." The words slipped out, yet she could not truly decipher their reason, for the fog in her brain. Why was she sorry? For having left unexpectedly, causing him worry? For the argument they'd had just prior to her departure? Or for suffering a burden that was meant for him, knowing full well he never would have agreed to allow it?
But then, the reason didn't really matter; the words were necessary, regardless.

Unable to control the shivering of her body, the Eyraillian princess pressed closer to the warrior, her forehead touching the scars on his chest. Her own scar--the rune carved over her heart--looked fresh with dried blood. As if it had been carved anew, and only recently healed. "I heard talk... Tadasun was devastated... in an ambush." Vega breathed, gritting her teeth against the painful ache of thawing tissues. "I'm so glad you're alright..."

"With or without your blood bond, I believe that your stars are what truly keep you connected. That is something neither of you can sever." Tivia rose from the cot to allow Elespeth her seat beside the unconscious caster who, though still and silent, thundered from the inside with the might of his magic. It churned and settled, broke apart and resettled. The sensation was disturbing, like an tidal wave about to rush in and sweep away an entire civilization. "I'm going to try and rest. I'll bring you some sedatives for Alster--in case you need them." 

Alster, after about an hour, opened weary eyes to the overbright world, confusion marring his features. He had been adrift under closed lids, not sleeping, but not being, either. Stars twinkled and burned in the ink of his primordial prison. Each star was a piece of him: a finger, a foot, an arm, his heart. He was disseminated across the universe, a congregation of dust. Floating, floating...dwindling. The stars dimmed. He faded, lessening. The blackness intensified--but for one spot in the center. Blue, flickering. It called out to him, tugged him near.

The stars turned back on, and the world reformed before Alster's eyes. He was now looking at Elespeth, and awareness, though slow, had returned to him. 

He recalled where he was. Recalled the woman who caressed and kissed him, singing words that at first he could not decipher. They were beautiful all the same, because they flushed and swelled with hope and love. But then he remembered what he had done, including the last bits of memory before the blackness took him.

Then he remembered the rush of his heart, ready to fly out of his ribcage. The spin of his head, the pressure therein, the contortions that squeezed his brain. The cold chills combined with the fire that erupted beneath his skin. The cramping of his stomach. The sickness that gathered at its core. The overwhelming feeling of release. The need, which cloyed, squirmed, burrowed and ate. 

Eager to direct his attention somewhere, he looked at Elespeth, concentrated on her words, on how her hand held his like it was a priceless treasure, and not a tool of destruction. But those words and their intent, and the mismatch of their fingers, registered in him a simulacrum of horror. 

"I'm breaking." He sat up on the cot, flinching from the bombardment of vertigo and the sparks that assailed every spot on his body, singeing and exact. "My...my hand." His fingers, what remained of them, twitched in response. They pulled away from Elespeth's touch, in shame. "We're not...we don't fit, El. Not anymore." His breathing spiked, and he wrapped his arms around his middle, as if to hold himself together. To control. Breathe in. Out. In out. Focus. Focus on her. She's here, here, here.

"I'll...I'll get rid of it." He struggled to stand, but Elespeth's steady arms kept him seated. "The magic...I've been releasing it. I need to keep releasing, and I'll be...it'll be--I'll flush it out. You," he tried again to rise, "can't take this. Your body won't...handle it. It'll be," he squeezed his eyes shut, "too much for you, and--"

A shudder rippled through his body. Slumping forward on the cot, his breath hitching, he lapsed into a series of painful heaves, and vomited. The contractions didn't cease, and he spilled a second stream of bile onto the ground. The third time...it was blood. 

Beneath their shroud, Haraldur never stopped moving his arms and hands around Vega's icy skin. Though he lingered in places, on her neck, shoulders, and waist, he kept a continuous cycle, distributing his warmth in ready amounts. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her ears and mouth, expelling hot breaths in each area. He faltered only when he saw the fresh wound on her chest. That rune, again, Oozing with renewal. Reopened, redrawn. He could not help but run a tentative finger near its surface, but he was quick to retract it, in case the touch caused her pain.

"I'll...I"ll only ask you this." He rested his hand behind Vega's head and encouraged her to burrow into his chest. He stroked her copper locks, but his fingers tensed, curled with trepidation. "Should I be worried...about that rune?" 

He allowed that question to hang in the air, and chose to focus on her inquiries. Though there wasn't much positive news to report, he opted to tell her of his experience, rather than hide it from her--as he had done, as a rule, for so long. 

"A massive hole opened up in the ground. I...fell in the hole. But I was with a...a girl. A Sybaian healer." His story grew choppier, hesitant. Self-consciousness appeared as paleness upon his cheeks. "My arm was wounded and to heal it...I let her into my mind. And she...I think she helped. More than just my wound." He fingered the chain of his decrepit necklace with his other hand, his tone thoughtful. "I saw my mother and...I don't know, maybe my mind was so desperate to heal and it needed to hear something, anything. So it made up a story, and in it, revealed my true name. Which, well...is no different from the one I have now. I'm not very imaginative." He managed a chuckle, pulling gently on Vega's hair to separate the tangles. "Or maybe that girl played a trick on me. A very convincing one, because she was tired of my obstinacy and wanted out of the hole. Your Skyknights did come through, though, and fished us out. We weren't down there for very long. But," he sighed, "the girl--she has no one, now. Her sister is dead, and I...want to make sure she's looked after."

He kissed her again on the nose, then on the mouth. I'll look after you, too. As I should have been doing all along, he thought, trying to ignore the sight of her fresh rune-scar, what it implied, and how it seemed to tie in with Vitali's sudden vanishing...

"We do... We do still fit, Alster! We always have, with or without that blood bond." Elespeth was desperate. In Alster's current state, wracked by his very own magic that ate him up from the inside out, there was no other option. And Tivia was right; she had been right about everything since falling victim to that fire, that had awakened her psychic potential. If she truly thought that the Atvanian warrior was the key to Alster's health and safety, to helping him through this aliment that no form of healing could touch... then she was inclined to risk her own body in this endeavor.
After all, what was she without him? What use could she be in a war that was so much bigger than her?

She wouldn't take no for an answer. Couldn't.

As the ailed Rigas caster attempted to stand, Elespeth held him back, hands firmly on his shoulders. "No, you're not. You're going to get through this without letting the magic eat away at you, finger by finger--and you are going to let me help. Do you understand me, Alster?"
But he didn't reply. Instead, his body convulsed, preceding violet retching that very nearly caused him to lose his balance on the cot. As soon as the meager contents of his stomach turned to blood, however, she turned to Tivia, who had stood worriedly off to the side during this exchange. "How much longer can he realistically last like this?" The former knight demanded, gripping Alster's shoulders from behind just to keep the caster upright. "I need to tap into it... to share the magic. How can I do it? Tell me, Tivia!"

Moments later, Alster collapsed against the cushion of the cot, following his exhausted bout of retching. His face was paler than before, and his eyes swam between consciousness and delirium. She could lose him at any second; the magic could burn him out, snuff his life like the flame of a candle. And she would never forgive herself should she let that come to pass. "No--you aren't going to succumb to this. Were roles reversed, you would not allow that of me, Alster. I know you wouldn't; you'd sooner sacrifice yourself." Gripping his hand, clammy and cold as it was to the touch, Elespeth pressed her scar against his. She felt the connection, the electricity, the excitement of two pieces of the same puzzle meeting at their focal point. "I saved you before... let me save you again. My body can tolerate your magic; I have already proven as much. As it stands, it is too much for you... It's too much for any one person. But between two, it is feasible. It can be tempered. Together, Alster." Her eyes and voice grew soft and dewy with the weight of her plea, as the former knight sought her lover's feverish eyes. "Let's do this together. You promised not to leave me; I won't leave you behind, either."

He was her warmth. Her grounding pillar of strength, the one thing that reminded her that she was alright--alive and in his arms. For what she had ensured, only to wind up freezing in an unfamiliar wasteland, abandoned by that damned necromancer, there was no one else the Eyraillian princess would have been willing to talk to at that time. But Haraldur... It was almost as if their most recent disagreement had never even come to pass. Once again she felt the ease of reassurance that her life, above all, still meant more to him than their quarrels. 
Most importantly, it became clear to her that she had, in fact, made the right decision in taking on her lover's burden. Regardless of what it had cost her... It was worth it. He was worth it.

For all intents and purposes, he was all that she had left.

Yet even for him, the question he posed rang as almost too averse to acknowledge. That damned symbol... And the man who had carved it into her, only to carve it again some time later, this time to meet his own personal goal. But the mercenary was not asking her to explain, at the very least. And the answer to his skeptical inquiry was a simple as a single syllable. "No." The word was carried on a deep exhale, followed by a slow smile that tugged at Vega's trembling lips. The Skyknight commander pressed her cheek to his chest, felt and heard the steady rhythm of his heart, and clung to this moment--this brief moment of peace and companionship--as if her life depended on it. "No... you don't need to worry. Not about anything, not anymore..." Her heart swelled, bulging with the urge to tell him that he need not live in fear of his debt to the necromancer Vitali. If only to see the relief on his face on realizing that he was, finally, a free man.
Except that he would never forgive her if he knew what she had done; and for that, she could never tell him.

Falling silent, the Eyraillian princess took solace in Haraldur's story. The hum of his voice, the certainty of his words, as if it had never been a question that he would survive, unscathed. As his body warmed hers, thawing the freeze in her veins and beneath her skin, and fending off her uncontrollable shivering, she began to nod off a few time before he finished, but never let herself fall completely into the hands of sleep. Not after what she had experienced; she wanted to be awake, aware. And to focus on something other than the past.
What really captivated her attention, however, was his mention of the young girl who had helped him. Of course it had been a child to tug at his heartstrings... Just as Thora did. Nevertheless remaining a sore spot for him, it came as no surprise that the mercenary had taken on the self-imposed burden of looking out for yet another young one. Most reassuring of all, was that instead of running, as he had from Thora... he embraced this desire. You are not as dangerous as you think you are. At least, not to the young and virtually helpless.

"Then... we will make sure she is looked after." Vega assured him, her voice soft and hoarse from exposure. Her skin, red and frost-bitten in a handful of small patches, ached and burned with sensation returning to it as her nerves slowly came alive, but she did not dare move. She wasn't sure she could if she tried. "Whatever it requires... just..." Finally allowing her eyes to fall closed, Vega breathed against his neck, all pain and discomfort shoved to the back of her mind as she took what she could from the peaceful moment. "I need rest... just a little. Then I can help--with whatever is needed. I won't take no for an answer, Haraldur..." Not if she could help it. Right now, she needed a focal point, something that could maintain her focus and attention. Something to keep her grounded... lest she unravel into the useless fabric of her very being, and become exactly what Eyraille expected of her. Nothing. A failure.

Tivia, despite announcing her desire for sleep and wandering off to do just that, found that she could scarcely keep her eyes open for long. Invariably, she doubled back to where Elespeth awaited Alster's awakening, and reached them right as he began to eject crimson-tinted bile onto the ground. She looked away in disgust, unable to abide by the sight, but she kept her ear tilted towards Elespeth and her desperate inquiries, though she didn't answer until the sounds of Alster's sickness abated. The poor wreck of a caster flopped back on the cot, his entire body throbbing in pain that was vocalized by the low, mournful moans vibrating in his throat. 

"I'm only aware of Mariana's case, and hers was different," Tivia said with a soft cadence. She neared the two on the cot, but stood on the opposite side of Alster's pool of vomit. If she looked, she, too, would become sick. "It took years for her, and it ate only her mind. But the serious symptoms of her disease began to appear about a month before her death--so Lysander has told me. Alster, with the suddenness of his symptoms and the sheer amount of magic that's flooding through his system, I--" she dug her nails into the scar tissue of her ruined face, "I'm no physician, Elespeth. I know he will survive to see the Serpent, but that may be because of you. Because you took his burden. Without it...I'd predict about...two weeks. But I," she lowered her face, in apology, "I don't know how someone who is not magically gifted is able to tap into great stores of magic such as his. Or into any caster's magic, for that matter. I'm sorry, Elespeth. It's...it's beyond me. But somehow, you've done it before." 

Though Alster appeared delirious, unaware and half-conscious, he listened to Tivia's bleak prognosis and the ensuing words of determination from Elespeth. He fluttered his swollen lids open to stare into the eyes of the woman he loved, who would do anything for him--and he, for her. If he died, if the magic killed him, she, too, might succumb to death, pulled into the void by his rending soul. He promised himself he'd never raise a hand to harm her, but if sharing his magic could save her life through saving his life...

His lips quivered as he parted his mouth to speak: an airy, raw whisper. "To...together," he agreed. Tightening his grip on their hands, their blood bond, he slowly returned to an upright stance, minding that his stomach and the swarm of vertigo in his head had reached a stable point. "Close...close your eyes. And open yourself to me." Waiting until she did so, he looked beyond her, at Tivia, who watched with consternation. "If it...goes wrong, somehow, I'll need you to stop it, Tivia. In any way you deem necessary. Even if it ends up taking my whole arm. Do you understand?"

"I...I understand." 

Without a moment more of delay, Alster closed his eyes and called upon his magic. It was like standing in a raging inferno in which he felt every whip of flame, every searing touch, every hiss, crackle, and roar in his ears. It bowed him over in a bid to take him over, to use him as fuel to grow and expand and consume. To consume everything...

Grinding his teeth, he steeled himself against the inferno, waving and twisting, but never falling. He couldn't. Not now. For, with his will, he invited Elespeth into the soul of his magic. Into the center, which never stopped burning. Which, were she not careful, were he not careful, could engulf her into an incendiary hell. And he would not be long in following her. 

The transfer began. The fire entered her, as it entered him. As it was him. White-hot, a pierce like steel from the forge, glowing, sizzling, straight through the heart. He had opened a direct circuit, fed her with his insatiable energies, releasing it...but into another receptacle.

Release it all, his soul screamed. Now is your chance. She'll die, but you'll be free. Free of the pain, free of it all!

Free of it all...It sounded too good to be true. A fantasy. A fable. An end to the nightmare...

No! He shouted back at the forces that clamped at Elespeth's sides, which began to pour it all into her. He reeled those forces back in time, returned them to himself, felt the familiar bite and claw and screech as it flailed and tried to fight its way out of him. The nightmare never ends, he told it. But at least she'll be there. And I have to trust that it's enough. It is enough...

The transfer was complete. He had imbued his magic in her, but only a fraction. For now. To see how much she could handle. To see if a fraction was all he needed to expel in order to function as normal--or relatively normal. Gasping himself awake, he released Elespeth's hand and looked over to her, apprehensive. He felt a little better. A little lighter, more clear-headed. The magic still churned and kicked its fury at him, but it was manageable. A low burn. But Elespeth...how was she faring? 

"How...how do you feel?" 

Haraldur's stray thoughts began to gnaw at him. The rune scar...Vega's glib response to it. Her cryptic uttering of "Not anymore." It put him on alert. Only the necromancer could be behind the redrawing of that rune into her skin. Of course he was the culprit. It explained Vega's sudden flight from camp and why no one could locate Vitali--unless he was dead, and Haraldur refused to believe that a hole blasted into the ground would kill him that easily. Her reticence was from trauma, and true to her word, he would not press her for information. But he believed she was unresponsive for other reasons. She didn't want him to know. Know the details. Know what she did. Know of her arrangements with the necromancer, who he wanted to curse to the heavens. All his muscles stiffened with the image of his smug smile as he walked away from Vega in the cold sweep of the high-desert wind, leaving her to die, without a roc to fly home--and his thoughts turned red. Blood. Like rivulets down a sword. Awash in the remains of a victim. Destroyed. Desiccated. A mess that could not be cleaned.

If he ever saw that accursed necromancer again, he would kill him. And he would succeed. Forbanne were made to be mage-killers, and he had killed many a mage. 

His jaw set, tight and winding. Though he tried to relax for Vega's sake, he lay rigid in the bed beside her. He had to find out the truth, and he knew she would keep silent. But how could he glean the facts? 

Elespeth. She seemed to know something--unless she was only revealing to him what he discovered from the other Skyknights. That Vega had been found, alive. Virtually unharmed--on the outside. But what if the venture had killed her? What possessed her to take the chance, to go out and risk the life he had nearly died to save? It infuriated him--but he could not act upon that fury. Not when he wasn't certain of her reasons, or the nature of his excursion. In the morning, he would ask Elespeth what she knew. But for now...

He worked to expel the shivers of rage that rippled inside him. Invited only care. Warmth. He continued to caress Vega. To kiss the frostbitten patches of her skin. To enfold her, and provide a ready bed on which she could sleep and, hopefully, forget. 

"We can meet her in the morning," he told her, in soft, steady whispers. "I promised to bury her sister. But...that's hours away. Close your eyes." He kissed her eyelids, for emphasis. "I'll be here when you wake." 

Rest she did. He heard the changes in her heartbeat, slow and thrumming. Her breathing was steady, if a little shallow. But they were all signs that she was alive. Alive...but how close was he to losing her, again, to the pull of death? And how could she risk throwing it away for the necromancer? Did he force the debt upon her, or did she take it in Haraldur's stead, despite his explicit warnings not to? 

He needed to breathe. To close his eyes. To rest. If he didn't...he wasn't sure how long he could stay wrapped in her arms, acting neutral, pretending nothing was amiss. Though he was quite gifted in the art of indifference, feigned or otherwise, he didn't know how long he could remain ignorant to Vega or the details of her vanishing. 

He closed his eyes and slept, but it was fitful, and plagued with cruel, jagged smiles and Vega's corpse, brushed over by the swirls of blizzard winds...

A smile crept upon her exhausted features the moment her stricken lover agreed to the intervention. He was not so lost to his own delirium that he couldn't see reason, or that he couldn't recall their mutual promise to proceed in future endeavours together--never again to leave the other behind. He hasn't lost himself; not yet. 
Elespeth didn't hesitate. Closing her eyes, she squeezed Alster's hand gently, reassured by the current of their connection that flowed between palms. He was wrong; they did fit together, in more ways than either of them could imagine, if Tivia's predictions proved true.

There was never a moment when she did not open herself to Alster, but she made a solid effort to feel out the Rigas caster's energy in this moment. Tap into it, allow it passage into her veins, if only to provide his with a modicum of relief. But as it turned out, the magic would find a path all on its own, with or without her acceptance. One moment, she sat calmly with her lover; the next, she was on fire. Elespeth gasped with the surge of heat that blasted through every inch of her being, from toes to fingertips, so searing that she thought for a brief moment she might be dying. Her body lurched forward, hunched over with the intrusion of the esoteric force, but she did not let go of Alster's hand, and it didn't even occur to her to do so. I can endure this. I am compatible, my body is compatible... This is not a mistake.

Almost as soon as that rush of heat began, it came to an abrupt halt, with the Rigas caster's hand falling away from her own. Slowly righting herself, straightening her spine one vertebrae at a time, Elespeth's vision swam with speckles and lights for a few residual seconds before clearing enough to make out Alster's face. He looked... better. Instantly healthier. That gleam of madness no longer shone in his eyes, and in its stead was only the genuine concern that he felt for her, who had taken on a burden for which her body had not been meant. Still exhausted and sleepless, but who wasn't after Andalari's merciless attack? He looked like himself again, and that was what mattered the most. "See?" The Atvanian smiled, reaching for his shoulders to give them a squeeze. "I told you... together. We can achieve anything together, Alster..."

His question lingered in the air, however, as the former knight contemplated the words to reply. For whatever relief it had provided him, Elespeth could not deny that she felt as though she had undergone an ordeal; she was sweating, her mouth dry and with a mild tremble to her hands in the aftermath of this transfer of magic. There was no mistaking that her core temperature had just skyrocketed, and she did not quite feel like her usual, stable self... but it was manageable. And with every moment that passed, the sensation of that slow burn in her veins bothered her less and less. "I'm just fine. I mean... I do feel different." It was useless to try and hide such an obvious fact, where her cheeks were likely flushed from her temperature. "But I'm fine. I told you, we fit together. My body might not have been born to sustain magic, but your magic... For yours, it is obviously making the exception." She ventured another smile, brushing stray hairs from his forehead with a slightly steadier hand. "Just like I said it would."

Her skin burned with the transition from frozen to thawed, but Vega invited every bit of it. The slow sting as nerve endings fired alive after being forced into a state of dormancy, the pulsing ache of skin, to the slow beat of her heart. Because every pain signal that shot to her brain reminded her of one important thing: she was alive. And, more importantly, she was walking the same plane of existence as the man in bed beside her, rubbing feeling back into her bare skin. Her ordeal through which Vitali had put her had not had any lasting effects on her current condition, save for the hypothermia she had evidently suffered.
But to say that it had not cost her anything but her time and effort... well, that was far from the truth. And try though she might, it was that very price of Haraldur's debt that lingered on her mind as she drifted to sleep, comforted only to a certain extent by the steady beat of the mercenary's heart against her ear...

The Eyraillian princess did not stir all night long, likely to poor Haraldur's concern, with his paranoia over her state of well-being and how close she had once again come to the hands of death. The remainder of the night passed slowly, hour by hour and minute by minute, and even when the vermillion light of dawn cut through the crack between the tent flaps, dividing the dwelling in a single stripe of liquid gold, Vega still did not stir. It was not until Haraldur, who had likely been awake for a while, patiently waiting for her to come to on her own, sat up on the cot that the Skyknight commander opened her eyes. Wordlessly, she watched him dress, already feeling colder from the absence of his body next to her, but he had priorities and duties. And she was neither his only priority nor duty.

"The young girl... the one who saved you. You should go and check on her... see that she is alright." Her voice hurt and rasped as she spoke, like razors caught in her throat, and while no longer chilled, every inch of her body ached. She wasn't sure that she could get up and get dressed if she were more inclined, and thus conceded a quiet defeat. "I'll... be there to join you later. I'm just..." Her azure gaze strayed to focus on the tent, as if seeing something that wasn't there, or on the contrary, seeing nothing at all. Just staring; caught up in whatever mental stasis that kept her stationary on the cot, curled up beneath the woolen blanket with her knees to her chest, as if in defense of some oncoming threat that she did not yet know. "I'll be up in a while... I just need a little more time. A little more rest."

Despite all that had happened to him in such a short time, Alster pulled his lips into a weary smile. Though it was belabored and bespoke more of the horrors he had lent a malformed hand in causing, those curved lips hid a hint, however small, of his former self. That same, maimed hand traveled up and down Elespeth's arm, a soft, hovering touch, tentative, as if afraid to indent her skin with any press that might trigger his destructive magic. "Elespeth," he whispered, his eyes misty, reverent. He looked upon the woman who constantly took on his burdens without a second blink to consider the lasting effects it would wreck on her own mind, sanity, or body. He really didn't deserve her--but he was thankful beyond words for her sacrifices. All for him. Truly, she was the gatekeeper to his life. She was the doorway, his guardian, his...

"You're my second star," he said, and pressed his forehead to hers, hot skin against hot skin. He kissed her, but it was a peck, too self-conscious to press their lips closer together, to meld them as one. He could still taste the bile on his tongue. He drew away, and lowered his head, shame-faced. 

"I'm sorry. That...must have tasted disgusting." He cradled his damaged hand, a wistful expression tugging at the corners of his eyes. He hid the offending sight into a fist behind his back, and sighed away his discomfiture. His hand...the physical manifestation of his magical exploits, both good and bad, harmful and beneficial--and it was all coming undone. He couldn't think about it--or anything. Thought beyond folding his arms over Elespeth's comforting embrace, beyond that world he so irrevocably damaged, or within, at the magic that so rebelled against him...he knew it would unseat his mind. And he would be of no use to anyone. To Elespeth...

"We'll have to be honest with each other from here on out." He reached over to his bedside, locating the cool, damp towel and placing it over Elespeth's forehead. "If you ever feel too much discomfort, tell me. Any specific symptoms...let me know. We need to monitor each other. I have to know what you're able to handle, and if...things ever get too much for me," he muttered, "I have to know if you can take more. It's important that we try to stay as healthy as possible. And for that reason..." He raised his head, scanning the multitudes of injured patients he never reached, never healed. "I'll have to," he bit his lip, shielding the catch in his voice, "limit how I use my magic. At least until we get to Stella D'Mare. But I know that I'm...I'll want to use it to heal. If I get that way again," he was referring to the Sybaian girl, and whatever compulsion he near foisted on her, "stop me. You have my magic in you, now. You could use it...on me." 

He rubbed the bruise upon his cheek, and chanced another smile. "It will probably hurt less than your punch, El." 

Although he had given his word to stay with her until she woke up, suspicious movements outside of Vega's tent sent Haraldur in stiffened repose at her side. Any moment, he suspected her Skyknights would come barging in to check on their commander's condition, and find the two of them naked on her cot. He didn't mind being caught in a state of impropriety, but Vega was a princess of Eyraille and, whether he was administrating much-needed warmth to her or not, her honor would be put into in question were her men to discover her in such a compromising position. He doubted that she cared about any indiscretion, not with more important troubles weighing her mind, but now that he was under scrutiny by her Skyknights, he found it was in his best interest to act with decorum.

During the long night, her temperature had stabilized; he made sure of that. He scarcely slept, though he tried, but between maintaining constant motions of body to body contact and warding the rogue thoughts that ambushed his mind at every corner, he was surprised to have closed his eyes at all. 

As he rose into a sitting position on the cot, careful not to disturb Vega, she awakened with immediacy, and he wondered if she, like him, had even slept at all. 

"I'll have to check on her, yes," he said, peering over his shoulder at Vega as he stood to fetch his discarded clothes. Though the hot coals of ire raked across his flesh all night, reminding him of all the possible scenarios and reasons as to why Vega had disappeared from camp, one look at her softened his brow, and folded his lips into a frown. Her eyes reflected no light; they were submerged, all the way to the bottom of the ocean, where nothing shone nor glimmered. Her skin was almost gray, and her once brilliant copper locks sagged like wilted flowers about her head. She looked...dead. 

He lowered his eyes to his feet. To his boots. After pulling on his half-shredded trousers, he slipped them on. His concentration was so focused on gathering and affixing his clothes that he didn't realize he had succumbed to an uneasy silence. 

"Here." He turned and detached a canteen full of water from his belt. He handed it to her, urging the rim to her lips. "You need this. I'll get someone to come in and clean your wounds--see if we can find you a fresh set of clothes. I..." he stiffened before her, not for the first time since she'd been recovered from the frozen wilderness of the North. His boots had unwittingly clicked together, in the stance of a salute. He shook away his soldier's intensity and elected to lean forward. To plant a kiss on her forehead. "I won't be far. And I'll be back as quickly as I can manage, I promise."

He was loathe to leave her, but at the same time, it filled him with relief once he stepped outside. He felt he could breathe for the first time: fresh, sharp, invigorating air streaming into his lungs. Life filtered inside of him--but the image of Vega's bleeding rune ruined his small reprieve. It branded itself across his eyes, and no amount of blinking dispersed the sight.

He had just informed the other Skyknights about Vega's need for new clothes, fresh water, and some wet rags, or a bath for cleaning, when he saw Elespeth emerge from the infirmary tent. Her eyes were fever-bright, her gait slow and trailing, her skin pale and her hair matted. She appeared worse than usual, yet she exuded a brightness and determination that celebrated the fight for survival. The fight at the behest of another. She walked with purpose. Not like Vega...

"Elespeth," he called out to her, jogging until he had alighted by her side. "How are you...are you ill?" He ventured, cocking his head to one side. "Has a sickness spread inside the tent?"

But as they walked around the makeshift camp, taking in some semblance of the chill, sterile day, she told him about what happened to Alster, and how she had taken on some of his magical lifeforce to prevent his mage's sickness from eating him alive. Later, their conversation turned to Vega, her condition, her status. Haraldur stopped in mid-stride, and fiddled with his belt, unsure of where to begin. 

"We found her in the middle of a desert pretty far North. She was hypothermic, and her roc was gone," he said, after a time. "She hasn't sustained any life-threatening injuries, and she's stable, now, but she's...in shock. And the rune on her chest...it's been carved open. I don't know if she did that herself, or if..." Trailing away, he raised his head and regarded Elespeth with some curiosity. "Yesterday, you were about to tell me something. Something I should know about. ...What was it?"

To say that Elespeth slept would have been a gross exaggeration. The former knight's first concern was, of course, the health of the Rigas caster, whom she urged to try and rest after the ordeal through which his own magic had driven him, which was no easy task. Whatever Alster had transferred to her in order to lighten his burden had only barely taken the edge off, it seemed; just enough for him to regain his self-control, to remember himself and what mattered. When at last he did close his eyes, and she watched as his breathing grew even and deep, morning had very nearly fallen upon the encampment. Just a couple of hours... I can rest for a couple of hours. At least, that was her thought, and she tried to follow through in earnest, finding a dark corner of the tent to sit and fold over on herself, for the lack of available cots. 

It was no use. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind raced, perspiration blossomed in droplets on her skin despite the cool temperature of the air. She was not cold; she was harbouring a rogue fire inside of her. Trapped. Barely contained, and who could say how long her mundane human form could keep it at bay?

She closed her eyes--only to open them what felt like moments later, to find sunlight streaming through the tent flaps. Whether or not she had actually found sleep in what little time she'd allowed herself to rest, it was to no avail. Elespeth's body felt heavier, and her chest still burned with the arcane power that she was not built to contain. The opportunity to sleep had come and gone; and there was no time to waste the day.
Alster was still asleep when the former knight braved the bright sunlight of the morning, squinting her dry eyes against the onslaught of gold and vermillion. Every movement, one foot in front of the other, required so much more energy than usual, and the realization that she had to prepare for one of the most meaningful and dangerous endeavors of her life while functioning at a fraction of her usual game...

Elespeth. It was as if the sound of her name incited a surge of adrenaline, enough to straighten her stature and square her shoulders. "Haraldur... no. No, I promise, I'm fine." Not quite a truth, but perhaps the more she said it, the truer it might become. Especially if she could convince others. "It's... do you have time?"

With what little the Atvanian understood about Alster and his affliction, she explained what had occurred, and the only option that seemed viable and available to them; that she absorb some of the Rigas caster's magic into her own body. A body that was not magically adept, and was as a result suffering the consequences of the foreign energy that had invaded her body. "I am... I should be fine, though. I'm sure it will merely take some getting used to." Soon growing uncomfortable being the topic of conversation, Elespeth raked her fingers through her tangled hair to smooth it nervously over her shoulder. "The Skyknights were talking this morning about Vega... that you found her. How is she?"

Relieved as she was when Haraldur confirmed, it was not long before the former knight regretted the shift in topic, for the inquiries that followed. Ones that she had hoped to avoid. "Oh..." Scratching the back of her neck, Elespeth bit her lower lip and tried to look thoughtful. "I... can't quite remember." But it was such a transparent lie that she could not even bring herself to look Haraldur's way, feeling his dissecting gaze on her every movement, as stinging as an insect bite. No... I can't do that to him. Not for what he has been through. "Listen; I don't know where Vega went, or what happened to her. I can only guess... based on what Tivia told me." Pressing a sigh from her lungs, she chose her words with care, perpetually on edge for how brashly the mercenary might react--because she was very much the same way, and were the tables turned, could not guarantee that she would not take drastic action. "She said... that she thinks Vega pursued Vitali to convince him to allow her to take on the boon you promised him when he resurrected her. So whatever happened to her--I mean... I can only deduce that the necromancer was involved. But, Haraldur." She grasped his arm in a firm grip--one that was all the stronger for the magic that heightened her strength and senses to a near maddening point. "Do not jump to conclusions, and absolutely do not jump into action. I understand and empathize with your strong feelings about this, but try and look at the bigger picture. There are far more pressing matters at hand than bringing the elusive necromancer to justice."

For hours, Vega did not stir. Did not reach for her clothes or make to dress herself, even when one of her well-meaning Skyknights brought her new clothing. With her wounds merely superficial--irritated skin from mild frostbite, cuts and scrapes that had already scabbed over--she quietly refused any special treatment, instead assuring those casting her worried glances that she would clean minor injuries herself later on. When her men and followers finally came to the conclusion that the more they pried, they once again left the Skyknight commander alone... but not without their patience wearing.

"With all due respect, Sir..." A young Skyknight trailed Vega's second-in-command, an air of concern and annoyance carried on the cadence of his voice. "How long can we allow her to be... to withdraw, as she has? How are we to coordinate ourselves without further orders, now that the enemy has allegedly been defeated? Are you listening to me, Sir? We need a commander!"

"And a Commander you shall have--whether it means seeing Sir Sorde resolve her shock and return to herself, or..." The older man frowned, creased wrinkling his forehead. "Or I will make the call, if need be. Off with you, now. This is not your burden or dilemma."

No; unfortunately, the weight of this issue belonged solely to him. As long as the Eyraillian princess remained in such a state that interfered with her ability to lead, it left him as a stand-in to shoulder the burden. And, if need be... it could potentially lead to making the call to absolve her of all responsibilities as Commander, indefinitely. "I'll give you time, your Highness..." He sighed, turning to spare a melancholy glance over his shoulder at his Commander's tent. "But I cannot stall time. It is up to you to return to us before it is too late..."

Turning on his heel, he did not venture more than a handful of steps before he encountered a familiar face: ashen and weary, looking as though he had not slept in weeks... "You are the one who caused quite a commotion last night." He address Alster Rigas, arms folded sternly across his chest. "Glad to see you pulled yourself together, Rigas. Where are you..." It was obvious to him before the question had formed on his lips exactly where the caster was headed. His chest tightened with a mixture of annoyance, futility... and a little bit of hope. "If you are off to see the Commander, then I hope it is not to make conversation. She hasn't said much since we found her. But you... I recall her speaking fondly of a Rigas caster. One who has been kind to her. And I do not imagine that it is the one with the ravaged face." His own visage smoothed as he gave a shake of his head, greying ponytail brushing the back of his shoulders. "She is formal with her men. Perhaps not so much with a friend... good luck to you." Help her come back to us, was the unspoken plea, hanging in the air long after the older man departed.

Vega was still wrapped in the rough, woolen blankets when Alster tentatively parted the tent flaps to enter. Thinking it yet another well-meaning Skyknight making an attempt to pry information from her, she did not stir until his familiar voice reached her ears. "Alster." His name, soft on her lips, brought a touch of a smile to her lips as she turned her head to look upon him. "I'm... I apologize. My state, well... I am still recovering. But... it is good to see you." And then, as if she had run out of small talk, her faded, faraway look returned to the side of the tent. As if she was trying to see something that wasn't there... or attempting merely to see nothing at all.

Despite constant reassurances of her health, Haraldur gave her another once-over, skepticism curling at the corners of his mouth. It was not his business to judge or advise her on decisions that were beyond him to comprehend, as matters of magic were inherently complex and punishing, but he could not help but regard the former knight with a touch of concern. But at behest of her pride, he chose not to elaborate on a subject she already tossed out of their conversation. Though, as they spoke of Vega and her less-than-stellar condition, he wondered if he would take on a similar burden, for the sake of another. In a way, he had, trading his body, sword, and freedom to Vitali and to the Andalarian crown, suffering torture in the latter's fetid dungeons until maimed and broken, and then dragged by the necromancer to Tadasun's camp, where others beat his mind bloody so he stand upright and fight, once again. 

He had undergone much, all in the name of Vega Sorde, but unlike Elespeth and her magical burden, the pain was nothing new--with the exception of his back-to-back Sybaian healing sessions. He could handle it. Years of Forbanne training bred in him the ability to handle most conditions, volatile and brutal, harsh and unforgiving. Mollengard formed diamonds out of her soldiers by applying a pressure so intense, one was forced to withstand the heat--or die. Taking on Vitali's debt did not stymie him, for he knew what he offered the necromancer in exchange: the same, inescapable fate of a man who, no matter how much he tried, could never break away from his sword. At least, he was assured in the role he played, knowing he could play it well. It was familiar territory, well-trodden ground. Yes, he was sometimes kept awake with the anxiety of working so intimately with a representative of the dead, who could bring back death and surround himself in it, but Haraldur was confident in his abilities.

But Vega, who was still reeling from her recent resurrection, was far from the best candidate for Vitali's schemes. In no way was she mentally fit and sound. And yet...

And yet...

That was when Elespeth confirmed the truth to him. A truth he determinedly and stolidly waited for her to sound from her lips. 

"I knew it," he whispered. He clutched at his belt as a handhold, something tactile, a flesh into which he could dig his tensing fingers. Until--he felt a different pressure. On his arm. It squeezed and vised at him, insistent in keeping him at bay. He glared at Elespeth, his culprit, still simmering from her revelation, but it petered out into an exasperated sigh. "Elespeth," he tugged at his arm, urging her free, "I'm not going to jump into a tirade. I know better than to abandon everyone in this camp in favor of locating a man who's missing and probably doesn't want to be found. I may be a good tracker, but I can't track a ghost, and I don't dare shirk my responsibilities here just because I want him to suffer, and bleed, and die." His voice rolled like a peal of thunder, but he kept his composure about him, even as he radiated with intensity. "So you don't have to tell me twice." 

Freeing himself from Elespeth's near-supernatural grip, he turned his attention to the medical tent, and made a stiff-shouldered approach to its entrance. The former knight followed close behind, as if convinced he was about to make some rash, impulsive decision. 

"Relax," he said, though he sounded anything but relaxed. "I have promises to keep." He pointed to the tent flaps before entering. "Shayl. I need to bury her sister. You're welcome to help, if you want." 

He was finished discussing Vega, and what she had done. What Vitali had done. He had gleaned the information from Elespeth, was correct in his assessment, and felt no need to continue speaking of it. He would follow-up the information with Vega--whenever, if ever, she was ready to talk. Or--he'd find Tivia, and ask her what she knew. And he had a feeling, based on her suspicious company with Vitali a few days back, that she knew more than she let on. 

Alster "slept." If he could call it sleep at all. Under Elespeth's gentle coercion, he closed his eyes, and practiced being still. Though his heart did not hammer with as much persistence, and he could actually trace and see the threads that operated his mind, frayed but in tact, true sleep would be impossible. Even if he never had awakened the near-limitless flood of magic, too much spun around and around in the carousel of his thoughts. The massacre by Andalari. The massacre he in exchange had wrought on Andalari. His crazed bout of healing. The awakening. The dissolution. The dissolving of his senses and his fingers--his body. His attempted assault on the disconsolate Sybaian girl. Stella D'Mare. The Serpent that lashed its tail and waited underground, calling...

Everything unseated him. All except for...Elespeth. He thought of her in the swarm of his mind, his focal point, his star. The only constant. The minder of his magic. Keep it together. For her. For us. Get through. You owe it to her. To Stella D'Mare. Break and weave and...

He opened his eyes to a dismal dawn. Muted colors. Muted sights. But at least the world seemed stable. Like he could walk upon it without cracking, or without causing cracks. Or a hole to match the one outside the tent. 

Tivia joined him that morning. "Elespeth needed some air," she informed him, as he sat up and cleaned his face and arms using the water provided to him at the nearby basin. "But no need to worry. I'll be watching over you today. Remember what you promised her," she waggled a finger at him. "No magic. She'll be able to sense when you use it, now that she's connected to it."

"I know," he sighed. Daring to stand, he wobbled on his feet, stumbled, and landed in Tivia's steadying arms. 

"Where are you off to so quickly? I know it's hard for you to keep still, but--"

"--I still plan to make my rounds," he interjected. "I want to apologize to that Sybaian girl. But first," he winced as he moved another step, his head blossoming into acute degrees of splitting pain, "I'd...like to see Vega. I heard she arrived last night with her Skyknights."

Tivia's face, the pliant, expressive, unmarred half, fell, matching the permanent grimace forever burned on one side. 

"That is not a sound idea at all, Alster! You're unwell, she's...stars, she's a wreck, so I've heard, and if you even think of using magic to heal her..." She trailed away, when a sting pricked her eyes. It's all my fault, she thought, her grip faltering on Alster's shoulders. I set her up. I suggested... guilted her into...

Sensing her discomfiture, Alster slowly removed her balancing arms and half-hobbled towards the tent flaps. "You don't have to accompany me. You'll know where I'll be." 

Too shamefaced to follow suit, or go anywhere near Vega's tent, Tivia watched Alster's departure from outside, keeping an eye out from afar. With one hand, she rubbed at the scarred half of her face, hoping to rub it into oblivion. 

Alster met with the Skyknight commander tasked to take Vega's place until further notice--whether or not that notice would become permanent. He was a vaguely familiar face: most of the last two day's events blurred together, one slog after the other. Though--he supposed he should be grateful to be spared the brunt of the shock. 

"That commotion saved lives," he countered, his bleary eyes narrowing at the man. "I regret my lack of control at the end, but I did what needed to be done. And that 'one with the ravaged face,' ...it's because of her that I'm alive. That dozens in this camp made it out alive. A little respect, please." Exhaling a puff of smoked, chill air, he tried to expel his agitation as he moved onward, towards Vega's tent. "I'm sorry. Thank you. And thank you for aiding us in battle," he added, a mite friendlier. "And...I'll try." 

Alster pushed through the flaps, careful not to allow a distracting glare of light to come streaming into the darkness of the Skyknight's sanctum. He approached with soundless steps, in case she slept, or did not wish to be disturbed. "Vega?" He said, with gentle cadence. She responded to his summons, and their eyes met. As quick as he saw those two soulless husks, he averted his gaze, and occupied his attention with his swollen-fingered hands, moving his left to hide the missing fingers upon his right. 

"Don't worry about it," he said, electing to match her smile. "I'm not in the most ideal of conditions, myself. You could say," his smile faltered, "that I'm also recovering. But..." he trailed off when she retreated from his company, from the world. Adrift and numb. To everything that mattered--because nothing mattered. Only...absolution. 

He understood all too well, because he had been there. Too many times to count. Even now, he felt that comfortable silence skim the fringes of his mind. Only Elespeth and her unwavering support steered him from that path in its most complete of forms. Only the fate of Stella D'Mare. Without them...he was lost. 

"I know that you took on Haraldur's debt," he said, trying to find her a route back to the conversation. Back to him. "That you went with Vitali, to heaven knows where. That it was...is...too great a burden to bear. Believe me," he chuckled without humor. "I know all about burdens." He dug his hand out from beneath the shield of his left, and revealed to her his missing finger and a half, though he was not certain that she saw them, or him, or anything. "My magic...it's eating away at me. Piece by piece. Who knows how long I have left. How long Eris...Elespeth...has left. But it's a burden I don't have to bear alone. Because she's my buffer. And you," he sat at the foot of her bed, close but still at a respectful distance, "you don't need to deal with this alone, either. To be eaten alive by all this nothing Know that you can tell me anything, or nothing at all. But I'll be here. Even if I...even if I'm not the best company right now."

Burying a body was far from what Elespeth considered an enjoyable passtime, but she could see no alternatives, save for wandering the site in search of things to do and ways to be helpful. Furthermore, she wanted to ascertain that Haraldur was, in fact, as good as his word, and would not react in a way that might compromise his safety. Not to say that she did not take his word for honesty, but after Alster's display of complete and utter lack of self-control the night before, her nerves were on high-alert to expect the same from pretty much anyone. Suffocated with the gravity of war and death and the fear of the unknown that was to come, it was enough to make anyone snap in the own, sound judgment.

Without a word, she followed the mercenary some paces behind, past the tent flaps, to where the young Sybaian girl sat. Her skin was pale and sallow; she looked as though she, too, had not slept, though the sling cradling her injured arm did not surpass the former knight's attention. At least she had accepted help in some form... yet all the same, seemed to have far to go. 

Shayl did not look up from her position on the floor, with her knees pulled to her chest, to take note of the mercenary and the woman who trailed him. She didn't have to; their presences spoke for them. Their auras were suffocating. "Don't waste your time worrying for me." Though she struggled to sound resentful, the weariness crept into her voice, and instead lent her an air of defeat. "Don't you both have other matters to tend to?"

As soon as Haraldur mentioned her sister, the young healer's heavy and defeated demeanor changed. She looked up at him with tired, haunted eyes, lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but could not find the words. Over the course of the night, her thoughts had drifted from Ilona, turning inward towards her own careful introspection. She was not well, and it extended beyond her fractured arm; she could feel it, like an infection irritating the very lining of her own aura, threatening to spread and creep in. It was the feeling of having spent too much, for a Sybaian. Too much of themselves, to the point where they were in debt to their own source of energy. It was not an easy state of mind and being to shake, and in fact, often led to early demise, through systemic failure as bit by bit, they began to fall apart.

It did not faze her. All that mattered was that she keep herself together for this final task; one to which she readily agreed, as soon as the mercenary offered to make good on his promise. "Let's go, then. It doesn't matter where we bury my sister's body... it is not as though Tadasun is our home." Like many Sybaians, they did not have a home. Nomadic by nature, as need was everywhere, they were obligated to go wherever they were needed. "Any soil will do. But... you." Her sharp eyes turned to Elespeth, wide and accusing, as she pulled her lips back in a grimace. "Keep well away. I don't know what you did, but your aura is suck, just like your lover's. And here..." She glanced briefly around the infirmary tent, as if to make her point clear. "There is no one left to help you... not even me. It hurts just to look at you."

Too tired to be taken aback by the girl's observation (frankly, she had expected it), Elespeth merely nodded, before taking a purposeful step back. "I'd not interfere with your sister's burial," she assured her, steady and sincere. "I'd have given anything to have been able to see my brother to his sacred resting place... Far be it from me to deny anyone else that right." Nodding out of respect, the Atvanian warrior took her leave without another word. This was not her place.

The Skyknights had wrapped Ilona's body in cloth, and allowed Haraldur to retrieve it where it was being kept, prepared for burial. Many graves had been dug, many bodies laid to rest, such that much of the land had in and of itself become a mass burial site. Ilona would just be another body in the ground, but it did not matter to her sister. A body was nothing without its soul, and a burial was not for the dead, but rather, for those whom the dead left behind. It was selfish, in a way, but still symbolic that the earth reclaim the life that it had helped create. "Stop looking at me as though you expect me to cry." She chided as Haraldur, after laying the fallen Sybaian carefully in a prepared grave, shoveled soil onto the body. "There is nothing to mourn. Ilona died without regrets. She died fulfilled..." And so shall , a voice at the back of her mind murmured, but she chose to ignore it.

"...thank you, though." The girl looked sidelong at Haraldur, with unmistakable gratitude. "Your act of kindness should not go unacknowledged. Consider it paid, whatever you thought you owed me, or my sister." Rubbing the shoulder of her injured arm, Shayl turned her body toward the infirmary tent's general direction. Though short, this symbolic effort had been meaningful; and now, she was through with it. "You should go and check on your Skyknight companion. Whatever her condition... I guarantee, it is worse than mine. I can tell without having so much as seen her, myself." 

There was much Vega did not know about the Rigases, about casters and magic in general. As a result, the transparency of her abrupt disappearance and the motives behind it did not surprise her; it could have been due to anything. What was Alster Rigas fully capable of? How well did she know him or the extent of his abilities? If the Sybaian healers could read a person's emotional aura at a glance, who was to say her intentions weren't obvious just by looking at her?
At the very least, she could take comfort in the fact that Haraldur was himself not magically adept. Although a nagging feeling suggested that he might have his own suspicions...

"There is no burden. It is done." The Eyraillian princess managed in a quiet monotone. Her own voice sounded foreign to her ears, reminiscent of white noise; sounds that did not matter. "Haraldur is free, as am I. The necromancer Vitali holds no leverage over either of us, anymore. I... it was not a choice, please understand. It was something that I had to do." She was not fool enough to attempt and dissuade Alster from his beliefs, lest she alienate a dear ally and friend. He had helped her, before; been there when all else had abandoned her, and had it not been for him, she might never have truly returned to herself.

But making him--or anyone else, for that matter--understand why it had never been a choice, but a necessary endeavor... Neither words nor magic could make that possible. And it was not her obligation to try.

Averting her green eyes from the wall, her gazed settled on the Rigas caster's pale and exhausted form; on his hand, now missing a digit, and the melancholy plea written on his weary face. She watched and listened to the way he spoke of the warrior from Atvany, whose true name was no long such a secret--and hadn't been for quite some time, at least not to her. Not when she had overheard Haraldur's interactions with her from time to time, referring to her not by Eris, but Elespeth. It made her wonder exactly what this woman, who had shown up at Tadasun's war encampment so abruptly, was hiding from. But that was for Elespeth herself to divulge, and as someone already weighted with the burden of multiple secrets, she was not one to pry. After all, it had not yielded positive results whenever she pressed Haraldur for thoughts that he did not wish to share. "I know I am not alone." Her reply was quiet, almost a whisper. "You... you're a better friend and company than I probably deserve, Alster. No matter the state you are in, as a result of your magic. But..."

But there was so much that he did not know. So much that she could not yet find the words to explain, for all the pain it incited merely giving it thought. She was not like Alster and Elespeth, drawn and kept together by some celestial bond, connected to anyone through the sheer will of the universe and stars. Her burdens, her pains, were not ones that could be shared... Particularly not among people who themselves were breaking under the pressures of their own lives. Alster, Elespeth, Haraldur... They were helpless to help her, and not because of what had happened, but for the wound that it had all left behind. A wound that would simply have to continue to bleed and bleed until there was nothing left to bleed, or nothing left of her. "Right now... I need to be alone." A chill traveled down her spine, causing her to pull the woolen blanket all the way to her chin. "I need to inform my knights... that I cannot lead them, anymore. But first, I have to find the words, and that... that will require time. And space."

She fell silent for a long moment then, staring into nothingness, with only the moderate comfort of the scratchy wool blanket. "Alster... I'm so sorry." It was added as if something of an afterthought. Vega closed her eyes. "I don't know... how much help I can be, anymore."

After exchanging an apologetic look with Elespeth, Haraldur followed Shayl out of the tent and outside, where a line of yet-to-be buried bodies lay, neat and in rows. Scores of them occupied a space the size of a large garden, and if one were to disassociate from those covered-up corpses, it all looked as innocuous as a farmer blanketing his crop in preparation for a night of frost. Lashing a shovel to his back, Haraldur lifted the designated body from the ground and, with Shayl, searched for a place to dig. 

Burials had become all too commonplace in his life. As Forbanne, he disrespected and desecrated the dead, but as a free man, he, in recompense for his past actions, was sure to give proper rites as befitting a life expired. And since he had buried over thirty bodies, including Arina, in frozen earth over a stretch of days with naught but broken tree limbs and his sword, he had accrued an ample amount of practice.

While Shayl had not specified a burial location, Haraldur still scouted the rocky plains for as ideal a spot as he could find. Finally, he settled on loamy ground, beneath a shelf of quartz-flecked boulders. Resting the body beside the shelf, he began to dig up the earth with his shovel. 

"I know you said it doesn't matter," he said between scoops of dust and pebbly soil, "and those who die in battle don't have the luxury of a proper burial, but I like to regard this as a last act of love. She may only be a shell now, but she's still a symbol of what was. And maybe her spirit might enjoy the shade." Once satisfied with the hole he dug, he carefully lowered Ilona into the subterra and brushed the dirt over her covered body. 

"I'm not looking at you with any expectation at all. You're free to mourn--or not to mourn--however you see fit," he said, his voice solemn. He placed the final curtain of detritus over the burial site, and leaned forward with his hands on the shaft of the shovel. "I grieved when my sister died, but I buried her in silence. And I was silent from that point, on. There's no right or wrong method to this, Shayl. Nothing you have to prove to yourself or to her. Nothing you have to say or do." 

As a final rite, he sprinkled a layer of dust from his hands, which soared in the breeze and scattered across the mound. He lowered his head to mutter a few reverent words in the wisps of a language he barely remembered. In those words, he thought of Klara, a casualty of her cursed upbringing. He thought of Arina, a fiery soul who suffocated under a blanket of snow. Of the refugees, who followed her lead, into sepulchres of ice. Of Vega, who he still mourned on the battlefield, splinters shot through her body, her skin forever warm and pliant. Would he have to mourn her a second time? Bury her? Sprinkle dirt over her closed eyes, and drop the shovel? Was it all too late, her soul too encased in the earth, too far to dig and exhume? 

Then, he looked at Shayl. Saw the color bleached from her skin. The droop of her youthful eyes. Quick, labored breaths. Cracked lips. A greenish hue. A sickly rattle in her voice. She waned and waned, appeared as little more than a sliver of a crescent, fading quickly in the sky. He lowered his eyes to the shovel, and pried it from the earth in a white-knuckled grip. Silence overtook him, but it was a silence with claws: it scraped, but did not keen. 

Everyone fades... 

With stiffened legs, Haraldur followed Shayl back to camp, shovel poised before him, like a shield. But a shield from what? No force borne from steel or bone could ward away that which came swiftly towards them. Towards Shayl. He could not protect her. Not from an abstraction. Not from sickness. Not from nature, which he already defied--for Vega. And never again. How did I delude myself into thinking I could keep her from harm?

He stopped before the infirmary tent. Before the Sybaian girl, who suffered more than she let on. "Shayl," he whispered, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry I can do little more for you." His unspoken meaning: I'm sorry that I could not help you live. "But know that I will try." 

"Please don't hesitate to find me," came his emphatic goodbye, as he turned around and walked across camp--much as he wanted to hug her. To comfort her. To save her.

But would she want that at all? 

Still holding the shovel, he trudged onward, feeling lonelier than he had since before meeting Elespeth. Before Vega. 

While Alster had not, as far as he knew, any abilities towards the prophetic, he was perceptive enough to remember snippets from Tivia's conversation with Elespeth just the other day. It was then that he learned of Vega's whereabouts. She had gone to settle a debt, an act that he would not hesitate to take on for himself, if it meant saving another. Perhaps that was why the memory of a half-listened conversation burned itself into his limited stores of cognizance. He understood why she had done the deed and took the price. As a man who almost traded his life for a blood seal to trap the Serpent anew, he knew the meaning of fighting for the greater good. Whether that greater good was an entire city--Stella D'Mare--or one person--Haraldur. Elespeth. Though he was wrong in his actions, he was not wrong in his intent. I want to save as many people as I can. It's much the same, now. Only, I want to save Elespeth even more...

"I know," he said, nodding his head in agreement. "I know this more than you think I do. But Haraldur--he may not understand. He'd rather you be safe, than he be free. Death haunts him--and he almost lost you to it again. He may not see your sacrifice as necessary, but rather foolish. Be aware of that." 

His magic, cloying as it was against his insides, begged for release. To take Vega into his arms, and transfer radiating pulses of healing energy into her system. He wanted to delve into her mind and sort out all that sat askew, as he had done several times before. It was familiar territory inside, and he could navigate it well enough. It was possible, it was doable. Touchable. Palpable. He smacked his mouth, running the scenarios over his tongue. He'd had successes, and could not discount them. He could resume his work, and all he had to do was release...

Release...

Alster shot out of bed as if Vega had burned him. His mouth warped into an expression of shame for his almost loss of control, and muttered several apologies. "It's best for the both of us, I think," he said with a quivering nod. "I probably shouldn't be around anyone, myself. I'll...I'll go. It was meant to be a quick visit. I don't want to intrude on your space."

But before he exited the tent in full, he turned around, regarding Vega in her blanket cocoon. "If this is about your roc," he half-closed his eyes in sympathy, "I'm sorry. I'll go ahead and talk to your Skyknights. Perhaps they can get Elespeth, and Tivia, and me to Stella D'Mare. You've been great help. The war is over for you. There's not enough Tadasuni left to remain fighting. The alliance is done. You all...you can go home." A sad smile stretched across his face. "This fight is not yours." 

Haraldur entered Vega's tent several hours after Alster's visit. He was dirt-streaked and sweaty, but his countenance did not reflect the toils of his labors. He did not appear exhausted, or weary-eyed. Rather, his eyes shone with defiance. Of renewed energy. A touch of red fury emblazoned like an insignia across his face. "Vega," he said, his voice clipped and stern. "Get dressed." He grabbed a fistful of her clothes and threw them on her cot. "Outside. You're coming with me. We're going for a walk. Andalarian forces are still out there. The longer you rot inside of this tent, the longer it will take for your men to move out--either with or without you. I'm not entertaining a dead body. I need to know that you can stand. So," his eyes narrowed, like pinpricks of a sword's point, "stand."

It was not merely with sadness and with numbness that Vega lay upon the cot, but also, with guilt. Alster had been depending on her; she had made a promise to him, to be of help in Stella D'Mare, where the worst of the worst was to occur. Yet now, as they were preparing themselves to leave Tadasun and embark on what was hopefully their last journey in this bloody war, she found herself wholly unable to make good on that promise, without both the will and the way to come through. What was worse, though, was that he did not even pause to think on trying to convince her otherwise. The Rigas caster, so tired and defeated, recognized that very state of mind in her as well; that nullifying feeling that it was just no use. So instead of chiding her, or showing anger or disappointment of any sort... he simply agreed. Suggested that she had done enough, and that she should go home. Be done with a war that was not hers, had never been hers.

All he'd done for her, and she could not reciprocate. That was the true definition of a failure.

"I... wish I could be the one to take you to Stella D'Mare. I'm so sorry." The Eyraillian princess murmured under her breath. "My men... they will take you, in my place. You should find no quarrel with them; they have known I'd meant to help you for quite some time." Perhaps he was right; that she should go home. Forget about Tadasuni and Andalari and Stella D'Mare, for it was true, this was not her battle, nor her war. Surely there would be another use for her, somewhere in the ranks of Eyraille's militia. At the end of the day, it was still her home, and her people... despite how unwelcoming it often felt.

She listened for Alster's departure, by the swish of the tent flaps, and his fading footsteps. So this was it, then. Would she ever see him again? Or Elespeth, or even Tivia, despite what little regard the latter had for her? No wonder Eyraille cannot maintain allies, she thought darkly, closing her eyes against the reality before her. I cannot maintain any of the bridges I build... I cannot contribute enough.

Time passed in silence, throughout which Vega found herself constantly in and out of sleep; one minute dreaming a mishmash of images that made no sense, the next staring at the blank, canvas wall of the tent, noticing the shadows shift each and every time to mark the passing of the hours. When at last, she felt as though she would close her eyes until the morning came, the Eyraillian princess was startled awake by a familiar--firm--voice. Something landed at the foot of her cot, and her shoulders jerked in response at the sudden disruption of peace. Get dressed. It appeared that the gentle and patient man next to whom she had woken up this morning, the one who had warmed her frozen body and kissed away her anxieties enough for her to sleep through the night, was gone. In his stead stood a soldier, with sharp eyes and a heavy voice; one that was done with being patient, and demanded results then and there. 
It appeared Alster was not the only one who was well and done with her silence and isolation.

Wordlessly, the Skyknight sat up, and took the clothes from the foot of the cot. She hadn't realized just how much her body ached until she dressed herself, pulling on the trousers, and fitting the tunic over her head, covering the freshly scabbed rune over her heart. In an instant, she regretted parting from the warmth and comfort of the cot; the air was too cold, too biting. Almost too hard to breathe... and yet, she recognized that it was less likely the quality of the air, so much as it was the sheer and utter exhaustion of breathing it in. You know I'm not a dead body, she wanted to counter, bringing a hand up to the rune over her heart in a self-conscious gesture. Perhaps that was a paranoia on his part that would never diminish. Although, after what she had been through to repay his debt to the necromancer... she could not blame him.

"Where are we going?" Clutching her elbows, she followed Haraldur out of the tent. It was all she could do, lacking the will and the drive to defy him, particularly in the mood he was in. What had happened, between now and this morning, to turn him so cold? It was a chore enough to merely be awake, let alone in the company of someone who was so adamantly angry. It was almost as if...

As if he knew.

Somehow. By some means, whether it was through Alster or some impeccable deduction, he knew why she had been missing. His tells were in the stiff way he held his shoulders, the stern set of his mouth, a look that lent him the air of someone who had been hurt. Betrayed. However it might have been for the better, she had gone against his wishes; he had begged her to have nothing to do with the necromancer, and she had disregarded that plea completely. She had effectively lost his trust... and there was no telling as to whether or not she would ever get it back.

"Haraldur..." When the silence was too much to bear, Vega decided that if he was to shut her out completely, he might as well know--understand--what had become of her conviction. "I cannot be the one to lead my men anymore. I'm... I cannot guarantee I am capable any longer." Her chest burned with the pain of unspoken words, of memories one held dear that now left her shaken and hopeless. "Aeriel... is gone."

Her feet came to a halt. It was as if speaking the words required every ounce of effort and energy that her body could muster, inciting the need to sacrifice movement. The truth was a weight on her shoulders too heavy to carry with her, for any distance. "I lost her. Not intentionally. Just... bad timing, and bad luck. She was so adamant to protect me..." She bit the inside of her cheeks to maintain her composure, determined not to fall apart where everyone could see. "But there are some things... we can't always protect everyone we love. Though she tried." Vega did not look up from the tips of her scuffed boots, half expecting Haraldur to leave, to walk away. It was as much as she deserved. "Without a mount, I am of no help to my men. Perhaps... in some time, when I return to Eyraille, I will raise and imprint on another youngling." But that aspiration was far down the road, and all contingent on surviving the remainder of the war. 

"But... I must be honest with you. That I would do it all again." Tucking her copper tresses behind her ears, Vega looked up at last, setting aside her fear of the mercenary's reprimand. "After what you did for me... I'd do it all again. Because you're free, now. We are free. And that is... it's all that I wanted, Haraldur."

Some of the steam threatened to wisp out of Haraldur's boiling intensity when Vega obeyed his directives without question. She did not protest, or dally, or ignore him. Obediently, she rose, and obediently, she began to slip into her clothes. No preamble, no--anything. She had done what he had commanded, true, but the way she reacted--so dead-eyed, so lacking in luster or care--he'd have thought she was one of Messino's risen soldier puppets, created with the express purpose of following orders. The pep, the fire--what had drawn him to her in the first place, was gone. Ashes, soot, and charcoal remained. All the makings of a fire's aftermath, with none of the flame. 

But he set his jaw into a tight clamp and kept his austerity in tact, for it pumped stronger than pity or understanding. The latter were such draining emotions. They took everything out of him, leaving only residual anger stemming from the need to control himself and his surroundings--and to rise above his hurt of betrayal from Vega. He would not be a victim of the debilitating despair from which all his closest friends and confidantes suffered. And which, at this moment, young Shayl had been especially susceptible. She, dying from it, and he, helpless to catch the fall of her wilting petals. To stave off the guilt and personal anguish, he stared out into the world with defiance. At Vega with defiance. Unspoken words manifested by way of his wide, unshakable stance. I am here. Alive. And I'm not going anywhere. Nothing will break me. 

"We're walking around camp," came his terse answer to her inquiry. Once Vega was dressed, he marched out of the tent, his long legs pumping at a steady, brisk clip. He turned his head a few times to assure the beleaguered Skyknight follow him, though he had no destination in mind, nor any words to share or say. But the silence that passed between them did not last long, and soon, she broke their mute bout of walking with a slow-down in speed--and a confession. He adjusted to match her pace, but did not acknowledge that she spoke or was addressing him until he heard the words: Aeriel is gone.

His legs also slowed to a halt. They now stood close to the maw of the massive hole in the ground. The crumble of cracked and displaced earth kept their terrain bumpy and unstable. Despite the uneven ground, he whirled on her, listening, but at a loss on how to react. The news was devastating, and its resonance echoed through his ears, down to his breastbone in vibrations that had their own heartbeat. Aeriel. The plucky avian who allowed him to fly her. Who bounded with excitement upon seeing Vega visit her in the pens. Who was steadfast in her devotion, whose bond with her human companion was so genuine and harmonious and rare...

We can't always protect everyone we love. That statement was a blow to his chest. His eyes danced, in alarm. He looked at her, and felt nothing but a twisting clench of all his muscles. Klara, Arina, the refugees... Shayl. Vega. He couldn't protect anyone at all. Was the vision of his mother in his mind a lie? You're a protector, she told him. But she failed to mention that he was a failure of one. People died. People defied. People lost to death, again and again, and were cursed to watch a cycle they could not break. He closed a hand over his deteriorating necklace, but it offered little comfort.

"I'm sorry about Aeriel," he said, and his tone was gentler, and beset with the kind of sympathy he was so determined to cast aside. He met her eyes, and leaned forward, closing the standoffish distance he had placed between them. "She was like family to you, wasn't she? I--"

But she continued on about how she would do it again, would always do it again, and his expression returned to hard, cold, rigidity. Again, he increased their distance, and crossed his arms. "We're never free, Vega," he scoffed. "We're always shackled to a cause. To a person. Or a promise. But you--you're the princess of Eyraille! You have so much more to lose than I do. And you didlose! A companion you'll never get back. And me? What would I have lost, in return? An idea--'Freedom'?" His lips curled into a sneer. "I am a mercenary, Vega. I make deals with shady people for a living. Did you think I was unable to handle this, that you had to go behind my back and take it upon yourself, when you were still recovering from death?" He shook his head, adamant. "This was not your responsibility. I made the deal. I arranged for you to be revived. It's on my shoulders and mine alone. And what if you had died out there!?" He was shouting now, his hands closing into trembling fists. "If we didn't find you in time, you would have! And you would do it all again, you say? Despite all my efforts to keep you safe, and alive, and--" 

A noisy exhalation cut through his heated diatribe, a burst of air that winded him, and prevented further speech. He was too incensed to provide anything else other than sputters and curses. And what would it have mattered, anyway? The damage was done. All was done. Red and purple spots assailed his vision. He turned from Vega, unable to look at the husk of a person she had become. Because she did not trust him to do what was necessary.

"And what of that rune-mark?" He added, in a low, quietly-booming whisper. "Why has it been carved open again? What," he nearly choked on the words, "did he have you do, Vega?" 

When Alster left Vega's tent, feeling worse than before he entered, he did not refrain from his amend-making intentions. Since the Skyknights were now busy tending to the skeletal remains of Tadasun's camp, he could not yet bring up his request for transport to Stella D'Mare. Instead, he headed back to the medical tent, and searched for Shayl. She was nearby, coated with burial dirt and remnants of death. His chthonic magic roared in reaction to it, just as it had done in Vega's tent, when it wanted to release itself at her, and take her energies for conversion. He did not know if he was more susceptible to death energies due to his awakened power, to all the death surrounding him at camp, or because Vega had somehow reconstituted remnants of her death shroud. Or, generated an aura similar to one. But why? Was it due to the unique circumstances of her (second) life? Would she always attract such elements to her, like a magnet to the poles? Or--did something happen with her and Vitali? Something that reestablished her draw to the other side? 

It seemed that he, too, inspired a visceral reaction in others. In his approach to the child whose vitality was steadily declining, she backed away from him and bade him not come near. At first, he thought she was still fearful of his near-attack on her yesterday, and that, perhaps, was part of the reason. But then she mentioned his aura. It was sick, discolored--a maelstrom of raw, over-bloated power. Her understood her apprehension and disgust: he was probably contributing to her physical decline. With retreating steps, he nodded his understanding. He really couldn't be around anyone at all. "I'm sorry. Please know that I'm sorry--for everything," he managed to say, before turning around and retreating. Rejection of his company--for the second time in a mere hour. He, a walking pustule of pestilence and devastation, had only one destination, one route, and his legs took him there. 

He found Elespeth not far from the medical tent, taking in the cool air which, as afternoon set in, began its mild transition--all thanks to the warm coastal breeze that blew in from Stella D'Mare. 

"Elespeth," he said, and his voice came alive. From deadened and beaten, to tender and full of adoration. Taking on his magical burden so readily, and suffering alongside him--it stirred a revival in his heart. Though it pained him to see her so afflicted, it moved him to know that she was at his side. Until the end. 

"How are you faring this morning?" He pulled out a small bundle of hardtack and a bottle of water, and offered them to her. "I salvaged these from the mess tent. There isn't much in the way of food, or water. Most of that went down in the explosion. But this will have to do. We need to take in as much nourishment as we can before we depart." He chewed on the inside of his cheek, as if pretending to engage in the consumption of something rich and high in protein. "We'll have to leave here as soon as we can. Once I can get an audience with the new Skyknight commander, we'll get ourselves roc transport to Stella D'Mare. Vega...she's stepping down," he said, looking back at her lone tent as if for confirmation. "I believe she lost her roc, and," he hesitated, "death grips her again. I can feel it. It will take her a while to recover, I fear."

"No--no. Never. I never thought you incapable, Haraldur. That was never the case." Caught between her own self-righteousness, in defense of a decision that she could no longer take back, and that yearning for validation from the one person who meant the most to her, Vega felt as though she was unraveling. One strand at a time, like a poorly woven tapestry, before Haraldur's impatient and irate demeanor. She had anticipated this; his anger as a result of her blatant betrayal, after promising him that she would have nothing to do with the necromancer. And yet, it still hurt, as much as it would had she instead been blindsided by it. "I was... this was never about you. It was about me, in... my selfishness."

The sad realization dawned on her as soon as she uttered the words, and the Eyraillian princess's shoulders sank along with her heart. All along, when she had been truly convinced that her sacrifice was for the both of them--and with Haraldur primarily in mind--she had only been lying to herself. The mercenary was rightfully angry, for more reasons than she had anticipated, for what she had done had not been in the best of their mutual interests. "I'm sorry," she decided to preface, knowing that there was nothing she could do to rescind what had taken place. Nothing that could possibly make Haraldur see it in a different light. "I know--freedom is not a tangible thing. It varies and is relative to any individual and their given situation. But the thought... I was looking ahead. To our future." Her voice nearly cracking on the last word, she was prompted to clear her throat. "And the thought that we would have a future together, only so that I would lose you to the necromancer Vitali for who knows how long... I could not bear it. Not when the reason you were ever in that wretched man's debt was in order to save--no, to restore my life."

He turned from her before she could finish. Vega looked down at herself, to the worn toes of her boots, and placed a hand over her heart--over the rune--when he mentioned it. A mark that would serve to define her for the rest of her life, it seemed; not a mark of what she had endured, what she had survived, but what would forever make her less than human. Less than whole. At least, that was what she garnered from the look in Haraldur's eyes every time he broached the subject. "I... I want to tell you what occurred. Why it was carved anew. But I..." Vega's throat closed as tears sprung to her eyes. She couldn't do it--not even for Haraldur. Couldn't relive it, because it meant reliving the moment she had lost her lifelong companion... all selfishly for the sake of a new lifelong companion.

One who could not even look at her, for what she had done.

Tears streaking her face in stead streams, trickling down her jaw and neck, Vega conceded to the heartbreaking defeat that she had anticipated from the very beginning. Before she had ever left to do VItali's bidding. "What even does it matter, when it is done?" Her voice was little more than a strained whisper. "I made the decision. And I have to live with that decision; that I led to the destruction of the most precious thing from my past, in favor of the most important thing... person... that I thought I would have in my future. Because a bright, hopeful future... it's all I wanted. Not for Eyraille, but for me." Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she forced a bitter smile to her pale lips. "Even if I cannot have that for myself... then at least I can take solace knowing that the way for you is cleared. However self-centered my intentions were; I won't be bearing the burden of a debt to you that I could never repay." She paused, considering her words as she turned on her heel, wondering if they were the right ones to utter. Wondering if this was yet another decision that she would ultimately regret.

Then again... How could it possibly add to the weight on her chest, if the future as far she she could see it was paved by the very gravity of her greatest regret?

"...goodbye, Haraldur." And find love and peace with someone stronger. Picking up her feet, she left, making her way back to her tent before she could think twice of finalizing the implications of the mercenary's new freedom.

At a loss as to what to do with herself following the young Sybaian girl's insistence that she keep her distance, Elespeth found herself wandering aimlessly to clear her head. Unfortunately, it did nothing to assuage what plagued her mind; Vega's condition, how Alster was faring, and Haraldur's state of mind after everything he had been through. Instead of the meditative quietness she'd hoped for, the former knight's mind buzzed with energy that refused to be harnessed. Was this what Alster was suffering, only to a far greater degree? And if so, how was he able to walk upright and with purpose, let alone function? I'll get used to it; I have no choice. she thought to herself, knowing full well that she could not let on to her discomfort, lest he refuse and future aid that she offered.

Almost as if he had read her mind, she encountered the weary Rigas caster not far from the infirmary tent, snapping her out of her rush of barely intelligible thoughts. He looked tired, but beyond the need for sleep. His sunken shoulders and half-lidded eyes portrayed a sort of defeat that could only be expressed without words. She knew it well; knew it since the day she had lost Farran. But what, exactly--or who--had Alster lost to warrant such melancholy?

"I'm alright." Elespeth took the water decanter with a grateful nod, quenching her parched throat with its contents. "Just... tired. But not to worry, I will ensure that I am able to make the travel back to Stella D'Mare--which, I'm assuming, is to happen soon, now that Vega was found alive."

Mere seconds later, when Alster's face fell all the more, she wished she hadn't been so quick to assume.

The Atvanian warrior listened as Alster recanted what he had gleaned from his recent discussion with the Commander--or, former Commander, it seemed--of Eyraille's Skyknights. She had, indeed, caught wind of the fact that Vega had returned without her roc... Was the magnificent creature truly dead? And Eyraille's princess... had everything she had built herself up to be, for the sake of her family, her kingdom, and herself, died along with Aeriel? "And we haven't the time to spare to rekindle her conviction." Elespeth looked down at her feet, guilty for merely uttering the words. After all Vega had been through, and there was nothing that they could do but leave her behind as they tackled more urgent matters. "But she will at least have Haraldur. She will not be alone. He can..."

Oh, no. Her previous conversation with the mercenary suddenly resurfaced in her racing mind. That steel in his eyes, the way he went rigid when she told him what she had learned of Vega's absence... How would he react? Would he continue to be there for the Eyraillian princess, or would he turn away, fed up with her perceived betrayal? "He knows." Pressing a sigh from her lungs, she ran a hand through her tangled hair, feeling heavy with remorse. "I told him... what Tivia told me. The reason why--at least, we suspect why--she went missing. To repay his bargain so that Haraldur would not have to... and I fear he is far from pleased. When he confronts Vega, I doubt he will respond with sympathy..."

He heard her response, her reasoning, but found he could only bob his head up and down. Not in agreement, or in understanding; in acknowledgement that he heard her, and registered her anguish-filled excuses. But still, he looked away, kept away, his stance and jaw both firm and unyielding, despite the tumult that buzzed inside of him like a hornet's nest, threatening escape. He could not trust his words or actions, so he did neither, and became stone.

But he cracked, revealing the flawed surface beneath, at her leave, and her parting words. His jaw worked, massaging back to function. His mouth hummed to life, and his eyes flickered in allowance of reacting to her finalizing statement: Goodbye. 

She had imparted something similar to him in Stella D'Mare, moments before Andalarian authorities found and apprehended him: I relieve you of your loyalty to Eyraille. And to me... I wish you well. Again, he was faced with her rejection, in the form of that word, freedom, that once meant so much to him. But now, he saw only it with regret and pain. Shards of broken promises and broken dreams. She was letting him go. 

...It was for the best. 

Again, he watched her walk away. And again, he did not follow. He was too rooted, too tired to keep fighting through their losses that he, by committing to revive her from death, had caused. And ever since she awoke, her life thus far was one long, lingering march back into death's arms--try as he so desperately might to stop her course. She was too beholden to the grave, and he could no longer bear it. His regret--was that he didn't accept her death on the battlefield. He should have let her go, too. As she was, with him. 

"I can't keep losing you to death, Vega," he said, not knowing if she heard him as she retreated. "A future can't happen if you're not there to see it. And I...I am only your past that foolishly tried--and failed--to follow you there. ...Goodbye. Your countrymen care more for you than you think." 

He didn't wander far, in his trek or in his thoughts, before he bumped into Tivia. The skittish young Rigas woman hopped from foot to foot and wrung her hands together, looking like the human equivalent of a squirrel in search of her cache. "Haraldur," she hurried, her one remaining eye a twist of concentration. A secret lingered there, awaiting its revelations like a crystal ball in the hands of a gypsy. He was tired of secrets. Hated them, now.

"It's my fault," she blurted, before he could raise his hand to reject her oncoming flow of words, and move on. "I spoke to her that night, Haraldur. The night she...the night she left. I encouraged her to take on your debt. I thought maybe she could give him riches from her royal coffers, or...I didn't think it would all come to this. I thought this would be the quicker path, and it was, but I never thought about the difficulties she would face. Please," she pleaded, her crystal eye liquefying into quicksilver, "please believe me. I'm...I'm so sorry." 

"...Why?" The anger had since fizzled out. Only a world-weary numbness washed over him, now. His heart had turned to stone. "Why do you care who takes on the necromancer's debt?"

"I..." resignation crossed her brow, and smoothed its creases. She looked into his cold-fire eyes. "I...I like you. Possibly even lo...love you. Ever since you...you saved my life. I know it's silly, and foolish of me, but I do. And I only wanted to pay you back. To help you. I owed you so much and--" 

"Debts," he sneered, his mouth curling. "Nobody owes me anything, Tivia. All of this...madness... it all could have been resolved if people did not think they owed me. Do you understand?" 

Tivia retreated a step, fearful of the fringes of wrath that crept into his voice. Realizing his outburst Haraldur cleared his throat, and reared back his ire. Instead, he regarded her with curiosity. With...interest. 

"I don't need that, either. Love. But..." He stepped forward, and she saw it, there. Those green eyes became luminous with desire. When was the last time anyone gave her such a look? A look that saw past her burn scars, to a beauty long lost? He dipped his head to her, closing their space, careful and slow. And then--his lips planted upon her own, soft and sensuous...just how she had imagined they would feel in her fantasies.

Vega's face floated behind her closed eye. With a yelp, she snapped open her senses and scrambled from his touch, gasping and spluttering. "But...but you and...and Vega, and--"

"We're not right for each other," he said, nonchalantly enough, but she saw the fault-lines in his words. He was hurting, and she...she was an opportunity for him. A rebound. There was no love in his actions: he had said so, himself. But oh how she wanted the warmth of his lips again, the firm press of his hands upon her waist, the feeling that she was beautiful to someone, however disposable. For...when would there come another time? Even if Stella D'Mare did not kill them all, and she lived to the end of her wretched days of madness and hearing loss, such passionate wantonness would never be in the stars for her, she feared. And she...was so lonely. So...in need of someone.

Against her better judgement, she pressed forward--and returned his kiss. Together, they found a niche in an abandoned hillside, and spent their hours fulfilling each other's selfish, selfish needs. 

They didn't spend the night together. Already, they risked public scrutiny, should anyone find their secret rendezvous. Awkwardly, they departed. Tivia, to wallow in the aftermath of satisfaction and shame, and Haraldur, to discover that, in the infirmary tent, Shayl was wasting away into death...

"Eat this, too." Alster passed the hardtack biscuits into Elespeth's available hand. "I can keep nothing down, but maybe you'll have better luck." With his hands now free, he brushed them into the tangles of her hair, and kissed her forehead. A radiating heat touched his lips. "You have a high fever," he said, as he drew back, looking into her watery green eyes. But before he could again ask about her condition, Elespeth deftly shifted focus to Vega and her questionable fate. With a sigh, he nodded, allowing the elaboration of such an unavoidable topic. Though, all they could do was speculate on the trajectory of her recovery.

"I told her to go home, to Eyraille--after the Skyknights fly us to Stella D'Mare. She can recover, there. I don't know if Haraldur is going with her, but," he pursed his lips, in thought, "if he knows, now, then I'm not sure what will happen. It's...it's out of our hands. And it's something I can't heal." He ran a hand over the stump of his little finger, his eyes shading into its requisite faraway look that had plagued him since the massacre with Andalari. Luckily, his quiet introspection was interrupted by a Tadasuni scout, one of the few uninjured, who approached them. His breath was harried and shallow, as if he had run countless miles without stopping to rest. 

"Rigas," he began, then pointed a shaking finger in the direction whence he came, "Andalarian...troops. While our...battle was happening here, the rest of them, about a thousand, all told...they're making their march to..." he took in another breath, "To Stella D'Mare. They should arrive, if my calculations serve me...by dawn on the day after next. I heard they're planning an...an assault. They're going after Old Town. After...after the Rigases." 

Alster, whose skin was already pale from his condition, whitened to the color of milk at the scout's news. "And you're sure of this?" The scout nodded his confirmation, but said nothing more, exhausting his words and energy. "Go. Find some rest. I'll inform the others."

When the scout bolted off for much-needed rest, Alster turned to Elespeth, determination reigniting behind his clear, blue eyes. "Now more than ever, we need to get back to Stella D'Mare! We need to warn them all, and as soon as possible. I'll go and find the new Skyknight commander, and tell him this needs our utmost urgency. El--you go and find Tivia. Prepare her--in case we're to leave posthaste. We can delay this no longer!" With that, he bounded away, his weary body besieged with the force of his steps as he made for Eyraille's side of the camp.

"I will go and find her." Elespeth agreed, jumping to attention as the news of Stella D'Mare's new immediate danger reached her ears. "You go speak with the Skyknight commander and see what can be arranged. I'll find you later." Planting a quick kiss on Alster's lips, the former knight set out in search of Tivia to inform her of the plan. 

It wasn't until much later that she came across the Rigas starteller, who immediately seemed... off. In something of a daze, as if her own mind had gone numb. Worried for the woman's fragile mind, Elespeth hesitated before placing an arm on her shoulder. "Tivia. Alster and I just received word that Stella D'Mare... Old Town, is targeted for attack. We are preparing to leave as soon as possible..." When the Rigas caster did not respond, she pressed, brows furrowed, "TIvia? Did you hear me? We must prepare to take action immediately. And we need you with us... Are you well and able to be of help? Did..." She noticed the woman 's swollen lips, the way her tunic looked rumpled on her form, and the glaze over her pale eyes. "Did something happen?" Regardless of her answer, the Atvanian warrior knew that something must have occurred to off-set the starteller, and there was no more room, no more time for secrets.

Shayl had not realized the extent to which her health had deteriorated until she returned to the infirmary tent following her sister's burial. A heavy fatigue swept over her, such that the throbbing of her broken arm was no longer at the forefront of her mind, and everything began to feel... surreal. As if she was not truly awake, but rather, treading a dreamscape. Every now and then, people would speak to her, attempt to engage her in conversation or ask her questions, but she could not understand their words, and thus, did not reply. 

I'm dying. She had known it for a while; ever since she had successfully mended the wound in Haraldur's subconscious mind. But the words themselves and their tangible meaning had not cross her mind until just now, cementing it in a reality that she was, at last, ready to face. It's alright. There was never an alternative... I won't be alone. Ilona won't be alone.
Lying upon the cot, her breathing shallow and her chest heavy, the young Sybaian's half-lidded eyes did not focus on what was before her, but instead, on moments passed. When she had been well, the times she had felt successful, fulfilled. When her mother had still been alive, when Ilona had patiently put up with her childish petulance. A smile tinted her lips; she would not leave this world with unfinished business. Already she had left her mark on it with her healing feats, and felt nothing but... nothing but a promise of peace.

I was born to help, to heal. I did. I have no regrets...

It was a while before the fading child recognized the familiar voice saying her name. The mercenary... Haraldur's face slowly came into focus, but the edges remained blurry, like a fragment of a dream. Shayl blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy. "The only reason anyone has... to fear death... is if they did not lead a fulfilling life," she murmured, her voice hardly above a whisper, and painfully weak. "What about you... Haraldur? Should you die... tomorrow... would you have regrets?" 

Were she not so weak, so beyond saving, the answer might have been clear in his aura. But all of the colours of the room blended together, and she couldn't make out just what it was she was seeing. "Fight for what... and those... you hold dear. Our only purpose in life... is for each other." With eyelids too heavy, Shayl allowed them to close, feeling as though she was sinking into sand; warm, reassuring. Final. Her chest, rising and falling slowly, finally stilled, a final sigh passing her parched lips as she faded from existence forever.
Around the body of the fallen child, the world went on, the infirmary tent still abuzz with the injured and those caring for them. Time stood solemn for no one.

No one heard or saw from Vega after she returned to her tent that afternoon, but out of concern, Elespeth decided to check in on her late that night. Unable to sleep, her veins still buzzing with the magic she had siphoned off of Alster, the Atvanian warrior worried for their Eyraillian comrade, who couldn't seem to catch a break. Whatever happened, she did not want to depart that morning without finding some sort of closure for her friend, and sought to check on her in her tent. "Vega?" She murmured, hesitant just to barge in. "Are you asleep? I hoped... that I could talk to you. I have to leave tomorrow morning, and I do not know when we will be able to speak again..." 

When no answer came, the former knight decided to check to see if the Eyraillian princess was, indeed, asleep; but when she parted the tent flaps, all that came into view was an empty cot. Vega was nowhere to be found.

Overcome with concern, Elespeth left as quickly as she'd arrived. "Vega? Where are you? If you're around, answer me," she besought, but there was no answer. Promptly turning on her heel, she gasped, almost colliding with Alster, who must have gone in search of her after she had left him (presumably) asleep. "Alster, Vega isn't in her tent," she told him, worry tightening the muscles in her jaw. She took Alster by the arms. "I have a bad feeling... I know we should be resting, but I want to find her. Especially if she was left so unstable by whatever it was the necromancer put her through..."

She didn't wait for he Rigas caster to agree, before dragging him along into the dark, hardly sure of where to begin...

She could hear her; she could feel her. But what ailed Vega was that she couldn't see her, inciting her search. Vega hadn't slept a wink, and had been on her feet for hours, blindly searching the crags of a hillside, desperate to find that small thread of hope that had teased her senses for hours, before blossoming into something palpable. "Where are are?" She called into the quiet night, clutching her arms to stay warm. "I can hear you... Aeriel, tell me where you are..."

It was her; she just knew it, by the tone of that avian shrill, one that she had heard for years and could discern among a hundred other rocs. She was calling for her rider; she wanted Vega to find her, somewhere, in the night. "I'm coming. Just... just show me where you are...!"

The Eyraillian princess suddenly stumbled to a halt, as she encountered a dip in the cliffside crags, where the ground seemed to plummet into the darkness. Of course... it was no wonder she could not find Aeriel, treading he ground. A roc was more likely to take to the sky, so she looked up, searching for the avian's form against the pale moon. "I knew you wouldn't leave me..." Vega breathed, a small smile touching the corners of her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I... I never should have desired more than what I had. Please forgive me. Let's go back... to the way we were."

She hesitated, glancing down at the abyss that vanished into the nighttime darkness. It was faith that had guided her before, that had drawn her and Aeriel together from the very beginning... any by that logic, faith would bring her back. Reunite the two of them, who never thought they would live without the other.
Vega lifted her foot and inhaled, slow and deep. "Show me you're still here... catch me."

"Stop! Vega, wait!" Before the Skyknight could make her (literal) leap of faith, someone grabbed her by the arms and tugged her away from the drop beyond the crags. Elespeth and Alster held her tight, at once terrified and relieved. "Gods, Vega..." Elespeth breathed, her voice trembling in the aftermath. "What were you thinking!"

"She's out there! She's waiting for me, I can hear her!" The Eyraillian princess struggled in vain against Elespeth's hold, tears gathering in her eyes. "I'd know her call from anywhere?"

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"It's Aeriel! Can't you hear her? That's her cry... she's calling for me!" Vega insisted, a heart-wrenching sob escaping her lungs. "She's here, she never left me! I knew... I should have known, she never would!"

The Atvanian warrior exchanged a worried glance with Alster, brows furrowed. Though it pained her to have to point out the obvious, she offered gently, "But... it can't be, Vega. Aeriel's gone... and there is nothing to be heard."

"No. No, you're wrong! Both of you are wrong. I can hear her..." Overwhelmed, Vega buried her face in her hands, her copper locks as prominent against her pale skin as the bloody stain on the front of her tunic, from the rune which had, somehow, managed to re-open once again...

Upon her sneaky entrance back into camp, Tivia was apprehended--by the one of the last people she wanted to see: Elespeth, the ever faithful. She doesn't know, does she? Her thoughts worked in double-time, the guilt working her tongue into a ready posture against her mouth...

But instead, Elespeth had come to inform her about their departure--about Andalari's march on Old Town. It was as she expected. The inevitable had fallen upon them, upon her city and her people. But for some reason, the urgency didn't click in her head. More prominent thoughts tingled and prised and throbbed, much like the space in between her legs, which flared its responses in amalgams of pain and pleasure. It was not as brutal an ordeal as her mother once depicted, in a bid to lead her lovely daughter away from male attention, and the unspoken offers that lingered in their eyes. "It will hurt," she told her in secret whispers, though they were alone, with no one else to overhear. "It's not supposed to be enjoyable. And it's only for the purpose of marriage. For your husband. Are you a well-bred lady, Tivia? Then you wait."

She didn't enjoy it, but for different reasons. The sex was as she had anticipated: invasive, painful at first, but ultimately a sigh of release and warmth and surges of uncontrollable ecstasy. But it was her partner who didn't see their union in that way, and it dampened her feelings. It was as if he were fighting a compulsion rather than contributing to their pas de deux. Several times she had asked if he wanted to continue, and he nodded, and did his task with mechanical precision, like a sword slicing through flesh. But his face was cold. He didn't look at her. He focused only on the lower halves of their bodies. At times he became too rough, raw, but that roughness was on par with a wounded animal rather than a predator after his prey.

And, interspersed with their rhythmic motions, he'd talk to her. Reassure her. But the reassurances were...off. "You're alive," he'd said, his voice almost breaking. "Alive, alive, alive..." 

She knew she'd been used, but she couldn't fault him for anything. She, after all, had said yes, had fallen to his whims, had given him what he thought he wanted. And now, in the aftermath, she only had herself to blame. For thinking that maybe he'd...that together they'd...or even that he'd wander back to Vega's side, where she saw him belonging. But nothing happened as per her hopes, and she left Haraldur feeling more hollow, and more confused about him, than before. 

Elespeth must have seen such shades of emotion reach her face, for she asked the question she feared would be addressed. And it was a question she had no right or desire to answer. "No--No. Nothing to worry about, Elespeth," she managed. And though she had difficulty walking, she began to move onward towards the camp. "I'll make the preparations, as needed." But as she retreated, wobbling as she did so, tears sprung into her eye, and blemished the unblemished side of her face--the only lovely side that was left.

Haraldur had his own reservations, his own questions that had threatened to give him pause. He knew it was wrong--for himself and for Tivia both. But he needed to feel something, release himself to someone else's mercy. He needed to feel alive, and in control, and there was nothing to kill or maim or destroy. And he could not shake the image of that poor girl, who had looked to him with that trustworthy eye...

Now, he was looking into another eye, a pair of eyes, but these eyes were rimmed with peace, of deeds well accomplished, of a life seen and played as best she could manage, with all that the short days had dealt her. Haraldur knelt at Shayl's side, his hand pressed into hers, as he watched Death creep along to claim her--to charge her for the simple crime of trying to survive. 

"Shayl," he said, and he heard his humanity return in his entreaty. Stay. Please. At least you. Just one person. One life...

"I don't fear death. I fear what's after death. And of course I have regrets. I'll always have regrets, but they're necessary ones. I can never forget what I've done." And what I've done now. "But of course you don't have anything to worry about, Shayl." His lips trembled as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead--with lips still swollen from his earlier tryst with Tivia. "You're free, now. Free in the truest sense of the word." The pressure behind his eyes heated as he saw in the young Sybaian a composite: of Klara, ailing and frail, and of all the children that inevitably found themselves in his arms. Flicker by flicker. 

"Please don't die." He tightened his grip on her hand, and watched as the last vestiges of life hummed through her, and out of her, deflating as her spirit expired from her body. And then she was gone. 

He bowed his head over her body and stayed there. Silent. He basked in the special loneliness that only Death could provide. The loneliness of futility. Nothing mattered, because everything ended. ...Always.

Mute in voice, mute in thoughts, Haraldur lifted the dead child from her sick-bed, and took his silent procession outside, past camp, and up to the hill where he buried Shayl's sister. The dirt was still fresh where he dug the grave, and broke away from his bare hands just as easily. He didn't have a shovel, didn't care to retrieve one. Instead, he clawed away at the earth, frenzied and fierce, his teeth clamped in a silent rage to the world. He dug and dug and dug until finally, he had created a deep enough trench for the young girl. With as much reverence as he could muster for her, covered as he was in a sheet of mud and dirt, he lowered her into the trench, and stood to regard his handiwork. The grave sat parallel to her sister. They could lie side by side together, enjoying the shade, looking out into...a battlefield. An abominable hole, caused by destructive magic. Bruised landscapes, deposed bodies...

Before he kicked the earth over the still-warm body, his fingers ran over the contours of his pendant. Coarse and gritty to the touch, it pieced away, little by little, slowly crumbling to ash. 

"It's about time I let go," he muttered. With a yank, he released the necklace from its chain, pooled it in his hand--then, dropped it into Shayl's grave. 

"I don't know what this will do for you, but take it. I have no more need of it." He looked into the sunken earth, where he surrendered his precious pendant: the representation of his life, of his determination to survive, of his identity, and of his heart--but it had been crumbling for some time, now, and he was bereft of its protection. Although he remembered his mother's words in that world that Shayl may or may not have crafted for him, he found himself unable to heed them. "I don't protect, Mother. I'm not a protector. People die around me. They always die. I'm not worth that necklace. I'm not worth my name. ...I bury both here. To the last of my hope."

Then, he pushed the dirt over the child's grave, over his necklace, over false promises, over blind, unreliable faith, over fragments of love--and accepted the killer in him. I am master of death. I am Forbanne. 

...I always have been.

After making the proper arrangements with the new Skyknight commander, and mutually agreeing to a next day departure, Alster tired to invite sleep. Together with Elespeth, they built a little enclosure with some of the canvas scraps left behind in the camp's devastation, and curled together in the freeze of the night. Sleep was not something he could induce, and he suspected it was just as impossible for Elespeth, as she wormed her way out of his arms and trekked off into the silent camp. At first, he let her go, figuring she favored a midnight walk. He could not fault her for needing space: he, too, had gone on nervous jaunts all across camp, unable to still his legs and thoughts as the magic slowly ate him to pieces. But when, moments later, she returned, shouting for Vega and darting through the darkness like a frightened apparition, he scrambled out of their little canvas den and ran over to see what was the matter. 

"She's gone?" Biting his lip at the news, he nodded his cooperation, and half-followed (while the rest of him was dragged) Elespeth through the inky blackness. There was no moon out, and the clouds, though wisps in the sky, concealed the brightest of the stars from view. 

"Magic," he muttered, and his available hand twitched. "Just a little bit of..."

He conjured a light spell and shone it outwards, emblazoning the path ahead of them. 

And there they saw Vega, flirting with the edge of the enormous pit as she rocked forward, leaning into the abyss with one foot forward and...

"No!" Alster reached out in unison with Elespeth and grabbed her by the arm. Together, they hauled her far and away from the pit and to relative safety. As they lay her on the ground, still holding her taut, he listened to the Eyraillian royal's half-deranged rants about Aeriel. And, though they held more in common with madness than reason, he understood. His eyes flicked down to the now-bleeding rune-mark that stained her tunic, and understanding transformed into grim truth.

"You're hearing the dead, Vega," he said, though with as gentle a cadence as he could utter. "I don't know what Vitali had you do, but he seemed to open some kind of...gate inside of you. A gate that's accessible by the dead. As long as that wound still bleeds, and continues to bleed..." he trailed away, and dared to place his fingers over the blood-speckled collar where beneath, the rune scar wept anew. "There's an energy surrounding you. It's chthonic in nature but it's...I don't think I can pull it out of you. It's become so part of who you are now, that if I extract any of it at all, it could do...irrevocable damage. I tell you this so that you're aware, Vega. I know this is overwhelming, but it's not madness. Please listen." He moved his hand so that it rested on her shoulder. "Come with us back to your tent. We'll talk." He directed the light spell so that it fell across her face, in a flash that he hoped would awaken her from the effects of her hysteria. " Stay with us, Vega. Can you do that?"

"The dead..." Vega parroted Alster's words, struggling to digest them, all the while eager not to let that familiar, avian cry slip to the back of her mind, lest it be the last time she ever heard her fallen roc. But... The dead. I am not hearing something tangible; I'm hearing the dead... And the voices of the dead had very nearly taken her life, sending her over the crags to some uncertain doom. Once more, the Skyknight turned to the somber horizon. There was nothing that would meet her beyond those cliffs; no beat of wings or strong talons. Her hope had hinged on some superimposed dimension that she--alive and breathing--could not truly reach.
Gone. Aeriel was gone... even if her voice was not.

"Vega?" Elespeth touched the princess's shoulder, distraught by how pale she looked, how she trembled in the chill of the night air, as if suddenly recalling her own mortality. "You're freezing... will you come with us? Please?" Whatever she was hearing, some ghost of a voice that was far beyond her and Alster to discern, it had a hold on Vega... and could they really blame her? What if it were Farran's voice? Wouldn't I want to cling to it, as if it were the single most precious thing in existence...?
Of course, it did not require much thought to find that her answer was no. Because the single most precious thing in existence was standing next to her, and she was certain without the shadow of a doubt that Alster was her cause and purpose, her reason for fighting, and the only reason why she had found a way to recover (however slowly) from her brother's violent death... They were pillars of strength and drive for one another, a reason to stand up whenever they fell.

But, Vega... who did she have? Where the hell are you, Haraldur...

The Eyraillian princess agreed without another word, allowing the two to help her up and lead her back to her tent without resistance. It was a while before Aeriel's cries faded into the memory that she was, and by the time they sat her back upon her cot in her tent, the bleeding of the rune over her heart had slowed to a stop. She sat in silence with the former knight and the Rigas caster for a few tense and confused moments, before finding her voice again. "But you... you could heal it, couldn't you?" Vega turned to Alster, biting hopefully at her lower lip. "You've done it... I've seen you help others before. If you can heal this rune for good, maybe... maybe that is all it will take to put an end to it," she suggested. "To close this... gate, and everything crying from it."

He had always been so eager to be of help, before. He had even helped her to recover her memories which, were it not for him, might still be lost to this day. But Alster's face fell at her suggestion, and the way that Elespeth suddenly put her hand on his arm, as if to allay any second thoughts he might be having. The answer was clear enough; even if he thought he could heal it, it wouldn't. He looked exhausted, and she hadn't failed to notice the missing finger on his hand... He just wasn't fit to help. And she could in no way fault him for that. "...it doesn't matter." Vega concluded for herself, shaking her head. "Perhaps... never hearing Aeriel's call again is more dreadful than hearing it for eternity. It's all I have by which to remember her..."

"Don't give up heart, Vega. We can sort this out." Elespeth reached out to take one of the Skyknight's chilled hands. "Do not think I have forgotten your kindness when I needed kindness the most... If there is a way to reverse this, then we will find it. But first..." She glanced over her shoulder at Alster, before averting her gaze sadly back to her friend. "Stella D'Mare is facing dire times. Alster and I must depart some hours from now, when the sun rises... but when the ashes of this war have settled for good--"

"You do not need to explain." Pulling out of Elespeth's grasp, the Eyraillian princess shook her head. "Neither of you do. You needn't justify your priorities to me. For the person I love, I... I know that I would do the same. Regardless of the peril it might put me in... and, in fact, I am now facing the consequences of that very decision." Before either Elespeth or Alster could say another word, she urged them both, "Go. You require rest, and who knows what faces us tomorrow. I am sorry that I cannot accompany you, but... if I can find the warrior and the leader in me again, then I will join you as soon as I am able."

Speechless at first, the Atvanian warrior stood and drew away. She knew what it felt like to be coddled, when coddling was the last thing you desired. Sometimes, all that could be done was to feel the pain, and acknowledge its existence, until it no longer mattered... Perhaps that was what was best for Vega, at this time. "Do not overexert yourself; now's not the time." She offered quietly. "But if and when you find yourself able to come back to us--we will welcome any and all of your help." Alongside Alster, Elespeth moved towards the mouth of Vega's tent, but something stopped her in her tracks before she could leave completely. A nagging thought that would simply not be left unsaid.
The former knight turned back to the defeated figure sitting on her cot. "And, Vega." She hesitated, wondering if she was overstepping her bounds; Vega Sorde, whether or not she commanded the Skyknights, was a princess of Eyraille. What happened in the light and shadows of her personal life was of nobody's business, none but hers. Yet, simultaneously... Vega was a friend. And Elespeth valued their camaraderie too much to leave and heed some uncertain fate, while the broken princess drowned in regret of what she believed to be a mistake. "You're not a deserter. And your sacrifices... they don't go unnoticed. Even if they appear as a bane to the ones who should be noticing and appreciating them the most." 

She met the princess's eyes when she looked up in brief acknowledgement. Vega didn't believe her; but that was fine. Now was not the time, but the time would come. Of that, Elespeth was certain.

Treading the night, unsure if she could really sleep at this point, the Atvanian warrior stared at the tips of her boots as she put one foot in front of the other. "It isn't supposed to happen like this." Breaking the silence at last, she unleashed the pent-up energy that she'd been keeping at bay for Vega's sake. "To sacrifice everything and more for a person, only to lose it all and the one for which it was intended... Haraldur should be here for her! If not as a lover or even a friend, then at least as a comrade. She shouldn't be... she shouldn't have to suffer alone, like this! And we can't even help her... not this time." Whether from anger or the excess of power she'd siphoned from Alster, Elespeth's cheeks burned with feverish heat. "She will return to Eyraille, a fragment of who she was, and without even the companionship of her roc to help her heal... and what? All because Haraldur chooses to be affronted that she cared for him such that she would make the sacrifice that she did!"

It wasn't until she felt herself leaning on Alster's shoulder that she suddenly realized she was out of breath; depleting energy, precious energy that she did not actually have. I can't even be angry... there isn't even room to be properly angry in all of this. "...let's rest, while we can." At last she conceded. Her body ached, her head pounded, and she needed sleep. Tomorrow, there would be no room for baggage on their flight to Stella D'Mare, no room for distractions or preoccupations. Particularly when they didn't know what they faced, or what they would find...

Once they settled into Vega's tent, guiding the shocked princess upon her cot and encasing her frozen form in thick sheets, Alster held his light spelled hand to the rune mark on her chest. With his other hand, he assessed the wound, which had ceased pumping its rivulets of blood. The damaged tissue began to dry and flake on her frozen skin. But no matter of dried, rusted residue could block out the distinct shape of Vitali's rune. It stood out like a glyph into which one could see another world, could peel back the flesh and see ghosts writhing beneath. He sent a healing pulse towards it, but his lingering contact over the strange symbol assaulted him in a small fit of shivers. Still, he did not release his fingers, though they, and his healing, did little good. 

He sat beside Vega, considering her words, her hopeful request. He thought of his magic, open to near limitless possibilities. He could fell armies with a swipe, heal an entire infirmary's worth of flesh wounds and broken bones...but he could also lose himself. His mind, lashing at any who dared to defy his intentions. His body, burning away from the fingertips like charcoal, spreading down his arms and into his heart--into Elespeth. Taking her apart, before his eyes, until she was nothing more but dust in the sky. Stars, scattered. Her sacrifice, disseminated. Gone.

Elespeth's hand upon his arm was the physical proof that he needed to make his decision--much as it pained him to deny Vega the help she so deserved. If their situation differed, if they didn't need their strength for Stella D'Mare, if magic weren't so determined to kill him...

"Since my fingers have been touching your mark, I've been trying to heal it," Alster said, retracting his hand from Vega's chest. The small wound was still fresh; nothing had changed. "Regular healing won't mend it. And," he sighed, giving a small, sad shake of his head, "this is beyond my ability, Vega. I can't close portals, even if they're only a pinhole-sized notch in a wall--as is the case with your rune-scar. I wouldn't even know where to begin. I--" he began to rise, with Elespeth in tow, "I'm sorry. After this war is over, if all is well, come find me. Maybe then, I might be able to help. But until then--please stay safe, Vega. This case doesn't have to be a hopeless one."

When the two of them departed, Alster trailed behind Elespeth, watching the shadows from his light spell trace their footfalls. "It's possible I could have healed her. I could have tried to, at least," he said, half to himself. "Maybe I do have the means. And it...it felt like a lie, to deny her like that. If I were a Sybaian, I'd have no choice but to help her. But I know we can't afford...we have to keep focused. Focused. I can do that. I can..."

Blinking away his spoken reassurances, he listened in on Elespeth's own concerns, which lashed out like a sputter of flame. His light spell reacted to her raw energy. Amplified by his magic inside of her, the small luminescence in his palm almost winked out completely. With a calming breath, Alster stopped, steadying Elespeth in his arms. 

"There's more at play here, between them," he began, his cadence smooth in its explanation as he tried to calm her. With his magic running amok beneath her skin, any of her emotions could quickly become dangerous, if given cause to manifest into harmful energies. "I've seen inside their minds--enough to know what drives them and plagues them. Haraldur--within himself is a forest of death. I was able to defeat him by bringing his dead, those he'd murdered, back to life. How he views Vega, how he regards her--in his desperation to save her, I believe he thinks he damned her further. That she's better off without him. She's another person he's 'murdered.'" He dispelled the light between them as they approached their little lean-to shelter of a tent. 

"Back in Stella D'Mare, when Vega was first revived...he wanted to kill her," he said in little more of a whisper, in case Haraldur was near. "He thought it would be more merciful than what he had done to her. Forced upon her. And now, her corpse keeps haunting him, but he can't see that corpse as still alive, so he's resigned himself to her fate. That she's dead. That she keeps dying, and he's helpless to stop it. He didn't want her to sacrifice anything for him. Because he wanted to be the one to save her. To protect and serve her. To prove to himself that he was capable of more than just death." He lowered his eyes to the ground with the abashed realization that he was referring more to himself now than to Haraldur. Projecting his feelings onto the mercenary, unaware of the validity of his assessment. "...They're both in a very dark place, Elespeth. And all we can do right now," he took her hand and lead her, gently, back to the tent, "is rest...and prepare for tomorrow." 

Haraldur had spent the bulk of the evening submerged in the pit. Using a still attached rope that the Skyknights had tied to a hammered-on peg, he descended into the darkness a hundred feet beneath the surface. Lighting his way with a torch he had sparked with some flint and tinder, he explored the ruined camp site, and scavenged for supplies.

He stockpiled everything that he could carry, inventoried anything that was salvageable--whether on dead bodies, or in deflated tents or splintered supply carts. He found a set of throwing daggers, a short sword with a wicked curve, a new belt and baldric, and a bastard sword that balanced well in his gnarled hand. He found a set of clothes that fit him, shoulder pauldrons, a leather breastplate, and a pair of bracers. All was mismatched, some pieces camel brown, others maroon or black. All were a little too dingy and worn for proper effectiveness, but he shrugged on his new livery as if he were donning an all too-familiar pair of socks. With every addition to his body, the weighted gear helped him to forget, to numb, to shed away the most debilitating, most vulnerable droplets of his humanity that clung so desperately to his skin.

But that humanity threatened to wash back into him like a storm surge--when he heard Vega's cries from up on the surface. There was a light, too. Winking at him. A beacon to her. She was so near to him. Death kneels in his ears. Unless...it was all in his imagination. 

He appeared before Vega's tent hours later, shortly before dawn. She was the second person he saw that morning. The first person was Tivia--mere moments ago. 

Against his better judgment, he needed to see Vega one more time. To ascertain...to allow her to understand...

To voice a proper goodbye.

He swept through her tent flaps, and stopped just shy of her bedside. Whether she was conscious or not, he didn't care. He had to say the words, even if she hadn't the ears to listen. He would give her the last of himself. The remains of his heart before all hardened into unassailable rock. 

"Vega..." He did not move from his spot. His feet were rooted, spaced wide apart. Complete with his armor, which added bulk to his already impressive size, he looked more about to kill her than to confide in her. 

"Shayl died last night. I could not protect her." It was a statement. His sentences were choppy, bereft of feeling, though his eyes seemed desperate to convey meaning to her. To reach her, even if he no longer had the capability to do so, in his current state. Please hear me, they seemed to beg. It will be for the last time.

"And I couldn't protect your heart." Another statement. "Nor your body. I couldn't protect you at all. ...I've failed you. In more ways than you know." He moved toward her cot, but only to deposit the bundle he held in his hands: the Eyraillian uniform she had presented to him, mere days ago. The trousers were torn into shreds and the brigandine bent and ripped, but it had served him well, in the limited time he wore it. Once placed at her side, he stepped away.

"I'm going back to war," he continued. "It's where I belong. It's where I've always belonged. I kill. I don't preserve. When I leave this tent, I'll be Forbanne once again--and when I do...my way is closed. And you'll do best to stay away. ...For your own safety."

He clasped his hands behind his back, and kept his distance, his space. He lingered closer to the tent flaps than to her bed, than to her---a woman who, now, was so far out of his reach. Perhaps she was never in his reach at all. 

"But before I go, I have one request for you." His brow tightened. Something approaching fire lit behind his throat, for all the power that it lent his voice. The remains of his passion. "Stay alive, Vega. No matter what. I need you to stay alive. And to live."

Then, he was gone. Past the flaps, into the fading darkness, onward to a destiny he could never defy--no matter how hard he tried.

Though unable to be entirely placated, Elespeth heeded Alster's words, listening with about as much patience as someone buzzing with energy that did not belong to her possibly could. He was right; there was far more to the story of the mercenary and the Skyknight than she was aware, and maybe it was not her place to get involved. But knowing loss the way that Vega had suffered it, and all because she had wanted to pave the way for a future with Haraldur... It wasn't fair. What if they won the war--what good fortune would that bring for her?
To be plagued with a connection to the dead, something which might not have a means of reversal... and to bear it all alone.

"It... doesn't feel right." The warrior admitted, deflated and despondent. "When I fled Stella D'Mare... Tadasun did not welcome me. Not a bit. But Vega did; and then, they had no choice but to accept me, there. To just leave her behind... and to let Haraldur mull on such perverse thoughts..." It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Did sacrifice not beget something to be gained? Or at least some clemency from the hardships of life? Fate knows no mercy... not if you are destined to lose. "If we survive this, Alster... we need to come back for her. And we need to help Haraldur find his good sense again. It was never supposed to end like this..."

But there was nothing they could do, and Alster was right: tomorrow was what they had been preparing for, and they needed what little rest they could achieve. Without further outburst or resistance, she submitted to the need for sleep, and followed Alster inside the tent, while Vega Sorde's pale, distraught face was branded on her mind. 

Sleep did not greet Vega that evening. Following Alster and Elespeth's departure, the Skyknight lay in the darkness upon her cot, staring into the nothingness that surrounded her, penetrated her body, right through to what was left of her heart. She hadn't bothered to change out of the bloodstained tunic; it seemed a senseless effort that she did not wish to expend. Stuck in a numb moment of time, the hours passed, and dawn approached the horizon around the same time that someone else approached her tent.

The heavy footfalls alerted her to the visitor's identity almost immediately. She knew Haraldur too well by now to have to look up and confirm it was him. No one else donned armor to such an extent, or carried themselves with such steady, deadly confidence. But it was perhaps the first time that his visit did not incite relief or excitement deep in her core; there was nothing, there, too numb from the aftermath of just hours ago, thinking her beloved roc was not, in fact, dead. Shayl died last night, she heard him murmur, but again, the revelation registered nothing in response. She didn't know Shayl, did not have the connection that Haraldur had to her, but knew on a cognitive level that the child had impacted him greatly--perhaps to a greater extent than she even realized, she figured, as the remainder of his words drifted to her ears through the haze of her nothingness.

But something, one word in particular glided to her on the stillness of the night air, through the fog of her own emotional numbness and the emptiness that Aeriel had left behind: protect. It rang in her ear drums, resonated for a moment, and then registered.

Haraldur hadn't made it far out of the tent before she was after him, grabbing a hold of his arm and turning him around to face her. "Protect... because you failed to protect, you're going to destroy." Something fierce swam in the blue depths of Vega's eyes, which compared to the paleness of her skin, now stood out significantly more. Two hot sapphires against a faded backdrop. "Because it can only be one way or the other with you... even when it isn't expected of you." 

Overcome with words and emotion for the first time since returning to Tadasun's encampment, the weight in Vega's chest turned her breathing laboured,brought a flush to her otherwise pale cheeks. "The Sybaian child did for you what she did because she wanted to, not in return for your protection. Obligated though you may have felt, that was never your job, soldier. Just like what I did for you... for us... That was of my own volition." She could feel, hear the tone of her voice building in strength with every heartbeat, and it was well beyond her control. "I did it because Iwanted to. Because I am not something to protect, Haraldur. You aren't the only soldier here; I am always in danger, for my lineage, for having commanded the Skyknights, and... you can't handle that. You can't handle that anyone and everyone you care for is not within reach of danger; that you cannot save everyone. So it is easier to accept defeat and walk away."

She looked him over in what little light the wee hours of the morning offered; every bit the soldier she had always remembered him as, and just as steadfast, bulked with enough armor to appear larger than life. "You've never failed me, you know. My life was never your responsibility; it was mine. And it came with a price that you never should have shouldered. I just paid what I owed to begin with." The princess clutched at the collar of her shirt, crumpling the bloodstained fabric in her fist. "It wasn't what you bargained for, anyway. Since when is anything as good as it had been, when you have to pick up the pieces and put it back together. So do not pretend like my most recent ordeal is what has sent you over the edge, Haraldur. I'm not a fucking idiot; I know I have been dead in your eyes since the day I was shot out of the sky. You just aren't able to ignore it, anymore."

None of it was coming out right. The words just tumbled, one after the other, none which conveyed the anguish that throbbed in her heart, or the unconditional love that she felt for the man who stood before her. It was so conflicting that it hurt; and for that, she hoped it hurt for him, just as much. "But I don't care, anymore, because I have nothing to prove to you. I never should have thought it necessary, in the first place. But it seems you still have all too much to prove yourself..." It was only then that she realized her anger--and along with it, her vigor--was evaporating, slowly but without question. 
There was no time to think, not unless she wished the confidence spurred by the passion of her anger to drain away before it was put to good use. Without warning, the Skyknight stood on her toes, cupped either side of Haraldur's face, and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was far from gentle; it was fierce, wanting, hurting, and it lingered. It lingered until it began to hurt, at which point she finally pulled away, breathless and empty.

"You never failed me, Haraldur. Not once." Her kiss-swollen lips murmured, hands hanging helplessly by her sides, the last embers of the fire in her eyes smoldering. "But... it was never about me. It's about you. And I cannot stop you from walking away, but know this: you don't get to determine how I feel about you, and you don't get to make me regret the decision I made on our behalf. Whether or not our futures will merge."

Vega stepped back, then, enough that she could have disappeared behind the flaps of her tent should she have chosen. But she didn't; she couldn't turn away from the mercenary, couldn't turn her back on him. Couldn't walk away when she knew not if they'd ever meet again. "You've never let me down," she repeated again, sighing. "But this... this is letting me down."
She should have known better than thinking she could change his mind, however, and watched him walk away, until the dark swallowed him whole.

"I failed myself," were Haraldur's penultimate words to Vega. After her kiss, which was one-sided, his lips dead and unmoving against her mouth, he lowered his head into a bow and a salute: one fist over his chest. His eyes drew away from her. Already they began to slate over, to transition from warm and green to cold, marbleized olivine. All cracks, petrified. All veins, dry and withered.

"Stay alive," he reiterated. "It should be easier for you, now that I'm gone."

He turned away, and marched out of camp, out of Vega's life, and on towards Stella D'Mare. To a war that wasn't his own. To fight as the kind of soldier he never again wanted to be. To forsake his gains before they became losses--as they always did. But as he trekked along on his new path, one stray thought rubbed into his mind, and its coarse surface abraded and abraded, without cease, impossible for him to ignore. And that thought became an emotion. A powerful one.

I love her.

But it was too late. Everything was too late. He disappeared over the hills, disappeared from Vega--and became Forbanne.

Peeking out from behind a tent, Tivia watched the final exchange between Haraldur and Vega, her teeth sawing against her bottom lip. Anticipation turned into disappointment, as the stubborn mercenary walked off, half in defiance, half in defeat. But why was she even upset, at all? She had gotten the damn thing that she wanted, in the end. Due to her interference--her information-gathering with Vitali, her call-to-action with Vega, her...time spent with Haraldur--the two of them were wrenched free of each other. But whatever she had gained with Haraldur was only a shard's worth of his attention, and none of the love. 

Now, as she watched him wander off, she still didn't have him, and wasn't sure if she even wanted him. Too much had happened between them. She was foolish, had done something unforgivable. 

And she would have to pay for it.

Moments ago, before his last conversation with Vega, Haraldur had sought her out--but not for company. She blanched when she saw him, an intimidating study in his mountain of armor and array of weapons strapped to his back and waist. This is when he kills me, she thought, imagining all the ways in which he'd take her life. Through the chest with an axe? Dragged across the throat with a curved blade? Gutted with a boar spear, eviscerated and left to die with her own guts tied around her neck? 

She shook away those perverse visions when he at last opened his mouth to speak. His voice was a booming monotone. It rang in her ears like a gong about to crack. 

"Are you going with the others to Stella D'Mare?" 

She blinked, confused by the question. He was not about to spell out her doom? Or blame her for their moment together, the other day? 

"Yes," she managed, though small and uncertain was her affirmation. 

"Would you reconsider?"

Brow furrowing, she raised her head to look into his eyes--and wished she hadn't. "W-why?" she stammered, fiddling with her fingers. "What do you mean?"

He looked over at Vega's tent, then sighed and shook his head. "Forget it. Stella D'Mare is important to you. And considering what we've done together, this isn't a fair proposal to you. But," a dram of kindness softened his harsh features, "you'd be safer here, if you stayed--and kept her company. But perhaps after the war? If you're able? I'll pay by fighting for your cause. And whatever else you want me to do. Anything at all."

She could not keep the incredulity out of her words. "All this...so she could have a companion? Do you realize...how horrible of an idea this is?"

"She should know. At least tell her...that much. Forgive me, Tivia." Then he walked off--and entered Vega's tent. 

Tivia didn't know what to do. She had been so desperate to return to Stella D'Mare, to help save what she could of her doomed city. To say goodbye. To locate her parents. To be there for her family as they fought for their lives and likely foundered, pulled into hell by the Serpent's tail. But lately, she'd been losing her convictions. Her tryst with Haraldur notwithstanding, thoughts of returning to her city left her almost comatose with worry. All instinct told her to stay away. Don't return. You'll regret it.

And now, with a new request on her hands, a prospect that sounded just as scary, but for completely different reasons...

There was only one other thing she could do, before it was too late.

"Alster! Elespeth!" Tivia cried out their names as she ran to where they were standing, surrounded by Skyknights and their rocs in the pens behind camp. It was morning, the newborn sun crowning the top of Stella D'Mare's mountain in the east, lighting it afire. Such a near destination--but unattainable for her. So far out of her reach.

She mopped the blood from her ears with a handkerchief once she caught up with them and was able to relax. Alster took her by the arm to steady her in place.

"Where have you been, Tivia? We were looking for you," Alster said, his eyes shining with concern. "We're about to leave soon, and--"

"--I'm not going," she said, her statement coming out in breathy huffs.

"...What?"

"I...I consulted the stars." She referred to the bloody rag in her hands. "My place...it's not in Stella D'Mare. Not now. There's a chance that I'll...that I'll die, if I come along. They also told me a few more things. Please listen, Alster. Listen carefully." 

Now it was she who grabbed her Rigas brethren by the arms. "Adalfieri's star wanes. It...it may be too late to save him. Prepare yourself, Alster. The Serpent is nigh." Her grip tightened on Alster. "And Rigel. His...his star visited me. It's..it's risen again. The winter star of Rigel. Alster sinks, but Rigel rises. Consult that star. It will guide you. There...there is a history of our founder that...that no one knows. He has taken it to his grave--literally, to his grave. But you alone can uncover his secrets, Alster. He presents them to you. Bid you find them. They'll help you to...to face the Serpent."

"But--"

"That's all I have to say," hurried Tivia. "Please, stay safe--both of you. You'll succeed because you have each other." She hugged Alster, tight and lingering, before she gave the same honors to Elespeth. "Don't worry about me, either. I'll stay with Vega--if she'll allow it. Haraldur's gone--but you might see him in Stella D'Mare. And if you do--tell him I've done as he's asked. And tell him what I want from him is to come back when he's done." Releasing her arms from Elespeth, she backed away from her and Alster, from the Skyknights and the rocs. And gave them one last, tight-lipped smile. "Save Stella D'Mare, you two."

They gave her determined nods in turn, as they climbed upon their designated roc mounts. Then, with a command and the flapping of wings, they took to the air, and vanished into the sky. 

Since Alster and Vega's escape from the Rigas estate about a fortnight ago, Adalfieri had seen that some changes be made. The body of Rigel was recovered, no longer spelled to life as a walking corpse. Fortunately, the mummified body did not succumb to much deterioration, though its jaunt through the grounds had compromised its well-preserved condition considerably. It was limp, some of the bindings undone, all limbs in twisted disarray. The body was properly sealed into the tomb, and guarded on all sides, to prevent further disturbance, while a estate-wide search for the necromancer was put into effect, despite suspicions that Vitali Kristeva had disappeared for good. 

Chara, who was seen to be interacting with the necromancer shortly before Vega Sorde's departure upon her roc, was apprehended and locked away in a cell not dissimilar to that of her odious companion, Lilica D'Or. Though questioned, Chara did not give any satisfactory answers. "I am," she told her interrogators, "as ever, loyal to my city and to my family. What I do, I do for them. Their safety is paramount."

Adalfieri abhorred the idea of stuffing his protege into a prison cell. For all her dissension, and insubordination, he had wanted her to succeed. Even believed that, should she sit at his right hand, she would begin to understand his reasoning. "We can never be free," he had told her, "until we break away our bindings. All of our bindings." For that to succeed, the Serpent needed to be free. And defeated. And as long as Alster Rigas was alive, as long as Lilica D'Or provided her seemingly endless stores of chthonic energy, all was still possible. 

But for the possible to happen, there needed to be one more catalyst: himself. Now was the time. 

"Your Lordship, sir," a Rigas envoy approached his door, requesting permission to enter. With a wave of his hand, Adalfieri allowed the envoy through the doors, and to where he was seated. 

"Andalari troops are heading to the North Gate. About five thousand, all told. They face no resistance. All of Tadasun's armies--they've been destroyed, sir. Andalari will be upon Old Town in about a day's time. We must prepare, sir. To rally all able-bodied Rigases. To rally the Arcanum, and any else who will fight. We must retaliate!

"What of the troops from Mollengard?"

"They're not scheduled to arrive until three days hence. By then, I doubt our odds will--"

"--Then we fight. We'll gather all that we can," Adalfieri said calmly, folding his hands across his lap. "And Lysander? Any word from him?"

"No, sir. He is still missing, since the day of Alster's escape."

Adalfieri sighed. "Very well. Get my palanquin, and some Rigases to hoist me. I wish to visit Chara." 

Lysander wasn't missing, as much as he had wished not to be seen. For the fortnight since Alster's exodus from Stella D'Mare, the stealthy Rigas had simply slipped away, undetected, and lived like a criminal in his own home. He thieved for food and supplies when backs were turned, and slipped out of his disguises, his invisibility shrouds, only when deemed safe. He possessed an exhaustible amount of magical stamina, and needed to utilize such magic with care, lest he dip through all his reserves before he could even kick his plan into action. 

Today was the day.

Rigas security had gotten sloppy ever since word of Andalari's impending attack had reached the estate. Men and women alike scrambled to take up arms and offensive magic. In doing so, they cared little for any inside threats--like himself. 

It was at this time, when the guards had gathered for a strategy meeting, that Lysander struck. Turning himself invisible, he sneaked into Main House, down the west wing, and into the corridor where the containment cells were all lined up in a row, behind gilded doors and exquisite decor. He stopped before Lilica's door. No guards. No alarms set. All was empty. Taking a ring of keys from his pocket, which he had pilfered off the guards a few hours earlier, he found the correct one, and unlocked the door.

He opened it, stepped inside, and pressed it closed. With a slow exhale, his invisibility shroud deteriorated.

"Lilica?" He checked the main room. No sign of her. He wandered around until he reached her sleeping quarters, and peeked inside.

"Lilica!" He rounded to her bed, where she lay. "We have to go. Now is our best chance of escape--while everyone is busy." He reached for her hands, where magical cuffs had disconnected her from using her power. With a smaller, more pointed key, he unlocked her shackles, and threw them to the floor. "Come on." He took her hand and pulled her from the bed, to her feet. "We can't delay!"

He was no fool, and frankly, knew better than to make himself known too soon. Vitali was all too aware that he would lose to Haraldur in a physical fight, and all too aware that the mercenary, should he find him, would not hesitate to reap his revenge. That said, Stella D'Mare had already become a dangerous place, with the city on the look-out for the one who had risen the body of Rigel Rigas; and with it being the mercenary's destination, all signs suggested Tadasun's encampment was safer.

Even if it meant encountering the woman whose life he had changed forever. Though it was not as if Vega Sorde looked ready to take him (or anyone else, for that matter) on. Had the death of her avian companion completely shattered her? Did the trouble in paradise between her and the mercenary persist? Or was there also something more at play?
Grief was a strong and determined adversary; but it did not often lead to wandering the night, calling out to the fallen loved one as if they were somehow still attainable...

"I assume things have worked out to your benefit?" Vitali did not bother announcing his arrival (as he seldom did) before addressing Tivia Rigas. She appeared more confused than usual, staring at the Eyraillian princess's tent with a conflicted air about her. A conscience truly was a pesky thing. "Now, don't tell me you are having doubts! This was what you wanted, was it not?" He could tell before she answered that the Rigas caster was no longer sure of what she wanted, or if she had done the right thing--which meant little to him. He had got precisely what he'd wanted from the arrangement; it was of no concern to him that Tivia might not see it that way. In any case, he had not forced her to convince Vega Sorde to take Haraldur's debt upon her shoulders. His involvement was merely in planting that seed...
And from her own selfishness and petty desire, it had grown and blossomed, well of its own accord.

As a pitiful gesture of solace, the necromancer lay a hand upon her shoulder. "Now, there is no need for regret. What is done is done, regardless of how anyone might feel." A hint of a smile curled his thin lips. "In any case, both the princess and the mercenary are still alive, free to live their lives as they will. It goes without saying that circumstances could have been much, much worse. Unfortunately, fact and feeling do not often see eye to eye..."

Withdrawing, he put respectful distance between himself and Tivia with a long step back. "If you truly believe that you will sleep better in confessing to the Eyraillian princess, then I will not stop you. But don't be surprised if you find no difference in your quality of rest." Vitali offered a shallow bow, stepping further into the shadows. "Perhaps our paths will cross again; or, perhaps not. Regardless, I wish you well, Tivia Rigas." Then, he turned, swallowed by the darkness before his footsteps could fully recede.
Tivia was alone.

"I beg you reconsider, your Highness. There is still time." 

Despite the parasite that was guilt which ate away at her insides, preying on every foul deed she had ever committed--namely, her most current desertion--Vega could not turn to look the new Skyknight commander in the eye. This faith in me... they must let go of it, all of them. I don't deserve it.

"Please, Sir Sorde." The new commander, fully equipped to travel and prepared for flight in mere moments. The others, with Alster and Elespeth among them, had agreed to wait patiently as he made a final attempt to convince the princess of her importance. "We must leave [i]now... but your comrades wish you would accompany them, as you had promised."

"Promises break." Vega hadn't meant to snap, but the words felt sharp on her tongue. It was inevitable; ever since she had watched Haraldur take his leave of her, it was as if anything and everything that influenced her compassion had run its course. She had no compassion, no real softness left; only the rough, jagged lines of scars, physical and emotional. "People walk away and never look back. I'm sorry, but... leave. Just leave. Do not leave Stella D'Mare to its fate because you wasted precious moments trying to convince a dead person to live up to their potential!"

Vega didn't see the disheartened man leave; she couldn't look at him. Only at the swish of the tent flaps did she know when she was alone again at last, and she expelled air from her lungs in a rush. "I'm sorry," the words crept past her lips in a murmur, briefly; just enough to acknowledge the shame she had brought upon herself. "I'm so sorry, Alster..."

She was not left long to herself, however, before she heard the tent flaps move yet again. Perhaps it was for the better; every moment she spent alone with her thoughts plunged her further into this hopeless, reactive anger that was so characteristically not her.
The company in which she found herself when at last she turned around, however, was entirely unexpected. "Tivia Rigas. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" For this woman who had already suffered so, Vega managed to substitute the edge in her voice to something of monotonous indifference. Though it was difficult to tell which was worse. "I hope Alster did not send you. If so, tell the fool that he should be well on his way already--and you with him, at that." Pulling her russet locks over her shoulder, she began to pull it into a weave for the first time since her return to camp. "You are returning to your home, are you not? There is nothing for you, here... there's nothing for anyone."

Lilica had been alone for quite some time, in a more literal sense than before. Alster no longer visited her in the safe space between dreams and reality, the space that he had helped her cultivate. She had not seen or heard from Chara in quite some time, which gave her pause for concern, and led her to wonder if she ever would truly be free of this gilded cell. What is happening out there? she wondered, wishing she had some source of information of how events were unfolding in Stella D'Mare. What of her comrades, and the state of the city? What of Messino and the war that he had waged?

With little else to do than struggle to dismiss those thoughts that inspired defeat (the very ones that she knew would attract dark energy), she spent the good part of her days focusing on self-care, at least as much as was possible during imprisonment. Of course, with little else to do but ensure that she ate and slept well, inevitably the isolation was beginning to get on her nerves, slowly but surely. Even that safe haven in her mind was become less appealing as a means of escape, though she did visit it often, for lack of any better means of defense against Adalfieri's nefarious scheme.

That was where Lysander found her; conscious, yet dreaming, so to speak. The sound of his voice had her snapping her eyes open immediately, so grateful to hear and see the presence of another person--a real person--in what had felt like so long. "Lysander--"

She had hardly any time to respond, let alone digest what was going on, before he hauled her to her feet, and disarming the shackles at her wrists, which fell to the floor as if they had never fit in the first place. Had time not been of the essence, she might have paused to insist that Lysander reinstate them, because something about breaking free of both her cell and the object that confined her magic did not sit well with her. After all, what magic wasn't available to her, also would not be available for the Serpent.
Though she did wonder if she trusted herself, her instincts, and whatever she was capable of, any more than she trusted the Serpent...

"Where is Chara?" Was the first thing she demanded of the older Rigas, as they slipped out of the room, quietly and unseen. "Is she well? I can't... I don't want to take my leave of the city without seeing her once more." But do you even have that luxury? her conscience questioned, and of course, she knew the request was not only irrational, but irresponsible.
That is, until Lysander confided--quickly, albeit efficiently--the events that had come to pass. At least, the important ones. Alster had escaped the city, all thanks to Chara and her bargaining with noneother than her loathesome half-brother. Her cheeks burned at the very thought that Chara might be beholden to Vitali, and the familiar twinge of anger soured her stomach. That is, until she learned that she was not the only one who had been imprisoned.

Clenching her jaw, she lowered her voice. "Take me to her. I can help." At least, that was what she thought, but ultimately just to see the haughty blonde Rigas caster again was worth the risk. "I cannot conceal like you. But I... my magic is back at my own disposal." I'll be dangerous again, Chara. But just for now. And just for you.

Tivia was immediately startled out of her thoughts when an all-too familiar voice crept into her still-throbbing ears. It was like a scrape, abrasive and full of wires. A scratching, twisting sensation, that made her shiver and jump and whirl around, all at the same time. When she turned to meet that voice, she saw...him. Her lip curled at the sight of the detestable man, the embodiment of depravity and heartlessness. And here, he went on talking, as if proud of his accomplishments, and gleeful to point the blame squarely at her. 

"Begone, demon," she bit. "Do you enjoy appearing at the worst possible moments, to gloat upon all this misery you helped to create?!" She would not be taken in by his roundabout attempts to cripple her into guilt. She had seen what guilt did to Alster, how it drove him to engage in desperate, self-destructive acts, and she was not keen in following suit. Already, there was too much happening, in and around Stella D'Mare, for her to become a slave to its shackling grip. 

"Don't touch me!" She slapped his hand away from her shoulder and skittered away, like a squirrel with no sense that who she faced was a predator...or death itself. The two were mutual, nonetheless. "Do not pretend like you care. You've no right to speak as if you possess any iota of morality! Leave, now, or I will call upon Haraldur to dispatch you. He hasn't traveled far, and I'm certain he'd love to see you destroyed." 

He did as she demanded, and waded away into the fading night, the growing light. She crossed her arms, digging the corners of her nails into the exposed flesh, but minding the burn-tissue that blazed along her left arm. I do not need reminders of what I've done. She glared off in the direction from which Vitali disappeared. 

Determined, now more than ever, to make amends, or to at least cleanse her palate of the hairy, sticky substance that clung to her mouth and tongue, she marched onward to Vega's tent--and prepared herself for whatever consequences would come from her actions. At least I'm trying, Vitali, she thought to him, at him. At least I am not some parasite that feeds on the misfortune of others. 

Yet, I am still guilty...

It was shortly after the Skyknights' departure, with Alster and Elespeth in tow, that Tivia slipped into Vega's tent, holding her breath all the while. She didn't know what to expect from the Eyrallian princess, but when she entered, she regarded the woman and her unreadable face. She was calm, expressionless, stoic--like the mercenary before he left camp. How long will that facade last? she wondered, grimly. How impartial will she stay to my news?

"Vega," she at last managed. She clasped her hands behind her back--to hide the mad fiddling of her fingers. "I come of my own volition. Alster and Elespeth are gone. They departed a short while ago," she said, trying not to flinch in thinking of her betrayal. Her betrayal to her city, to her people, to her family. But what could she have done? Even the stars deemed her unfit to contribute. Her destiny was elsewhere, they stressed. Her destiny was in remaining alive--for, who else would communicate with the sky? Who else would consult with legacies burned and burning forever within the primordia of the universe? 

She abhorred that destiny.

"My place is here," she continued, her eye trailing to the ground. "If you would have me, here. My future will end if I return to Stella D'Mare this soon, but my future, as it stands, now--is with you. You had once asked what it has in store for you." She dared to raise her eye, to look at Vega. "I still cannot tell you, but I at least can confess what happened in the past. You can take the information how you will, and act accordingly for the future."

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard it drew blood. Though Vega seemed unruffled, she could feel, from within her, barely-contained waves of rage and impatience. Tivia clenched one hand into a fist behind her back. Should she attack, or instigate physical violence, I have magic. I can restrain her...

"I...ever since he pulled me from the fire that almost destroyed me, I...I've felt a very strong kinship towards Haraldur," she admitted. She returned her head downwards, her eye once again averted. "Strong enough to call it love. I didn't want to see him hurt by his bargain with Vitali, and for that I appealed to you. I should have known...I shouldn't have said anything to you at all. I should have just let matters be, and maybe then, things wouldn't have spiraled so out of control. Maybe then, you'd still have your roc. And maybe then, Haraldur wouldn't have found himself in such desperate need for a distraction. So desperate, that when I was desperate enough to confess my feelings for him, he...he took me. And we..." she shuffled her feet. "...yesterday, we...had lain together. I, because I was lonely, and he, because he needed to forget. But he made clear...that he did not bed me out of love. There was no love in it at all, Vega. Believe me when I say that. He won't admit it aloud, but I know that he still...he still wants to be with you. He approached me again before he left, and asked that I stay here with you--or at least, long enough for this confession." She closed her eye, unable to face the other woman head-on, too afraid of her reaction. "I'm so sorry, Vega. For everything. What can I do? What--what do you need?" 

After Lysander was done detailing the events of the past few weeks, he was immediate in clamping a restraining hand against her shoulder. He already anticipated her response to Chara's detainment, and could only shake her head at her, though it pained him to deny his own daughter her freedom. 

"Adalfieri still favors her. She will be safe, here. But only if we can get you down to the docks and on to a ship in time. So long as the Serpent no longer feeds on your magic, we can mitigate this disaster. I'll look after her," he said, urging Lilica out of her bedchambers and into the main room, en route to the door that spelled her own freedom. "It may not be as effective as your protection," a ghost of a simper crossed his face, "but it will have to do, until we are reunited again. In any case, do not use chthonic magic, here. I only undid your shackles so that you will have mobility, but it's too dangerous to use. I daresay you know this well enough. Now," he threw a concealment spell over the both of them, and took her hand, "let's go!" 

Adalfieri sat in his palanquin as four Rigas guards carted him down the hallway. At his side was Chara, newly liberated from her chambers. 

"Why are you allowing me free?" She was found seated in the lush quarters of her prison, sipping on some wine, which hid the curl in her expression. 

"My dear...all will become clear very soon," he said, and his eyes grew wistful, and a little misty. "All too soon. But for now, we must prepare for war, and we need you. We need every Rigas to join together and take a final stand against our Andalarian oppressors. It will be much more difficult without Alster among us," he threw her a stern look, "but no matter. I understand your loyalties towards your betrothed. You wished him safe. And safe, he is. But now, you must come with me." However, Adalfieri doubted Alster would keep away from Stella D'Mare for long--especially not after he put his plan into action. While said plan relied on the return of the prodigal son, the venerated Rigas head wasn't worried. Alster was predictable. He would come. 

And now, it was time to intercept the antics of two more predictable persons. He guided his men, and Chara, down the hallway which housed Lilica. He turned his head to see his protege furrow her brow, in confusion--and hope. 

"Lilica," she began. "Are we--"

"Shush." 

He motioned the guards to stop. They situated themselves before Lilica's door. And--as if he had tailored events to fit his impeccable timing (which he had), the door opened. And nobody stepped out. 

"Lysander," Adalfieri rang, an authoritative boom to his normally soft-spoken voice, "I know you are there. Disperse your magic, or I shall do so, myself." 

The guards set down their Lordship's palanquin and threw their hands towards the open doorway, defensive and offensive etherea whirling around in their palms. 

Slowly, the form of Lysander materialized, revealing both himself and Lilica, their hands entwined. 

"Lilica!" Chara took a few tentative steps forward, but Adalfieri commanded her to stay put. 

Good work, Lysander, he thought, as he thrummed amused fingers against the wooden surface of his armrest. The master of stealth fell to Adalfieri's own sneaky machinations. Dismissing the guards, paving the way for his and Lilica's (apparent) ease of escape...it was all for this moment. This set-up. 

It was the beginning of the end.

"Did you think it would be so easy to escape? That I would not be aware?" Adalfieri began, his tone smug, eyes glittering with a calculated shrewdness. 

"Your Lordship--"

"--Chara," he interrupted, swinging his hand in the direction of her father and her inamorata, "do you sanction this behavior? Are you to make underhanded deals with yet more unsavory beings, to bargain for their escape? Haven't you already contributed enough in tarnishing our great reputation?" She flinched in response, though tried to hide the effects of his chastising words. "Though I suppose I cannot fault you for taking such an investment in their lives. You have no say here, Chara. You have no sway. This matter is too personal for you. You will only make rash decisions."

Chara's eyes widened, conflicted both with guilt and fear. The person that she cared for most, and the person for which she was beginning to feel a rekindling...they were in trouble. Cornered. Surrounded by four capable casters and Adalfieri, whose magical might was second only to Alster. And then--there was her. Blessed with naught but incendiary cantrips and dazzling spells...

...Dazzling spells. 

Without thinking, Chara threw both hands in the air and created a blinding flash of light, which she directed at the guards, at Adalfieri. 

"Run!" She shouted to Lysander and Lilica. 

But they could not go anywhere. Nobody could. An invisible, impenetrable shield bubbled and encased everybody in a prism from which none could escape. Adalfieri, his fingers tingling with the etherea that erected his spell, simply gave a hard-lined smile. 

"You will soon see that my actions are necessary, Chara," he told her, his tone shifting to accommodate a kindly, avuncular fondness. It immediately hardened when he snapped his focus to the guards. "Kill them!" 

Chara, desperate now, pushed her way towards Lysander, towards Lilica, but found that she could not advance, could not reach them. Or anyone. A tingle of electricity ran through her fingers, through her body, and repelled her backwards. The barrier--Adalfieri hadn't included her within the shield.

"No. No!" She bellowed, and beat her fists against the barrier, ignoring the shocks that shivered down her body in response. "No! Let me in! Let me--" It was feckless. She couldn't...

She looked through the barrier at Lysander, who defended and fought as best as he was able with his magic. Then, over at Lilica. Profound apology swam in her eyes. This cannot be the end. I shall not accept it. You will not die, Lilica. Lysander. You...

Her thoughts paused, as something noticeable caught her attention. The shackles that once circled Lilica's wrists, that once staved away her magic--they were gone.

"I couldn't care less for what the future might hold. Not anymore," Vega snorted, picking up the uniform that Haraldur had left at the foot of her cot, and placing it haphazardly in the corner. If she didn't have to look at it, perhaps she could put the man she once loved--who she still loved--out of her tortured mind. "But if in your mind your future is here, in this hole of what used to be an encampment--well, far be it from me to deny you. Let me apologize in advance that I will not be good company for you."

As she proceeded to pack up what few belongings she had left in her tent, determined to keep the clutter to a minimal as a means to focus on something other than her deep-seated anger and disappointment, Tivia began to delve into the very topic that Vega wished to avoid; that of Haraldur. But... what could the star seer Rigas caster possibly have to say about someone with whom she was so scarcely affiliated?

Or... was it so scarce?

One by one, the words registered in the princess's mind, each consecutive utterance weighing more heavily than the last. And yet, even as the woman before her confessed, Vega struggled to rationalize the series of events that had led her to its ultimate climax. It had only been a crush, after all. Surely no one would put a person's entire life at risk in hopes that circumstances would end a relationship between them and the desired other... Not even Tivia, mad as she was. It wasn't possible, it wasn't true.
And yet... there was the truth, laid out plain before her. Tivia was smitten with Haraldur; as such, she had wanted her out of the way, for a mere chance to be with him in her stead. And in a twisted, roundabout way... her ploy had gotten her precisely what she wanted.

There was nothing that Vega could do. So she threw her head back, and she laughed, loud and disconcerting. "He certainly is something to look at, isn't he? A real feast for the eyes and fuel for the imagination. I can't imagine there are many women he has come across who haven't fantasized about fucking him." She was no better than them, of course; her mind had indeed wandered, long before the first time they had lain together. "Do not think yourself so unique, Tivia. I am willing to bet you are not the first to have acted so irrationally out of loneliness and longing. I'm sure Haraldur was happy to add you as another notch in his belt, just as he did with me. But clearly, I am damaged goods, in so many ways I can hardly name. Don't go and feel sorry for me, I guarantee he had moved on before trying you on for size." Despite her words, the Skyknight's chest felt tight, as if it was struggling to hold the pieces of her shattered heart together. The backs of her eyes burned, and it took a moment to come to the realization that she was fighting off tears. 

"Loneliness... it makes us do such strange and destructive things. It caused me to drink, for example. Too much, and too often." The mere thought of wine prompted her tongue to moisten with anticipation. After all, wasn't this the very situation in which she would take to alcohol as a means of escape? To feel numb to everything, if only to cope? But there was none within reach; and that was the only reason the princess found herself not reaching for the bottle. "But anything is better than feeling unwanted by the world. So much that I foolishly thought that being loved might make a difference. I should never have ventured down such a convoluted path... had I not, then perhaps I would not be without the one companion who had stood by me, unrelentingly, my whole life."

Kneeling next to a leather chest that contained changes of clothes, Vega paused, and picked up a long, elegant feather. Light reflected off of its gold hues, like it were made of the precious metal instead of soft fibers. She cradled it gently in her hands, a shaky exhale escaping her lungs, as she recognized it as the very last piece of her fallen avian companion that she would ever see. It had always been a habit of hers to keep one of Aeriel's feathers near her person for good luck. "...you can't give me what I need, Tivia. Because I threw away the one thing I needed. Aeriel... is dead, because of me, because of my decisions. Because I valued Haraldur's life and freedom over her's, despite that her loyalty was unshakable. Now... now, I am meant to live with my decisions."

Opening the chest, Vega cautiously placed the precious piece of her lost friend atop the pile of clothes where it would not be crushed, and closed the lid with reverence. "I'm sorry, Tivia. But whatever guilt you're feeling, I am not of the mind to make you feel any better for it. I've my own guilt to contend with." Standing, the Eyraillian princess turned to face the Rigas caster, her face coloured only with a look of apathy. "Forgive me that I will not be the source of your cause, right now."

Lilica's heart sank at the thought that she did not know when she would see Chara again. Weeks, months, years... what if time and distance erased her from Chara's heart? How long would she wait... or, would she wait at all, to reunite? "Promise me she'll be safe," she said at last to Lysander, taking his hand as the concealment spell fell over the both of them, and they fled. How will I know she is even alright? If I am too far away for my mind to reach her's?
But she needn't ponder the possibility for long, when a familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks and sent a chill down her spine. 'Lysander, I know you are there.'

The dark mage could have sworn her heart came to a painful stop. She squeezed Lysander's hand with more fervor, and almost whispered not to comply, that they needed to run, but then a shock of pale blonde hair and bejeweled blue eyes caught her attention, and her breath. There, among Adalfieri and his ever present acolytes, stood Chara, a look of surprise and bewilderment on her face--one that the dark mage likely mirrored. Though as relieved to see that the haughty, blonde Rigas caster was still alive and well, as Lysander had tried to assure her, it perplexed her to see her in the presence of the very man that she had finally convinced could not be trusted. Had the venerable Rigas head duped her into switching loyalties? No... not Chara. She is too clever to be tricked, even by a puppet master like that man.

The realization offered little relief, however. Somehow, Adalfieri had anticipated her escape... and somehow, for some reason, had dragged Chara into it. But why? To make a point? To have her watch both her lover as well as her father die at the hands of her mentor, to show just how powerful he was? To put her in her place, break her down, shatter her and rebuild her into whatever form he pleased? I won't let you... you will not do this. Not to Chara.

"Back away, Chara!" She shouted, a heat blooming in her chest and spreading through her limbs. So long... for so long, she had repressed her anger and resentment towards the twisted Rigas leader. It wouldn't do to fuel the source of her chthonic magic and risk feeding the Serpent that lurked beneath the city, and she had practiced keeping those flammable sentiments at bay for weeks. 
But now, that careful resolve unraveled at an alarming rate, and not in response to her own danger, but for the fact that on the other side of the forcefield that Adalfieri had likely manifested, was the woman she loved, frantic and panicked as two people for whom she cared deeply were at risk of falling at the hands of her very mentor. Lilica could not bear the thought of her living with that, for the rest of her long life. And if she was to fall at Adalfieri's whim--it could not be in front of Chara's eyes.

Exhaling an uneven breath, the chthonic mage clenched her hands into fists, beads of sweat forming on her brow as she fought to contain the fire that threatened to grow out of control in the pit of her stomach. Too fast--it was all rushing too release, too fast, but they had no time, and if she did not act now... "Forgive me." To whomever that plea was directed--Chara, Lysander, or even herself--remained unclear, but Lilica felt it a necessary utterance nonetheless, because she had already reached a point where she'd gone too far to pull back. 
Hands trembling, she raised them from her sides, meters before the venerable Rigas head. "Don't intervene," she cautioned to Lysander in a hiss, knowing all too well that she was going against the very warning that he had given her when he'd released her wrists--and her magic--from the shackles. There was no other option but for them to die; and she could not let that happen. She could not do that to Chara.

It all happened so quickly.

Uncurling her fingers, threads of darkness slithered out from Lilica's open palms, dashing like daggers toward Adalfieri. There was no reversing what she had done, not now, for the darkness ate through whatever shields Adalfieri's servants erected to protect him, cutting through all barriers with little force. The slivers of ebony embedded themselves directly into Adalfieri's chest, where the darkness festered and grew, suffocating the old man from the inside out--slowly. There was nothing merciful about that death, and Lilica could not deny that she took satisfaction in his suffering, just as he had made her suffer. Just as he would have made the city suffer with the release of the Serpent. "Your reign is over," she whispered, seconds before the Rigas head's eyes glazed, and his body went limp, tendrils of what looked like black smoke seeping from his ears, his nose, his open mouth. "Your reign is over..."

Lilica's hands fell to her sides, that brief moment of satisfaction suddenly lost to the horror she perceived on Chara's face. Only then did the dark one pause to wonder if she had, indeed, done the right thing, for a stinging sense of foreboding, paired with the look in her lover's eyes, made her think otherwise.

Shoulders tensing, heart racing, Tivia braced herself for a storm. Vega would surely rage. She would yell, pulse with fury, scream insults, threaten her with violence, perform violence, curse her name to the stars and heavens. But what she received, instead, was not a peal of lightning, but peals of laughter, rolling and deep and...almost manic. Tivia took a step backwards, her back brushing the fluttering flaps of the tent. Somehow, the Eyrallian royal's reaction, in all its unprecedentedness, was even more disturbing than her predictions of retaliation and vengeance. 

"I...that was not the reason that I..." She could not help the blush that rose upon her cheeks, but hoped at least that her burn-blemished face would hide the evidence. "It...it didn't hurt that he was handso...but no!" She cut off the thought, stopped it with her tongue. "He saved me. And he...afterwards, at the height of my despair, my...my madness, he still visited me. Him and Elespeth. At least in the beginning, he did. He could still look me in the eyes, even after..." her hand clamped against the ravaged half of her face, hiding it from view. "I...I refuse to believe that I was just a notch in his belt. Not for all he's done for me. You, too, should know better, Vega. Me and him, we shouldn't have, together. That...that was a mistake, for us both. He realized it, too. That's why he asked me to stay here, with you. In exchange, he's fighting for my city, for my people, and for that, I can't...feel hurt by what he did. Though," she brushed through her wiry tufts of hair, "I still do, even though I'm half to blame for it." 

"He's indebted to me, he said. A favor for a favor. Anything I want from him, he said. But I know...that I don't belong to him, and he will never belong to me. So I relinquish that favor--and give it to you, if you so desire it." She dared to look at the other woman's eyes, to hold contact, but by then, Vega was already shuffling through her things, cleaning her cot of the mercenary's old uniform and crouching down before a chest of clothes. Tivia stayed firmly in place, not wanting to overstep her boundaries with the volatile woman, but watched through her one eye at the feather clutched in her hands. All that remained of her precious companion, gone from this world. She was but a memory, painted sonorously upon the winds, the last living holdover of her noble existence...

Her eye grew in size, a revelation dawning on her. An idea. 

"Maybe...maybe I can help," she offered. Tentatively at first, she stepped forward, approaching the mourning princess and kneeling beside her to observe the feather. "...May I?" Her fingers drifted over the fine fibers of the golden pinion, each touch sending a strong, inviting feeling through her hand and up her arm where it sat, comfortingly, upon her chest. "I may not be as helpful as Alster, or as powerful," she withdrew her hand and placed it upon her lap, "but I understand the same principles as he does, of magic theory and energy transfer. You may already know this," she hesitated, "but Haraldur's necklace and its strong, protective properties were created because his mother died with love in her heart, and gave her essence to the necklace, to him, by invoking the most powerful magic of all. And all beings are privy to it. The magic of blood, sacrifice....and love."

"Those three elements, together, have been known to braid, bind, and bond. It's what Alster tried to do in order to re-entrap the Serpent. It's what he succeeded in doing when he tied his soul together with Elespeth. And it's what your roc did for you. That pure, loving energy...it's still out there. Where she died. If you know where she died, we could go there, and capture that essence--and you could carry it with you, always, as a protective talisman. It may even save you from death, Vega. And Aeriel would still be with you, in more than in memory."

She tried for a smile, for a manifestation of hope upon her lips, but the attempt only caused a quiver and a more pronounced grimace on the grimacing half of her face. "We would need a charm. Something in which those energies would hold. I am able to transfer energy into such talismans. Most Rigases can." Her eye darted to something else that was sitting inside of the open chest. The small roc carving in its leather loop, still awash in the russet shade of blood, stared up at them both, as if in bold response to Tivia's inquiry. "That...that would do. That's perfect, actually." She plucked the necklace from the chest, unaware that it was Haraldur's own creation. Before she could become too excited with all the possibilities coming together into a plan, she turned an apologetic eye to Vega, and lowered the necklace back onto the chest of clothes. "Here I am, running ahead of myself, when you didn't even agree to any of this. All of this is up to you, of course. I...I am merely rattling off suggestions. But if I am making it worse, by being here, I'll...I'll take my leave." 

Lysander fought the guards with every bit of magic he could summon from his arsenal. He threw radiating waves of electric heat, aiming to fry and suffocate all assailants in the barrier, with the aim of necessitating a release of the bubble. They were quickly losing air. The barrier was snuffing out the effectiveness of spells, but the guards still deflected, still fought. He could not hold them off. They carried weapons and brandished them. They wielded their etherea disks and threw them with precision. Lysander had no choice but to defend. He shielded himself and Lilica, but power was waning, his endurance, fading. Spiked breaths racked through his chest. Blurs and spots overtook his eyes. He stumbled through his movements, losing focus, effectiveness, and determination. The air scorched his lungs. His ears throbbed, distorting all sound and sense and...

Then, he saw it. The bruised black and blue spots were not only an illusion of his eyes. They appeared out of Lilica's hands, sharpening into wicked points. They were poised, aiming for Adalfieri, who sat upon his palanquin, not moving, not contributing to the fight. Just...waiting. Expecting. Beckoning with his eyes, daring Lilica to attack, to kill. 

...Adalfieri wanted this.

"No! Lilica!" Lysander used the last of his strength to shout, the last of his strength to throw himself upon the dark mage. To stop her. To knock her out. To redirect her magic--anything. But when he got near, the darkness stopped him. It surrounded her. It perceived him as a threat. It blackened his vision. It seeped through his body. He managed to deflect it with his arms, but it trickled downwards, to his legs. Latched on to them like leeches, and they sucked. Lysander cried out as the pain overwhelmed him. He screamed in unison with Adalfieri, who had been speared by the darkness. Who fell off his seat on the palanquin, and thrashed around in pained spasms. He coughed and choked and cried out for the shear agony of it, but did not take his eyes off of Chara. She darted her attention between Lilica and Lysander, but froze when the Rigas head managed to quiver out her name.

"Chara," Adalfieri wheezed, his entire body bleaching itself of color and shriveling, shriveling away into folds of wrinkles, like discarded clothing. "Lead, Chara." One hand opened, and a key dropped from his palm, clattering to the floor. "Take that. To my quarters. Desk. Top...drawer. Please...The pain!" He wailed, all dignity lost in the face of his unraveling. "Stop! Stop! St--" 

It stopped. Adalfieri ceased movement on the floor, his eyes frozen in its sockets. His guards were taken with him, also destroyed by the darkness. 

The barrier fell, and Lysander fell with it. His legs sprawled out behind him, useless, emaciated, and black like soot. 

The key forgotten, Chara darted through the destroyed barrier, past Adalfieri, towards Lilica and Lysander--but stopped before she drew too close. The chthonic magic--it could still be there, crackling in the air, waiting to attack her, too. Like it attacked Adalfieri, the guards...Lysander. 

Dammit, she'd risk it!

"Father!" She ran to Lysander, and crumbled in a heap by his side. He was unconscious, but still twitching from the aftershock, the after-effects of Lilica's magic. His trousers, which were burned off at the knees, revealed the branding of the dark curse, as it spread past the knees, and continued its way down. 

"Stop...stop this!" She pleaded to Lilica, but did not look at her. Could not look at her. It was all self-defense, she knew. The dark mage had no choice. And yet...and yet...

"Lilica! It's spreading! He'll die! Stop. Stop!" Her tears ran more freely, transitioned into sobs, into gasps. She was too disoriented, too distraught, to feel the soft rumbling beneath her feet, beneath the surface of the earth...

Vega was only marginally capable of listening, at this point. She had attempted to extend a sense of understanding to the ruined Rigas caster in the past; had taken pity on her for her condition, as had so many. But she was all out of feelings now, both positive and negative, and her drive to cater to Tivia's comfort had long since diminished to nothing. "Of course he saved you. The man is obsessed with saving everyone who crosses his path." The Eyraillian princess muttered. "He is shouldering a past of needless bloodshed, and there is no end to his damned desire to 'save' to stave off that guilt. You are not unique, Tivia; you are just another opportunity that he saw to potentially hate himself less."

It did not help that Tivia confided that Haraldur had asked her to stay behind, either. Of course he would do something of the sort; something to allay the fact that he had walked away from her for good, after all that she had done and sacrificed for the potential to have a future together. Crimson blossomed on her cheeks. "He asked you to stay to make up for the fact that he left--that after all I have sacrificed for him, for us, he saw fit to walk away. So forgive me if I cannot find it in my heart to show either you or him gratitude." 

Tivia suddenly saw fit to change the topic of conversation, however, when she noted the feather in her hand, and that useless pendant cast aside. And for a moment, however brief it might have been, she felt a pang of hope. Was there really the potential to have her fallen roc with her forever, in more than just that rift between worlds where she continued to hear aeriel's cry...
But that hope was just as fleeting as it felt. Because there was a dire difference between Harldur and his mother, between Alster and Elespeth, than between her and Aeriel. What had happened, what she had done... Aeriel had not sacrificed herself for Vega's well-being; rather, the former Skykngiht commander had surrendered the life of her greatest friend and companion do as to selfishly secure a future with Haraldur. And for that, she was cursed to hear the call of her beloved roc on the wind, forever. A punishment she readily deserved, and a burden that she would shoulder.

A heaviness settled in the pit of Vega's gut. She stared at the talisman, coated in her own vile, russet blood, without a flicker of sentiment in her pale azure eyes. "Haraldur's pendant was a useful talisman. Until he used up the rest of its potential, on me; now it is no more." She corrected the Rigas caster, figuring that Tivia had not been privy to the circumstances which had led Haraldur to finally let go of the very last gift from his mother. "Regardless of what you or Alster are capable of, you are wrong. Because Aeriel's death is my fault; I sacrificed her in order to be with Haraldur. Had I never agreed to leave with the necromancer, she would still be alive. Nothing about this was her decision--it was mine. All me. And for that, I hear her cries at night; I feel her presence on the other side of the veil, where her spirit resides. And believe me when I confirm that it is far more painful than death."

Standing from her kneeling position, she brushed the dust and dirt from her knees and tightened the leather thongs of her boots around her calves. "Keep it," she told Tivia, nodding towards the pendant. "I have no use for it. And since you so carefully orchestrated the catalyst that sprung events causing me to lose everything I hold dear... you might as well take that, as well."

Without further commentary, Vega pushed past the Rigas caster and walked into the early daylight, to busy her hands and her mind in whatever menial work needed to be done around the encampment.

Lilica could hardly see through the darkness that surrounded her, her focus solely on her target--one that, strangely, did not fight back... Did not even make to defend himself. Had he so much faith in his guards? Or so little faith in her ability? Neither sounded particularly characteristic of the venerable Rigas head, but the dark mage's thoughts did not dwell on that for long. She watched, drank in every wretched second of Adalfieri's slow demise, watched his wrinkled features twist and stretch into beautiful grimaces of excruciating pain. And you deserve worse, yet, she thought, bitter and vengeful as she allowed the darkness to use her body as its conduit. Every second of your misery, for every hour of mine... you deserve worse. You deserve worse. But she could not have slowed the process if she had wanted to. The dark energy had taken on a life of its own, claiming the screaming souls of not only the Rigas head, but the guards that supposedly served to keep him safe, and...

And...

"...Lysander." All at once, the darkness retreated and cleared from Lilica's vision, which was soon turned to the incapacitated Rigas caster on the floor, his legs so badly, badly damaged... "No... no... why did you get so close!" She hissed, knowing full well he likely could not hear, and wasted no time dropping to her knees, placing a hand on either of his maimed legs. "I'll fix it... I can fix this." Commanding the darkness, she concentrated on drawing it back inside of her--precisely where it had come from, but a place to which it did not want to return. She could feel it sear her from the inside, through her hands and up her arms, before finally relenting to her control several long seconds later. When at last she drew away, and none of the lingering ebony tendrils remained to wreak havoc on Lysander's body, her palms were charred and bloodied--though with the rush and buzzing of adrenaline in her veins, the euphoria of unleashing that pent-up energy that had been begging for release, she couldn't feel a thing. "It's stopped." At last she confirmed with certainty, the fallen Rigas caster's body void of the mark of the curse. She had successfully ceased it in its tracks.

But... with so much damage already done. To both Lysander, the unfortunate recipient of her magic's bite, and to Chara, whose tears of anguish wrenched her heart. What have I done...

"It... the damage, it might be reversible." Lilica stammered, knowing it was unlikely, but desperate to offer her lover a shard of hope. "Help me get him to the infirmary... Alster had told me the Sybaian healer has returned. Perhaps there is something she can do..." Taking one of Lysander's limp arms, she hoisted it around her shoulder, and waited for Chara to do likewise. But the Rigas caster, always so haughty and self-assured, was frozen to the spot, staring at her in a way that made her insides churn. Her mouth was agape, tears streaking her cheeks, crystalline eyes wide with disbelief.

It was only then that Lilica paused to take note of their surroundings; only the two of them conscious, five dead and decimated, the venerable leader of the Rigases among them, and Chara's father in critical condition... I did this. I had to do this--I had no choice. But I did this...

And you watched, Chara. You saw it all.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, perspiration beading on her face, the chthonic caster shook her head. "Chara, you must know I did not mean for this. Not... not Lysander. You must know this to be true..." As she spoke, however, she knew full well that this was not merely about her lover's father. This was about the lifeless husks that surrounded them, the putrid stench of singed flesh in the air, the tortured, desperate cries of Adalfieri as he appealed to his favoured disciple one last time...
Lysander had warned her not to put her chthonic magic to use, had made clear that freeing her from those shackles had been a necessity only for the sake and purpose of mobility--and he had suffered for her negligence. However necessary her decision might have been.

"I had no choice." She maintained, almost as a plea. "Adalfieri... He would have had both of us killed, Chara! I didn't want... I could not put you through witnessing that. I was trying to save us--all of us!" Despite that she had clearly failed, and so miserably. Looking down at the pale face of Lysander, who had been so good to her, so like the father she had never really had... "You're angry; you're hurt. I understand that. And I will happily take your anger and your hurt however you may choose to express it. But right now, we must get your father to the infirmary. Help me lift..."

Lilica's words trailed off, as a sudden rumble beneath her feet--as if the building was threatening to collapse--swayed her balance...

Climbing off her knees and back to her feet, Tivia met with the jilted woman's ire as it, at last, directed itself at her. She would be damned if she was going to sit down and passively allow Her Highness to take stabs at her, at Haraldur, and at the entire blasted situation--however justified. She was not indulgent, or endlessly patient, like Alster--or as spineless in confrontation. It didn't matter that she had wronged this pin-feathered, rankling, half-dead mess of a human, or that she had remained in this literal hell-hole of a camp, partly to make amends and be of assistance. Rigases did not cower, no matter how penitent. She would not silence her voice, her desire to fling verbal dirt into Vega's martyr-loving face...because she wanted the last word, and wanted it to sting. Then, they could suffer together, wallow in their own mires of sorrow and anger and wail at all the injustices of the world. They could find similarities in their equal levels of horribleness and hypocrisy. Because if Tivia were to paint herself as horrible, as a life-ruiner and a dream-wrecker, she was taking somebody down with her--for the company. 

"The two of you share plenty in common, then!" she growled, planting her hands at her sides--unaware that she still clutched the roc carving in her fist. "You're both stubbornly obsessed with showing your love by proving who sacrifices the most! You didn't ask to be revived: he did it anyway. You didn't ask him to sell himself to Andalarian authorities: he did it anyway. You didn't ask him to sacrifice his pendant to save your pathetic life a second time. And yet, he did. Did it all for you. In turn, he didn't ask for you to go out on this fool's quest and sacrifice your roc for him. If Aeriel were so precious to you, if she really was your lifelong companion, then you sure have a beautiful way of showing your love and gratitude. Maybe it was a good thing Haraldur left when he had the chance, before you decided to throw his life away, too!" Her face reddened, almost glowing like the flame that had melted half her flesh into holes. 

"So go ahead, continue to paint yourself as the prime victim. Go on about how much you sacrificed for him, as if you're the only one to have done so--as if you even needed to. But oh did you ever want to. To be his heroic counterpart, worthy and capable in your own right. Do you want recognition for what you did? Congratulations." Her expression was almost gleeful in its mockery as she clapped her hands together in applause. "You allowed the pitiful likes of me to sway and persuade you to perform a pointless task which had you ritualistically murder your roc. You can blame me all you want for the role that I played, but you went through with it, despite all warnings. Continue to drink your bitterness down until it drowns you, Vega, but don't blame me for that, either. But let it be known that I tried to help you find some measure of peace with your roc. If you want to bask in your own hatred, see if I care!" With her final words reverberating in the air, she ran out of the tent before Vega did, still clutching the roc necklace tightly in her trembling hand.

"You had better fix this," Chara said, though without much conviction. Most of her poise and confidence were washed away by fear and shock, waver and doubt. She carefully pinned Lysander's legs to the ground, holding them in place for no real purpose other than to feel helpful. As if the presence of her hands just shy of the infected area made any difference, countered the spell at all, or kept it at bay. She hesitated at Lilica's approach, and almost stopped her, in case her "fix" caused even more irreparable damage. But any hope of leeching the curse from her father rested solely on the curse-bringer, herself. With a nod, she released her hands, shuffled away, and allowed Lilica the opportunity to undo the spell. 

It had worked. The dreadful black stigma drained away, leaving behind a more natural, albeit pale, hue to Lysander's exposed legs. Only--they were still skeletal, with only a delicate layer of flesh and veins and blood to indicate the barest definition of vitality. But at least he was breathing. His heart-rate slowed. The wrinkles of his brow smoothed. He seemed to stabilize. 

Alive. He was alive. She released a long, fluttering sigh, not aware she had ceased breathing for so long--as if she kept that extra bit of air in reserve for him. 

"Imbecile," she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. "Of course you would be the only one to survive such an attack, when you were the only one idiotic enough to launch yourself at it."

Shakily, she stood, though she hadn't yet acknowledged Lilica beyond her earlier pleas for assistance. She looked around at the scene, at the littered, desiccated bodies, all black and shriveled, like curled up paper in a fire. Then--her eyes met the corpse of Adalfieri, who lay on the floor beside his palanquin. His once regal body, which he prided as near wrinkle-free, despite his age, was beset with more folds and crinkles than a lizard's skin. It appeared just as dry, and brittle. Charcoal, like the residue on Lilica's hands. She turned away, disgusted, sickened by the sight. Sickened by everything. By Lilica, who performed the deed, and by Adalfieri, who encouraged it, who pushed events to such an ugly, cataclysmic end. And whatever for?!

Lead he had told her, before his words of control devolved into unbridled shrieks of terror. Lead.

But why her? What was that supposed to mean!? And why did dying...seem all a part of his plan? 

That was when she noticed the glint of the forgotten key. It was a bright, brassy contrast to the once-white mosaic tiling of the floor, now smeared with soot and blood. Acting swiftly, as if it'd disappear if she didn't claim it now, she grabbed the key and pocketed it--before turning back to Lilica and Lysander. She adjusted her manner, and molded herself into a being with reason, much as it seemed impossible at the moment. Lead... 

"We shall haul him into the palanquin. It can be hefted and carried by two people," she said, with no implied emotion. She still did not look at Lilica--lest she lose all impartiality. "We will worry about the consequences later. Let us locate the Sybaian and the Clematis healer. Though he is dying, he may provide us instructions for some herbal concoc--" 

She bit her lips to a close. A mighty rumble sounded from beneath the earth, vibrating through the walls and dislodging small stones from the vaulted ceiling. The entire structure swayed and groaned in protest, but remained sturdy and firm as everything settled back into place, and ceased movement. 

"An earthquake. Nothing out of the ordinary at all," she said with as assuring an air as she could manage--but for whom? Lilica, or herself? "A frequent occurrence. Let...let us make haste." 

Together, she and the dark mage hauled Lysander into the palanquin, then grabbed the hand-poles of the ornate, yet lightweight transport. As they scurried awkwardly down the hall en route to the infirmary, another quiver erupted from the ground, almost knocking them off their balance. 

This cannot be. I refuse to believe it, she thought as they regained their bearings and lumbered through the infirmary doors. Along the way, she was surprised to see no other Rigases, guards or otherwise, loitering about the corridors. It's only an earthquake. This is not...it is not...the Serpent...escaping.

Something had broken, snapped inside of Vega like a faulty blacksmith's creation--but it went well and beyond her heart. As Tivia's words hit her, cut her and sank into her skin, it was only then that the Eyraillian princess realized just how broken she was, how shattered she'd become. It had bitten enough that the Rigas caster showed remorse; that he had so much as confessed to having been involved in the catalyst that had set off the chain of events, leaving Vega where she was now. But then, when she turned on her own guilt, forcing the onus back on the princess in its entirety... 

No sooner did Tivia dart past her in an attempt to be the first to storm out, that she grabbed the smaller woman by the shoulder in a vice grip. And with the force of all of her pent-up fury, her sadness, her anger, and that sour taste of betrayal, she pulled back an arm and connected her knuckles with the undamaged side of the other woman's face. With fury came a surge of strength, one that surprised even Vega when her blow knocked the Rigas caster off of her feet. She tumbled pitifully to the ground, clutching at her face, which was already beginning to bruise. Under any other circumstances, the Skyknight would have felt sorry for her; would have felt remorse for her actions.
But not this time. Everything was fury, all was fury, and she couldn't stop it. She didn't care to.

"Insidious bitch!" Vega seethed, with an anger that she had never allowed herself to feel before. But there was a time for everything. Since it wasn't enough that the other woman was down, she kicked her in the ribs with the toe of her boot. "You ruined us! Your ruined the potential for our future... because you were hoping I would never come back! Is that it? You'd hoped Vitali's boon would cost me my life, that Haraldur would mourn then recover, and then--what? That he would take to you for solace? Or are you just so tightly situated in your own fucking misery that you cannot stand when others have the opportunity to actually be happy!"

Livid, torn apart and defeated in more ways than she cared to admit, the Eyraillian princess kicked Tivia again, paying no heed to the Rigas caster's cries or groans. Not pausing to consider that her assault on this woman might forever affect her relationship with Alster--and, vicariously, Elespeth. It seemed that she was already destined to be alone and to be despised; so be it. "I might be devastated; I might never be happy or find love again. But I will once again find purpose, because there is another kingdom awaiting my return, and I have no choice." Finally satisfied that the star seer had suffered enough pain (at least, enough to sate the peak of her anger), Vega backed away, fists clenched on either side of her hips. "And you... you will have naught but your own madness to keep you company. Do you truly believe Alster will spare you the time of day when he has the chance to settle down with Elespeth in the aftermath? Do you believe your family will find a use for you at all, when your 'predictions' become too entangled with your insanity? Where, then, will you find yourself, Tivia? Fulfilled?"

For a brief moment, Vega's face softened as she met Tivia's one good eye. "I wanted to be a companion to you, Tivia. Truly, and not out of pity; but because I know what it is like to be alone." Something akin to regret traversed the princess's azure eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came into existence. "And now I am of the opinion that your conniving ways have earned you that loneliness. I will bear mine, as well; but at least not with the shame that I sought to overturn the life of another!"

There was nothing left to say, and no facet of anger left to feel. With a final glance at the sorry form sprawled in the dirt, Vega stepped away--to where, she wasn't sure. Just to be of help, or to occupy herself somehow, even with the most menial of tasks required around the encampment.

Anything to keep her thoughts from wandering to Haraldur...

"I'm sorry. I'm..." She didn't know for whom the apologies were meant; Chara, Lysander, or that part of herself that she had finally, truly, believed to be good. Now, she wasn't so sure. "I'm sorry. I... didn't know what else to do."

Chara's utter lack of affect worried and disturbed her, but the other woman was right; there was little else to do but to get Lysander to the infirmary as quickly as possible. Kneeling, the dark mage hooked her hands underneath the unconscious Rigas's armpits, and strained to lift him to the palanquin as his daughter lifted his feet. Lysander was by no means unrealistically heavy, but in the aftermath of the surge of chthonic magic that she had just unleashed, Lilica felt as though almost all of the strength had been leeched from her arms. She did not give up until they had successfully moved Lysander to the deceased Rigas head's palanquin, however, and then proceeded to lift the front with her shaking arms. The tremble of the ground beneath her feet did not make it any easier as she lifted the structure supporting the unconscious man, and struggled to orient herself in the unfamiliar hallway. She was familiar only with the places that Chara had taken her; and spending so long in confinement had made her all but completely lose touch with what was going on outside of that room.

"Lead on, I'll follow," she told Chara, something about the words resonating deep in her heart and causing her throat to tighten uncomfortably. I'll follow you anywhere...

The unsteadiness of the ground led tot he dark mage rolling her ankles more than once, but she did not stop, did not even think to complain, because all that mattered was getting Lysander the medical attention he so desperately needed. Lysander... he's kind to me. He helped me... and I have done this to him. Would he recover? Had the Clematis and the Sybaian the special skills to restore him to how he had been mere moments ago? Would he ever forgive her, even if it was possible?

And Chara... Would Chara ever look at her with tenderness again? 

All of those unanswered questions were impossible to grasp in the heat of the moment, and what was done, was done. Moving forward was the only thing that she and her paramour could do, and thanks to Chara's authoritative presence, no one who spotted the two dared to question the unbelievable sight before them. By the time they arrived at the infirmary, Lilica was about ready to collapse, both ankles throbbing and her arms trembling uncontrollably. She set her end of the palanquin down with far less grace than Chara, finding herself unable to stand right away from the kneeling position.

"What's going on?" While Elias was awake, he seemed unable to climb out of the bed where he lay; fortunately, the Sybaian was on her feet, and ready to help. The grim expression of surprise was sadly no source of solace, but Lilica did take a modicum of comfort in the fact that she didn't ask questions. "Hurry, help me get him onto the cot! He needs..."

Another tremor rumbled beneath their feet, as soon as Chara and Daphni managed to move Lysander's unconscious body onto an empty cot. But the Sybaian healer did not appear confused or surprised; her mouth was pulled into a tight line, as she closed her eyes and took a breath. "We did not act in time, did we? I can feel the energy... it's dark, suffocating. That of the Serpent. Alster... it could be that he is too late. But," she caught Chara's gaze, pale eyes flickering with determination. "That is not my jurisdiction. Mine is here, and regardless of what is happening beyond this building, my place is here. I will do what I can for him. The rest is up to your and your family."

Pulling herself to her feet, Lilica pressed her body against the wall, feeling winded and weak. I can't succumb to this... not now. Not yet. "She's right." She said to Chara, who had yet to spare her a glance. "I can help. Maybe stave off the worst long enough for Alster to arrive. He will be here--you know he will. In the meantime..." Slowly, she expelled a breath he had not realized she was holding. "We can try and fight fire with fire. I connect with chthonic magic... maybe I can sway it. Long enough to buy us the time we need."

Before Tivia could squeeze through the tent flaps and out of Vega's seething company, she felt herself grabbed and spun around, the grip upon her like steel traps. She flinched. Too late. Her defense wasn't quick enough, and in moments, a blossom of acute pain erupted all over the good side of her face, sending her reeling to the ground. She gasped as her hand reflexively grabbed it, shielding those features from further harm. It was all she had left, and that cretin sought to ruin it!

Instead of fighting back, of blasting this woman down with all the retributive force of celestial magic in full-burn, she covered her entire face with both hands, and took the hits: the sharp kicks to the ribs, the bruising of her fire-branded skin, the cracking of her insides, the gut-squeezing. She spluttered and gurgled in pained, gasping cries, trying to curl herself into a protective ball, but to no avail. 

Finally, in one wounded, animalistic screech, she threw a hand forward, and retaliated. A spiraling disc of etherea appeared in her palm and sang through the air, biting and burning its lightning-hot fire against Vega's shoulder. Taking advantage of the break in her assault, Tivia scrambled away from the looming proximity of those boots and attempted to stand. She coughed and held her tender abdomen in one hand as she wobbled to her feet. As she did, she held that spiraling galaxy in her attacking hand, in case the Eyrallian scum gained her second wind and tried to fight her a second time. 

"Are you satisfied?" She gurgled a laugh, which was wet and speckled with the blood smeared against her teeth, against her lips. "Beat the other half of my face into pulp, will you? How would you like the same burns, but all over your body!?" The might of her ethereal spell grew in size, overtaking the circumference of her hand, and preventing Vega from exiting. 

"I have a purpose, Vega," she spat the name. "My 'madness,' you say, saved lives! A few dozen of this camp, who heeded my warnings. And Elespeth. Alster. Twice-over, perhaps even three times, if all goes well--which is more than I can say for you! Twice, he reached out to you and beseeched help, and twice, you denied him. Turned your back on him, even after all that he's done for you! Who is really the useless one here, Vega? The lonely one? They want this power, my family. They want me. I have people who care for me, back home--and yet I'm standing here, in this hole of a camp, babysitting an unappreciative, spoiled, selfish fucking princess who is only concerned about her own pain, and not what she has inflicted on others who, yes, needed her! And then left her! How sad." She laughed, again. Really laughed. It sparkled in her one good eye, which was bruised and half-open from taking the brunt of Vega's full swing. "You do this to yourself. I don't feel bad for you at all!" The laugh thickened, pitching with waves of hysteria, tittering in equal levels of joy and pain. It stabbed at her cracked ribs to laugh this merrily, but she couldn't stop. It flowed out of her throat: madness incarnate. 

In a moment of clarity, the laughs subsided, and the size of her etherea spell dwindled to half its size. "I never wanted you to die, Vega." She confessed, her voice softer, and almost regretful. "I never intended it. I only wanted Haraldur to be debt-free. Isn't that also what you wanted? I never wanted you to die," she repeated, even softer, this time, "but now, I wish you did. ...Touch me again, and I will burn you alive." 

And they both flew out of the tent, going in opposite directions. Once out of sight, she dispelled her etherea and collapsed to the ground, brushing trembling fingers over the now ruined half of her face. Tears welled under her welted eye. She bowed her head, and clasped her hands together, beneath which, she found the roc carving, russet-red and almost alive in her palm. She tightened her fingers over it. The tears came down with more rapidity, blurring her vision until she could only see vague, unformed shapes in the oppressive light of camp. She closed that eye shut--and began to pray. 

Stars, take me. Take me from consciousness. Enslave me, as you want. If I am to go mad, and deaf...why wait?

Please...

The screeching began. It seared and it seared, like being plunged into the heat of a dying star. Blood streamed out of her ears. And--her wish was granted. Her consciousness rolled away. She stopped moving.

She belonged to the ether. 

Once they crashed through the infirmary doors, Chara waited for no cues or orders from the Sybaian healer. Immediately, she set down the palanquin and hauled her father out from the seat, not waiting for Lilica's help, or for anyone at all. She succeeded in setting him upon the nearest cot. Though she was dizzy from the exertion and breathless, she determined to show no weakness. She whirled on Daphni then, the flush in her cheeks recoloring, not with exhaustion, but anger. 

"Sybaian," she said, clipped and commanding, "I lost my mother to your kind. I will not lose my father in the same way. You!" Her attention snapped to Elias, who sat upright and shakily rose to his feet with the help of a cane, "what can you do?"

It seemed to take all the breath out of him just to walk the several paces from his cot to their company, but the Clematis healer reached the trio and the unconscious patient, without stopping to adjust for the tremors that rocked and swayed under his feet. 

"Does it look like I can do much?" He half-said, half wheezed, as he waved his cane to indicate himself. 

Chara took in his gaunt cheeks, his sickly pallor, the perspiration that clung to his forehead and dampened his curls, which hung like strings across his brow. He leaned against the headboard of Lysander's cot for further balance, but looked at the man, and his legs, with an appraising eye. 

"I defer to Daphni," he said, with finality, and Chara's eyes widened with both surprise and denial. 

"That is all you have to say? There are no herbs, or salves, or--" 

"--It is the fastest procedure," he interjected, his voice still firm enough, uncompromising enough, to challenge that of the headstrong Chara, despite its soft, raspy nature. "Your father is not in danger of death. The chthonic curse has affected only his legs. It shows no signs of spreading beyond his knees. Also, it appears as though you have little time." He lowered his head to stare at the quavering ground. "Unless you wish to wait while I dodder off to the garden, agonize over which herbs to pick, mash them up with slow and exacting precision, take a break to blow out my lungs, brew the herbs into a tincture, lovingly administer the--"

"Fine! I get it!" She snapped, clawing her hands into her hair with impatience. "Do," she faltered, emotion threatening to choke her words, "do what you can. ...Please. Just...help him. And do not make me regret it," she growled the last line to Daphni. 

With a mute nod, the Clematis healer went back to preparing Lysander's body, pulling off boots and cutting away the cloth of his trousers, which had obstructed the view of his blackened legs. Meanwhile, the inevitable observation passed between Daphni's lips, and was echoed by Lilica... And a new terror clawed its way through Chara's skin. 

For the first time since the attack in the hallway, she looked at Lilica, at those onyx eyes filled with both remorse and determination, a combination that was all too common an occurrence in her life, among those she loved...

"Not you, too!" She pinned Lilica's shoulders to the wall, both as a deterrent against whatever she was planning, and as additional support for her bone-weary body. "You are in no condition to go out and play with the Serpent!" And what if she makes it worse? Agitates the beast, expedites Its arrival? The doubt echoed around in her head, but she batted it away. "I know we cannot wait for Alster's return in order to act," if he even returns at all, the doubt persisted. "But I cannot sanction...what would you even do!?"

The key weighed down in her pocket, feeling heavier and heavier with every second. "Before we get too hasty," she released one hand in order to fish out the key, "perhaps this might provide us with some answers. There is no need to come to last-resort decisions, Lilica!" Not yet...

"Come on!" She pulled at the dark mage's arm. "To his chambers. I am not letting you out of my sight!"

"You must feel a modicum better, now; no more guilt since the Eyraillian has clearly gotten even with you."

Night had long since fallen before Tivia finally awoke, in an unoccupied tent without a cot. The only thing separating her from the chilled, solid earth was a blanket, and there wasn't a light source to be seen, beyond the shreds of moonlight that scattered across the ground. Beyond that moonlight, towards the entrance, stood a shadow, unclear yet immediately recognizable by the way is stood, and the mocking lilt of its voice. At Tivia's bewildered lack of response as she slowly sat up, Vitali chuckled. "Shocked? Don't be; I couldn't just leave you out there, bleeding on the ground and drawing undue attention. We wouldn't want you to have to explain yourself to any of the Skyknights, now, would we?" He lifted a shoulder in nonchalance. A shard of moonlight caught his lips as they curled into a snide smile. "Apologies for the lack of accommodations. There appears to be a shortage of cots, with all of the soldiers that are in need of help."

Moving away from the mouth of the tent, the haughty necromancer Vitali momentarily became one with the shadows, until Tivia's eyes adjusted to the light. "It would seem as though your poor face cannot catch a break." Of course, he intended to rub salt into her already stinging wounds, but almost seemed to amend with, "Fortunately for you, it isn't lasting damage. You Rigases are too stubborn to stay down when you're kicked, it seems--both figuratively and literally."

When he paused, it almost seemed as though the man with infinite words was suddenly at a loss for them. The snide smile faded ever so slightly, drawing his mouth into a thin line. "What did you see?" The inquiry seemed to come out of nowhere; direct and without pretense. Vitali turned his body to face the Rigas caster full on, and knelt to her level. "Before you succumbed to your own mysticism; what did you learn from the stars? Did it have to do with Stella D'Mare?"

Of course, he was fully prepared for the woman's vitriol and lack of compliance; but when Vitali sought answers, he would get them, one way or another. Regardless of whether they came from the source. "You aren't the only one who hears whispers of disembodies voices. Warnings, cautions... I merely wondered if you and I hard the same thing, through different means." Standing from his kneeling position, the necromancer paced. "It isn't just about you Rigases and your precious city, you know. What your venerable leader seeks to unleash... it may lead to more than just the destruction of your home and people. Beyond a force to be reckoned with; it should not be tempted, at all. I don't know if you have seen devastation spread to the extent that it very well might, but it will not stop at the decimation of your city and its casters. Your regal family may well be putting the very existence of everything we know at stake."

Flashing her a last final glance, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his long, violet overcoat. "Worst of all, it seems I may need to make myself present in the very place I wish not to be in order to dissuade this turn of events. That is, if my foolish sister has not yet made it too late, for all of us." He moved towards the mouth of the tent, the breeze catching his coattails in his departure, as the man who had never needed a single ally made the most uncharacteristic proposition: "I don't need your help, Tivia. But despite what you might think of me, we may indirectly have a common goal in preventing the destruction about to take place in your home. If we meet again, you may want to consider a necessary camaraderie. I do not know what the stars warn you; but likewise, you do not know what it is that the dead tell me."

The meaning was clear as day: they were each potentially one half of a wealth of information. Though one could not control what she saw, she still saw further than the one who sought and extracted information from voices that the living should not be able to hear. But before she could agree or otherwise, he was gone into the night, leaving her alone again with the stars beyond the weak shelter of the canvas tent.

I defer to Daphni. The Sybaian wasn't sure as to what exactly she expected from the stubborn man of the cloth. Under any other circumstances, Elias would have been overjoyed to show her up in her skill set; but instead, he stepped down. As much as she wished she could take pride and comfort, even detect the faintest hint of respect from the ravaged man, it only spoke to her just how dire the situation was, and how far his health had diminished. While she had recovered as much as she would from her brush with death, following coming to the Eyraillian princess's aid, Elias was far worse for the wear. Never had she thought that his self-important snark and overconfidence in his own abilities might put her at ease...

"You lost your mother to her own magical prowess." It was all Daphni could do not to snap. This woman had every right and reason to suspect and blame the Sybaia for her mother's untimely demise; after all, there might have been a chance that the woman might have eked out a few more long-suffering years of inhaling and exhaling and all-consuming madness... if you could at all call that 'living'. But something hung in the air, now, a looming, stifling smell of foreboding. Now was not a time for pride and particularities, and if Chara Rigas did not realize that soon, then she was bound to learn the hard way. "You have my sympathy and understanding for her passing, Chara Rigas. But you will have naught but your own regrets if you refuse your father the only help available to him at this time. His blood will be on your hands, for pride and negligence."

The brazen Rigas women was not all bravado, however. The emotion in her vibrant aura was a real as the catch in her voice, the way she looked at her father, stricken and unconscious and wan upon the cot. It was the face of a woman who had so little left to lose, and she was no stranger to that fact. "My place is here." Daphni reminded gently, with a subtle nod. "Your father will have my undivided attention until, and after, he is stable. And if you cannot yet see fit to trust me..." She gestured to the Clematis healer, leaning his weight heavily against the bedframe. "Then Elias will oversee my process, and intervene if it appears as though your father is in any danger. We've been colleagues long enough that I trust him to know my strengths and weaknesses."

"I..." Lilica started, shocked by the vehemence Chara exerted towards her suggestion. This was, after all, her fault; she had killed Adalfieri, wounded Lysander, and awoken the Serpent from its slumber. It only stood that she should be the one to fix it. But can I?
That was when the realization dawned on her, looking into her paramor's azure eyes. Chara doubted her. Worse, she thought that she would only worsen the danger in which Stella D'Mare found itself. And there was a real chance that she was not wrong.

Glancing at Lysander, swallowing a lump of regret that collected in her throat, Lilica could only come to the same conclusion. I tried to help Lysander... only to destroy him beyond belief. Everything I try to fix only shatters at my touch.

Before Chara could give her much of a chance to respond, the chthonic caster found herself torn from the infirmary, her lover's grip tight on her arm. "What do you think to find there?" She couldn't help but ask, bristling at the idea of setting foot in the wretched Rigas head's personal space. "He wanted this, Chara... he played me, you, he played us all. Do you really think he has a miracle hidden in his private quarters?"

Regardless, it could be the best option they had, better than blindly scrambling to prepare. The ground beneath their feet shook, vibrated...

How much time did they have?

Nothing glinted, nothing shone. Time did not show up. Nothing tracked the hours or days. No sun or moon to drag across the sky, and no sky from which to hang the sun or the moon like mobiles in a child's pen. Nothing existed in this place but sound. Grating. Screeching. Incomprehensible. All noise, as ceaseless and undulating as forever. 

But then, forever passed, and the noise began to take on patterns. Dashes. Dots. A language. A purpose. It pulsed within Tivia's skin, skin she thought she no longer possessed in this strange in-between state. Vibrations hummed in her skull. They're speaking. They're all speaking, all at once, and I can hear them all at once. Billions upon trillions of voices. Everything...

Tivia's eye fluttered open, but only part-way. Still purple and bruised from a scuffle which felt like forever ago, it could only allow a small sliver of light in at a time. Time...time existed here. But the darkness was the same. She saw nothing, made out only blurred contours in the night. The voice, however, was unmistakable. It existed beyond the stars, and anchored her back to a place she was not ready to return to: her miserable, embodied state. 

She moaned at the voice as she slowly raised herself from her elbows, feeling and acknowledging her corporeal body and all its needs. The pain of bruises and cracked ribs. The throat, parched and metallic in taste. The fresh blood trickling down her ears. But still, only that voice kept her anchored. And she, like a trained animal, responded to it, even though she knew full well who she was addressing. 

Vitali.

He spoke to her of a time that sounded so far out of her grasp, as if it had already transpired several thousand times over, and in several thousand different directions. Yet, she innately knew which truth he wanted to hear, which universe he wished to know about--for it was the very same universe to which she belonged. And she cared what happened to it, to her, to the people living and suffering in it. Without much prompting, her split and chapped lips parted halfway, and hummed to life. 

"The Serpent is untethered. Unbound, awake, and engaged. Do you feel the tremors?" Her voice was not quite her own, but it rode on her consciousness, on her memories, as her hand slid out to feel the ground. The earth rumbled ever so softly beneath their feet, like the beating of hooves. 

"It cannot be controlled. Adalfieri was fool to believe that anyone, even Alster, could do so. He will not control It. Not in full. Nobody can control it. Adalfieri broke all the outer wards responsible for keeping the Serpent bound. It is free to prey on those outside of the Rigas family who possess chthonic magic--like you. Like your sister. And once the last restraint--The Rigas Blood Seal--crackles, nobody can reseal It into the earth. Not at this time. Adalfieri wanted power. He wanted to utilize the Serpent as a weapon that would awe and immobilize Stella D'Mare's enemies. To stymie all aggressors. None shall touch Stella D'Mare with the Serpent on their side. But the Rigas shall fall. Stella D'Mare shall fall. Unless...we follow Rigel's will. That is all I can tell you, Vitali." She slowly slid upright, but remained seated, staring with an unseeing eye at the ground. 

"You can go and you can fight. You could delay the Serpent's movements from spreading outside of the city. But if the Serpent is not defeated here, and now...It will not be defeated while we still live." She looked up to notice that Vitali had vanished. Whether or not he heard her insights was unclear. With a soft, tired sigh, her eye slid closed again and she slumped forward onto the blanket, that inviting, self-assured voice leaving her head. 

When she woke, she was once again Tivia. Just Tivia--guided by nothing but her own self-serving morals. But when she awoke, it was daylight, and she was under the guidance of a foreign man. His facial structure was similar to someone else she knew, and his eyes were kind, gentle. Haraldur? A healing pulse leaped from his fingers, and filled her with warmth.

When her eye could open all the way, she looked closer at the man. No, she didn't know him. And beyond him--she didn't know them, either. The camp was littered with strange men and women, most with horses, several with supply wagons. A flag hoisted atop one wagon whipped in the wind, and she saw the colors, the sigil. Red and black. The silhouette of a raven with a spear in its talons. No, a rune. The symbol of war. 

Mollengard.

She should have felt relief, but all she felt was uncertainty. 

"There," the kind-looking healer said as he leaned away from Tivia on the blanket. "You're all healed up. I unfortunately could do nothing for the burns on your face, but all other surface injuries and fractures have been cleared of injury. Our other healers are making their rounds in the infirmary tent. Have we missed anyone?"

She was about to shake her head no, when she felt a small weight wrapped around her wrist. The roc necklace, in its leather thong, was still there when she thieved it from Vega yesterday. With a guilty sigh, she began to undo the wrappings from her wrist. "If you have not encountered her yet, there's Sir Vega Sorde of Eyraille. I don't know if you could heal her burn, but she has one on her left shoulder. This belongs to her, as well." She placed the charm in his outstretched hand. "Would you please return it to her?" 

Chara didn't give Lilica much time to molder in her own remorse-laden thoughts before pulling her with urgency and ushering her out of the infirmary doors. She looked back only once, at her father supine and pale on the cot. Though he was surrounded by two healers, it tore at her heart to leave him in such a condition, and in such a place, with the world threatening to split the ground apart. The quakes came in surges, lessening only for a minute or so before starting up again with more maddening fury. The walls around them cracked, raining down small chunks of stone.

"This isn't a normal earthquake!" Chara admitted with a grimace, with surrender. The Serpent...it must be....

"We cannot stay inside for long!" With Lilica in tow, she stumbled precariously through the hallways, again meeting no resistance as she weaved her way to the grand double doors of Adalfieri's chambers. "Everybody else was smart and moved on outside. But," she heaved her weight against those solid oaken doors and burst through the darkened capacious entryway, "this is the only lead we have." She upturned a hand and shot fire spells at all the nearby candelabrum, igniting the place in a harsh, shadowy light. "I have to find what this key opens. Help me look!" 

Together, they went through bookshelves, tables, and desks, but in none were there notches large enough to fit a key. Chara scrambled through to his side bedchamber, tried for the headboard and the dining area, but to no avail. 

"Dammit!" She cursed at the air, at the heavens, at Adalfieri's desiccated corpse, still lying in the hallway. "Of course, it would be a sin to make this easy for me, huh?" 

Then, she had a thought. Backtracked to the main chambers, and ran along the walls, at the paintings hung all over the room. She stopped before one in particular. Of Rigel fighting the Serpent, all ethereal colors clashing against infernal grays and blacks and rusty reds. She felt along the edge of the frame. Up down, side to side. Pulled it off the wall, but its weight was too burdensome for her to carry. It crashed along the ground, the once grandiose painting now crushed, and half popping out of the frame. But she ignored the destruction of art when she saw the hole. A notch just big enough for a key. She crouched down and immediately jabbed the hole with the key. A small, secret compartment opened in the thick wooden frame. She felt along for the inside, and came across a few pieces of bound parchment. Ripping off the bindings, Chara fled over the closest burning candelabra, and pored over the pages of writing, her eyes dancing across every word, every line. 

My Dearest Chara...

If you find these words, then you know I am already dead. You are reading my last testament. I leave to you...my leadership.

Chara's head spun, but she kept on reading, taking, and only comprehending large chunks at a time.

...Let me take this moment, while the moment is thin, to tell you of what I have 'schemed.' Surely, you must be thinking of me with this less-than-gracious term in mind. Perhaps you will realize that it was all in our best interests. Or, at the very least, you will learn the reason why I had to keep these interests clandestine. If the counsel knew of my intentions in full, would they have allowed me to go on without staging a mutiny, and asking for my head?

...Yes, I planned to unleash the Serpent...so that we could utilize It for the glory of our soon-to-rise nation. With such a weapon on our hands, no one would dare use and abuse our resources for as long as we remain in power, and in control. Andalari will see its own collapse, and Mollengard will be there to bear witness to our immortality, firsthand. Once Andalari succumbs, they are our next, greatest threat. But they will not be able to touch us. The new nation of Stella D'Mare will be unchallenged and unconquerable. With the Serpent as our arsenal, no one will dare manipulate us again. We would enter an uninterrupted age of peace and prosperity, and grow without fear of war outside our borders...

...I meant to control the Serpent myself, but only one who has made blood contact can ever hope to quell the beast. Only Alster has had a modicum of success in his dealings with the Serpent. I needed him, but in full use of his celestial abilities. That is why I sent him off to war--with you. If he was out there fighting for his life, his power would return, and I knew you would never allow him to die...

...My death was necessary to see the rest of these important events into fruition, though I regret it had to end in this manner--before I could see our victory rise above us. I needed to unleash Lilica's hate, her concentrated chthonic potential. For, once I broke all the wards surrounding the Serpent, then even outside forces could influence the breaking of the last, strongest, and most ancient of the wards: the Rigas Blood Seal. Lilica, and by extension Vitali, therefore became important pieces in these final weeks where I could do nothing more but bide my time...and watch...

...I do not expect your forgiveness, Chara, but please note that the Serpent's release would have happened organically, without my tampering. The seal was already weakening, and no RIgas with Rigel's talent could reconstitute it. Perhaps the seal, and the wards, would have taken a hundred more years to break on their own, but would we have been prepared to face the threat to our lives and livelihood hence? We are prepared now. We have the right people and the right resources for this task as we currently stand. Why is it better to wait? Why should future generations suffer, when we can orchestrate these events to our benefit?...

...Alster will do what is needed. He will return, and when he does, only two options will be presented to him. He can either control the Serpent, or watch as our entire city is destroyed. A third option is impossible. I wish I could have done more before my death. I regret not having the time to formulate a more ironclad plan in place for this, the most integral part of my strategy. But we cannot ever hope to move forward as a family legacy and as an independent sovereign if we cannot learn to harness what we, for thousands of years, have been cursed to sit upon. For, we have only been incubating our own inevitable, hatching destruction. It is time to take the power into our own hands. All I can do now is place my trust in him, as I have before. And...to place my trust in you.

Lead, Chara. The other Rigases will follow, by your example.

Chara stood, frozen into stillness, gaping and speechless. Sweat beaded on her brow, forming into droplets that almost rivaled the size of the tears brimming beneath her eyelids. Her cheeks reddened in a representation of every emotion their presence would indicate: fury, shame, embarrassment...but above all, the former. She threw the parchment at Lilica to read, and leaned her head against the wall where the Serpent painting once hung, giving herself as long as she dared to gather and collect her thoughts, her wits, and every last reserve still left and fighting inside of her.

"All we can do...is fight," she muttered, as she slowly leaned away from the wall, "and see this through to the sick, flawed end that Adalfieri wanted. If...if the Serpent cannot be stopped," she met Lilica's eyes, with fear, "then what other choice do we have? But first," an ounce of authority and confidence returned to her wavering voice, "we must evacuate the city, while we still can! We--" 

The harsh banging of the double doors startled her into stiffness. Two figures approached them with a swift gait.

"Adalfieri! Where is he!? ...Chara? Lilica?" The one figure ran faster to catch up to them.

"Alster!" She noted the next figure, and her enthusiasm dampened. "Elespeth." 

"Is it...are we too late?" 

"Adalfieri is dead. The Serpent..." Chara pursed her lips, and nodded over to Lilica. "Lilica, show him the document."

War truly offered no room to breathe, no room to grieve. Vega had no exceptions to the rule hidden up her sleeve, and in keeping with the endless sequence of hardship and tragedy that had seemed to follow her since she'd arrived in Tadasun, it was more than guilt and anger that plagued her after stepping away from her spat with Tivia Rigas.

Foregoing the help of the Tadasuni healers, for there were others suffering far more than her, the Eyraillian princess tended to her burnt shoulder on her own, in the privacy of her tent. She had far from walked away from that tiff unscathed; the burn had bubbled and blistered and bled, an undeniable scar-to-be when it finally healed. Not that it mattered any; whatever aesthetic she had ever possessed as a womanly body was gone. The scars from her death, her revival, and now her rage marred her, where once she had been purer. And to think, I once thought it shameful to have no scars...
Hard to believe, how just months ago, she could ever have been so naive...

Settling for treating the wound with wet bandages, the former Skyknight commander struggled to sleep through the pain, awaking several times to change her bandages, relishing in the icy water as it calmed her damaged skin and lulled her back to sleep for another hour. When the sun rose, and she could no longer sleep through the throbbing burn, she donned her tattered uniform and left to congregate with the remainder of the men who she'd once led. Although she might no longer lead them directly, but her involvement in the specialized infantry would not cease--of that, she was determined. For Aeriel's sake, in her memory, she would continue to work with the rocs in their training and upbringing. There was so little left in her life from which she could derive relevance and joy; without her avian connection, that link to the sky, she would be little more than an empty vessel with a gilded name.

"Sir Sorde!" The princess was greeted by a young Skyknight tending the honour of rocs in their small fleet. There was more space than usual in the temporary stable of canvas and wood; Aeriel's presence had truly been larger than the bird, herself. "You... I'm glad to see you, up and about. I'd heard that..." The young man paused, catching sight of Vega's bandaged shoulder, and the faded colour in her cheeks of someone in pain. "Your Highness... are you well?"

"I'll not lie, Gavan; I've been better." There was no sense in not saying it like it was; no one would be fool enough to believe otherwise. It was best to front the unpleasantries and move past them. "It's just a burn. I'd like to tend to the rocs to take my mind off of it, if you don't mind. You've earned yourself a break."

The younger Skyknight nodded, not about to deny Eyraille's princess anything, regardless of whether or not she commanded the Skyknights. He stepped down from the wooden rise where he'd been grooming one of the massive avians, and handed her the specially crafted comb that aided the fowl in shedding bothersome, loose feathers. "By all means, but have the newcomers really not tended to you yet? They are aware of who you are, aren't they?"

"Newcomers?" Vega furrowed her brow. She couldn't fathom why, but her stomach turned.

"Tadasun is taxed for relief and sent for aid. Healers arrived just before dawn to allow the Tadasuni physicians to rest, since they've hardly had time to sleep. Some of them seem to be magically adept in their craft, like your Rigas friend." Gavan smiled. "Would you like me to go and fetch one of them? Work is easier done when you're not distracted by pain."

"Not just now." Vega declined. "It's not so unbearable. I'd just like to take some time alone with the rocs... I'm sure you can understand."

To the princess's relief, the young Skyknight did not press further, leaving her to her wish to be surrounded by the avian fleet. With a heavy mix of melancholy and comfort, she stroked the feathers of the roc before her. It didn't flinch at her touch, but continued to pick at the feed in its trough. The smile that graced Vega's face was a sad one, and suddenly, her shoulder didn't pain her half as much as her broken heart. "You're always so gentle, Shearl... thank you for being one of the only of the fleet to tolerate my fierce Aeriel."

It was what the former Skyknight commander needed, as of now: the quiet, the presence of the birds who had become an eternal presence and source of peace in her life. Shearl was not Aeriel; he was not even her roc, but himself had a rider with whom he had bonded for what seemed like eons. Yet, if she closed her eyes for just a moment, felt the silken feathers between her fingers and the warmth of the giant avian as its chest swelled with every breath... For a moment, she could pretend. Pretend that things were the way they had always been, the way that they should always have been, with Aeriel by her side, an unstoppable companion. And maybe, just maybe, these precious moments of playing pretend were precisely what she needed in order to heal.

Maybe...

"Your Highness?"

Vega snapped out of her reverie at the sound of Gavan's voice. Hadn't he left not a moment ago, at her dismissal? Snapping her head to the side, she frowned in confusion and suspicion as the two men who trailed the young Skyknight. Their faces were placid, kind, but... "I thought I dismissed you, Gavan. Rest for the day."

"You... yes, sir, you did. Some hours ago." The younger roc rider replied, scratching the back of his neck, and turning his head to hide concern.

Hours...? So much for taking a moment; if hours in a reverie felt like but a single moment, how long would it take before she felt whole again? "Who are these men?"

"They are from Mollengard, Sir Sorde. They requested to speak with you."

"...what?" Vega's eyes widened, her heart falling into the pit that was her stomach. That insignia; red and black, the most violent of colours. Mollengard... 
Why on earth and sky was Mollengard here? What did they want?
Haraldur... but he was gone. Thank the gods, they wouldn't find him here. Unfortunately, that was far from enough to put the young woman at ease.

Quick to regain her composure, the Eyraillian princess stepped away from the roc stables and straightened her spine, on guard and in authority. "Sir Vega Sorde of Eyraille," she nodded at the men in a brisk introduction. "What is it I can do for you? This is my first awareness of your presence in this encampment."

"Do you really believe that key--or whatever it opens--is going to be of help to us right now?" Regardless of Lilica's lack of confidence that they would find anything in Adalfieri's quarters, the dark mage figured the least she could do was indulge Chara in this likely fruitless quest. The deceased man's chamber still smelled like him, like time and stillness, and it contorted her face into a bright grimace. Was this really what you wanted, old man? I hope you've died with satisfaction...

Lillica's search was lacklsuter, at best, as nothing appeared to be locked, or required opening. She checked under and around the bed, rummaged through the former Rigas head's wardrobe, through drawers and even behind furniture. It appeared as if the only thing Adalfieri had to hide were his true intentions, which he had only brought to light upon welcoming death. "Chara," she sighed, turning away from an armoire that had yielded nothing, as all else in the vast chamber, "We may be wasting precious time, here. We can't stay..."

She trailed off at the sound of a loud crash, at which point it became obvious that Chara was not listening--not hearing her at all. Something had captured the haughty blonde's attention. By the gods... that damned key did open something. Adalfieri, you bastard... The sharp points of her nails bit into the flesh of her pink palms. Just how much of this have you orchestrated? Before she could ask what the parchment read, Chara thrust it at her and leaned against the wall, as if unsure of her own ability to stand. Whatever was scrawled in the elegant script that extended down the browning page, it certainly must not instill hope...
A sourness stirred in the pit of Lilica's gut, taking in one word at a time. A bitterness that she could not quite place: one of anger, resentment, jealousy, fear, and hopelessness... That this man would profess how highly he valued Chara, yet put her in a direct path of danger, among all else that had occurred in his careful orchestration of awakening the Serpent. But what bothered her the most, perhaps, was the conflicted distortion of Chara's worried expression... And that for all the wretched man had done to her, to everyone in Stella D'Mare, she likely could not--and perhaps never would--bring herself to despise him. Because he was her mentor.

Dropping the paper as if she were holding a dead rat, the chthonic caster moved towards her lover as she unsteadily pulled away from the wall. She didn't bother to step over the broken painting of Rigel, and instead the soles of her boots welcomed it with a subtle 'crunch'. "If we must fight, then we will." Lilica assured her, placing her hands on her arms. "Surely the beast can be stopped. Your venerable Rigas head... abhorrent as he might have been, given his last words toward you, I cannot imagine that he would feel so inclined as to set you up for failure."

A loud 'crash', the forcible opening of heavy wooden doors, made Lilica spin on her heel, immediately going on the defensive--as if her minute body would be enough to shield herself and Chara from whatever foul force greeted them.
Instead, she was met with a pair of familiar faces.

"What happened here?" Elespeth, wan and looking as though she had seen better days, brandished her sword, as if expecting a threat. "Who... what took Adalfieri's life?"

"I did." There was no use in hiding it. Lilica stepped up without hesitation, picking up the crumbled document on the floor and handing it to a wary Alster. "But before you pass judgment, I suggest you read this..."

When the two men approached Sir Vega Sorde of Eyraille, one revealed himself to be not a man at all. She was a hulking figure, burly and bull-necked, with close-cropped brown hair and gold-colored eyes. Armor--made with premium steel that denoted her high rank--hugged her shoulders and torso. Mollengardians did not sport fancy decorations or designs on their weapons or armor: they detracted from their utilitarian function. Everything she wore served a functional purpose, and it was her bearing that gave her a standing to challenge, and even equal, the princess of Eyraille. 

"Sir Vega," she bowed, her formidable arm sweeping across her chest. Her voice was husky and booming, but pinging with the undertones of reciprocity and civility. "A pleasure, Your Highness. Call me Solveig, Captain of this humble scouting corps of East Mollengard." A low chuckle rumbled in her throat as her eyes took on a slight, scrutinizing gleam. "You seem surprised that we're here. As Tadasun's ally, weren't you aware that we, too, are allies by proxy?" Her steel armor clanked as she leaned to one side, casually. "Mollengard is at the service of Stella D'Mare, and those who fight for her cause. The majority of our forces are sailing and riding there as we speak, to answer the request for aid from Adalfieri Rigas. But we, as the scouting regiment, rode on ahead, and found this Tadasuni camp in dire need of our attention. That," she jerked her head at the massive hole in the ground, several yards from where they stood, "is one giant fucking hole. I'm impressed--and we don't impress that easily. I'm surprised you even have living bodies to tend to at all. But I know it would be a grave mistake to underestimate Eyraille." She crossed her arms over her chest, her entire bearing shifting, becoming more relaxed and informal. "So I won't." 

"This here," she pointed to the man beside her, "is one of my healers. Said he wanted to talk to you."

"Atli," the man said with a polite smile and a bow of his russet-brown head of hair. "Our healers seemed to have missed you, Highness. You're wounded. Your left shoulder, was it?" With the permission of his Captain, he stepped forward, towards the arm in question, though its condition was hidden beneath a layer of bandages and clothing. "A young woman with a burned face told me about it. She also told me that this belongs to you." He loosened his closed fist to reveal the roc necklace, which he placed into her hand. "They really are fascinating creatures, rocs. We have wild bands of them flying through our lands, too. But we haven't the talent for taming them, ourselves. They keep well enough away, besides." A lopsided grin touched his face. "As a Skyknight, do you have any insights, or are your roc-riding talents an Eyraillian-kept secret?" 

All while Atli chattered, detailing his admiration for rocs as he rummaged through his belt pouches for soothing salves and a clean cloth, another soldier joined their small gathering. Like many of Mollengard's rank, he was an intimidating figure, even in his far-inferior leather armor. It showed wear: scratches and dings and holes. But it suited the man, who, by the look of his slate-blank eyes, hadn't any opinions on his state of dress, or on anything at all, save for the task that brought him to stand at his captain's side. He saluted to her, then as a courtesy, to Vega and Atli, his movements mechanical and familiar in execution...

"Yes, you can speak," Solveig said, gazing upon the soldier not as a man, not as human, but as a highly-treasured piece of cargo.

"I've just heard word from Commander Hess. He sent a scout," the soldier said in a flat-toned drone. "Their troops will be on Stella D'Mare by late this afternoon."

"Ahead of schedule. Excellent news. That's what I like to hear," the Mollengardian Captain mused. She dismissed the soldier and turned back to Vega. "We will avenge what happened here, and clip down Andalari's march with a counterattack of our own." A grin of pride stretched out her thin lips. "And we never lose a battle. Tadasun will have their justice. And what will you do, Sir Sorde? I imagine your lot will go home. There's not a lot of Tadasuni left here in camp, and we're more than adequate--if you and your men are too tired to stay here, that is. Well," she placed a fist over her chest and bowed, "I'll leave you to your healing, Highness. It was an honor to meet the princess of one of our neighboring sovereigns, at last. No doubt you've heard rumors of Mollengard's legendary bloodthirstiness. I won't dispel those rumors, but I will say that we do make very powerful allies--or, conversely, the worst enemies you will ever face. It's up to Eyraille to choose which side of the coin they'd like to be on." With a final smile, a large one, that showed plenty of teeth and looked more like a grimace, Solveig wandered off to join her dismissed soldier. 

Shortly after her departure, Atli cleared his throat. "Right then. Let's go heal you of that burn, Sir Sorde. Come with me to the infirmary quarters. On the way, you can regale me of tales of your rocs." 

As Alster and Elespeth joined them at the lighted candelabra, it was apparent how the last fortnight had treated their physical bodies. Their eyes were bloodshot and puffy, their skin a sickly hue, their forms propped upright as if with sticks. And as Alster reached forward to take Lilica's proffered parchment, Chara noticed, with horror, that one of his fingers was missing--while the other was a butchered little nub. 

When Alster traveled away from them to huddle under the light for easier reading, Chara spun on Elespeth. "What did he do?!" she half-whispered, half-hissed. "Weren't you supposed to protect him? To watch him?!" Her hands reached toward the Atvanian warrior, fingers eager to bite into her neck, so eager to cause someone, anyone physical distress. In place of Elespeth, she kicked aside a nearby vase, temporarily sated at hearing and seeing the precious porcelain splinter into varied pieces all over the floor. 

"No matter," she said with a defeated huff. "I am in charge, now. If you've come to help--"

But she was interrupted by Alster's return to the circle. His eyes, if possible, reddened to an even darker bloodshot, the bags beneath them sinking deeper and deeper into his flesh. He appeared skeletal--and so very tired. 

"I didn't realize how much of this he's planned," he began, quietly. "I knew he wanted to unleash the Serpent, but to what end, I..." He bit his lip and looked worriedly at Lilica. "It's not your fault. He wanted this. He baited you. We...we have to prepare for the Serpent's arrival. At any moment, it can burst free from the earth. The Rigases can't stay here..."

"We have no choice!" Chara planted her boot firmly on the tiled floor, where hairline cracks began to appear. The tremors intensified. "We're the [/i]only[/i] line of defense against the Serpent. We have to keep it at bay for as long as possible. And Andalari's troops will be upon us in moments!" 

"If we stand against the Serpent, we'll all die!" Alster snapped, a splash of red coloring his cheeks and his entire being. Finally, he looked more like a person, less of a corpse. "I say we let It come. The more we focus on what we can do and less on what we can't, the more lives we'll end up saving."

"I fully intend on helping to evacuate the city!" Chara said, in retaliatory fire. "Hell, maybe Andalari will follow suit once they see what's coming for them. But if you think the Rigases will run from this responsibility, you're mistaken! You're not the only one whose job it is to fight this thing, Alster! You're not the only one who gets to swoop in and save us. I am leading my people. And my first order, right now, right here, is to clear out of this crumbling building. Come on!" She urged everyone out of Adalfieri's chambers, but not before snatching the parchment from Alster's hands. They avoided chunks of falling stone and small fissures in the floor, bursting through the last set of doors as they escaped to outside. Around them, worried Rigases flooded into the wide open lawn, while others ran around in a frenzy, trying and failing to establish order. At seeing the crowd bereft of a leader, bereft of any direction, Alster conceded with a troubled sigh. 

"Fine. Do what you think is right, Chara. And I will do the same. Elespeth," he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "go with her and Lilica."

"And where do you think you're going?!"

"Rigel's tomb." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm not trying to run off on my own. There are answers there, that I hope to find." 

"So if that's the case--if you're not trying to play the heroic martyr, you wouldn't be sending your lady love away, would you? Elespeth, I needn't tell you twice to go with him. I don't need you to settle this crowd. They'll listen to me. If they do not," she gave a hard-lined smile as she settled her fingers on Lilica's arm, "they'll listen to her." 

With Alster leading the way, he and Elespeth scurried over to a grotto area that was in the center of a vast garden behind Main House. A perfect half-dome of a cave towered before them, surrounded by forever-burning candles and flowering vines. 

"In that cave are steps that lead down to Rigel's tomb," Alster said, breath streaming out of his lungs as if he had run for days on end without stopping for rest. "I know it's dangerous to go underground while these quakes are worsening, and I know you'll want to come with me, but only one with Rigas blood can enter this sacred space. ...Though I can't say how Vitali managed, when he dared to reanimate Rigel's corpse." He shuddered at the memory. "You can either wait for me here, or go back and help Chara and Lilica. Don't worry." He managed a smile as he leaned forward and kissed Elespeth. "We're still going to do this together. We'll find a way to defeat the Serpent. Contrary to what Adalfieri believes, there is a third option--whether this cave holds those answers or not. I'll return, I promise." 

With one, final kiss, he retreated from Elespeth, and descended the cave's stairs. 

When Chara and Lilica joined the fray, the gathered Rigases were shouting over each other, each using amplifying spells and shooting lights into the sky in a bid to gather everyone's attention. But the prideful Rigas elite all thought themselves worthy of leadership, of following by example, and so the shouting and spell-shooting match roared to a loud, flashy impasse. 

"This is ludicrous," Chara remarked to Lilica. "At this rate, the ground will open beneath us and we'll all fall into the Serpent's gaping maw. Can you," she hesitated, thinking of the destructive magic that destroyed Adalfieri and brutally injured her father. "They'll...they'll listen to dark magic. I need," she clenched her fists, "your power."

No, not the hulking figure of a man... Vega blinked several times, doing a double take before concluding that it was, in fact, a woman who was addressing her. Perhaps it was due to preconceived notions, given not only Mollengard's less than favourable reputation, though also from Haraldur's accounts, but the very timber of Solveig's voice sent prickly shivers down the Skyknight's spine. Her cordial civility was but a thin veil of the true attitude and intentions that lay beneath: that of a conqueror. Someone who saw what they wanted, and went to any lengths to acquire it for themselves. Not so unlike the very qualities that had earned her father--and vicariously, her kingdom--such scorn for so many years. Yet even the late king Sorde of Eyraille could not hold a flame to the wickedness that was Mollengard... He had murdered, driven denizens from their homes, and controlled his people through intimidation.
But never had he been known to destroy people from the inside out, stripping them of their very humanity, to the point that they no longer knew who they were, or who they had been...

Vega could not help but curse her utter lack of attention, during the past twenty-four hours. If she hadn't wallowed so deep in the bottomless pit that was her own self-pity, she might not have been taken off guard by the one and only nation that she knew she truly despised. "The pleasure is mine, Solveig. Forgive my ignorance to your arrival; I suppose I needn't explain that times have been trying, of late." Her fatigue surprisingly worked to her benefit, allowing her an air of nonchalance that completely contradicted the rapid beating of her heart. Still, she maintained her distance, half-convinced that the commander who practically towered over her might be adept to smell fear. "My Skyknights alone are not the sole reason to thank for the survivors, here, though it does help to have the aid and loyalty of a fleet of giant avians. Underestimate Eyraille all you like; it is the rocs whose power and prowess you should not undermine."

And as if the conversation weren't burdensome enough, as soon as mention of Stella D'Mare came into play, Vega's heart stopped altogether. Any words that followed fell deaf upon her ears, for the sound of blood pulsing in them. No... no no no, Haraldur... they can't find him... I cannot let them! The next thing she knew, the smaller figure--ironically, a man, at least as far as she could tell--was moving towards her, arm outstretched to indicate her wounded shoulder. Against her better judgement, she flinched away from his grasp, until she noticed a familiar, russet-stained pendant in his open palm. Her gut twisted as she retrieved it, and hung it around her neck--for courage, if nothing else. For Haraldur... "It has taken my people generations to develop a rapport with our rocs," she explained to Atli, choking back the thought of her own feathered companion, now lost forever. "Only through decades upon decades of patience, kindness, and respect, have we bonded with them such that they might fight with us. Perhaps, were Mollengard to exercise such practices, it, too, could be kindred with the birds." A bloody impossibility, as she knew all too well that Mollengard encompassed none such disciplines. For the sake of the rocs, it was likely for the better.

Stella D'Mare... ahead of schedule... As Atli prattled on, the Eyraillian princess found herself unable to look away from the third man who had approached with the news. She felt the hot pressure of tears building behind her eyes, knowing that this could have been--that this was--Haraldur, at one point in time. And what had this poor man suffered at the hands of Mollengard? Was he too far gone, or was it possible he could be rehabilitated back to humanity?
And even if it was too late for him... It was not necessarily the end for Haraldur. Not if Vega Sorde had something to say about it. Regardless of where their relationship (or lack thereof) stood, she would sooner lay her own life down than allow him to return to the life of torture and brutality that he had struggled so hard to put behind him...

"Solveig!" Vega called after the Mollengardian Commander had turned her back, but before she had ventured too far to hear. "A word of caution, from one Commander to another: my kingdom, not so long ago, collapsed from that very warmongering mentality. Do not let it be your fall, as well." Commander... 'am' I still a commander? Can I ever be one again, after what I've done?

For Haraldur's sake, she didn't have a choice. Unfortunately, it was too risky to make haste toward Stella D'Mare so soon...

"I must say, Atli, that I am encouraged to see yet another woman in a position so often slated for men." As she accompanied the Mollengardian healer to the infirmary tent, she mentally sifted through words and questions that would lead her to the answers she desired. "My position is an anomaly, still, within my own empire. Is your Commander one of her kind, like me, or does your home see less of a power discrepancy between the sexes?" I need to know what I am up against... With any luck, Solveig would be the worst of it.

Of course, when, of late, had luck exactly been on her side...?

A simple reflex of the arm landed Chara's elevated wrist tightly in Elespeth's grip, as the Rigas caster looked prepared to strike. The Atvanian warrior hadn't time for this woman's petty nonsense; there was no time for it, not now. Leveling her slate green gaze to meet Chara's, she leaned in and replied in her own sharp whisper, "It is because of me that Alster has not altogether destroyedhimself. That we have any chance at all of defeating the Serpent." Releasing the celestial caster's wrist, she simultaneously pushed her out of her personal space, her jaw set in such a way that she did not look beyond striking the haughty blonde into unconsciousness. "You're welcome."

As the heated discussion switched and picked up between the two Rigas casters, Lilica found herself in the awkward position of staying the two, if for no other reason than to put an end to the argument and act on a game plan before it was too late. One hand came down on each of their shoulders as she forced herself into the picture. "You're both right. Alster, I can feel the power of the beast in the soles of my feet; if we do not slay it, then it will consume more than your family and this city. But," she then turned to Chara, "there are too many within this city unprepared to fight what lurks beneath these stones. Only by limiting the number of casualties will this city and your very bloodline stand a chance of having any sort of future."

Though troubled that Chara seemed so reluctant to leave behind the blasted piece of parchment that were Adalfieri's last words and wishes, the chthonic mage said nothing, and hurried out of the dead man's chambers along with the others. Outside, the city had already fallen apart before it was even physically in pieces; so dependent had the Rigases been on Adalfieri, so blindly loyal and trusting, that they were now little more than sheep without a shepherd. Poor delusional bastards... If the old man had ever done a single valiant thing in his entire, miserable, manipulative life, then at the very least, it was passing leadership to Chara in his place. If she could not command this frantic group of casters, then they were as good as lost.
Which, did not bode well, considering that hardly any of them paid her any heed...

Even with Alster gone, and the crowd too preoccupied with whether or not they were panicking enough to take note of Chara as she struggled to get their attention, it was still against Lilica's better judgement to unleash the slightest bit more dark energy. She glanced at her hands, the very hands that had killed Adalfieri without touching him, which had wounded Lysander--a man who had been like a father to her--beyond repair... "And what if someone else dies?" The question spilled from her lips as quickly as the answer came to her: if she didn't do something, then sooner than later, they would all be dead.

Eyes fixed on Chara's face, still lovely in the midst of fear and desperation, this time, the chthonic caster did not allow her anger to consume her as it burned through to her fingertips like black tendrils. Chara would be her anchor; her only hope as to not allow it to spiral out of control... Or to cause the Serpent to stir any more than it already was. Baited or not... this, all of this, is still my fault. I have to fix it.

So quick that Lilica hardly had time to register, the gleam of darkness, like shiny obsidian, glistened at the tips of her fingers, and escaped skyward the second she thrust her hands over her head. This time, the dark energy found its release in the clouds, which it swallowed and turned black. Though briefly, it was as if nighttime had rapidly descended upon Stella D'Mare; shock enough to capture the attention of the city's panicked denizens. "If you are quite finished with your self-indulgent fretting," the chthonic mage bellowed as all eyes landed on her, "then it is in your best interests to listen to the only person who has any sense left in this forsaken city." Nodding to Chara, she stepped back, relieved not to have caused further casualties. But with that release of power, of dark energy, came an uncomfortable tug, as if the ground was pulling at her feet. You stay where you are, she quietly bade the Serpent, knowing full well it would never listen to the likes of her. It could have her power, her energy--all of it, for what little she cared. But not now. Not until the time was right.

And, she dared think, that time was soon...

With or without Chara's orders, there was no way on earth or otherwise that Elespeth would have left Alster's side while he ran away to his potential doom. Even as they descended the steps in approaching Rigel's tomb, she was reluctant to so much as let him set foot inside without her, even if it meant her own possible demise. It was true; they were as bad as one another when it came to martyrdom. But the former knight had decided, what seemed so long ago, at this point, that if Alster was destined to die... She refused to suffer what was left of her petty, mortal life without him. To exist without your other half, your twin star, was no existence worth enduring.

"If that snake of a necromancer managed to find his way down here, then that is a risk I am willing to take." The Atvanian warrior held tight to Alster's wrist, her eyes a churning sea of conviction that could not be broken. "Have you forgotten already? I have Rigas blood; your blood, to be specific." As a reminder, she ran her thumb tenderly over the scar on his palm. Still, the Rigas caster could not be swayed.

But then, neither could she. "No... I'll not turn away from you now. No matter the stakes."

Before Alster dissipated into the inky blackness at the bottom of the tomb, Elespeth pursued. She'd be of no help to Chara or Lilica; not to anyone else. And if her end meant following her beloved into doom, then it was an end she would greet with open arms.

If Solveig heard Vega's parting remarks, she made no indication of it, aside from an upraised wave as her ponderous form diminished in the distance. Perspective was the only moment in which one could view her as small and crushable, placed between the thumb and forefinger. 

Atli watched this tense exchange with a wariness alight in his gray eyes. But his usual garrulousness had nothing of value to contribute to the diplomatic contempt held by two commanders of rival nations. They were equals--to an extent. The healer was convinced that his captain would fain throttle the breath out of the frail, pallid Skyknight without needing to rise from her bedchambers, or even to awaken from slumber. He almost pitied the Eyraillian princess, a feeling he also harbored for the Forbanne soldiers, however unpopular his sentiments. 

"Well, I had assumed it wouldn't be so easy to tame such a free-spirited animal," Atli said, continuing their conversation from earlier. Together, they walked towards the tents that demarcated the infirmary area. "Generations of tempering. Though, one can say, Mollengard is adept at tempering. We file our people into small, sharp points. Animals should be no different, no matter how noble they are. But our methods are dissimilar...as you have inferred." He darted nervously from left to right, afraid his conversations were monitored, that he was treading too close upon treasonous talk...

They reached the outer boundaries of the infirmary area in relative silence. Since Mollengard's arrival that morning, the area doubled in size, a small tent city erected in place of the overflow of injured bodies. Atli pulled aside a flap of the nearest tent and allowed Vega passage inside. Though it was a small space, there were few patients, all of which were heavily dosed with potent herbs and asleep. If he were to be spouting any other dangerous opinions, he'd rather it happen among those unlikely to participate. 

Atli invited Vega to sit upon a vacant cot as he wandered to the wash basin and prepared his salves and instruments. "The only thing that makes Captain Solveig one of her kind is her size. Now, that might be an anomaly," he mused, drying his hands on the wash-rag beside the basin. "As you've noted, we're a 'warmongering' nation. There are no exceptions between the sexes. A woman is just as likely to hold a position in our armies as a man. We've even had our fair number of female Generals. They occupy the highest seat of the land. But," he cleared his throat, redirecting to Vega's surface level inquiries before he detailed too much, "it's rumored that Captain Solveig has Giant parentage. Nevermind that the race of Giants have been extinct, or notably missing, anyway, for a hundred years--but this explanation would account for her bulk. And she's not denying these rumors, at any rate." 

Taking one prodding instrument in one hand, a tin of salve in the other, Atli closed in on Vega, and began to administer his aid. Unspooling the bandages, he frowned when her blistered and bubbling shoulder popped into view. "This is some burn. Luckily, it's still a fresh enough wound. Though I can't promise it won't leave behind any scarring." Diligently, he worked, using a combination of healing magic, prodding, scraping, and popping from his instrument, and application of the salve. He apologized as she flinched throughout the painful process. "There," he said, as he rebound Vega's shoulder with fresh gauze. "That should heal nicely within a few days. Take rest and drink plenty of fluids for an expedient recovery. I would say your prognosis is clear, but...either you've taken ill, or you're severely undernourished, but your skin is chilled, and your heartbeat skips more often than average. I don't think this is related to the burn, but," he pointed to the strange rune-mark engraved upon her chest, "let's hope that your rune is not a curse. I can't heal curses. Or the cursed," he muttered, his last words an afterthought as his mind wandered to the Forbanne, The Cursed. 

Though it had been four years since he joined Captain Solveig's ranks, which was mostly comprised of the dead-eyed soldiers, he could not help but feel unsettled in their presence--but for different reasons than normal. As a healer, it pained him to service the already broken. Flesh meant nothing when he could never mend the irrevocable damage from within. He saw utter hopelessness in those Forbanne eyes, projected for the world to see...if they knew how to look past the monster. And he knew how to look--for his own daughter had become Forbanne. 

Chara's fingers tightened on Lilica's arm, in silent response to the answer that was, no doubt, swimming in both their heads. Her eyes, so narrowed and focused on what was ahead of her, rather than what was beside her, lost, for a few sparse seconds, that dead clarity. They blinked, redirected themselves...and honed in on the dark mage's onyx eyes. Despite the hardships they faced, and the ones they had yet to face, Chara used this precious opportunity to memorize Lilica in that iota of a moment. Her pliant lips, her porcelain skin, the confusion and despair fractured in volcanic glass...While now was not the time to reevaluate their relationship, in light of all the unintentional harm she'd caused--the death of Adalfieri, the sad condition of her father--Chara allowed her fondness for Lilica show, in the form of a small, reassuring smile. "I am at your side, Lilica. You will not do this alone." 

As the dark matter began to collect into her hands, Chara released her hold on Lilica and retreated a few steps, apprehensive of any ricochet of the volatile magic. However, she remained close. Not recklessly close (she knew better than to test the parameters of any powerful magic in mid-cast), but close enough to offer her support. To stand with her and near her in a show of solidarity. I know this is hard for you, she said in silence, But I...believe in your strength. I have no other choice.

The caustic, amorphous energy erupted from Lilica's hands and shot into the sky, eclipsing the city into an ominous portent of what was forthcoming. And for one, horrible second, Chara's convictions wavered. Was she, again, placing her trust in the wrong person? Would Lilica's magic further speed along Stella D'Mare's doom as the Serpent fed on her magic like sweet nectar? 

It didn't matter. There was no turning back now.

As the crowd, like a circle of candles, snuffed into terrified quiet, Chara marched forward, Lilica at her side. 

"Cease your complaining!" She growled, using a spell to amplify her voice so that it surrounded the squabbling Rigases on all sides. "And do not fret. The Serpent is not yet upon us. But Its arrival is imminent, so we must act in all haste!" 

"I have been placed in charge by the late Adalfieri. If you do not believe me, you may read this for yourself." She raised the parchment of Adalfieri's last testament into the air. "He has transferred his power unto me, as his dying wish. Dispute this claim if you must, but it will be the last thing you ever do." She roved her eyes to Lilica, as if to punctuate this point. 

"Now listen up. The den of the Serpent is beneath us. When it emerges from its cave, its most likely trajectory will be to burst through either side of the mountain. Though, there is a possibility it will also strike upward, decimating our estate and everyone inside. We must prepare for all scenarios. Retreat is out of the question. We, the noble Rigas family, stewards of the Seal, must live up to our sacred duty as laid out by the great Rigel. Remember for why our family was founded: to protect Stella D'Mare from the Serpent, for the day would soon arise when we are called to fight. Today is that day. If you decide to flee, you are no Rigas, and I'd sooner see you dead than have you crawling back to our ancestral home. For, you have lost all rights to your blood, and shamed us all." 

"We will split everyone into three groups. One group will stay here, reinforcing the magical defenses of our estate's protective seal. It is unlikely to hold against a Serpent breach, but it is worth a try. The other two groups will be stationed alongside the slopes of the mountain, and monitor the conditions in these key areas. While you are down there, you will begin to evacuate the citizens of Old Town. I know that Andalarian troops surround us, from within the city and without. This is a challenge. With our exit to the south blocked and our harbors barricaded, we are only able to evacuate further inland, deeper into the heart of Andalari. Avoid the shorelines as you round up civilians. I fear the quakes will spur on a tidal wave before long."

"We will communicate via light signals shot into the sky. Green means you've cleared an area. Red means you have met with Andalarian resistance. Avoid them. We need to focus all our energy on the bigger threat. Black means the Serpent has breached. When It does--and it will--do not engage It. We have no means of gauging the beast's power or invulnerability. Defend, observe, report--but do not attack."

She faltered for a moment, hesitating. The parchment in her hand burned with Adalfieri's writing, his plans for Serpent control. With a noisy sigh, she added, "If at all possible, we lure the Serpent into New Town, to the seat of Andalari's power--and use It to crush the king and his soldiers. Andalari will have no choice then but to aid us in this battle. Or flee like the cowards that they are! Whatever happens now...we are Rigas proud. And we will stand together...no matter what!" 

Alster should have known better than to think Elespeth would stand aside and wait for his return. He didn't travel far down the cave stairs before the footfalls that reverberated against the walls were not a mere echo, but another set. When he reached the bottom stair, which leveled into a narrow pathway that led to a set of closed cavernous doors, Elespeth had caught up to him. 

"...Why am I not surprised?" Glowing, floating balls of light, as if sensing a Rigas presence, transitioned from dim and dormant to a bright, warm luminescence. The shadows danced on Elespeth's haggard face, but in those weary-worn lines, he found her beautiful. Her persistence shone greater than any celestial light, than any star...and with the slumping of his shoulders, he relented to her will. 

"Come on." He took her blood oath hand and led her to the doors. "We'll place our palms on this door together. It will recognize our blood and allow us inside. It's as you've said. You're practically a Rigas now." 

As expected, the door, once touched, groaned in protest, and shifted inwards, into darkness. In unison, they entered. The chambers, like the hallway preceding it, sputtered into a patchwork of starry light, except they were small pinpricks woven like a tapestry across the ceiling, in a mimicry of the night sky. As they crossed the chamber, a sepulchre, a marble slate awash in gold and beset with sapphires, formed its own constellations atop its elevated podium. Alster climbed the podium stairs and, tentatively, rested his hands on the name plate of Rigel. But nothing happened. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he sliced that same palm, dripping rubies of blood upon the sapphire. Nothing happened. 

"Maybe you were meant to be in here with me, after all," Alster said, handing Elespeth the dagger. "Cut your palm. Splash your blood on the sepulchre. I have a feeling something will happen...when our two stars combine." 

When Elespeth obliged and sprinkled her blood over the sepulchre, something did happen. The sapphires lit up, forming the constellation Folia, the Nest. And in the middle, one stone glinted brighter than the rest. Rigel's star. He reached for that stone, inviting Elespeth to do the same. It came loose in their hands. They lifted it free from the sepulchre--and they lost consciousness. 

Alster opened his eyes, but pitch darkness greeted him. He summoned a light spell, but nothing came forth. In a panic, he scrambled to his feet, and tried to penetrate the blackness with his eyes. "Elespeth?" He called, feeling neither her presence nor the comforting on his palm that told him she was near. "Are you here? Elespeth!"

"Many before have attempted to command the Rocs through force and brutality, Atli, and to no avail." Vega assured him gently with a shake of her head. "Trying to do so would only land you dead... but you are a healer. You have the patience and the touch to perhaps be successful in one day winning over the loyalty of one of those beasts. As for the rest of Mollengard..." It went unsaid that the empire would not be successful, if it treated the avians the way it treated its own people. Much to her relief, this healer did have his wits about him, and seemed to understand.

Taking a seat on the cot, the Skyknight loosened the neck of her tunic to expose the bandages, which were already discoloured with blood and plasma from the damaged skin beneath. Inevitably, the cursed rune above her chest was also made visible. "Giant parentage, you say... I have not been alive for long enough in this world to have ever been met with a giant, but the books and histories have always portrayed them as a gentle race. Peaceful." Certainly, 'peaceful' was the last word that she would use to describe Captain Solveig. It was a concept that she had no doubt believing the hulking woman blatantly refused to endorse. "She must have taken after the other half of her bloodline. Of course--" She hissed in pain as dead skin came away with the bandage, exposing the raw, gruesome wound. "Don't apologize... believe me when I say I have suffered far worse. What I meant to point out is, blood does not necessarily dictate temperament or beliefs. After all, my own blood, hailing from the House of Sorde, is one that stems from a pool of war and tyranny. Something that my brother and I both have opposed for as long as I can remember. The will of the heart is stronger than the blood it pumps." This was, of course, not so discreetly, aimed at Atli, who himself was surrounded by a bloodthirstiness with which he did not seem to be quite enamored.

Forgoing conversation to instead bite down on one of her knuckles for the remainder of the rather painful process, Vega exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding when at last he rebandaged her shoulder. "Thank you. I would have left it to slowly heal on its own, otherwise." As she readjusted her tunic, the Eyraillian princess paused as she was taken aback by Atli's further concern for the state of her health... In her panic at learning Mollengard's presence at the encampment, and soon to be presence in Stella D'Mare, she had all but forgotten that, under any other circumstances, she should not be walking among the living, right now. It was a fact with which even now, she had yet to digest, and the recollection turned her insides with frustration. "It is a curse... as much as it is a miracle," she said, short and matter-of-factly. "Not long ago, I died in battle, fully and completely. But I was resurrected--only to find myself venturing far too close to death again, and though I did not die twice, I was abandoned in the desert for a night and suffered hypothermia. For all my body has been through, I should be lucky that cold flesh an irregular heart beat is the only physical aliment with which I must contend."

Vega regretted divulging as soon as glanced at Atli, who had gone slack-jawed with disbelief. With a sigh, she shook her head. "I apologize. None of this is any fault of yours. I... given that all I have lost already, of late, I often wish I had never risen again after dead." Standing up from the cot, she rubbed her newly bandaged shoulder. "Thank you for your help. I, too, have allies in Stella D'Mare who I fear are in dire need of my help... But, if you felt so inclined, I also offer you a way into the city." Facing him, she lowered her voice, for paranoia than any passerby Mollengardians might hear. "I know not if you are acquainted with the Sybaia--healers of the psyche. They helped me, once, and--I say this in confidence--they have also helped the Forbanne. You are magically adept; you could learn from them. There is one I know of, at least, who may well still be extending help to those threatened by Andalari. And then... should you so desire, you could extend help to those whom you would otherwise consider lost.

"I won't try to convince you, the choice is ultimately yours." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "But those broken from the inside out... they can be healed. It is not without its own difficulties and risks, but it is not too late for them."

At last, Chara had the attention that she needed, as all eyes fell upon her and the proffered document. Expectantly, there were some murmurs of dissent, but those were quickly hushed by Chara's warning--along with the look that Lilica shot the crowd, as added fodder. I mean, it isn't as though I am above killing... There was no sense in hiding what she was capable of, and now wasn't the time to worry about the Rigases going opinion of her presence in Stella D'Mare. It doesn't matter, anyway... because I am going to make this right, Chara. I owe it to you... and to Lysander...

"You cannot expect us to sit here and fight the Serpent!" Someone from the crowd protested. "You bloody well know we will all die, even united! It's a suicide mission! And I suppose you get to decide who is evacuated and who gets to stay?" It was followed by some murmurs of agreement.

"If we do not fight, then the beast will be upon us before any of us can safely leave the city, you imbecile." Another person countered, with their own following murmurs of assent. "I, for one, and not a coward; I'll stay, Chara Rigas. My magic is used best offensively."

Of course, this began to spiral into murmured arguments, but nothing that Chara herself could not dispel. Lilica, however... she was through, and no longer had a place, here. She was not a leader or a hero, not a healer nor a warrior. At best, she was an herbalist, struggling to hide her chthonic identity.
At work, she was an embodiment of death and destruction.

She'll forgive me... she will be proud. Gazing at the way Chara's hair still gleamed with a lack of sunlight, her eyes like sapphires made of fire, lips pursed in her everpresent pout, and that posture that commanded obedience... She took it all in, committing it to the most sacred place in her memory--and in her heart. You were born to lead, Chara. I will make sure that you have the chance. Lead, mend your feelings with your father, take care of him for me. You both deserve the future.

While the haughty Rigas caster did what a leader should do and cut through the din of the crowd with her orders and ideas, the chthonic caster slipped away, entirely unnoticed. The buzz of energy, hot on the soles on her feet with every step she took, was growing stronger by the moment. She knew what the Serpent wanted; she had.what it wanted, and she would tempt it with it. And then, she would stunt it in its tracks

But not before she visited the fountain, one final time.

Elespeth drew her weary lips into a smile as she was met with no resistance on Alster's end. With a tight hold of his hand, the Atvanian warrior made her way to the hulking door at the bottom of the stairs. She didn't hesitate to mirror the Rigas caster's movements as his outstretched palm pressed against the cool surface of the barricade; and with their combined force, the door protested, then finally budged.
While she had not made her way into many tombs in her short life, Elespeth couldn't imagine that this was any ordinary place of rest. Not weary or unsettling, but instead, instilling wonderment and curiosity. A sign that in some way, shape, or form, Rigel Rigas--along long gone from the world of the living--still remained.

And at the centre, the true piece of observation at the heart of the tomb, was a brilliant sepulchre. It looked as though it could be waited with more jewels, more brilliance than a king's crown, and it was only then that Elespeth came to realize just how highly in regard the Rigases and Stella D'Mare held this dead man. So much more than a hero, he was a saint...
Watching Alster's face don disappointment and confusion as he bled onto the brilliant slate, she did not hesitate to take the proffered dagger and slice the flesh of her own palm. In all of her exhaustion, and the adrenaline that kept her going, she hardly felt the bite of steel and the warmth of her blood as it pooled in her hand and dripped onto the gold and sapphires, gleaming like a gem of its very own. But not more than the precious stones on Rigel's plaque, which suddenly alighted as if they themselves were stars. "Remarkable..." Following Alster's lead, she reached for the sapphire that glowed the brightest, feeling its weight in their hands...

Blackness overtook her before she could feel her body hit the ground.

"Alster... Alster, I can't see you..." She couldn't see anything. Surrounded by what appeared to be a void, like a starless night, the former knight's heart raced on the realization that she must be alone. "Alster! Please, if you're near, say something!" Squeezing her hand into a fist--the one that bore her scar--she took a breath and tried to concentrate. Tried to feel the electricity in that scar, the energy that kept them always, eternally connected, even at a distance. "Where are you... where are you..." Finally, she felt something akin to a tingling and an ache along the scar tissue, took a step forward--and there he was. As if he had been standing there the entire time. "Alster! Thank the gods..." Elespeth rushed to him and captured him in her arms. "Where are we?"

Returning to the basin to wash his hands, Atli felt the cool water slide over skin so parched and dry, that its relief trickled into his mind, and soothed the rough ridges from within. His concentration returned, which better enabled him to engage with Sir Vega Sorde while keeping at bay the unwelcome, unflattering thoughts he harbored for Mollengard. She seemed trustworthy, but she was also from the ruling family of a country that they regarded with disgust--and interest. Who was to say Sir Vega Sorde did not also view Mollengard with interest, and was taking advantage of Atli's tendency to speak his feelings--to his own detriment? 

But her topic was innocent enough. Before long, his head nodded along, and his mouth followed suit. "Your belief about blood is one that Mollengard claims to follow. We value hard work and battle prowess above nobility, and legacies. Anyone can succeed if they have the will and temperament. But that's not so often the case. We are a military dictatorship. While not a monarchy, it follows similar rules. There's a hierarchy, and a broken ladder, and it's more difficult to climb depending on the region where you're born--or the blood you possess. If you're not a born citizen of Mollengard, even if your country was invaded, and annexed into our own --you're lower than dirt. If your appearance deviates from what we consider 'Mollengardian bred,' you might as well not be a citizen at all." He bit his lip, and splashed some more water on his hands as a distraction. An innocent-enough topic, he thought? He went and blathered innocent into oblivion! 

Cursing under his breath, he was about to say his farewells and take his leave, but Vega Sorde divulged such a shocking piece of information, that he froze on the spot. Why she felt the need to confide this very private matter to him was a mystery, but even when he turned to view her in a new light, he could not rid himself of the aftershocks that rippled through his own pulsing, beating body. It was the same as hers: living, breathing, mindful, speaking...

"I...that is...fascinating," he said, too speechless to gather words that seemed appropriate after her shocking revelation. "But you needn't tell me...I imagine reliving it once, almost twice, is enough for you to bear, but to trust a mere stranger with this information? Mollengard wants to absorb Eyraille, Sir Vega Sorde. I am your enemy, and were the Captain to hear about your...special status among the living...."

But then she continued to speak of Stella D'Mare, of the empathetic healing clan of the Sybaia, of a Forbanne they knew, of an implied recovery, of him learning how to help those soldiers, to help his daughter...

He leaned his dripping hands against the table for support, suddenly lightheaded and unstable on his feet. "The Sybaia helped a Forbanne? First, I won't even ask how you know the term Forbanne: only Mollengardians know them as such. Unless you've spoken to this...Forbanne soldier? How...how do they seem? Recovered? Capable of integrating into society? I..."

With a sigh, then a courageous inhale, Atli leaned closer to Vega, and his voice dropped to a low, sonorous whisper.

"They took my daughter, four years ago. She and I--we tried to flee Mollengard, but were apprehended at the border. But I was a healer. I was useful to them. They kept me alive, but as punishment," his fingers gripped the wood of the table, "...she was only seven years old. She loved rocs. Always wanted to fly on one. ...As further punishment, the Mollengardian government sent me reports on her progress, in painstaking detail. She is eleven, now--and a cold-blooded killer."

He closed his eyes and slumped down on the cot where Vega once sat, running wet fingers through his hair. "Go on without me, Sir Vega Sorde. I must stay here and heal who I can. If I'm able, I might be able to travel with the Captain to Stella D'Mare tonight." He stood, gathering his breath, his own deadening heartbeat. "But as is, it's too risky for you to take me along. Mollengard will see it as a declaration of war. 'Kidnapping an officer,' they'll claim. No. Go on." The smallest of smiles cracked his dry lips. "Save your friends, Sir Vega Sorde." 

As she predicted, Chara's leadership role was not unanimously received. Dissent murmured throughout the crowd. 

"I expect you to stay here and perform your duty as a Rigas!" she snapped. "Do I have to reeducate you on the history of Rigel, of our Rigas birthright? He could not defeat the Serpent, so he sacrificed his immortal soul and his magic to create a legacy, bound by his blood, so that we could protect this land and one day, possess the means to defeat this hell-beast, once and for all! Do you wish to forsake our birthright? To reap the benefits of our nobility, but turn tail and flee when the benefits no longer outweigh the responsibilities? Then go!" She flicked her hand towards the wrought-iron Rigas gates. "I do not need self-interested cowards in my army. All who are disinterested can go! But need I remind you, that you will not venture far. Andalarian troops have us boxed from all sides. Your only escape route is deeper into Andalari. Rigases are enemies of the state. So, I offer you two choices: stand with me against the Serpent and die, or flee and have Andalari kill you!"

More confused and angry muttering passed through the crowd. A few more heated outbursts volleyed at Chara, to which she responded with the appropriate level of lambasting. "The more we stand here and argue, the greater our chances of defeat! Do as I say, or get out of my way!" 

Finally, she reaped results, and the crowd slowly organized themselves into three neat groups. She singled out strong fighters, able magic-users, high-ranking councilmen, and chose leaders among them. They detailed strategies, made amendments, built their ranks, and began showing promise as an able and willing army. She opened the Rigas gates, and allowed anyone not participating to leave, on the grounds that they were to be excommunicated, never to return--with the exception of young children, expecting mothers, the infirm, and the elderly. She was pleased to see that only several had made their exodus. 

Turning around to see how Lilica was faring--she had been quiet since the start of their operation--she was surprised to see that the dark mage was gone. 

"Dammit, Lilica," she roared under her breath. "Don't you dare..."

Alster was beyond relieved to hear a response. He turned around, and saw her. Despite the abyssal dark, she was illuminated, as clear in appearance as if the sun shone on her. He took her into his arms, to determine if she were real. Solid, firm, and warm. He grazed his hand against her own.

"If I had to guess," he began, "we are in the void. I've been here many a time. Deep, fathomless oblivion, on all sides, all dimensions. We are in nothingness, and in everything, all at once. We should have opened direct communication with Rigel, with his star--but he doesn't seem to be present. If that Vitali somehow disrupted Rigel's resting place and caused irrevocable damage to his soul..." He ground his teeth, thinking, not for the first time, about witnessing the necromancer's downfall. 

Another voice piped up from behind them. "He did not." 

Spinning around to face the new presence, Alster saw the man--and he knew. This was Rigel. His long, flowing blond hair was tied up in a blue ribbon, its color as deep and vibrant as his eyes. They were so royal a blue they appeared almost purple. He held himself against a polished blackwood cane, its color deeper than the cosmos itself. His tunic and trousers were of an elegant trim, but simple. Modest. 

"...Lord Rigel." Immediately, Alster flew into a low bow, his face almost touching the bottomless ground.

"Rise, Alster," he said, his voice authoritative, yet amused. "We do not have time for such pleasantries. Though I did appreciate the effort." His eyes flicked to Elespeth. "Ah. You must be the twin star. Elespeth Tameris. The container. The keeper of magic. Alster has inherited a great burden, and with too mortal a body to maintain all its gifts. A shame, really, but the universe corrected this problem--as well as it could, anyhow. And," he chuckled, "as late as it could. It loves to saddle us with all the answers at the very last minute. Be that as it may, I am more than grateful that the two of you have found each other."

"Lord Rigel--"

The Rigas founder raised his hand to shush Alster. "Do not interrupt. This is not a conversation, or a reunion. Save that for when you die. We'll flit about the stars all gaily together, but then and only then. Now," he looked from Alster, to Elespeth, "to the matter at hand. I sent my star seer to fetch you so that I may show you a secret. It has brought me much shame in my living years, so I buried the memory with my body. I would reveal this information only at a moment of great duress, and only to one with even the faintest potential of facing the Serpent." Again, his hand raised in protest. "Say nothing more. Let me show you." A portal opened up before them, a mirror-like surface with ripples forming in concentric circles. Soon, those circles collected together, converging, combining, and coloring into a moving picture. A memory, brought to life. 

From the eyes of Rigel, they saw a small group of magic-users, watching his feats of magical strength with bored, fogged over eyes. They demanded he show them something "special." Something "impressive." If his claim was as the most powerful mage in all the Southern Realms, possibly the entire continent, he needed to perform a spell worthy of his self-named title. He assured them of his prowess and versatility. He would summon a creature from another world, he said, with a flourish of his hands and a bow. 

They met on the morrow, on a grassy, featureless field by the ocean. He waved his hands, and a portal opened up--a cloudy, misty, unbecoming place. The portal widened as something urged its way through. No, not urged. It was forced through the tiny hole. The sound of tearing. Twisting. Soundless hissing. A slithering beast squeezed its way onto the plain, its form, its size, terrifying to behold. His small retinue of followers screamed and fled. The great beast lashed at them with its tail. Blood trailed, smeared across the ground in crimson strokes. The portal fizzled and disappeared. Desperate hands flailed, trying to reopen the portal. No avail. The Serpent rampaged the countryside, wild with disorientation. Earth law could not kill it. No man could. No god made flesh--like Rigel. 

With all his strength, he blasted great chunks out of the ground, rocks and boulders and sand, and encased the Serpent in a mountainside. He wrote a seal of blood, and cast the beast into a sleep that would last for millennia. The citizens, forgetting his role in its summoning, hailed him as a hero. Cheers and huzzahs screamed in unison with the gulls in their new, rocky landscape. 

The image rippled, and faded. Rigel's grim, uncertain face returned to full view.

"A party trick," he said, tapping his cane onto nothingness. "The Serpent exists in this realm due to a party trick."

Alster stared at him a while, eyes widened but otherwise silent. Whether it was out of respect for Rigel's rejection of "conversation," or as his attempt to process the memory, even he couldn't tell which reaction ran more dominant. 

"Send it home, Alster." Rigel spoke into the silence. "Both of you. You've done it before. In Dream."

So Mollengard truly has no intent on allying with Eyraille, Vega thought, sickened, yet relatively not surprised. Then at least I know what we must prepare for... "Mollengard might be my enemy, Atli. But you, yourself, are not. I know an enemy when I see one." Her tone softened, feeling pity for the man who was so clearly stuck in a situation of which he would like nothing more than to be free. "I tell you this because I trust you with this bit of information, and I speak to you as a friend."

Taking a seat beside Atli upon the cot, the Skyknight folded her hands upon her lap. "I... once had a friend, formerly Forbanne. They told me what had happened to them. Healing was... and I imagine, still is... a very long and arduous process for them. We... we're no longer in contact. But I can assure you, they had risen beyond their years of mental, physical, and psychological torture. They have a name, an identity; dreams and aspirations. What happened to them cannot be undone, but they have been given the clarity to move and grow past it. And I..." She swallowed, thought of Haraldur causing her heart to physically ache. "Wherever they are, now... I believe that they will be alright. That they will be able to find the future for themselves that they so desire."

It was with an even heavier heart, then, that Vega listened to the healer's despondent tale. Of a man who had lost his child to Mollengard's cruelty... hearing of how she was stripped of her humanity, every step of the way. A little girl, just a child. Just like Haraldur had been. Sadly, he was right to refuse her offer of passage; Mollengard would most certainly interpret the act as hostile, and Eyraille was in no position to effectively defend itself, with the majority of its Skyknights assisting Stella D'Mare and Tadasun. The poor man could do nothing but continue his own miserable existence, among the people who had ruined his life--and his daughter's. "What was her name, Atli? Your daughter; tell me her name."

A name was what had brought Haraldur back; a piece of his identity that Mollengard could not claim. It might have been four years of damage, but she couldn't help but believe it was not too late for that little girl. "Try to make it to Stella D'Mare. I will look for your there, and show you to Daphni Adela, the Sybaian whom I hope is still within the confines of the city." Making her way towards the tent flaps, Vega looked over her shoulder one last time, shooting the healer a hopeful look. "When this is over, we will find your daughter. We will help her, whatever it takes. And... I will teach her to ride a roc, myseld." She cracked a tiny smile. "If Mollengard has already quietly positioned itself as Eyraille's enemy... well, then it isn't as if I have anything to lose."

With one last nod, the Eyraillian princess left for the roc stables again, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the fleet who had carried Alster and Elespeth to Stella D'Mare had returned--including her second in command. "Your Highness," the older man bowed his head, astonished and relieved to see her on her feet. "Glad to see you up and about. I hope you are well."

"I have been better--but you must listen to me, for I have dire news."

Vega went on to explain what Atli had divulged about Mollengard, and even more quietly, that it was imperative she go to Stella D'Mare as soon as possible, and hopefully beat the warmongering nation to their destination. "You must amass the Skyknights and have them return to Eyraille as soon as possible. There is nothing else we can do, here; and our kingdom needs the protection. Just leave one roc for me... I must return to Stella D'Mare, if it is the last thing I do."

The old man folded his arms, suddenly appearing very stern. "I'm afraid I can only do as you request on two conditions, your Highness."

"Conditions?" The princess's blue eyes widened. He couldn't be serious... "Well, what are they?"

"Only that I may call you Commander. I am far too old for the responsibility." He declared, astute. "And... that you promise, upon your brother, our King's life, that you will return to us in Eyraille. Do I have your word, Sir Vega Sorde?"

Speechless for a moment, the young woman acknowledged his words with a smile. "I agree, and swear to you on my brother's life. Please, see that Eyraille is prepared for the news you will bear. And... tell Caris that I will be back. You will not face this alone; not without me."

Parting ways, then, Vega made a beeline for a grounded roc, one of the many whom she had helped to train and tame. She was fortunate to have had a hand in the upbringing of so many, thereby gaining her trust. "Cielle," she greeted the giant avian, stroking her neck feathers. "I know I am not your permanent rider, but I need your help. Please, lend me your wings."
It was almost as if the roc understood her plight, as she was met with no resistance on mounting the creature's saddle. Without a word of departure to anyone, it wasn't long before Cielle took to the sky, and the two were bound for Stella D'Mare. Even if he didn't love her, wished no relations with her... she owed it to Haraldur to warn him. And to offer him a means of escape, before Mollengard caught up.

The fountain was just as Lilica remembered. Recalling that gentle time that she and Chara had both sat upon it, the latter weaving a brilliant flower into her hair as their bodies touched sentimentally, knees overlapping. Right here, this was the place where the chthonic caster felt the most stable, knew she could keep herself grounded and focus her energy on where it needed to be--which was contacting, and connecting, with the Serpent.

She took a seat along the stone edge, eyes surveying the area for something sharp. Of course, nothing stood out, save for the potential of a certain glass decal loosely hanging from an ornate rim of the fountain. Reaching forward, she managed to grasp the little glass bauble and wrench it free--at which point, she smashed it, hard, against the stone upon which she sat. Now with several sharp shards to choose from, she picked up a point triangle, took a deep breath, and dragged the jagged edge along her palm, the the very shape of that everpresent scar. I know what I did wrong last time... I saw it on Vitali's palm. I guess that scheming wretch was good for something, after all... Biting back the pain, Lilica took care to draw the rune right, this time, adjusting the edges and the curves, so that it deviated slightly from the scar. This time, she would get it right: she had to.

Satisfied with her work, she lay her carved palm upon her knee with care, and closed her eyes, feeling the energy that surrounded her. Dark, suffocating, wanting... wanting release. I know what you want, she willed the Serpent to hear. And I have it. Come to me; take it all, take everything that I am. It is yours. And you need it.

Something changed in the atmosphere, then. A chill overcame her, as if all of the heat had been sucked from her body. Spiritually, she was not alone. Something was with her, and it was drawing nearer, and nearer, so close... Come on. She challenged, her heart racing, sweat beading on her brow. We are one and the same. Be one with me. My power is yours.
And then, she felt it. Like a tentacle worming its way into her heart, her mind, she felt the energy of the Serpent reach for her, touch her, wrap its mass around her to consume her...

I love you, Chara. Please forgive me.

The second she was sure she was about to be lost to the Serpent, the chthonic caster drew on the rune carved into her palm--and placed the curse upon herself. It all happened so fast, she was hardly aware of her body falling backward into the crystalline waters of the fountain, of the power she had siphoned from the Serpent in its attempt to consume her, and of the way the energy locked tight into her body, including that of the Serpent's, leaving the beast, at the very least, weaker than before.
Purple flowers, the same that Chara had woven into her hair, were the last thing her eyes took in, before they closed...

She woke up, then, in a familiar bed the size of a tiny room. Silken sheets fell from her torso as she looked around in astonishment at what was unmistakably Chara's bedroom, pristine white and flooded with warm daylight. "What... I don't understand..."

"What don't you understand?" And there she was, donning a sleek, white gown that hugged her womanly form in all the right ways. Chara placed a platter of cheeses, breads and fruit upon a bedside table. "I was wondering when you'd wake up. Don't think for a moment that I'll allow you to sleep through breakfast every day; I won't have my partner and consort sullying my image to my public."

"I... but... what happened, Chara? Adalfieri, the Serpent... is everyone..."

The haughty blonde's brows knit together, and she took a seat upon the bed. Her delicate hand cupped Lilica's cheek. "Lilica, don't be absurd. The Serpent has been dormant for longer than I've been alive. Adalfieri has not held power in what feels like a millennia; not since he finally saw fit to relinquish it to me." The blue fire that was her eyes glimmered with concern. "You must have suffered a nightmare... your skin feels feverish. Perhaps a visit to the infirmary is in order."

"Nightmare... all of that, was truly... nothing more than a nightmare?" The chthonic caster rested her head in her hand, as Chara's welcome arm slid around her shoulders. "Chara, it seemed so horribly real... And Lysander, how does he fare?"

"As obnoxious as ever, I assure you." The Rigas caster snorted. "You are clearly unwell. Please eat something, I'll go fetch a healer--"

"Don't." Lilica wove her fingers between Chara's before the she could stand. "No. Just... please, stay? I need to know... I need to know this is real. Please..."

Chara paused, her determined countenance softening as she obliged Lilica's request to remain. Unweaving their fingers, she took Lilica's left hand and pressed it above her breast, over her heart. "Is this proof enough?" In the daylight, something brilliant glimmered on their fourth fingers. Matching rings, both a brilliant white gold encrusted with tiny, prismatic gems that cast sparkles on the wall whenever they caught the light. The haughty blonde's lips curled into a triumphant smile. "You already agreed to be mine forever, Lilica Rigas. It is too late if you're having second thoughts, because I refuse to give up what is mine."

Lilica Rigas... this was for real. This was her life--their life, as real as the solid gold around their fingers. "I dreamed... I was so afraid I'd never see you again." The dark mage whispered, resting her head on Chara's shoulder. "You are everything to me, Chara."

"Good. Because you will not be getting rid of me, anytime soon." Tilting her chin up, the blonde Rigas caster captured Lilica's lips in a lingering, meaningful kiss that made her tingle all the way to her fingertips. This was real; this was everything she wanted. And it was hers to relish forever.

Elespeth had no problem complying with Rigel's request not to make conversation, for the Atvanian warrior knew not what to say in the presence of this ancient, revered Rigas. With patience and curiosity, she stood back and watched the scene that unfolded before them; the 'party trick' that Rigel conducted in order to please his peers, confirm his status as one of the most powerful mages in their region. She watched with horror as the trick quickly got out of hand, and the bloodshed that ensued. Rigel Rigas was not only the one who defeated the Serpent; he was the one who had brought it into their existence in the first place. And there he was, humble, remorseful, and without making any attempt to hide the full extent of his involvement.

When Alster said nothing, perhaps too taken aback by the true face of the history he'd been taught, the former knight took it upon herself to find her tongue, and finally ask the obvious question that hovered between them. "How? Tell us how we can stop it." She besought from Rigel. "Alster holds the power; I have no magic of my own. Please, tell me what I need to do... Tell me how I fight it. How we fight it." Pressing her lips together, she took a bold step forward. "Please. The least you can do is tell us how..."

Atli listened, rapt, as Sir Vega Sorde detailed her past correspondence with a Forbanne soldier. He had heard tales of Forbanne rediscovering their humanity, and the existence of roving rebel relief groups, who helped to rehabilitate runaway soldiers, but Mollengard quickly dispelled these tales as rumors. Their program was ironclad, they claimed. Once a Forbanne was built, they were an impenetrable, unshakable block. Like the strongest of steels, the hardest of stones. Although Atli believed Vega, it was difficult for him to accept her story as fact and not myth. Worse yet, every word from her lips filled him with hope: hope for his daughter, hope for the other Forbanne whose minds were far lost, far gone. And hope, especially in Mollengard, was dangerous. They would snuff it out, and stomp it into the ground until all that remained were crushed, torn petals. 

"I would like to meet that Forbanne soldier," he said, not realizing he'd been twisting and wringing the wash rag in his hands, or that he'd even retrieved it from the basin table at all. "Not that I don't believe you, but I'd like to see for myself that it's possible. That my daughter..." he squeezed the rag. "But no. Even if I could meet that soldier, they must never make contact with Mollengard, even if it's only me. If any of our officers hear that there is a former escaped Forbanne in their midst, they will capture that soldier, and reindoctrinate them. The training program is an expensive and time-consuming one, and Mollengard does not like to lose their assets. Or 'cattle,' as they sometimes will call them...if they're feeling particularly affectionate." His mouth curled with disgust. 

"For your friend's sake, pray they be far. Forbanne technology has improved in the past several years. For one, their bodies are able to accept magical healing. That's why I'm among the ranks of this Forbanne-dominant army--though I am also able to administer non-magical means of healing, if the need calls for it. The transition does not always take, for certain soldiers. It is very experimental, but it is still finding a measurable degree of success." He hesitated. "Captain Solveig developed the method, herself. Also," he picked at the frayed ends of his wash rag, "Officers in charge of their respective Forbanne unit are able to psychically sense their location. Which, to me, is suspicious. If Mollengard boasts that the Forbanne program makes obedient, ironclad soldiers, they would not need to track their whereabouts. Although I am only aware of this ability amongst officers and the units for which they lead, I would still caution that your friend keep away, if able. I...I can tell," his voice took on a gentle, fatherly tone, "the way you refer to this former Forbanne, that they mean, or meant, a great deal to you. It's how I think of my daughter. That she...that she may one day snap out of it, and find a future for herself. Dreams...aspirations...flying..." Atli crumbled the wash rag in his hands and pressed it against his eyes, hiding his face and welling tears from view. 

"Her name was Iselin. My little Isse." He cleared his throat, to choke back the catch that wavered his words, wavered her name. "They sent her to 'train' with the East Mollengard Forbanne. They did not tell me where, or with what regiment. That... is all I know. If you were able to find her...I...I do not know what I'd be able to give, to show my gratitude. I have nothing but my skills as a healer. But to see her face again, to say her name..." He trailed away, and silently wept against the wash rag. He gathered enough composure a moment later to pull the rag from his eyes and look up at this kindly woman one last time before her departure. "Bless you, Sir Vega Sorde of Eyraille. May our paths cross again. May you find reason to live this second life, and not curse it. And may I hope to find this Daphni Adela in Stella D'Mare. Goodbye." 

After a day spent half-running, half-walking at a grueling pace, Haraldur had caught up to the marching Andalarian army. Locating a band of mercenaries within the ranks, he integrated seamlessly within their motley colors and mismatched armor. No one questioned him, nor even noticed that he did not belong. It was fortunate for him: he had recognized some of those mercenaries from his stint in Andalari's Own, but they either didn't recognize him or did not care. Surely, there was a bounty over his head, but that was when Messino was alive, and in power. Their army had shifted in leadership to the next in charge, Commander Renalto, and his singular goal was to reach the gates of Stella D'Mare before midday. 

The quakes began about an hour or so before they reached the main gate. At first, soldiers brushed them off as a typical phenomenon, but then faltered when the quakes persisted, grew in duration, and intensified. Some of the ranks came apart as dissension and concern passed from one man to another, but Commander Renalto urged them to continue, citing the seismic activity as a ploy by the mages of Old Town to keep their army from advancing. Take caution, he urged, but proceed. 

Once they passed through the main gate into the city, more confusion fell across the army. They met little to no resistance. No usurpers at the gates, no angry citizens wielding magic or weapon in hopes to disperse their tight formation. Eerie--like the constant quaking. 

Renalto again held the signal for caution. It was a trap. To trick them into a false sense of security, and convince them that they had cinched victory with no bloodshed. Onward, they proceeded, up the streets through Old Town, en route to the Rigas estate. 

Midway through the march, the rumbling grew in intensity. The oscillations increased, flipping the pavement at their feet, knocking many off balance. Haraldur caught himself against a stone archway, holding upright as supply wagons scattered and horses fled in terror. The low rumble gargled and grew into an unearthly roar. Roofs collapsed, houses crumbled. Rocks and other detritus tumbled, showering the army in dustings of pebbles and shards. The main thoroughfare split open before them, and the splintered ground rose upwards, upwards, like putty--then broke apart. 

What was before a shower became a hailstorm of earth. Huge boulders rained around the army. Pieces of doors, of window-sills, of trellises and gardens, of tilled soil and water containers, littered the surrounding area. Haraldur held fast beneath the archway, protected from the brunt of the destruction, though still having to dodge and roll away from errant chunks that rolled in his direction. 

When the dust cleared, and the terrestrial rains ceased, the street was no longer a street but a massive hole in the side of the mountain. And slithering out of the mountain was an enormous Serpent. 

It was an all-black creature, save for its luminous, acidic eyes, orange-yellow and hypnotizing to behold. Its scales glistened as its ponderous body swayed, catching the sunlight. The light projected onto his prismatic, iridescent body in little rainbows of color. It was too bright, too blinding to stare upon for long. A beast of glass, it seemed, but with a battering ram of power. It was beautiful, and fearsome. And as it raised itself high into the sky...it dropped itself upon the army. 

"How" Rigel clucked and chuckled. "My dear, if I knew how, wouldn't that have been the first piece of information I'd have disclosed to you? Instead of dusting off my most embarrassing, disastrous mistake to date, and parading it in front of your impressionable little eyes? Were it up to me, I'd destroy this blasted memory and scatter its remains to the heavens. No," he sighed, and leaned against his cane. "I made you bear witness to my massive blunder so that you can learn from what I did. Do not make me spell out the fact that...I have minimal skill in portal opening. It was a fluke. A lucky, or in this case, disastrous accident. And unfortunately, sending a summoned beast back to its home world is eons more difficult than pulling a random creature from any infinite number of realms. It it beyond even my ability to achieve. That is why I built the Rigas legacy. I was a failure of a mage. I could not correct my mistake. But perhaps, somewhere down the line of my progeny, someone could find the answer." 

"That can't be," Alster muttered with incredulity. "You're implying that I'm stronger, more powerful than you?" 

Rigel flinched. "Presently. Again, I reiterate: presently. What you awakened in yourself on the battlefield is a result of your chthonic magic pulling from a bottomless source of energy, and transforming it into the celestial. But it is ephemeral, this power. It will work until it destroys you, or unless you find a way to flush it out of your system. But you already know the risks. What I am saying is this: you have the power to open the portal. You have a connection with the Serpent that would allow you to send It back to its home world. All you have to do is use your damn brain. And you," he turned to Elespeth, "you have to make sure he does not disintegrate into star-dust before he utilizes his full power. As I've told you, you are the Keeper of Magic. The Container. Absorb his magical discharge. Take it into yourself and upon yourself. Need I remind you two not to die in the process."

"But is there any way to control the--" Before Alster could finish his question, Rigel had vanished, leaving them, for a moment, to stew upon their options in the void. Then, their conscious bodies opened their eyes. They were in the vault of Rigel, still holding the sapphire in their bloodied hands. But the vault had changed in form since their forced removal from the waking world. Half of the cave's ceiling had collapsed in the ongoing quakes, blocking their only exit.

Iselin... Vega repeated the name over and over in her head as she soared upon the roc, bound for Stella D'Mare. She did not want to forget the name of Atli's daughter, should she find her, by some miracle in which she was determined to believe. Mollengard destroyed too many lives; it would continue to destroy many, many more. But she refused to let it take Eyraille down with it, and if she could help save just one more person from the warmongering power nation's grip... Well, it might help her to forgive herself, for the path she had chosen and the consequences that ensued. For causing Haraldur emotional turmoil such that there was nothing better for him than to leave her. For directly leading her lifelong, avian companion to her untimely demise. To allowing herself to live again, and to only make things worse not only for herself, but seemingly, everyone she cared about...

There was so much wrong with the world, so much wrong with the way people treated other people, and so much of it seemed to surround herself, her home, and everything she knew. At best, thought of how best to address it all was exhausting; at worst, it made her want to give up. Made her turn to the flask and drown her thoughts and woes in the bitter taste of swill, numbing her until she couldn't feel anymore. But, once again, the Eyraillian princess had found a sense of purpose... She needed to find Haraldur, to warn him, send him away, far away on a roc before it was too late. And now, in addition, she had given her word to a near complete stranger (albeit one who was in desperate need of an ally) that she would find his daughter, if it were at all possible. I hope to find you here in Stella D'Mare, Atli, she thought, squinting against the rush of cold air that uncomfortably dried her eyes. In her haste, she had forgotten her kerchief, and any other protective headwear for her eyes or face during flight. And, in a way, it was fitting, for a part of her still welcomed the numbing chill of the wind.

Knowing that not only Mollengard, but Andalari were planning to close in on Stella D'Mare, entering through the gates, or any other normal means, was out of the question. But Vega knew she was taking a risk from the moment she mounted the roc. Guiding the beast over the city, relieved for the coming of night and the cover of a thick layer of cloud, the Skyknight urged the bird lower, and lower, and lower... I cannot descend too low, above the fog... Unfortunately, judging a jumping to the ground when you could hardly see it was more than a little tricky; and yet, still a safer bet than being seen.

She had no choice but to take a leap of faith--literally.

"You know where to go, girl. Stay safe, outside the city." Vega murmured gently to the roc. Whether or not the beasts truly understood English, they always seemed to understand intent, especially those trained for the Skyknights. "Listen for my call."

Taking a deep breath, as Cielle continued to soar just barely above the low-hanging clouds, Vega eased her legs from their front saddle position, held the air in her lungs, and jumped from the roc's back.

While flying, after a while, came relatively naturally to a Skyknights, falling--let alone jumping from their mounts--was something entirely different. Of course, all were trained in the best ways to prevent serious injury should they be thrown from their rides, but seldom were those methods ever implemented. Either riders simply did not fall, for their extensive training in keeping balance upon the rocs, or if they did, it was at such a height that no preventative measures would do them any good, and death was inevitable. Needless to say, even Vega, commander of the arial infantry, did not instill a lot of confidence in her ability to prevent serious injury. Recalling her very first days of formal training as a Skyknight, she swallowed her panic and waited until she could see the ground, at which point she tucked her head between her knees to protect her neck and skull, and prepared to hit the ground.

To her surprise, the pain was minimal; she hit the ground arms first, her elbows taking the brunt of the impact, and her body rolled until it gave up momentum. With the wind knocked out of her, and dizzy and disoriented from her landing, Vega was slow to uncurl her limbs and even slower to stand up. From what she could tell, the city of Stella D'Mare was eerily quiet... save for the rumbling of the ground beneath her feet, which she did not immediately discount as mere vertigo from her fall.

It took about a minute of gathering her wits before the pain began. A shooting sharpness that reverberated through her arms and shoulders, enough to make her want to double over. Nothing was broken, from what she could tell, but it wouldn't have come as any surprise if something had fractured from the impact. Her knees and elbows were scraped and bloodied... but she was alive. And alive was all that she needed to be, for the time being.

Struggling to pinpoint her surroundings, Vega wandered on her sore legs until she found a familiar edifice; the infirmary. A place where she might perhaps see some familiar faces... and potentially gain insight into Andalari's efforts to bring down the city.

"Hello?" She called, upon pushing open the heavy doors. Almost immediately, she found herself surrounded by Rigases, none which whom she was familiar, and all who appeared to be on the offensive.

"Stand down," a familiar voice called. Reluctantly, the small mob of mages parted, revealing none other than the very Sybaian healer the Skyknight had hoped to see. "Sir Vega Sorde. I did not anticipate to see you here, especially under these circumstances."

"What is going on? Has Andalari attacked? And, Mollengard... has Mollengard arrived?" Vega spared no time, looking from the healer to the mages, in hopes that someone would give her the answers she needed.

A young woman--well, by Rigas standards--shook her head in reply. "Andalari perished upon arrival. The Serpent... it is lose, and tearing this city apart. We," she indicated the other casters, "are merely preventing the inevitable, summoning and pooling our powers to enforce a barrier that will hopefully keep this place in tact. We will not abandon our sick and injured, just because they cannot evacuate."

"The Serpent... evacuate..." In some ways, it appeared as though she was not too late, after all; yet in others, she entirely was. "Has the entire city evacuated? All the Rigases?"

"Not all," someone else replied. "A handful of cowards, but namely mothers, expecting mothers, children, and the elderly. Those of us not warding off the Serpent's wrath are pegged to fight it."

That was perhaps the best possible news that could be conveyed, for the occasion. But it did not tell her what she needed to know. "I don't suppose you know if Haraldur has arrived?" She asked Daphni, specifically. Few others would have been acquainted with the mercenary.

The answer was written on the Sybaian's face before her lips formed words. "No; I cannot say that I have seen him, but I have also been confined to this building for longer than I would like to admit. There are too many here in need..." Vega did not miss the way that Daphni tossed a concerned glance not only at an older man who slightly resembled Alster's cousin, Chara, but to Elias, the Clematis healer. Both lay, either unconscious or asleep, upon cots, and it was difficult to discern which of the two looked worse. "And what is it of Mollengard that queries you? Are they, too, planning to invade the city?"

"You could say that," the Skyknight commander seethed, speaking the words through clenched teeth. "They will be here by nightfall. Which is why I must find Haraldur; he needs a means out of the city, before they find him..."

"Then I would urge you to go, now, and search for him. But take care; the Serpent's wrath does not discriminate." Daphni cautioned, wandering over to Elias's cot to replace the cloth upon his forehead with a fresh, cool one. "You did not risk your life coming here to hide from the beast, I would assume. But I will not guarantee your success... regardless, take care, your Highness."

Vega nodded, murmuring likewise as she turned back toward the door. "And--Daphni." The Skyknight threw a glance over her shoulder. "Should Mollengard arrive--or rather, when--there may be a healer among them. His name is Atli, and I gave him your name. I am sorry to burden you further, but I think you can help him... if we survive this."

Without a second thought, she left the healer to tend to the sick and injured, facing the foggy, broken city all by herself. She would either find Haraldur, or she would die trying; there would be no middle ground.

When Haraldur finally came to, it was almost nightfall. His eyes urged themselves halfway open, too bleary and irritated from the dust to see beyond the blur of the stone archway. Rather, what remained of it. A large chunk of it had fallen over his supine body, but was suspended over the remains of a building, providing a lean-to shelter that protected him from the brunt of the Serpent's attack. As he unearthed himself from the wreckage and slowly crawled to his feet, testing his limbs for anything broken (nothing was), he observed the damage. The entire section of city that withstood the attack was leveled, a massive crater at its center. Rubble and debris and bodies bearing Andalarian's crest were scattered. Blood and armor. Death. 

He tested the weight on one leg. While not broken, his ankle was sprained, and the rest of his bruised body had fallen victim to a volley of rocks and other projectiles. The rumbling beneath his feet persisted, but it carried from further away, across town. The hellish creature had taken its rampage elsewhere. 

As he brushed through the litter of the fallen, he noticed movement from his periphery. Gripping a hold on the hilt of his sword, he turned around to face the source. 

An Andalarian soldier squirmed from beneath the devastation, rising from the ground. His head was completely severed, but his body convulsed in a bastardization of human mobility. It shuffled and writhed and wound its way toward him. Other Andalarians rose from the ashes, corpses made living, but minds made dead. 

Haraldur's grip on the sword became knuckle-white with tension. Andalari had regained its second wind, but as wraiths, clawing and scrambling their way to the top of the debris pile, their hollow eyes seeking an enemy to destroy.

They all honed in on him.

He ran. His feet dug for purchase beneath the unstable ground as he launched into an escape. He could not fend off that which would never die. They would drag him down. All of the dead. Into a grave. Throw the dirt over his eyes and let him sink into darkness, into hell. 

The blaring of horns sounded from the not-so distant waters of the harbor. The tune was unmistakable. Sonorous and ominous, with a promise of swift, merciless destruction. Ships were arriving. Mollengardian ships were arriving.

To get him. They would get him. They would find him. There was nowhere left for him to run. 

Shortly after Atli had left her tent to tend to Vega, Tivia pushed out from beneath her sheets and searched for Vitali. She knew the dreaded necromancer couldn't have ventured far, and his route was clear--if his words from last night could be believed. The entire night was a fog to her, but she remembered his presence, and she remembered his intentions. If Stella D'Mare really was his destination, then she would encounter him on the road before long. The crafty dark mage would have found a swifter means of transportation than by foot. As a Rigas, she had no ability in riding a horse, and they all belonged to Mollengard, besides. And she felt too cowed to ask Vega or any of the other Skyknights for roc-transport. 

She no longer cared about dying. If Stella D'Mare would spell out her fate, perhaps it was a fate best embraced. What else awaited her on the other side of life, anyhow? Permanent loss of hearing, insanity, long years of hiding mirrors, isolation, locked up alone in her chambers, consorting with stars...Her only companions. Already, she had alienated so many people. Maybe the stars, too, would blink out of the sky, and refuse to speak. Then, she truly would be alone. 

As expected, she did find Vitali on the road, and with a horse, no less. It wasn't in mid-gallop, or even at a brisk canter: it had stopped, as if it, and its rider, were waiting for her. 

She spoke little during the journey to Stella D'Mare, already ashamed by the damage she'd caused so far without needing to worry about the shame of her company and what he had done to the lives she'd ruined. Then, there was the matter of paying for the horse-ride into Stella D'Mare, into her doom. Nothing the necromancer ever offered was free. 

They arrived by twilight, through the ruined Main Gate...and her heart flipped in shock. The city was unrecognizable. In shambles. The once beautiful, affluent Stella D'Mare, jewel of the South, city of gardens, of rainbow-colored rooftops, of mosaic fountains, sprawling vistas, painted squares and music in the streets...gone. And far, far in the distance, a black mark in the sky, lording over its new nest, spiraled around the mountainside like a macabre accessory, a horrid bracelet. The Serpent. After being away from her home-city for so long, this wasn't the reunion she'd wanted...

"No." Tears pooled around her eye, blurring her vision. Without waiting for the horse to slow to a stop, she jumped from the saddle. She stumbled but caught herself in time before she careened head-first into the sharp stones and splintered wood of the unsteady ground. 

As she surveyed the damage, she lost track of her whereabouts, of her companion, of everything. Entranced by the devastation, she walked onward, mesmerized, like a mouse wandering into the snake's den. And Stella D'Mare was Its den, now. The Serpent's den.

She didn't notice the Andalarian army of the dead approach her until too late. With swords, pikes, and bows, they surrounded her. They remembered their duty from when they were alive: kill the Rigases.

If this is how I die... Tivia spun discs of etherea into her hands. I'll die fighting...

Chara had stayed behind at the Rigas estate, helming the operation from arguably the safest position in the city. She had to lead them, and to remain alive, and her pittance of magical inheritance would serve the Rigases little on the front. Still, it was a difficult decision for her to make, particularly when Lilica was out there, enticing the Serpent, binding it to herself. It was such a foolhardy, asinine, horrifying, and...noble plan. 

Whatever she did--if she had done anything at all--appeared to have worked. According to reports from those on the outside, who were near the path of the Serpent's destruction, the great beast did not once indicate any signs of chthonic resurgence. It was a relief. A small relief, for the creature had created unspeakable devastation just by thrashing around its formidable body, but at the very least, it could not conjure up eternal fires or crack the sky with its very fangs. And it allowed the Rigases time to reinforce the barrier surrounding their estate. It can hold, she assured herself. If the Serpent cannot access its magic...we can defend against Its physical attacks.

So far, they had been successful--but only in that the barrier had held in place, and the estate was relatively untouched--save for collateral damage from the quakes. But their barrier was only in tact because the Serpent expressed no interest in breaking their magical defenses. Instead, it encircled the estate, its mountainous coils slowly, slowly constricting its area. They were trapped within its circle of constriction, but safe--for now. 

And where was Alster!? He and his uncharismatic warrior had been missing for the entire day. Chara had gnawed her fingernails away to prevent herself from cursing his name aloud. If he were dead, or indisposed, and Lilica wasted her life away for nothing at all...No. She wouldn't believe it. Lilica was still alive. So was Alster. And the warrior. They are all alive, she chanted in her head.

And Lysander...

She had afforded for herself a trip to the infirmary. There wasn't much else she or the other Rigases could do now that they were encased, with the Serpent refusing to budge or attack. Lysander, though still unconscious, had shown improvements in his breathing. His heart, too, pumped at a steady rate. Even his legs, back to their normal hue, looked healthier. However, they were still shrunken. Still deformed. Practically fleshless. She placed a gentle hand on one knee, and wished him a speedy recovery. "For if you do not recover," she whispered, "I...do not know what else to do. Everyone else is gone. Do not fade, either..."

She nodded to Daphni in unspoken acknowledgement of her efforts, then stood and made her way out of the infirmary. But before she got far, she recognized the other woman which had the Sybaian's attention...

"Vega Sorde? How in all hells did you find your way here? And for the love of all the gods, why?!" She rounded on the Eyraillian princess, arms crossed over her chest, more incredulous than angry. 

"Haraldur? I have not seen the mercenary since Andalari took him away to their dungeons." She shrugged, none too concerned. "I was convinced the man was still there. I can tell you this, though. Those who have evacuated the city were only able to go inland, into the heart of Andalarian territory. I cannot say if the crown has apprehended them there or not. We are still considered enemies of the state. The other half sought refuge here, though I do not recommend it. However, it appears that these are the only buildings still left standing in the city. As for the rest of Stella D'Mare--heed caution. And watch for the Serpent's coils if you are audacious enough to venture outside." With a mutter that sounded like 'good luck,' Chara exited the infirmary--in time to hear a series of explosions in the direction of Rigel's tomb...

Alster no longer had any patience to spare. Of all the ways to be defeated, he simply would not indulge a cave to be his or Elespeth's undoing. So when they discovered their exit had been blocked by an impenetrable wall of rocks, he took in a deep breath--and without warning, began to blast each boulder to smithereens with compressed streams of air and heat. No strategies: he had tired of thinking. Blast, and blast, and blast. Use your damn brain, Rigel had advised him before disappearing, but Alster never wanted to think again. He had unlimited magic. Why think, when he could just force his way out? It was much easier. It hurt less. I no longer have the capacity to do anything else. My cognizance dried out long ago...

He kept blasting at the wall, shooting spell after spell, incinerating the boulders into dust. In moments, he had cleared the entire barricade, revealing the hallway beyond and the stairs that led up to the surface. But his follies had taken their toll. The ring finger of his dominant hand had vanished. Consumed in full. And before he could take a step towards their freedom, he doubled over and hacked out gobs of blood and vomit onto the cave floor. After his episode had passed, he looked over at Elespeth, reading the concern on her face. He wiped his mouth of the blood, and nodded towards the stairs.

"I'm fine, now. I should have known better...than to sacrifice intelligence for brute force. Rigel is right. I--we--need to keep our heads about us. Unlimited magic means nothing if we can't utilize it correctly. Come on," he said with a pained wheeze. "Let's go up there and confront the Serpent." He held his stomach as he shuffled forward. "...Before I pass out."

With the arrival of Mollengard at the Tadasuni encampment, it was no extensive feet for the necromancer to acquire a horse so as to ride into Stella D'Mare as quickly as possible. Of course, Vitali's means of 'acquisition' veered far from the more conventional connotations of the word. All it took was for a bulky, Mollengardian soldier to stay his steed and wander away with his fleet, at which point the nefarious dark mage swiftly and stealthily took possession over the animal. It was almost as if it was meant to be, for the beast compliantly accepted his new rider without complaint, abiding Vitali's silent instructions to move towards the forestland. Their animals must be beaten to compliance as much as their people, he mused quietly, as he prepared to travel by the cover of trees. If he was to move out towards Stella D'Mare, then he had to do so with stealth, lest he end up dealing with Mollengard. The mercenary that they had made was threat enough; though crafty and a survivor, he was not in any hurry to meet the makers.

He had very nearly made it outside of the encampment, when a fleeting thought occurred to him. The star seer, Tivia... Had she decided to heed the mercenary's request to keep an eye out for the wayward Skyknight, or had she, in fact, left for Stella D'Mare? Deduction alone made him think that she was, at the very least, torn between the two decisions--meaning, the likelihood that she was still within the encampment was high. And, the longer he thought about it... the less the necromancer was inclined to leave without her. In the event, of course, that she was willing to cooperate with him, on the ground of the mutually significant issue, which was the Serpent.

Something celestial must have aligned, urging him to pause in his 'escape' of the encampment; for moments after the thought crossed his mind, there she was, looking far better than before--and determined. Without a word, he allowed her climb behind him upon the horse, and took off in a gallop. They were out of sight and out of mind, before Mollengard ever came to realize that one of their horses was missing.

It was near evening that they arrived, after traveling nonstop for a full day, with few words exchanged between the two of them. Taking note of the state of the grand city's gates up ahead, Vitali didn't think twice to stop the steed yards beyond the entrance. Whatever had occurred... Whatever had happened to cave in those gates, he had a hunch that encountering Andalarian troops, at this point, might be the very least of their concerns. Judging by Tivia's reaction, he had a hunch the star seer felt much the same.
And before the necromancer could ask just what she intended to, the fool leaped from the steed before the animal had come to a full stop, and hurried towards the gates.

"Well... that surely cannot end poorly," he muttered to himself, dismounting the steed as quickly as possible. But Tivia had already disappeared into the fog and dust cloud beyond the dilapidated gates, possibly plunging herself headfirst into what could very well be imminent danger... In fact, he could sense something off on the wind. The smell of death, but not that of decay... worse, much worse: animated death. The very kind of death that should not be. The very kind of death with which he toyed on a regular basis... And that which he had likely encouraged, within the broken walls of Stella D'Mare.
After all, if Andalari had truly been fool enough to try and lay siege to the seaside city...

Then that hadn't lived to tell about it.

"I suppose, logistically, I am to blame for this mess..." The necromancer sighed, preparing to wander into the mess that used to be a luxurious and bright city. It was, in fact, eerier than death, a stillness having descended upon the city that felt like the calm before the storm... Stepping over debris and wading through dust and fog, he thought better than to call the star seer by name, lest he attract unwanted attention. After all, the mercenary with whom she was so enamored might already be prowling among the debris, and while he was prepared to face a lot of things, Vitali knew full well he could not hold a flame to Haradur's physical prowess.

He hadn't gone far when he spotted them. The bodies, mutilated and broken, sprawled among the debris in a mix of stone and gore. But that was not what sat like a stone in his stomach; rather, it was the fact that those bodies--bodies that should no longer be able to stand--were, in fact, standing. Standing, and preparing to fight.
And who was their target, but the very foolish girl who had completely gotten ahead of herself and plunged directly into the path of danger... "Rigases..." He murmured to himself, heaving a heavy sigh of frustration, as if this posed the greatest inconvenience that he had encountered all day... and,well, it was.

Before one of the headless monstrosities could strike at the Rigas caster, who herself looked poised to strike and fight what would surely be a losing battle, Vitali intercepted them, uncurling his fist, and slamming his palm against the dead walker's chest. Black miasma seeped from his fingers, like tendrils of smoke that burrowed into the dead flesh of the undead soldier. Not a second later, the being crumpled to the ground; lifeless, at last.

But there was no time or room for hesitation. Several more damned corpses circled the Rigas caster, compelled by their mission to destroy all pertaining to her lineage. The necromancer sucked what was left of the abominations' life out through his fingertips, one after the other, until the fiends that surrounded Tivia had all been felled. More would rise, of course, but she was safe for the meantime. "If you have a death wish, might I recommend some far less agonizing means," he hissed, grimacing at her poor choice of fights to pick. "Your battle is not here, Rigas. Go find your brethren; do what you can to mitigate the damage that the Serpent has caused. I sense that its power..." He paused, concentrating on the atmosphere, to ascertain he was not mistaken. "Something has throttled its power. Constricted its ability to expand it... You might still have a chance. Go... now." His lip curled in distaste as more fallen bodies began to move and rise. "I have my work cut out for me, here."

Vega had not ventured too far from the infirmary before she noticed the movement among the rubble. Survivors... it had to be survivors, she thought, but not without a whisper of caution. But... who could survive such devastation to the city? As the Eyraillian princess drew nearer, her footfalls slowed, and it wasn't long before her suspicion was confirmed. The movement among the rubble was not that of survivors; these bodies, crushed and mutilated beyond recognition, were already dead, despite the movement that protested death. And there were only one people who came to mind, that remained animated long after death throws...

"Idiots..." The Skyknight hissed, all too aware now that it was too late that in her haste, she had not thought to bring a weapon. "You did not know when to give up... and this is why your reign came to an end!"

Before it could fully rise, Vega grabbed a bow from the hands of a corpse with only one arm (not like it could make use of the weapon, anyway), and yanked the quiver of arrows from the stump of its shoulder. Though her melee combat likely had something to be desired, notching the arrow and aiming was second nature to her, and was the most useful weapon that she could foresee being useful, as she waded through the seemingly growing sea of undead. Endeavoring to fell them all would be nothing less of a suicide mission; she had greater causes to which to attend, but if she meant to reach her destination--that being, finding Haraldur before it was too late--then she would have to stave off the waves after waves of rising corpses.

Choosing carefully who--or rather, what--she chose to use her arrows on, the Eyraillian princess hurried over the rubble and debris, nearly losing her footing numerous times. Perhaps her impeccable balance learned from training as a Skyknight was coming through for her, after all. "Where are you?" She hissed through her teeth, so paranoid at the inhuman movement that surrounded her as the bodies rose that she wasn't convinced her senses would properly discern Haraldur if she did spot him. Never would she have expected to experience so much sensory overload in such a dead--literally and figuratively--city, but she had yet to shake the disorientation from her fall from the roc. And, sadly, there was no time to pause and fully recover from it.

Vega moved on. She aimed, she shot for the limbs of the undead, knowing full well that she was beyond killing what was already deceased, but in hopes of immobilizing them long enough to get away. Unfortunately, it was not long before she realized she was growing devastatingly low on arrows... and then, almost as if in emphasis of this time-sensitive mission, she heard the horns.

Boats... they were approaching. Mollengard was here, and she would soon be out of time.

Gripping the bow tight in her hand, the frantic skyknight hurried onward, scanning her broken surroundings for something familiar--those green eyes, that sturdy gait... She had to recognize him. He would fighting these undead monstrosities, she was sure of it, for he was so desperate to be of help, to make some sort of a difference, to redeem himself in a quest that would never end...
That was, of course, all provided he was not among those undead beings...

No. I can't think of that. Not Haraldur... He was a survivor. The living could not do him in; surely, the dead would not be able to touch him, with their cold, stiff fingers...
It was almost as if the very thought prompted a sudden turn of events. Vega, in all her mental distress, had been paying more attention to what lay ahead of her than what was behind her; negligence that could cost her her life. A single misstep caused her to stumble, teetering forward, then backward--and falling directly into someone. Or, rather, something.

As soon as she regained her footing, the Eyraillian princess spun on her heel, arrow drawn and notched against the bowstring as she aimed it at her assailant... 

She about dropped the weapon as recognition set in, horrified at herself with regard to whom she had nearly reserved an arrow... "Haraldur." His name, breathed from her exhausted lungs, was nothing less than a sigh of relief. Vega wanted to throw her arms around him, wanted to beg him to forget what had happened before, and begin anew... but, there wasn't time. And a very hurt, very raw part of her was still too sore from his desertion for sentimentality.

"Mollengard. They'll be on you, soon." Of course, he was likely already aware; the sound of those boats docking along the coast were loud enough to announce their arrival to the entire nation. But what he did not have was a way out--not a safe one. "I came here on a roc. I can take you safely to Eyraille, where they will not find you... look around you." She motioned to the dead--both animate and inanimate, some remaining motionless on the ground while others clambered to their feet, slowly, determined. "Here... there's nothing that we can do, here. It is up to Alster and the Rigases, now. If we stay here--if you stay here... you're going to die."

Not a suggestion or a possibility: it was a fact. And by the set of Haraldur's mouth, he knew it just as well as Vega. "Please... let me get you out of here."

"Alster... what happened?" Elespeth spun around in dismay, noting that the exit--their only way out--was blocked by rubble. They were trapped. "What do we--"

He already had a solution, it seemed. The blasts came so fast that it startled the former knight, and she covered her ears, helpless to stop the determined Rigas caster. No... no, if he keeps this up... He had nearly lost another finger from healing people; what would happen to his body if he channeled his magic toward destruction? Would there be anything left of him to face off the Serpent...?

"Stop... Alster, stop!" But he could not hear her over the blasting of the rocks, and he did not cease until the stairway leading from beyond Rigel's tomb was visible and accessible once again. It came as no surprise to Elespeth when he doubled over and expelled blood from his stomach, after decimating the rock that blocked their path, and she was quick to hurry to his side and sling his arm around her shoulders. "Damn right you should have used your head," she chastised him, and carefully helped him up the stairs, one step at a time. "You cannot solve it all with your magic. Powerful or not, Alster, you know the Serpent is stronger than us both, combined... Keep your wits and your strength about you."

Slowly, but surely, they made it to the top and emerged from the tomb--only to hear the ruckus of battle nearby. "Andalari... wait. Look..." Elespeth pointed ahead, at the mangled bodies of fallen Andalarian soldiers, ambling to their feet in search of purpose. "Those bastards... they do not know when to simply die."

Etherea discs shot out of Tivia's hands, spinning like gyroscopes and rapidly steering towards multiple targets. One nicked at an arm. The other burned an indentation in another's head. A third caused one to release his sword--and his entire hand with it. Still, they advanced, growing in numbers, shuffling towards Tivia at greater speeds, weapons drawn and formation tightening. Her openings for escape left her long ago. Foolishly, she had stayed behind, with the intention of fighting. Convinced of her death, convinced that the stars warned her true, convinced that Stella D'Mare would bury her in rubble and ash, she threw more ethereal attacks at the gathering dead men. A sword reached for her, a hair's width away from her throat. A dagger poked at her back. With wild abandon, she threw her magic around in a dizzying circle of flame, screaming her doom upon them. I almost died in the fire. I will complete this circle...

Then, one by one, the men fell around her. But it was not by her hand. The fire did not even reach their bodies before a noxious-black smoke claimed their damned existence, and threw them back against the earth, immobile. They were all as they should be--dead.

Dispelling her magic, she looked up and over at the smoke-clad figure, who had commanded those tendrils to launch out and palm the Andalarian scum into crumbling heaps. The residual chthonic magic receded, and she knew who she would see standing there, victorious. Vitali.

Slowly, she weaved toward him, her eye widened with awe. Never had she expected the self-serving necromancer to dispel undead soldiers that no doubt he'd contributed in creating. Was he feeling responsible for the destruction of the city? A mite guilty? Looking to make amends--starting with her? Did this man, one of careful planning and poise, not even know what he wanted in that moment? 

"Vitali," she began, but she could not conceive of anything else to say. Now was not the time. More undead would soon arrive, and judging from Vitali's necromantic energy, would flock to him like a beacon. She could not stay--didn't even know if she could contribute an iota's worth of help if she did. With a brisk nod of understanding--and appreciation--she navigated through the refuse piles of her once-gleaming city...and vanished into dust. 

Run. Run. Run!

Haraldur plowed through layers of building material, since reduced to loose stones and sharpened wedges. He kicked them aside, hopped over stable-seeming walkways, ducked under half-attached canopies, jumped and climbed and tumbled and slid down slopes that could support his weight... He made all manner of noise, but stealth was not his aim. It was escape. Swift and sure and gone, before Mollengardian feet even touched solid ground. 

As he darted, he avoided, as well as he could, any bodies, dead or alive--whether risen corpse, or Mollengardian. What was the difference? They both meant him harm. One to kill the body, one to kill the mind. He continued his steady descent, down down, searching for the Main Gate. A way out. A way...

A dark figure crept into his line of sight. He couldn't veer, couldn't avoid it in time. With one fluid motion, he drew his sword and swiped at the air before him, meaning to eliminate the obstacle in his path--or scare it out of his way. It didn't move fast enough. With a growl of rage, he pressed forward, managing to clip the figure's shoulder with his blade. With weapon hitting flesh, his momentum threatened to slow to a near stop. Instead, he transferred that momentum, swerving on his feet and careening towards his obstacle. Sword still resting on his assailant's shoulder, he thrust it in the direction of their jugular--and tackled them to the ground. Now pinned beneath his hulking body, Haraldur was able to discern just what--or who--he had caught. His eyes narrowed in recognition, and...in satisfaction. 

"Vitali!" He gripped his sword with renewed strength. All thoughts of running fizzled out of his mind. The elusive necromancer was at his mercy, at his disposal. Just one swipe of the neck and it would be over. The man responsible for many of his current troubles. The man who had underhandedly made a deal with Vega, and then left her for dead. Revenge was here. And it would descend.

"Die!" His blade twisted, about to draw its blood...

But a bright, blinding light seared at his face, stunning his actions. When the light faded, Tivia was crouching before Haraldur, her hands on his blade.

"Haraldur! Don't kill him!"

Confusion fused with anger--but he persisted. 

"Move, Tivia!" He slid the blade free of her hands. She flinched as it sliced through her palm. Still, she made no indication of movement. 

"You can't kill him!" she pleaded, her arms shaking in fear of the mercenary and his cold, dead, killing eyes. "Who else will eliminate the undead soldiers?!"

"I don't ca--"

"You do care, Haraldur! Isn't that why you're here?!" She placed her bloody hands on his own. He did not wrench away from them, for to do so was to lose the advantage of his blade on the necromancer's throat. "You said you'd fight for my city. That you'd help me. Help me, now! We need to kill these walking corpses. Vitali is the only one here who can!"

Shades of conflicting viewpoints traveled in his eyes. He did not remove his sword from Vitali's throat, but did not attempt to saw it through his flesh, either. 

"I know he did you so much harm, but it's over, now! Even you can understand that there are far more pressing matters here than your revenge!"

As if to confirm her words, the horns of Mollengard sounded from the shoreline. Haraldur stiffened, and his weapon faltered. 

"Go," she warned. "Flee this city. Avoid Camp Tadasun. Mollengard is there, too. Find Vega. She'll help you!" 

The sword pulled away from the necromancer's throat, leaving no mark, no blood. No killing blow. In moments, Haraldur was on his feet. Then he was gone. 

A shudder of a sigh rippled through Tivia's lungs. With her blood-smeared hands, she helped the fallen necromancer from the ground. "It was a good thing...I did not leave you behind...then. Hmm?" She panted, giving the man a small, shaky smile. 

Tivia's last words echoed in Haraldur's mind. Find Vega. She'll help you!

No, no, no. She wouldn't help. He abandoned her. She was gone. Home, to Eyraille, where she belonged. 

His running mounted to a state of frenzy. His steps were clumsier, his crashes more frequent, and damaging. A small gash appeared above his knee from a hard spill against a rusty metal gate, but he rose from the ground, and continued. Gone was his methodical Forbanne precision. Tivia had unseated him. And the memory of those Mollengardian horns, echoing with the reality that blared ever closer and closer to him...it drove him to madness. 

He turned a corner on a barely recognizable street. He had to be nearing the Main Gate. Just a little further...

Then, he saw her. Also like a memory. He could not determine if she were real or part of his fracturing mind. She was falling backwards, falling from her roc, down to her death. But he could catch her. He could save her, this time. He could...

She sank into his open arms. But it did not last long. She broke free. She spun away. Pointed an arrow at his chest. He stared at the arrow tip...and lowered his hands in surrender. 

If I die, then she won't die...I never will need to bargain with the necromancer. Aerial will be alive...

The feeling passed. Vega dropped the bow. All was the same, he realized. This moment. Nothing beyond, nothing behind. Everything had transpired as he had remembered it. And all that was yet to transpire...Mollengard was the threat. And Vega...she had come to help. To offer him escape from the yet to be. 

"Vega." A modicum of tenderness shone behind the cracks of his stone eyes. He nodded, not even bothering to survey the damage of Stella D'Mare that she had referenced. His mind was made up the second Mollengard blared their ship's horns. "Let's go." He took her hand, and began to tug her. To where, he did not know. Anywhere but standing still, where they might spot him. Spot them. Eyraille abetting in the escape of Mollengardian property. "Let's get to your roc. While we still can." 

As they made it up to the surface, Alster, with careful strides, tried to stand independent of Elespeth's supporting arm, but still found himself wholly unable to walk on his own. A helpless sigh wheezed through his failing body, setting his bones into a mess of shivers. 

"I know, El," he said, little above a whisper. They mounted the last stair, and he about collapsed upon it, but held fast to Elespeth. "I may have near limitless magic...but my body...my body doesn't have--"

But he never finished his thought before a gasp rattled out of him, but it was not from the exertion of stair climbing. As they exited the cave, the gloam of evening greeted them. It had been daylight when they entered Rigel's tomb: how long were they trapped beneath the earth? But that observation paled in comparison to what he saw from their vantage point. All avenues of the city that he could discern were decimated. Buildings, smashed to ruins. Dust floated on thermals, swirling eddies of powder and grime. Andalarian corpses stretched out from their deaths to clamber at the sealed Rigas gate, hacking away with their blades. 

Beyond the living corpses, Alster noted a particular, undulating shape twisting about the outer perimeter of the estate. It encircled the top of the mountain, an impossibly dark thing with scales that appeared as sharp as obsidian points. Every time the scales shifted, an unearthly scraping sound keened along with it, filling their otherwise quiet surroundings with discordant knells so horrible, he wished he'd gone deaf, just so he wouldn't have to hear the auditory manifestation of misery. The screams of his city, grinding beneath the great beast's belly.

"The Serpent," he whispered, almost electing to say nothing at all, but to hear his own voice, independent of that screeching madness from afar, was a comfort he needed more than words could convey. He was different from this beast. They were not the same. Their words were not the same. And yet...

He heard them, within the screeching. Help... me. Help...Home...Want...home...

It waited. It waited...for him?

"Alster!" 

He jumped out of his trance, almost colliding into Elespeth in alarm. A light appeared before him, illuminating the worried face of Chara.

"Thank the stars." She set aside her ball of etherea and took Alster into her arms, wrenching him from Elespeth. "You are still alive. I thought you lost."

Unable to maintain his balance, Alster slumped against Chara, recollecting his breath. 

"Alster, are you--"

"Chara..." There was no use keeping it hidden. "I have Mariana's disease." Her grip grew slack in his arms. "But that's not...what's important. I...we," he motioned to Elespeth, "have to see the Serpent. Rigel...he's given me...insights on how to defeat it. We...send it home."

"Home? What--"

Alster bobbed a feeble nod. "Home. To Its own world. Controlling It is no longer feasible--nor was it ever possible. Adalfieri had it wrong. We have to send It away."

"And how are you to do that?!"

"I have...something of an idea."

With an exasperated sigh, Chara gently pushed Alster back into Elespeth. "It...it should be easier, at least, to approach the beast. Lilica," she swallowed a lump in her throat, "I am certain she cut off the Serpent's ties to its chthonic magic. It cannot use anything but brute strength. But, as you can see," she motioned at the city-wide devastation, "Its strength is more than adequate. If you are to go out there," her eyes swelled with tears, "make sure her sacrifice was not in vain. And you, Alster..." she reached for his mangled hand, and tightened her fingers around it, "you must return, too. You and...Elespeth." At last, she regarded the Atvanian warrior, with a dash of respect and civility. Recognition for her heroics, and appreciation for her unshakable loyalty towards their family. Towards Alster.

"Thank you," she said to Elespeth. "I know I do not say it often--or at all--but...thank you." 

Releasing Alster's hand, she watched as he and his warrior companion half-hobbled, half-walked down to the Rigas gate, where, beyond, the Serpent waited for their arrival.

Even after the devastating crater that Alster had created when wiping out Messino and the troops that he had brought to Tadasun's encampment, there yet appeared to be more of Andalari than Vitali had realized. The sheer number of soliders--the number of undead--seemed to to be endless. Even those which appeared trapped under rubble were willing to sacrifice an arm to pull themselves free, for the mere purpose of antagonizing this living being, who was so clearly a threat. It wasn't that the necromancer was incapable, per se; merely, he was limited to the fact that he only had two hands with which to dispel these abominations.

"Those damned weapons..." He hissed, glowering at the ruby encrusted battleware scattered about the ground, among the debris of what used to be the city. "I suppose... this should teach me to contract out to madmen. Ah, well... live and learn."

One after another, the undead crumpled at Vitali's touch, as if he were death itself. It might not have appeared as exhausting as physical combat, but the energy that it required him to drain the remainder of life essence from the animated corpses felt equally as arduous. He had long since broken into a sweat, heart racing and breathing short and choppy, but he persevered. So long as he remained on his feet, kept his targets in plain sight, continued to move...

A sudden pain exploded in his shoulder, enough to catch him off balance. Before he knew what was happening, Vitali plummeted to the ground, sharp rubble cutting into his back and completely knocking the wind out of him. A sword... There was a sword pointed at his neck. And who was holding it, but the very mercenary he had endeavored so hard to avoid.
Of course, he should have expected Haraldur, of all people, to find a way into the city and survive the onslaught of undead, even paired with the Serpent's devastation... There truly were some people on this plane that just wouldn't die, regardless of what hardships life threw their way. And the necromancer had just so happened to make an enemy of one of those people.

"Haraldur... I can help." Vitali choked out the words, still dazed from hitting the ground. "The undead... I can stop them. Let me hel--"

He was blind with rage. The man had been Forbanne, at one point; and when he saw a potential target, then there was little to nothing anyone could do to sway his decision. Vitali had seen it happen before, on the battlefield; and he had only ever witnessed the Eyraillian princess succeeding in bringing this tortured man back to himself...
But Vega Sorde was nowhere to be found... and there was nothing shielding the necromancer from the very death that he so oft commanded.

Closing his eyes, the necromancer awaited the fatal blow that would at last put an end to his existence...but it did not come. And instead, he heard another, familiar voice. Wait... what?

So the Rigas caster had not left, after all. On the contrary, there she was, pleading for his... life? And here, he would have thought for certain that she, along with the remainder of her family, would welcome his demise, for all of the chaos that he'd caused. Did she truly, genuinely feel indebted to him for stepping up and saving her life before the undead could tear her apart? And to think, the one and only time in his life that he hadn't even demanded compensation for his favours...

But the real question was: could the revenge-starved mercenary be swayed by the woman's pitiful pleas? Even if they were not those of his beloved paramour? Vitali had his doubts... but then, before he could too deeply consider whether or not it might be foolish to hope, the blade was gone from his throat--and, seconds later, so was Haraldur.

Expelling a breath that he had not realized he was holding, the necromancer reluctantly accepted the star seer's hand up, and was ultimately glad to do so. He hadn't realized the extent of the pain in his back until he attempted to move, and was unable to mask the grimace it caused to get to his feet. Where he had landed, the rock and debris was stained a dark crimson, as was the back of his luxurious purple coat, just to the right of his left shoulder blade. Fortunately, he was accustomed to endurance through trying circumstances, including excruciating pain. In any case, it was not as if he could wander into the still intact infirmary and request aid, when the healers were likely sooner to kill him. "Really... now isn't the time to be cocky," he told Tivia, the corner of his mouth quirking into a pained smile. "I can take care of the rest of the Andalarian undead... their numbers have waned. If you want to be useful and won't heed my suggestion to leave..." He turned, and cast a glance at her over his injured shoulder. "Then perhaps you can watch my back... Another fall like that, and I'm not sure I am going to want to even try to get up."

"Vega". The very way he spoke her name warmed the cracks in Vega's irregularly-beating heart, such that it felt as though the trials that had torn them apart were melting away, as if they had never happened. She had so yearned to hear him address her with such tenderness again, to look at her as something--as someone--worth loving, whose value transcended her name and her title. 
How she wanted that warmth to last...

Encouraged and relieved that the mercenary did not think twice about her offer, the Eyraillian princess gripped his hand and took off in search of the Roc. The avian, like all which the Skynights rode, was trained for battle, and accustomed to circling the skies in search of their rider to keep an eye on them and descend for pick-up when required. However, they were all specifically trained to look for their very own rider, as recognition was something cultivated through rapport and consistent contact. This roc did not know her the way it knew its primary rider, and agreeable as it had been, there was a chance it might not discern her from the other bodies (dead and alive) wandering the grounds of the broken city. With her free hand, Vega stuck two fingers to her lips and whistled the pattern of notes to which the rocs were trained to respond, hoping that it was loud enough for her mount to hear. Come on, where are you... You have to hear me!

At last, she heard a familiar, piercing cry, coupled with the silhouette of wings through the fog. Her racing heart nearly burst with relief when the roc came into view, landing elegantly before the two of them. Whispering praises to the hefty fowl as she mounted it, Vega didn't have to prompt Haraldur to climb on behind her and to hold on. With one final shriek, they took to the skies, leaving the fog, dust, and devastation of Stella D'Mare behind them--and, with it, the arrival of Mollengard.

Alster, Elespeth... She thought, her heart aching for her friends, heavy with the very real possibility that she might never see them again. Please survive... please let us meet again.

Elespeth saw it the second that Alster did. That writhing, undulating, dark thing that surrounded the Rigas estate. It moved like liquid stone, shiny and ominous, tearing apart the city with its every movement. Grinding Stella D'Mare into dust, by the mere fact of its existence... "It's... that is it..." The former knight breathed, an affirmation mostly for herself to cultivate belief in what her eyes were seeing. "The Serpent..."

Her head snapped around at a familiar voice, and Elespeth helped steady Alster as the two turned to face Chara, whose face glistened with perspiration and relief. She stepped back out of respect as Chara took Alster into her arms, her throat tightening at the lead Rigas caster's mention of Lilica and 'sacrifice'... What had the chthonic mage done, that managed to sever the Serpent's power? And what had become of her, as a result...? "I know," she replied to Chara's thanks, surprised that the woman had finally seen reason to rise above her own pride to thank anyone, let alone her. Then again, imminent death and destruction caused people to do strange things. "I've always known, even if you don't say it. But we've always been fighting for the same thing, Chara." And, specifically, for the same person.

With Alster's arm slung across her shoulders, the Atvanian warrior accompanied him to the gates of the Rigas estate, closer to the monster that could invalidate their lives in a matter of seconds. Her heart raced, and her gut ached with the possibility of everything that could go wrong, but here they were: Stella D'Mare's last and only hope. "Alster... tell me your plan," she demanded, her tone quiet but tense. "And tell me... that you will still be here, at the end of it. Please. Because I..." The tears she had been holding back for so long began to pool in her eyes, trickling down her face and stinging the minor cuts. "I don't... have a family, anymore. You're my family, now. You're all I have, and if I lose you... then I don't want to be here, without you."

En route to their escape, Haraldur and Vega met little resistance. Of the undead that stumbled towards their path, he dispatched them with a whirling, one-handed swing of his sword, not even faltering in step, or releasing Vega's hand. Falter even once, and They would find him. Surely, They were behind him...

The ship horns blew for a third time. A low, guttural blast, mournful and sustained. They had reached the shore. Somehow, They found an unbroken piece of the harbor to anchor. A flood would soon wash ashore the ruins of Stella D'Mare.

Mollengard is here. They're here. They're here...

Tightening his hold on Vega's hand, he turned his head up to the sky, blinking through the dust and smoke in frantic search for the roc that would spell his rescue. They had no choice but to cease movement, in preparation for the grand avian's entrance. During those agonizing few minutes, he shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his sword. His body was in constant flux, standing two vigils: between sky and shore. Ships. Roc. Ships. Roc. Left foot, right foot. He wanted to run. If he waited any longer...

He glanced down at his hand, entwined with the hand of the woman who was his salvation. Who had battled through this damned city for him. 

Trust in her. It's all you have, now...

A shrill cry responded to Vega's whistled tune. Haraldur spun towards the break in the clouds, where, descending, was golden-plumed relief. The wings touched down. A strong wind stirred. Talons gripped the loose earth. And before he knew it, he had clambered atop the roc, and looped his arms around the Eyraillian royal's middle. A short, running start, a hard gale of a pump, and the city receded beneath them. He only made out the dragon-headed tips of Mollengard's fleet before the clouds engulfed the view, engulfed them. When they broke from the dust, a wide expanse of gathering night greeted them on the thermals. Stars dotted the sky, blinking, gregarious...free.

Haraldur allowed himself to relax, as best as he was able. They had escaped in time. They couldn't follow him into the air. Safe. They were safe.

But instead of relaxing his grip around Vega, he had unconsciously taken her into an embrace from behind. He rested his weary-worn face against her shoulder, and closed his eyes. 

All aspects of his Forbanne persona stripped away from him like the wind. And, for the briefest of moments, he felt peace. 

When they neared the sculpted iron and gold gates, Alster hesitated before the smaller door, which led in and through the guardhouse. They didn't need a dramatic pulling of the gates or any kind of fanfare. Instead, he took the unassuming, inconspicuous route, unbefitting of a Rigas in scope. But he cared nothing for dignity, especially when there were so few Rigaes left to observe, let alone care. "It's not much...of a plan," he admitted, his partially erased hand resting on the door latch. "I'm going to...talk to It. It wants my help. Somehow...I doubt It will kill me. Not so soon, anyway."

He took his hand from the door, and rested it against Elespeth's cheek. He traced her tears, and wiped them with his thumb. "Elespeth," he said, his eyes looking into her own, "it's just another trial. One of many that we've faced together, and survived together." The faintest of smiles passed across his bloodstained lips. He kissed her gently with them. "How is this any different? The fact that I can even say that at all--about the Serpent, no less, the very entity that's haunted me for decades...I attribute that to you, El. And if this is happens to be my end," he released his hand and showed her the diagonal scar, almost glowing in the ever-growing dark, "we are bound. We are tied. ...We both go down together." 

He opened the door, and led them to the ruins of Stella D'Mare outside of the preserved Rigas estate. They climbed over rubble, broken tree limbs, and crushed walls, until they slid into a trough, a not-so-shallow trench that was created by the Serpent.

And there, before them, was the heaving, glittering coils of Its body. He drifted towards that otherworldly presence, arm outstretched, making to touch, to forge a connection. Meanwhile, his heart pounded like kettle drums in his ears. With a strength-gathering intake of air, Alster shrugged away Elespeth's steadying arm and wobbled forward in approach. This was a mistake, all his senses fired in warning. One twitch of that thing's body and you're crushed like pulp. What are you doing? This is thoughtless. Reckless!

Ignoring his internal doubts, he continued to reach, to stretch. He pressed a hand against the Serpent, against Its mirror-black surface. I'm here, he communicated to the creature. Find me.

The earth kicked beneath their feet. The coils shifted, scraping that familiar high-pitched whine, which raised all the hackles on Alster's neck. Something shot high into the air. A tendril of darkness with bright yellow eyes. It moved towards them like a tear in the world, expanding and widening until all was nothing but two pools of acid in a vast void. Alster swallowed, anticipating dread to bubble and froth in the pit of his stomach--but nothing happened. 

"You can't affect me anymore," he muttered under his breath. "How can you," a half-delirious laugh squeezed out of him, "when you're already done everything possible to destroy my life?"

"But I know that you're trapped. Your actions are fueled by desperation. All you're trying to do is return to your world. So..." he dared to look into Its massive yellow eyes, "let me help you..." 

The Serpent opened its massive jaws. Its fangs were jagged, serrated shards, as black as the body to which they were attached. They shone, slick with saliva, as the great beast's head twisted...and consumed Alster. 

Inside...Inside...

Once Alster realized what had happened, he flailed his hands together, preparing to blast himself free of the prison of teeth and the toxic smell of death...

Stop.

Alster stared around him, at the echoing slime cavern. 

Listen.... Can only speak...more clear...from the inside. You...not...ingest.

Alster moved an arm over his nose to dispel the odor, but kept the other one outwards to summon a light spell. "How can I trust you not to eat me?" 

Be dead already. Down down....inside deeper. Pulp.

He could not help a reflexive shiver. 

Home. You find....inside. Listen.

Hesitantly, Alster nodded, fizzled out his light spell, and closed his eyes. With concentration, he allowed the Serpent to penetrate and infiltrate his mind. It probed, It slithered through the cracks, breaking down his reinforced barriers, dredging up the feeling of helplessness that controlled his body when he'd raised his hand...and murdered his parents.

Did not want...Only to show...Let me...show you. Where....home.

The slithering was like worms beneath his skin. It burrowed and wriggled, threatening to eat him from the inside. Alster winced, and tried not to cry out through the procedure. His body struggled to fight the manipulation, to defend against the unspoiled corners of his mind, immediately regretting his choice to allow the Serpent inside. To allow himself inside the Serpent. Pain flared behind his eyes, blossoming like bruises. But his will to fight back was wrested from him.

The Serpent was controlling him. As It always had, since childhood. 

Do not...fight.

Eventually, Alster's mind shut itself down, too exhausted to fight a losing battle. That was when he saw it. An image taking form behind his closed lids. A dark, dark universe, with even darker shadows. They traveled like whispers, sighed like storm gales, coalesced like blood clots, formed like dream smoke...like nightmares. The sight was bottomless, eternal, terrifying beyond measure...and beautiful beyond recognition. It carved canyons into his conscious, his subconscious, which tried to rend itself in two, overwhelmed by something which no mortal eyes should ever see. Yet, with the Serpent with him, inside him, around him...he was protected.

There, The Serpent's non-voice boomed in Alster's head. Home. Go...there.

The Serpent's presence lessened. The pressure squeezing his head into oblivion had cleared. He could think again. Feel again. Control his own faculties. His breaths huffed out of him in ragged gasps. 

Now, you know where. Go! The Serpent demanded. 

"...Outside." Alster was surprised he could speak at all, but conveyed as much to the Serpent and his clamped jaws. "I need all of my magic for this. She keeps some of it. Let me reunite with her..."

At first, he didn't believe the Serpent would listen. But soon, Its mouth opened, and Its vast, flickering tongue pushed Alster out from between its retractable fangs. He emerged, coated in saliva and foul in smell, but in tact.

"Elespeth!" he called, knowing that the Atvanian warrior, in fear that he'd been killed, was likely flinging her weapons against the chthonic creature's armor-coated body, or Its mouth, as a final, desperate act. He found her in moments and grabbed for her in his own, filthy arms. "I'm still here. The Serpent... showed me where to go. In a very...unorthodox way," he added, his mouth souring from the experience. "I need...my magic back from you to make this possible. A portal for a creature of this size...is far more immense a feat than what Rigel performed. His portal was small, but the Serpent squeezed through and made it bigger. But I...might risk irrevocable damage to this realm if I make it any larger. I need to..."

HOME! The Serpent screamed through the deep scar left behind in his mind. Alster flinched, and bowed over Elespeth, reeling from the strain. "Close your eyes, Elespeth. Let me in, and I'll take back the magic. But don't worry...we'll do it as Rigel suggested. When I use my magic...absorb the discharge. As much as you're able. You're only the keeper of my magic, so it shouldn't bite you back as badly."

Before he could explain how she was to perform such a feat, he closed his eyes, and pulled his magic out of her. Its return was felt like a hole blasted through his stomach. He folded from the sensation, falling to his hands and knees, retching. 

HOME! His bones felt about to shatter, but he nodded to the call. Too weak to stand, he remained there, drawing patterns with his hands. A spell-form, similar to the one he created to trap the Serpent. It felt right, somehow. With a broken shard of pottery, he sliced his palms, and used the blood dripping from himself to create the portal. 

Elespeth, he reached out to her, confident she could hear him in her mind, give me everything you have. Your essence. Like that dream....so long ago. We fought against the Serpent, and together we triumphed. Let's do it again. Carve deep into yourself. Find the existence outside of yourself. The you that is here, and the you that is out there. When you can visualize it...kneel beside me, and give me your blood. 

Together, they bled on the invisible lines of his spell form. Together, they gave themselves to the cosmos. They were mortal; they were immortal. Everything and nothing. Specks in the sea. The sea itself. The stars, and the void which ended them. Edges, circles, despair and joy. Their names.

Their vows.

Then, when they were ready, he opened his eyes---and released the magic. All of it.

Like a maelstrom, it gathered, spiraling into the end, into the beginning. A far-reaching darkness, both chthonic and celestial. Both light and dark pulled at the fabric of the world--and tore. 

The earth rumbled from the split. Debris from the ruined city rained upon them. The sky flashed, from day to night to day, then to night again. The surge from Alster's hands expanded, and suctioned outward, grappling for the Serpent and yanking it through the maelstrom. The force of the hole was so immense that the creature, despite its massive size, was slurped through, broken down and compartmentalized. It disappeared into pure energy--once corporeal, now ephemeral wisps. The Serpent--and the hole--vanished with a crack as loud as thunder, and a flash as bright as lightning. 

But neither Alster nor Elespeth could celebrate their victory for long. The second the Serpent left their realm, the Rigas caster began to dissolve. Starting from the remaining fingers of his dominant hand, his magic nibbled--through his knuckles, past his wrist, and down to his arm.

"...talk? You plan to... talk to the Serpent?" Elespeth gripped Alster's shoulder. He had to have been delirious from exhaustion, not in his right mind, and it all made the Atvanian warrior reconsider allowing him to approach the legendary beast. "Alster... don't you think that if all of this could be solved by... talking to the Serpent, then the city would not be in this state of devastation? Or that Rigel wouldn't have had to sacrifice his life in the first place?"

This so-called 'plan'--or lack thereof, it seemed--did nothing to quell the anxiety at the pit of the former knight's stomach, or to stay the tears the flowed freely down her face. The fear that she would lose him, lose everything that she had left to care about in the world, had grown from a mere suspicion or concern to an outright certainty. Alster didn't know what he was doing; he did not know exactly what he was getting himself into, and couldn't see clearly to predict the results. Everything was falling apart before their very eyes--figuratively and literally... And he saw fit to do nothing else but to meet the destruction head on, in some distant hope that pacifism could make a difference. As much as Elespeth supported the notion of peaceful conflict resolution... this was just ludicrous. The soft pressure of his lips, which would so often fill her with hope, this time only made her heart ache. "It isn't the same. This... this is different. More than just a trial..." She breathed, her own breath catching in her throat. "But if this... if this is what you want, Alster... If you really have faith that this could work, then I am prepared to go down with you. Together."

Against her better judgement, Elespeth followed him down to the ruins of the Rigas estate. Each step,, each heartbeat, felt heavier and heavier as they advanced... and there it was. The beast, the Serpent, was there, right there, waiting for them. Waiting for him--for Alster. There were no words for the obsidian, coiling monstrosity that looked as though it could crush them were its ribs to expand on an inhale. The former knight didn't realize how tightly she held onto Alster, until she felt him pull away, and had to quell the urge to pull him right back. "Be careful," she whispered, her own breath caught in her throat, as if the Serpent were so vast that there simply wasn't room to breathe. "Be careful... please."

Was it harsh irony, that no sooner did she breathe the warning, the beast consumed the Rigas caster? Irony or not, Elespeth's heart plummeted to her feet, and when the shock wore off, a cry tore from her lungs. "No! No! Alster!" Though only clad with a measly shortsword, it would have to make due to complement the Atvanian warrior's rage. She refused to stand there without doing something, without reacting, and with nothing left to live for, she gave into the very last thing to fight for: the potential to be consumed. To be with Alster. "You beast!" Elespeth cried, jumping at a surge of energy that burned through her veins and slashing at the beast's body. But it was as if it were made of steel, for the blade did not so much as leave a scratch, let alone penetrate its scales. This only served to further enrage her, but in desperate determination, she continued to hack and slash and cry out in anguish. "You monster! Take me, too!" She screamed, her face a mask of sadness and fury. "Crush me! Sever me in two! Do it!"

But the hellbeast would not budge. It ignored her, like she were nothing more than a pesky fly, to the point where she was only doing herself a disservice by striking at it and draining her body of what little energy it had left. And then, just a second after the thought occurred to her that she might have to take her own life, or else live on in a lonely and miserable state, Alster re-emerged from the mouth of the Serpent--alive, and in tact. With shaky hands, Elespeth dropped her sword and hurried to embrace him, regardless that he was covered by the juices of the inside of beast. "Alster... Alster!" Unbidden, a sob wrenched itself free from her lungs, and she about felt that she might collapse. In her hysterical relief, she only caught snippets of the Rigas caster's instructions, but it was enough for her to comprehend what he meant. "O...okay. Okay." Came her shaky agreement, with little care as to what might happen to her. Her only concern was Alster, and what his own magic might result in for him...

I won't let it take you. I will save you from yourself.

It wasn't difficult; in fact, it felt like a relief, a load taken off of her shoulders as her paramour took back what he had asked her to share. Almost instantly, she felt lighter, stronger, more alert...
Yet Alster suffered, falling to his knees. No sooner did the warrior kneel to help him that she heard his voice echo in her mind, instructing her to recreate that dream that they had shared what seemed so long ago... Though her palms were already raw and ravaged from Rigel's tomb, she did not hesitate to take the shard of pottery and cut them open anew, and watched as the drops of blood swirled in sync with Alster's spell. It plunged her into such a strange state, like one stuck between sleep and unconsciousness. One where she was nowhere, yet everywhere, all at once...

For all the time that they had taken to prepare, it was over in a second. The Serpent, sucked through the void and disappearing into nothingness, was there in a blink, and then gone the next. But it was not the only thing that was disappearing.

"...no. No, Alster...!" Gathering the Rigas caster in her arms, she held him tight, and concentrated, like she had before. "Let me in... share the burden, Alster, share it with me! I accept my part of it!"

It was almost instantaneous, how the excess magic rushed from Alster's dissipating body, and plunged itself into her. There was no word for it; it was beyond suffocating, beyond crushing, and beyond merely painful. Elespeth forgot how to breathe, despite that her lungs screamed for air, and her heart sped up to the point where every beat ached. If it consumes me... it consumes us both, she reminded herself, absorbing the raw power that threatened to eat Alster alive. It did not dissolve her, but rather, found itself trapped in her corporeal form. She could feel it searching for release, straining each and every one of her organs, heating up her skin like a fever... But it would find no simple exit, not from someone who was not inherently magically adept. So although it raged and tantrumed and begged to be expelled, ultimately, it settled into its own defeat, in her prison of a body...

And then, everything was quiet. The ground, the sky, the ruins of the Rigas estate. And Alster--though now seeming to lack a hand--remained otherwise in tact.

10 seconds was about all the time that the Atvanian warrior had to revel in her own relief. The buzzing and vibrating of the magic inside of her, rendering her simultaneously hot and cold, was too much for her exhausted body to maintain. But when she lost consciousness among the rubble and debris, Alster was there with her, in her arms--and very much alive.

Back at the infirmary, Daphni was busy tending to Lysander, who had only recently regained consciousness, and demanded about the whereabouts of his daughter. Of course, there was little that the Sybaian healer could tell him to placate his panicked heart--until, all of a sudden, she noticed through the windows that the fog and shadow over the decimated city had cleared. Brows furrowed, she left Lysander's bedside temporarily to take a chance and push open the heavy doors. Everything was quiet and still, the calm after the storm... 
And the Serpent was not to be seen, anywhere.

"He did it..." She breathed, near collapsing in relief. "Alster, Elespeth... they did it. Lysander," she turned to the Rigas caster, a tired smile on her face. "I have a good feeling that Chara is just fine."

Collapsed as he was on his hands and knees, Alster fell into Elespeth when the magic ate through his palm, unseating his already tenuous balance. He adjusted himself to lean on the warrior's shoulder as he watched the last vestiges of his hand disappear, too weary of mind and body to defend against the invasive magic. Gone was his oath scar, all proof of his and Elespeth's union. Then went the rest of his hand, his wrist, the beginnings of his arm...

He gripped hold of his anchor with his undeterred arm, hyperventilating from the pain and the exertion. He didn't have to say anything; he knew that she would help, even without his direction. She would stop the wildfire spread of his self-destructive power. She was the keeper, the star to his right, his armor and his shield. Closing his eyes, he allowed her access to his magic.

It drained from him like pus from an infected wound. The wildfire within him simmered to a low, crackling hearth-fire. The rending, terrible tearing sound in his ears subsided to a faint buzzing, and the pressure in his head lessened to a mere pitter-patter sensation of raindrops. Breath returned to his lungs. His eyes, when opened, could see in more than vague mosaics of color. The picture had coalesced, and cleared. 

And, when he looked at the remains of his right arm, the chewing of his magic had ceased--just below the elbow. 

He opened his mouth to speak, though his voice had not yet recovered. Instead, his mouth hung agape, his frozen ellipses sitting on his unworkable tongue. He swallowed those unformed thoughts, and looked to Elespeth, fearing the worst. 

She was still beside him. Awake. Alive. In one piece. But he could sense the twisting of his magic, as sinuous as a serpent's path, winding through all the corridors of her being. Coiling and constructing. Tightening. Choking her life.

He pressed his one remaining hand against her skin, feeling contradictory waves of heat and chill. Pull it back, he commanded himself. She can't have it all! With no way to release it, she'll die! 

But it was too much for him to accomplish. He wasn't strong enough to save her...from himself. As always. 

She lost consciousness, and soon, he was the one holding her to his body. But it was for naught. He scarcely could crawl out of the rubble, let alone from the ditch in which they were entrapped, before the blackness of sleep found him. His lids snapped close, and he lolled over, into the always receptive arms of his comatose lover. 

Chara saw, along with the Rigases patrolling the outer perimeter of their estate, the Serpent vanish into great ribbons of energy, which streaked the city in a midnight-black rainbow of discoloration. A sucking noise followed, both resonant and far-away, as if traveling through a vast distance of universes--but the sound disappeared as soon as it had arrived. Silence descended upon the ruins of their city, but not of the uneasy kind. Relief fluttered up from her chest as she stared, transfixed, at her surroundings, which seemed to lighten, despite the late hour. But perhaps it was not quite a sense of light more than it was for the hope of light. The dread was gone. The Serpent...was no longer of their realm. 

She had confirmed as much with her fellow Rigas witnesses. They had all seen the happening, but even she could not believe her own eyes. "Come," she told those under her command, leading all to the bolted-up main gate. "Let us find them all. Alster and Elespeth. And," she swallowed, a painful lump in her throat, "and Lilica. When we do, they will be hailed as heroes. Though our city has fallen, and we lost too much to justify our gains, the Serpent is no longer a threat. And--once we dispatch the undead army, I am certain Andalari will negotiate the terms of their surrender. Mollengard, too, approaches us from their ships, in aid. We can rebuild," she said, but without much gusto or sincerity. We can, of that I have no doubt, she thought, as they marched through the opened gates. But it will be a difficult endeavor, if you are not here to see it, Lilica... 

With a small search party gathered, it didn't take long to find Alster and Elespeth. Chara, among the team that located them, gave a small but thankful smile when she checked their pulses and felt their hearts still beating. She saw what remained of her once-betrothed's dominant arm. It was seemingly cauterized by his own magic, but was still an unsalvagable ruin. "Take them to the infirmary," she nodded at the three Rigas guards who lifted their prone forms from the ground. "Daphni may know what is required of them."

"And where are you heading, Lady Chara?" one guard inquired, as he watched her set off deeper into the city. 

"We are not yet finished here." With a ball of light in her hand, she shone it in the direction of where she suspected a fountain once stood. A fountain that had meant something to her--and to someone else especially. "We must find the dark mage, Lilica." Before it's too late... "Those who are not yet preoccupied, follow me. Otherwise, I will look for her, myself." 

Lysander could remember little from the time Lilica struck him with her magic until the moment he woke from consciousness. There was a swarm of disconnected thoughts, wisps of images: of Chara's face, of Mariana's soft kisses and chiming laugh, of Mizar and her fierce, flirtatious eyes piercing at him from a distance...He saw Chara as a child, rebellion and dissatisfaction working at her mouth. Disappointment was in her stride; she turned away from him, but rage had made it difficult for him to see, beyond her facade, her yearning for understanding and acceptance. He provided nothing but vitriol, and let her go in a cloud of resentment...

She kept walking, farther and farther from his reach, but parallel to those retreating footsteps, he saw her walk toward him, whispering words of worry: worry for him, for his health. She feared to lose him. Something akin to fondness wavered in her self-assured voice. It cracked and betrayed its secrets with more surety than during their long years of estrangement. And it was that bit of encouragement that opened his consciousness to the world he'd almost forgotten. 

When he awoke, he was in a dusty, dark infirmary. Pale globes of light filtered across the vast hall, but it was not enough to discern anything other than contours and walking shadows. Far ahead of them, half the roof had caved in, allowing all manner of debris to pile inside and float around in the air. Slowly, he sat up, coughing from the dust. A shadow beside him had come to life and began to speak. Half-startled, he recoiled, but upon recognizing the figure as Daphni, he relaxed back into his pillow. 

"What...what happened?" His brow furrowed in an attempt to recollect past events. He looked to Daphni for the answer. "What did they do?" 

Before she could respond, a small procession flooded into the broken doors of the infirmary. Three Rigas guards collectively held two broken-looking bodies in their arms. "Daphni." They had found their target with immediacy, and presented to her the unconscious forms of Elespeth and Alster. "Lady Chara told us you would be most suitable in the recovery of Alster and Elespeth. We have seen it all, ourselves; they have defeated the Serpent. An impossibility, but," he looked upon his charges, and even the shadows could not betray the awe and respect in his words, "they...they need the utmost care. Lady Chara expects nothing less for them." 

"And," with a wince, Lysander rose upright in his bed, "where is Chara, now?"

"She is looking for the dark mage." His nose wrinkled a bit, which the shadows also did not conceal. "Lady Chara believes she was also instrumental in the defeat of the Serpent. Says that Lilica prevented the Serpent from using Its chthonic magic against us." 

As Daphni directed the guards to the closest available beds for Alster and Elespeth, Lysander struggled to crawl out of bed, but his legs, as he discovered, were completely inoperative. He did not feel pain in them at all: rather, they were numb from paralysis. Two, useless hunks of dead weight trailing behind him. 

"One of you," he called to a nearby guard, "if you can find a means to carry me, allow me to join the search for Lilica. I believe in my daughter's claim. I think I can be of some assistance. If she is not on the estate grounds, I may know where she is."

The guard snorted. "Lysander, you're crippled. Need I remind you, you are crippled because of the dark mage and her treachery!"

"It was a mistake," he countered. "My legs were already failing me. She only expedited the inevitable. Now," he raised his voice, "hoist me up and take me outside the estate, or Chara will hear of your insubordination in disobeying her orders." 

With an exasperated sigh, the guard acquiesced, and hoisted the frail man upon his shoulders.

No sooner had Daphni proclaimed that she believed Lysander's daughter was alive and well, that two Rigas guards forced their way through the heavy infirmary doors, carrying in their arms two unconscious, broken remains of people. A stab of fear tore through the Sybaian healer's psyche, and for just a second, she feared the worst: that Alster and Elespeth had sacrificed themselves in order to quell the threat of the Serpent. That was, of course, before one of the guards approached her and explained Chara Rigas's orders. "They're alive..." She breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and mopped perspiration from her brow with the sleeve of her tunic. "Find them cots--I will do what I can, though they both appear to be in critical condition, and I am but one set of helping hands..."

When the forms of the two heroes were laid out for her to examine, she immediately took note of Alster's arm--or, rather, the stump where his arm used to be. He did not appear to suffer any bleeding or broken limbs, but he was exhausted, his body spent beyond what it was capable of handing. However, his condition did not hold a flame to the severity of what the Atvanian warrior appeared to suffer. The young woman was limp, and beyond pale, her skin almost bordering on greyish and clammy. And the Sybaian did not need to investigate to understand why: she could see it in the warrior's aura. The unbridled power coursing through her veins, slowly depleting what was left of her life force as her mortal body struggled to keep it at bay. If the magic did not find release, then she was sure to die...

Daphni didn't think twice; she knew what had to be done. Hurrying to the warrior's bedside, she placed her hands on either side of her face, and instantly recoiled from the touch. Elespeth was burning up with fever, to the point where it hurt to touch her skin. "Fill a tub with water, turn it to ice fragments!" She shouted over her shoulder, at the handful of casters who were finally resting after keeping the infirmary intact despite the Serpent's destruction. "Now! One of you surely has the ability. This is not a suggestion!"
Painful though it was, the Sybaian healer took a breath, and returned her hands to the warrior's skin. If I can be a channel for harmful emotion, she thought to herself, breathing through the burn, I can be a channel for this magic. Her body might not be built for it... but mine is. And it was. Through the same means of concentration that she was able to manipulate a person's affect, Daphni slowly, gradually, manipulated the magic thrumming in Elespeth's veins, and redirected it towards herself. She felt the rush; like being crushed beneath hot stones, unable to breathe or to see or to feel... It was no wonder the unbridled power was eating away at the former knight's own life force. It was a force of its own, one desperate for release, that would stop at nothing to find its own freedom...

What happened next was lost on Daphni, who suddenly found herself on the cold floor, opening her eyes and trembling. Hands helped her to her unstable feet, and she noted with great relief that not only was she still alive, but so was Elespeth, who had been moved from the cot to a tub filled with ice to bring down her temperature. Her aura, though worryingly translucent, no longer swam and raged with power that was not hers: it had worked. And, from the blackened marble at her feet, where she had fallen, it was apparent that the residual energy had indeed found a way out of the woman's body, had traveled through the Sybaian healer, and found its release into the ground, into the earth.

But there was no time for celebration, for they were far from in the clear. Unsteady, yet determined, Daphni ignored the ache of her burning palms, and reached into a satchel tied to her waist. Removing a familiar, pale stone, she approached the cot where Elias lay, resting, and gingerly placed the stone upon his chest. Like before, it drew out the pain and fatigue that plagued his body, turning blacker and blacker the more it siphoned his agony. "I'm sorry," she apologized to him, as soon as he opened his eyes in confusion. "I can't... do this alone." As an explanation (were her wracked and weary appearance not enough), she showed him her blackened palms, where the magic plaguing Elespeth had surged through her body, seeking escape. "I can help the Rigas caster. But the warrior... her organs are failing. I cannot treat both of them... I need your help, Elias."

When at last the pale stone had turned black, and light returned to the Clematis healer's eyes, Daphni helped him up and showed him what had become of the two lovers who had managed to save the city. "Even if I was confident I could help her... I am not confident that my method would be fast enough to save her," she explained, nodding to the Atvanian warrior, whose raging fever melted through the ice upon which she had been laid. "But Alster... I think I can help him."

Dividing up the two unconscious charges between then, the Sybaian healer left Elespeth in Elias's capable hands, and returned to Alster's bedside. The Rigas caster was dehydrated and beyond exhausted, but he would not pull through by himself in such a deflated state. Daphni gently probed his unconscious mind, concerned at how deeply he had fallen into his coma, and did what she could to urge him to wakefulness--but only barely. When she saw his eyelids flutter, she bade someone on standby to retrieve some fresh drinking water, which she pressed to his lips. "Swallow some. Then you can return to sleep," she urged him, careful not to allow the crystalline liquid to fill his mouth entirely, lest he choke in his barely conscious state. She did not push him too hard, however, and when he began to slip back into unconsciousness, she put the water aside and eased him back upon the pillow. "He should be all right," she said at last, taking a seat at the foot of his cot. "If we can wake him every hour or so to have him drink, he should recover. Though it might still take time..."

"Ma'am... are you certain we are not wasting precious time?" The single guard who had no real choice but to accompany Chara on ludicrous her search for the dark mage. "Even if we find this dark caster... even if she is alive, how can you be so certain that she was instrumental in contributing to ending the Serpent's reign? We already have our heroes; they are being taken to the infirmary, as we speak."

But he knew, even with his questions and what he thought to be sound logic, the haughty blonde woman would not be swayed to reconsider. Through rubble and debris that caused them numerous times to nearly lose their footing. He would be floored to see that fountain still in tact, if it was the same one he thought it was, let alone to find the dark woman in tact. Nothing good had come of Stella D'Mare since she had come to the city, and even if she were not the direct causation of the death and destruction, she was at the very least a beacon of bad luck that attracted the very dark energy she was made of... And of all the possible casualties to result from this terrible day, certainly she should be the least of anyone's concern...

Astonishingly, the fountain at the center of the Rigas gardens was not nearly as decimated as one might have thought. Though cracked in several areas, such that the water was no longer contained, and spurted upwards in tiny, awkward geysers, the overall shape had been spared the majority of destruction. And sure enough, laying limp and still in what was left of the shallow crystalline water, was the dark mage that Chara sought. Pale and cold, and yet--upon closer inspection--not dead... "I... well, what do you propose we do?" The guard asked, scratching the back of his neck. "The infirmary is likely already over-burdened, and... what? Lysander? The hell are you doing up and about?"

What was it about this damned dark mage, who looked to be within death's reach, that had summoned both Chara and her father to the scene? Particularly when he had heard that Lilica D'Or had been the reason Lysander's legs had finally failed?
What importance, exactly, did this bad luck charm of a girl hold...?

Vitali knew the moment the Serpent had disappeared from this present reality, but he hadn't time to relish in it; not when it was up to him to fell several hundred undead soldiers, one by one, and remain on his feet. Weakness at this point was surely accepting an invitation to death, and there was no time to catch his breath. Not until the last Andalarian solider was put to the rest that they fully deserved, enemy or not. They were all fools, anyway, duped and manipulated by a mad ruler, knowing not that their actions served nothing but the fast track to their own demise. It took hours, to the point where he could scarcely feel his feet or his hands, and had long since forgotten about the pain in his back and the blood that still ran freely.

He had lost track of Tivia long ago; the girl had likely run off to meet her Rigas brethren, and that was just fine with him, as the last thing he needed was to be looking over his shoulder for a liability. And finally--finally, with no movement left from the corpses sprawled across the ground, he knew he could step away with confidence that they wouldn't rise again. And go where? he wondered to himself, as he walked away from the massacre in a near daze, with no real destination in mind. The Serpent is not a threat any longer... not to the city, or otherwise. What point is there for me to continue to linger in his post-hell?

Regardless, his feet and mind were not in sync. Perhaps it was a hope that given the service he had provided for the city (that being, taking care of the undead army that was cursed to kill Rigases) he might receive help or compensation; or, perhaps, he merely wished to bid Tivia Rigas farewell before he disappeared into the wayside, as he was apt to do. She had, after all, been a peculiar yet helpful ally, instilling her trust in him when she had no reason to do so. When he had not once proven himself trustworthy, and yet, she had still seen fit to save his life, despite it all...

Before he realized where he was headed, the necromancer found himself wandering the dilapidated Rigas estates, wading through the crushed flowers and other flora of the gardens... all the way to a broken fountain, where he saw someone he had not expected to encounter.

"...so. This is the reason the Serpent's power was muted..." He spoke, mainly to himself, as he watched Chara Rigas haul what looked to be the body of his half-sister from the shallow pool of water. How ridiculous; sacrificing her life, if only to ensure that the Rigases might survive... And what did she have to gain? An excuse, a way out of her miserable existence? Infatuation drove people to such odd, self-sacrificing tendencies. He had seen it between Alster and the she-warrior; between the mercenary and the Skyknight. And now, his own--very powerful, at that--kind had fallen victim to the curse of love.
There must have been something to be said about the fool-hardiness of hearts...

Anticipating the onset of innumerable troubles, beginning when Lysander was rushed into the infirmary for his chthonic-infected legs, Elias had made the irresponsible decision to lay back in bed and rest for as long as the dire situation would allow him. It was irresponsible insofar as he had slipped into a fevered half-delirium the moment he had taken his tea and propped his head against the pillow. Irresponsible, which he had later come to know, much later--when Daphni's special stone had awakened him to a hellscape version of the infirmary, flooded with ten times as many patients as there were healers. And he, one of those few capable healers, only blinked into full awareness mere moments ago. 

He shuffled through his sheets, afixing Daphni a perturbed glare. "And when were you to inform me that my services were required?" As if to shut down his complaints, a wet, hacking cough rattled through him. He caught the blood in the crook of his arm, and wheezed out a small, defeated sigh. "Far be it for me to stop you from overworking yourself into near-death. I'll save you a spot in the bed beside mine, but," he had taken the Sybaian's proffered arm, and hoisted himself to his feet, "it was not beyond my capability to assist you in more than this last-ditch effort." To drive his point home, he eyed her blackened hands and tsked rather loudly. 

As she led him to the two battered bodies in question, Elias took in his observances, or as well as he could in such dim and dingy conditions. Alster had lost half his arm and suffered an exhaustion so deep, it triggered him into a coma; otherwise, he was in relatively stable condition, as Daphni had surmised. But Elespeth, he noted, was in so poorly a state, that he looked to the Sybaian with a brow shadowed in doubt. 

"...The swarm of magic within her has acted similar to a virus, and wrecked havoc from within," he muttered as his hand pressed against her abdomen, activating a spell that aided in a more detailed diagnosis. "Her liver and kidneys...they are going into septic shock. They are not yet to multiple organ dysfunction levels...there may be a chance..."

"You!" He snapped at a nearby Rigas healer as he madly scribbed instructions on a nearby parchment, "fetch these ingredients in the garden and use your magic to brew up a tea as quickly as you can! This will help to raise her blood pressure. And grab the salt-water concoction on the far shelf. Mix it into the tea. We need to pump these all into her blood-stream." 

He flung himself against his work-station, rifling through his instruments to find the proper syringes for the task ahead of him. As he hastily prepared his table, he barked more orders to other passersby, this time for a watertight bag, preferably made from sheep-skin, and tubes of a specific size. 

After what seemed like decades of waiting, the Rigas healer returned with the brewed concotion. He could not check the young healer's work to determine if he'd used the correct mixture, but they hadn't any time. Every minute wasted ate away at Elespeth's life expectancy. 

With his indentured assistance, Elias and his small retinue of healers inserted the syringes and tubing into Elespeth's arms. One syringe pumped the solution through her blood. Another syringe and its lead of tubing emptied inside of the watertight sheepskin bag. Then, Elias pressed steadying hands to the warrior's abdomen, and closed his eyes. "I hesitate to do this," he whispered to his patient. "Using such concentrated magic to interact with the damage of a magical disease, but..." he trailed away, and let the white, healing light flow from his fingers to penetrate her skin, her layers of tissue and blood, her failing organs. He located the source of their imperfections and urged them away, collecting the toxins and sending them through the tubing in her arm to empty into the sheepskin bag. He repeated this process, ignoring the feebleness setting into his legs and arms, the cold sweat dampening his entire body, the lightheadedness winding inside his head, in dizzying circles. Concentrate. Siphon out as much as you can--until she is stable!

Just as he felt about to collapse from his own repeated, seemingly feckless efforts, Elespeth began reacting to the treatment. Her heart pumped more fervently, and her breathing was enough to lift her stomach from its sunken state. Her skin returned to a more favorable temperature: still hot, but at a less alarming level. "That's...more like it," he said, in an airy, relieved sigh. He leaned against her cot for a second wind, and gave a shaky but confident nod at Daphni, who was tending to Alster. 

"She...she'll make it, I daresay," he said with faltering speech complicated by his heavy breathing. "I've done my part. But I suspect there is more to be done from within." He pointed a finger to his temple. "I'll care for their physical bodies, but if you need to reach their minds, now is the time. ...They're notorious for getting into scrapes that they cannot reconcile by themselves."

"I am not wasting my time, Enif." The sound of their footsteps grazing against rubble could not even mask the notes of consternation in Chara's loud, authoritative voice. "So you will kindly do as I ask...for I shall not repeat myself."

Together with her hesitant guard, they explored, light spells aglow, the street in which the premier boutiques and eateries of Stella D'Mare had once spiraled around the mountainside like a trail of flowers on the vine. Now, there was only desecration. As they progressed with deliberate strides, Chara recognized the colorful blue door that denoted the shop where she had chosen new clothes for Lilica to adorn. Months had passed since then, and she could not forgive time for having muddled that memory for her; it felt like years had elapsed since that carefree day under the marine sun. 

Turning a corner, she saw it, there. The fountain. Preserved beyond what the surrounding ruins would have her believe, the mosaic mirrors glittered in her light's beacon, casting the structure in a radiant display. So out of place now, in the dust of shattered jewels. As they drifted closer, she found what she had sought: a body, cradled against the shallow pool of the bottom-most tier. 

"Lilica!" she hurried, as best as she could, to the edge of the fountain, ordering the guard to help her lift the unconscious--not dead, she confirmed with a pulse check--woman out of the pool. They set her down on the stone lip, on the very same spot where she had weaved bougainvilleas into her dark, dark tresses. She reached a hand out to brush those same, damp tresses out of her porcelain-pale face. 

"She is only unconscious," she confirmed aloud, but to whom? To the guard, who seemed not to care? To the city, who was too broken to respond? To herself, who needed assurances that Lilica had not cursed herself into sleep, like Vitali had done to Alster, like she had done to herself, but unsuccessfully, almost a century ago? She was only sleeping. Hell, even the deathless dream curse was manageable. They had succeeded in releasing Alster from it, but...with the help of a Sybaian healer--and Vitali. 

She spun around when the guard had announced the arrival of two other figures, one of them by name.

"Lysander!?" She pushed off the edge of the fountain, to her feet, and stared at the rather undignified way her injured father was riding off the back of an equally uncomfortable guard. "Why....why are you not resting!? And how did you know to come here, of all places!?"

"Chara," he nodded at the guard, who lowered him onto the fountain edge, as directed. "I was with you that day. I know you choose not to internalize my presence, and yes, you have every right to be scandalized that I paid you and Lilica any heed at all, but," he turned away from Chara's withering glare, "...that is neither here nor there. What matters is that we take Lilica to where she can receive immediate help. Alster and his warrior are currently being seen to by Daphni, and all the other healers are overwhelmed with injured--"

"--The Sybaian can handle a third!" she snapped, clawing her fingers into her hair. "Who else can possibly see to this insidious curse!? Everyone with the skills to cure her is beyond incapacitated, and I--" she paused, looking at the two guards, who looked back at her with unreadable expressions. But she knew they were judging her every reaction, determining if she were fit to rule the Rigas family. She no longer had the luxury to show weaknesses, or unsanctioned outbursts. "We--" she began, feigning a sheen of graceful indifference, "we shall take her to the infirmary. From there, we--" 

An all-too familiar voice stopped her short. Immediately, she thrust a light out in the direction of their new visitor, a growl resounding in her throat. "Show yourself, necromancer! I know you to be here. This dreaded curse has a foul odor, which always reeks of you. And if you will not share its secrets, I will make certain that whatever depravities you thrive most on, I'll deprive you of them!"

Daphni knew her limits; in fact, she had Elias to thank for learning them. A mere year ago, she might have gladly done herself in, attempting to achieve the impossible, going beyond the stamina of her own capabilities. Which is exactly why she saw fit to step back now and defer to the Clematis healer's expertise, however much he should have been resting. This was the way that healers should work together; not berating and criticizing one another's unique practices, but knowing where and when to step in, picking up where the other left off. The more she worked with Elias, in fact, the more she was coming to realize how oddly, uncharacteristically compatible they were as a team. And she was grateful for this. "Of course... she is not magically adept. Not like Alster. Such an influx of power is bound to eat away at her from the inside out..." 

When the young apprentice healer left to gather the ingredients needed, the Sybaian healer made herself useful by adding more cold water to the bath in which Elespeth lay to lower her worrisome temperature. She was running so hot at this point that any coolness grew warm relatively quickly. As soon as the young man returned with the concoction that would aid in hydrating the Atvanian warrior and filling her veins with some form of relief, she happily took up the task of easing the syringes into Elespeth's skin while Elias worked his own magic--literally. Try though she might to maintain her focus on the girl and her condition, however, it was impossible not to keep an eye on the Clematis healer from time to time. He was straining to force the toxins plaguing Elespeth's body, given his own deteriorating condition. There was sweat on his brow, and she could see his hands beginning to shake. For the briefest of moments, she wondered if she had made a grave mistake in enlisting his help, fearing that this feat might very well push him beyond his own limits, irreparably...

At last, Elespeth Tameris's body began to return to stability. Daphni watched as Elias, satisfied with his work, slumped against a cot, sweating and exhausted and pale as he had been before her stone had absorbed his current aliments. Just as she feared, each and every time she put it to use on him, its effects grew all the more temporary... "Rest, Elias. I will take care of the rest." I hope... The Sybaian healer helped him back into bed, and found a cool cloth for his forehead, just as a handful of new presences made their way into the infirmary. No, not more sick and injured... There is no more room, and not enough labour! But those who entered, wearing foreign garb and colours, were neither sick nor injured. One man stepped up to her and introduced himself and his brethren as healers, and magically adept at that, offering their help on behalf of Mollengard.

Mollengard... Just as the Eyraillian princess had told her. "My name is Daphni Adela of the Sybaia." She replied with a shallow bow, hiding her burnt palms in the folds of her sleeves. "We are might obliged by your offer to help. As it stands... I am the only capable healer still on their feet, at this point. Please, come this way so I may show you where you might be of assistance." 

She led the small band of Mollengardian healers to the ill and injured, steering them clear only of Elias (who was strongly adverse to any healing that might involve magic), and Alster and Elespeth, who were in and of themselves very special cases. But the extra help was a godsent, and it allowed the weary Sybaian to move between the unconscious Rigas caster and the comatose warrior to keep an eye on their vitals and the state of their subconscious minds. Elias was right; there was more work on the inside to be done, but it could not be done right now. She was too weary, and while she might have been able to reach Alster, Elespeth was buried too far into the darkness to which she had succumbed when her own body had begun to fail her. And until she was sufficiently stable, with a stronger heartbeat, more evenly paced breathing, higher blood pressure and a lower temperature, penetrating the woman's subconscious mind could very well do more harm than good.

So the Sybaian healer did what she could, until at last no more could be done on her end until both Alster and Elespeth recovered physically, just enough that venturing into the cores of their very being would not pose a danger to either of them--or to herself, for that matter. For the first time in hours (in fact, it must have been an entire day), Daphni took a seat at the end of a cot, seeing spots in her vision as the adrenaline in her veins began to wane. She hadn't realized how much her body hurt from its unending work, how her feet ached in her boots, or how painful blisters had both surfaced and ruptured on her burnt hands as she had done her rounds. But now, with nothing to distract her from her own bodily discomfort, she realized that she was as much a wreck as she felt. "I cannot thank you enough for your help," she mentioned to the Mollengardian healer who had first introduced himself and his colleagues. "Without Mollengard's aid, this... this would have been impossible. It has been a day, there is yet more to be done, and as it stands, I have nothing left to give." Her lips, pale as the rest of her skin from sleeplessness, pulled into a tight smile. "You are very well adept in your practice, with both magic and physiology. Not so unlike our resident Clematis healer..." Daphni glanced sidelong at Elias, who had waded back into a much needed slumber, the colour in his face already having faded. His small reprieve from his symptoms had come to an end; sleep was probably the best place for him to dwell. "Stella D'Mare is in your debt, mister... oh, I apologize. I know you told me your name, but evidently I was not lucid enough to retain it." 

"Now, now... there is no need for hostility." Hands clasped behind his back, acting as though he had not just recently run himself into near exhaustion, the necromancer stepped out of the safety of the shadows. He took note of the guards, but neither seemed to pose much of a threat. One was preoccupied with the burden of the Rigas with failing legs upon his shoulders; the other, too taken aback by the gravity of everything playing into the situation. The only real threat that faced him now, though he was hesitant to admit it, was Chara Rigas. Fierce and determined and, from what he had caught along the grapevine, now in power following Adalfieri's passing, she was the only real variable left that hindered his guarantee of safety within the ruins of Stella D'Mare. And he was in no real position or condition to run the other way, now that he'd been spotted.

"For one, Miss Rigas... if you knew exactly what I just put myself through to ensure your broken city is not overrun with the undead, you might reconsider your vitriol. Not to mention..." He cast a glance at the listless form of his half sister, of the telltale run she had carved onto the palm of her hand. Stupid, ignorant Lilica... what had she thought to gain by attempting to toss away her life for the second time? Had the horror of the Serpent been too much to bear, overshadowing her very love for this Rigas woman? How weak, how defeatist, how pitiful--

And then, it dawned on him, and his previous train of thought was completely lost. Martyrdom... of course. This was why the Serpent's power had seemed so distinctly subdued. This was why its violence had been so carefully contained, acting more like a clumsy giant than a godlike being to be reckoned with. Lilica had not run away; she had done the only thing that she could think to help. And it was as stupid as it was noble. "Well. For all of her strange sentimentality... this is not a path I'd have considered my sister to take." Stepping closer, arms folded tightly across his chest, he looked upon her ashed face, her damp clothes and hair, and the unmistakable look of peace of her face. Wherever the dark mage had sent herself to, it was a place that obviously brought her the happiness that this world could not. Perhaps, then, this act of self-sacrifice had not been entirely selfless... Not if it allowed her the peace that she so craved. "I don't know what it is you expect of me, with your threats." He went on, looking up to address Chara, and Lysander, in turn. "It is challenging enough to reverse curses cast by one's own hand, let alone those cast by another. This is all Lilica's doing; it is her will that was woven into the enchantment, not mine. We have no real connection, the two of us, and unless--or, until--she begins to pass through the veil separating life from death, I am not able to reach her."

Unfortunately, true though it might have been, that explanation was not enough for the Rigases. He could see it in their fierce, azure eyes before Chara's cutting voice demanded that he figure it out, or else, suffer the consequences. There would be no walking away with a half-hearted apology, this time. "Save your energy for more important things." The necromancer rubbed his temples, his head already pounding from the haughty blonde's demands. "I cannot reach Lilica. I cannot tell how far she has wandered, for every second she remains in this sorry state eats away at the possibility of her ever awakening. But I suspect you--and perhaps even you--can." He nodded to the father-daughter duo. "I realize I am not popular here, to say the least, among the denizens of Stella D'Mare... Grant me amnesty and protection from those who might seek vengeance on me, and I will agree to help you retrieve Lilica, if it is at all possible. So..." Mischief glinted in a flash of white teeth, as that grin so characteristic of Vitali Kristeva tugged his mouth into an upward ark. "Have we a deal, Rigases?"

He had no idea of Haraldur had found Vega, and if so, whether or not they remained within the city... But after that single brush with deadly luck, finding himself at the pointed end of the mercenary's blade, he was certainly not willing to take any more chances. And it was not as though he could rely on Tivia to come to his aid more than once. God forbid it, should he become indebted to her...

With Daphni's help, Elias retreated to his cot. He was weakened from his complex feats of magic, but the stone had done its work. It absorbed his exertions until he felt much the same from earlier: not worse, but not better, either. 

He kept peering over his shoulder, checking on the prone form of Elespeth. It had been years since he used that technique on a patient, and it appeared he had succeeded in stabilizing her. Ostensibly. He was loathe to leave his work partly unfinished, but the moment he caught his cot in the corner of his eye, the exhaustion set in. His knees buckled with premature relief at the invitation of the wilting pillow and the mussed up sheets. Half collapsing upon Daphni, he righted himself only to collapse again--this time, upon the cot. As he began to transition into a reclining position, he realized that his hand had met with Daphni's. It lingered there for a while before he moved his tingling fingers away from her palm. It was no longer burnt and blackened; his healing touch had granted her relief from the blisters and searing heat. She, too, was overworked, having past her limit long ago. If he could provide some reprieve, even if it was only in one hand, and done using the magic he disparaged, he would do it. 

"I know I'm going against my own words," he managed in one, unbroken breath, "but magical aid...it has its place. It's quicker, for one." He chortled, which turned into a cough, then a series of coughs. "Remember," he continued after his coughing fit subsided, "I've saved...this empty cot for you...right here." He pointed to the one beside him. "So I can...monitor you." As his head indented the pillow, his eyelids began to sink. "You had better come here and rest when you're done." At that, his eyes closed fully, and unconsciousness blanketed over him. 

Atli arrived in Stella D'Mare with time to join the band of healers who had traveled by ship to the harbor. It was a hard ride from Tadasun's camp, but he and Captain Solveig accomplished the demanding pace in less than a day. 

Prior to their departure from camp, Solveig intercepted him outside of the tent where he had tended to Vega. It did not take her long to threaten the words out of him. In a terrified torrent, Atli poured out the details of his conversation with the Eyraillian royal. Some details. Not all. 

After the interrogation, Solveig's expression grew smug. Gleeful, even. "She's at Stella D'Mare," she said as she mounted her war horse of impressive size. 

"But--"

"There's no alternative explanation necessary, Atli. According to your 'report,' she admitted that she has friends in Stella D'Mare, and that she knew one of our special soldiers. Let's not forget that she rushed out of camp on a roc, in the direction of the city, when she had every opportunity to do so before she spoke with you or me. I would say this story writes itself." She pulled on some rawhide leather riding gloves and settled herself into the saddle. "If she truly cared for her so-called friends in Stella D'Mare, she'd have acted sooner. No--that 'friend' in question is one of our own, and we'll only know for sure once we reach the city. If she's still there, lending aid, then I am mistaken. But if she's gone by the time we arrive, then my suspicions are confirmed."

"You think she's planning to harbor a Forbanne fugitive?!"

Solveig raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, don't sound so surprised, Atli. Any more and you'll come off as disingenuous. And you're already treading dangerous ground." She made eye contact with the grounded healer, her gilded irises fierce with retribution. "If I catch you in a lie one more time, I really will make good on my promise to your daughter. Now," she tossed her head towards the makeshift stables, "grab your horse. You're coming with me to Stella D'Mare." 

The city was in ruins by the time they reached what remained of the front gate. It was the middle of the night and all was dusty and abysmally dark, save for the flicker of torches and small fires dispersed all over the terraced terrain. With Solveig's permission, he joined with the healers heading towards the Rigas estate, remembering that a Sybaian by the name of Daphni might have residency atop the hill. 

Indeed, when he and his fellow healers were welcomed inside the estate and guided to the infirmary, the very Sybaian woman he'd heard Vega Sorde mention had given her name and gratitude in greeting. But he was scarcely able to return his name before everyone, including himself, disseminated and made their emergency rounds all about the overcrowded infirmary. 

When there was enough of a gap in care and services, Atli allowed himself a short rest. While washing his hands in an available basin, he looked over his shoulder to see the Sybaian woman, who was sitting on a cot beside a disease-afflicted patient, address him. After drying his hands on a towel, he strode over to her, but did not invite himself to sit. 

"What has happened here?" He made circular motions with his arms to indicate the infirmary and beyond, to the span of the city. "We knew that Andalari was preparing an assault, but not one that would level an entire city. Some Mollengardian men aboard the docking ships witnessed a...magnificent beast. Serpentine. It was wrapped around the city, squeezing buildings into dust. What has become of it now? And are these...are these the sum of the survivors, here? Were we all too late?" His eyes began to rove--first, on the sick patient whom the Sybaian had revealed as a Clematis healer. Then, he noticed the two by the far wall. One was missing half his arm, and the other was afixed with tubes pumping her with life-sustaining liquid. 

"They're in a bad way," he muttered. He wanted to investigate all three cases, but remembered how she had directed them away from these patients, as if they were beyond mere conventional healing methods. "Can I assist you? Oh, right. My name is Atli." He gave a shallow yet polite bow. "And you are Daphni, of the Sybaia. The--" his voice hiked down to a hushed whisper, "the princess of Eyraille suggested I find you. I am much interested in your practice of healing the psyche. I have limited experience exploring the layers beyond surface deep; mainly, it's for monitoring purposes, to double-check if the patient is stable and responsive. I am more than happy to lend a hand, even if it's a limited one." 

Atli jumped as the double doors boomed and clanked behind them. Whirling around to the source, he saw a small procession enter the vast chamber. It was an eclectic group of people: several guards, one of which piggy-backed an aging man, another which held a prone woman in his arms, two more guards that tightly gripped either shoulder of a tired, yet well-dressed man of infinite poise, and a blonde-haired woman who seemed to radiate both awe and desperation. She held herself with shining confidence, and walked with heavy footfalls that, while harsh and over-exaggerated, also demonstrated a gravitas befitting of her undoubtedly high station. 

She marched right up to Daphni, and pointed at the guard holding the unconscious woman. "Sybaian. I know this is not what you wish to hear right now, but we've an emergency! Lilica, she...she has put herself under a sleeping curse that is slowly siphoning away her life. This useless cretin," she harrumphed at the well-dressed man held in thrall by the guards, "believes he can only pull her out of the curse when her life is nearly expired. But before it comes to that, you..." she forced her faltering voice to maintain its commanding tone, "you can save her. I can...you can take me inside of her mind."

"And me," the piggy-backing man in the back had echoed. 

"This cannot possibly be any more difficult than Alster's case, though he did not cast the curse on himself, nor was he wasting away into death..." she gave a fierce shake of her head before her spiraling cadence infected her thoughts. "But we all have the means to awaken her. ...We must." 

"I may know a way inside of her mind..." Atli offered, with quiet hesitation. Chara snapped her attention to him with the speed and sound of a cat o' nine tails.

"Are you of Mollengard? I thank you all for helping my people and the denizens of Stella D'Mare. But...speak up. What information can you provide?"

"...No. Nevermind. It's invasive. Hostile. I've only done it once and," he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, silencing himself and the memory which roiled around in his stomach.

"What!?" Her impatience struck like a fire-spitting viper. "Out with it!"

He swallowed down a lump of bile. "It's a method of psychic torture. It's confidential. I can't give you the details. All I can say is that it's effective in...drawing the patient out of any form of coma, catatonia, or stasis. ...Through unimaginable pain and horror." 

Chara's eyes widened in that same simulacrum of horror that Atli had seen in the mind of a "disobedient" Forbanne boy. The boy had shut himself down, remaining unresponsive to the program's specific "training" exercises. They needed to "freshen him up"... by twisting his subconsciousness into a lasting nightmare more unbearable than reality. Atli had succeeded in "shocking" the boy awake. 

...He could not stop screaming. 

And in turn, Atli had shocked his own slumbering hours into a relentless death parade, each image more grotesque and gruesome than the last. 

Defeated and lost, Chara looked between Atli and Daphni for an answer. "If the two of you work together and combine your forces, is it possible to....mitigate some of the effects of your," she gestured at Atli, "'procedure'? If not...there's nothing else we can do short of seeing her to the brink of death. And honestly, that is beginning to sound like a more hopeful plan. Necromancer," she ushered the guards and their charge forward, "...I will ask for your expertise in this. You do your part, and I will grant you amnesty. Of all these unsavory and appalling suggestions....which has the highest chance of success?"

Nothing, answered her thoughts, which surrendered to the bleak truth. Nothing at all...

Atli... So this was the Mollengardian healer whom Vega had spoken of. Contrary to what she knew and suspected of Mollengard, the man did not seem hostile or ill-meaning in any way; and in fact, as she had watched him from the corner of her eye, his practice was not so different from Elias's; a stable and balanced combination of physical and magical healing. Though Daphni was not as well acquainted with the Eyraillian princess as the others, she harboured respect for her, and if she trusted this man, then there had to be a reason. "Atli. Your help here is more than welcome, and greatly appreciated." The Sybaian nodded, folding her hands in her lap as she took a seat. "These two... they are the reason Stella D'Mare was not entirely decimated. Alster nearly destroyed himself with his own magic to send the Serpent away." She nodded to the unconscious figure of the Rigas caster, and then the woman lying in the tub of ice next to him, still hot with fever. "The woman is Elespeth. To save Alster, she took more than half of his magic output into herself, but not being born magically adept, it has sent her body into shock and wreaked havoc on her organs. Both cases are simply too sensitive to allow outsiders to interfere..."

Fearing she might come across as ungrateful, the Sybaian healer trailed off, struggling for the words to save face. Ultimately, it was the bursting open of the heavy infirmary doors that were her saving grace. Daphni jumped to attention at the arrival of Chara, her father, and... Lilica.
And, in tow, that miserable necromancer.

"You found her..." Daphni began to say, just as Chara ordered the listless body of Lilica be placed upon a cot. The dark mage was soaking wet, as though she had been lying in water, and her face was so pale... Was there even life left within her to preserve? Or was there a specific reason as to why the necromancer accompanied them?

Fortunately (if you could call it fortunate, at all), Lilica was evidently not dead--at least, not yet. But the news of her condition did not come as any sort of comfort, especially not to the already exhausted Sybaian. Moving to the chthonic caster's bedside, she tentatively placed a hand upon her forehead. Curiously, she did not feel so assaulted with the dark aura that had fought back at her the last time she had endeavored to help Lilica, which had felt like so long ago. But that last time, she had been open to help, and not under the weight of a spell. Though Daphni did not pry far, Lilica's subconscious mind was carefully guarded; likely in a place where it did not want to be disturbed. Not only did that render her unsure of her ability to help, given her state of exhaustion, but were she to try, she feared that the dark mage might come to harm. Forcing herself into someone's mind was not part of Sybaian practice. Lilica meant to keep people out--likely, for a reason.

She couldn't look Chara in the eye when she shook her head. "Chara... even if I had the strength and energy to find a way into Lilica's mind, it appears that she has... she's put up a wall. Shut herself off. Wherever her mind has taken her, it does not want to be disturbed, and I fear my interference would cause her harm..."

And that was when the alternative appeared, in the form of Atli's offer to help. Daphni furrowed her brows in curiosity. It was Sybaian practice to heal the psyche through empathetic reach... and she could not help but wonder exactly how Atli performed differently. Her unspoken question was soon answered when the Mollengardian healer somewhat reluctantly described the nature of his means of getting into the mind... and the very thought of what he could do, and how it might affect the human psyche, made her stomach turn. "No. Absolutely not." The Sybaian shook her head. "I am sorry, Chara, and... Atli. But the purpose of the Sybaia is to protect and heal the psyche and the soul. It would go against every moral fiber and everything that I stand for to allow this woman's mind to be invaded by hostile means. I cannot let it happen."

The necromancer, who had stood aside, relatively disinterested by the current dilemma, had remained silent since his arrival. He was beyond caring exactly how the lot decided to bring his half-sister out of the spell she had cast upon herself, and cared even less whether she awoke at all. But now, the newly appointed Rigas leader was asking for his advice--his advice, placing trust in hisjudgement call. It nearly made him laugh. How desperate times could so easily result in equally desperate measures, including having the person you loathe make a call as to how to approach someone else's life--or death--situation. Oh, Lilica. If only you were aware how my own mercy plays a part in your well-being... "Well. As you have noted, Ms. Rigas, it comes down to two options." He noted with an air of nonchalance. "The Sybaian hasn't the strength or confidence to revive Lilica through her own means, and this fellow from Mollengard has offered the alternative of psychically torturing my sister back to the waking world. Now, I know little of Mollengard's means of intruding on the mind, and even less of the Sybaian way... but does not evil and good equate to neutral?" He raised his eyebrows, and looked at Atli, then Daphni, in turn. "I would say, it is entirely possible that your combined efforts might well be the solution. But again, that is only my best guess. So the real question comes down to this."

He turned his attention, then, from Chara to Daphni, whose normally stoic face appeared to be struggling not to grimace. "Do you trust in yourself, Sybaian? And do you trust in his intentions?" Vitali lifted an eyebrow, glancing at Atli, who looked more than just a little bit uncomfortable within the gravity of this predicament. "Or--do you trust in my ability and intention to pull my sister's soul back from the grip of death? Of course, there is always a risk, especially if she has put up a wall, as you have said. Not to mention, there is that grueling waiting game that must be played while she slips further and further from us, as I cannot perform my art on the living or, really, even the dying. Only the dead--and the very nearly dead."

"Are you truly asking," Daphni began, her speech slow and purposeful, and not without the taint of anger, "if I trust you, necromancer? Do you truly believe that any of this comes down to trust?"

"What I am asking, Sybaian, is this." Vitali meant to take a brazen step forward, but was stayed by the guards--at which point, he rolled his eyes, but chose not to resist. There were far more important ways to spend his strength. "What, exactly, appeals more to your moral framework? Protecting the psyche of a dying woman, or protecting her from death?"

Daphni clenched her jaw. This was all kinds of unfair; to her, to Atli, to Lilica, to Chara... how dare this vile man of death and all of its manifestations question her moral framework! And yet... and yet, his question was sound, and the dilemma was real. What was more important, here? Lilica's life, or the condition of her subconscious mind? Turning away, the Sybaian temporarily ignored the distraught Rigas company and returned to Elias's bedside, where she took his hand. He was not unconscious, not quite; perhaps he could hear. "I am about to go against everything that I stand for as a Sybaian healer." She murmured, as if in confession. "The forgiveness of my deities is not enough... I beg forgiveness of your god, as well. Please ask for it, on my behalf..."

With a final, gentle squeeze of his hand, she left the Clematis healer to rest, and returned to the others. "I must divulge right now, that I do not know what is worse," she began, sighing. "To die, or to live with a tortured mind. But... but the mind can be healed. And in death, there is no healing. Only resurrection... and many of us have seen the dire repercussions of that." Her blue eyes burned with accusation as she glanced at the sickeningly confident and smug face of Vitali Kristeva. "I cannot promise you that this will be successful," she told Chara, with the heavy air of apology. "But, I can promise that I--that we--will try. If Lilica does return to us, damaged from the inside out, then know that she can heal. And I will do everything in my power to mend what has been broken. But I can only do this if she is alive. It is your call."

Of course, it was not without a little hesitation that Chara agreed. No one, not even Lilia D'Or, was beyond repair. They had to have faith that all would be well, in the end. Without faith, without hope, without belief... there was nothing.

"I am going to need your help--and yours." Daphni nodded to Chara, before kneeling next to Lilica's cot, and waited for the others to join her. Atli knelt across from her, and she instructed the Rigas caster and her father, who was carefully lowered to the floor, to sit on either side of her. "My presence is foreign to Lilica's mind. She will not let me in... but, if we have any chance at entry... she will let you in. Perhaps moreso, if it is the both of you," she said to Chara and Lysander. "I can provide the way, but you will be the keys. And... once you have made it..." The Sybaian swallowed, scarcely able to believe what she was about to do. Her gaze fell on Atli. "You will do what you must to force her out of the reverie... however horrific it might be. I fear that with her adamant desire to remain in this state, it may take nothing less of horrific to convince her to open her eyes, again..."

When everyone declared their understanding of the risks and potential harm that might be done, the somewhat reluctant Sybaian closed her eyes and, once again, felt along Lilica's fading aura for that wall that she had hit. Surely enough, it was still there but... yes, she had been right! In Lysander and Chara's presence, the wall was not impenetrable like stone, but rather, soft like wool; sturdy, but not impenetrable. Just the tiniest cut in the fibers, and patience while the rip widened, would be enough to allow them entry...

In the blink of an eye, the dreary infirmary was gone, and in its place, Stella D'Mare stood as rich and as shining as it had prior to the Serpent's awakening. The sky was blue, crystal clear, and the breeze was warm and calm. Nearby, in the courtyard beyond the Rigas estate, flowers were in full bloom, their fragrances tinting the air with sweet floral musk. All was warm, and calm, and even the sea lapping against the city's peninsula was slow and gentle. Everything was embraced by peace, as if the city had never seen war, never been devastated, had never been under the tyrannical rule of Andalari and its mad prince, Messino.

And there, wandering the lush gardens, hand in hand with her betrothed, was Lilica.

She looked happy. No, she was happy, for the chthonic magic finally had everything that she had ever wanted. She had found peace. She had found acceptance, love, a place to call her home. Her raven locks, usually hanging loose at her shoulders and back, were woven through with blue and violet flowers that matched the gown that hung to her ankles. There was a healthy, regal air about her. Gone was that overburdened shell of person, poisoned by her own magic and past decisions. It was as if Lilica D'Or had been born anew, and that in this new life, this new world, she suddenly had all the answers, and every possible reassurance of her safety and happiness.

It was no wonder the dark mage had guarded her mind with such a steadfast wall. Here, she was not only living her ideal life, but a downright impossible one. One so perfect, in fact, that nothing in reality could possibly compare. And these were the moments that she chose to live, until the curse leeched what was left of her vitality, leaving her physical body truly and inevitably empty.

As the two healers and the necromancer discussed their differing plans of action, Chara had, unbeknownst to her, sidled closer to the guard who held her father like a rucksack. She looked askance at him, too weary to conceal her worry-induced sickness, her swelling heartbeat, and her overbright eyes. "Father," she whispered. But it was the only word she could summon before burying her head in his shoulder. Attached as he was on the guard's back, he had no arms in which to comfort her, or even words that would act as surrogate. But he did plant a kiss on the top of her head--a kiss, he hoped, that was implanted with his support. That, whichever option she chose for Lilica's survival, he would be right behind her, holding her upright if needed. Though he couldn't hold himself on his own two feet, it didn't mean he was unable to aid his daughter in standing firm upon the ground. 

They transferred Lysander to the floor beneath Lilica's cot. Chara almost fell alongside him, wanting protection that only a parent could provide. It was a protection she had denied for so long. But she shook away the weaknesses that threatened to crumble her, and returned her full attention to the three people who were most capable in saving Lilica from her fugue. She listened to their arguments, closed her eyes, and finally honed in on a decision. 

"Daphni," she began, her voice smooth but her accusations sharp, "how is your practice any different...from his?" She opened her eyes and focused on Atli, who wrung his fingers together and stared at his feet. "You claim to heal the psyche, but one can only heal once we discover what wounds it. Picking at the wound is torture to the patient. You are not engaging in anything that you haven't actively taken part in before. We're still prodding the wound--"

"--But in this case," Atli interjected, "we're not prodding the wound to assess the source of the pain. We're tearing it open."

Chara held up a hand to silence him. "I know. Do not make me regret my choice. We'll do it your way, Mollengardian. Do what you must to expel her from her reverie. ...And we," she motioned to herself and Lysander, "will pick up the pieces, and guide her home with the help of Daphni. After some deliberation...I trust this plan more than I trust giving undivided creative authority to thatfiend." She snorted at Vitali. "Besides...Lilica would come to resent the fact that her good-for-nothing half brother had been instrumental in her..." she swallowed uneasily, "revival. There will be no reviving, here. ...I mean to fish her out before it comes to that." With a determined glare at Daphni, Atli, and Lysander, she sat down beside her father, and extended her hand for the Sybaian healer to grasp. "Let's do this." 

They stepped through the no longer impregnable wall of Lilica's subconscious, and entered the world she had cast herself into. The first thing Chara noticed was the sun, brilliant and sensuous on her skin. She looked up to see a cloudless sky, impossibly blue. A reflection of the sea beneath them. Flowers grew everywhere: bougainvilleas, violets, irises, wisteria, in deep, hypnotic purples and pinks. Multi-hued roofs, mosaic friezes sprawled over the sides of buildings, the all-too familiar Rigas gate, and the stairs leading up to it...

She and Lysander let out a collective gasp.

"Stella D'Mare. ...Of course she would dream of this place," she said as she tugged on Lysander's arm. His legs were uninhibited. Here, he could stand. He held Chara by the shoulders as she observed the ghost of her once lovely city. 

"I do not wish to see our city destroyed again. I do not--" 

"It's not real," said Lysander, in a gentle shush. "It's exaggerated. Can't you tell? This isn't where we grew up, Chara. It's her vision."

The moment he said "her," she appeared. Like a spectre, Lilica floated down the courtyard's path, and she wore happiness better than any gown or fashionable neck-piece. There she was, unchained and free from her insurmountable darkness. It was a joy that Chara had never seen, even at her most carefree. And, tethered to her manicured hand--was herself. 

Of course, she looked garish and dreadfully clumsy in comparison to the original. Chara wanted to march up and berate Lilica for imagining her in such a blemished, unkempt light, but the severity of the situation held her back. 

"Is...this not an exaggeration, Lysander?" Her eyes remained rapt on Lilica, so serene and beauteous, unmarred by hardship and strife. "This unparalleled...happiness? Dare I even take it from her? Even if it was to drag her from that half-formed wench, I--" 

"It's the only way," he reminded her. "Unless you want her to die. And wouldn't you rather show her this happiness yourself? That's a goal that you alone should be saddled with."

"You're...you're right," she sniffed. "Not that...not that pretender." She glanced over at Atli, who had his eyes closed and his hands clenched in concentration, no doubt connecting to the darkness and truth that lurked beneath the surface of this too-perfect utopia. "Do it when you're ready, Mollengardian."

Though he looked too conflicted to proceed, the healer nodded, and stretched his hand outwards, targeting Lilica. "You may want to look away, too. This...this can't be pleasant for anyone." 

In a thunderclap, the image before them changed. Lilica's hands were surrounded by noxious purple flames. On the ground before her was the alter-Chara, eyes wide with pain and betrayal. Her healthful luster drained from her diminishing face. Her limbs turned black and shriveled, blood exsanguinating from her in messy puddles. The light left her eyes. But before she surrendered to her final death throes, her mouth twitched out an agonized, "Why?" 

Then she was gone. 

First, a pattering of feet. Then, barreling into the courtyard was the fake Lysander, his mouth agape in shock.

"What...what did you do to my daughter!?"

He, too, was mowed down by Lilica's ever-pulsating magic. He twitched and writhed and screamed until he fell apart, dissolving like sugar in water. 

The miasma spread from her fingertips. It traveled over the courtyard, wilting flowers and burning vines off their trellises. The darkness spread, coating Stella D'Mare into a fathomless abyss. Everything seared away, becoming fuel for the void to grow. All that once was had sundered into the great undoing. The destruction of Stella D'Mare began anew. It all roared and tumbled and skittered away from the source: from Lilica. 

Existence ended. All that remained on this now featureless plain was the four of them--and Lilica, in the distance. 

"Come on!" She grabbed Lysander's hand and with him, took off running towards Lilica. "We have to fetch her!" 

They made it to her in moments. In the void, there were no obstacles, or even the illusion of distance. She took the distraught dark mage into her arms. With nothing else to obliterate, her magic had ceased its rampage.

"Lilica!" She pulled the other woman close. "It's me. It's Chara. This is not real. None of it is real! Come with me and Lysander. We'll take you home. Please. We'll be a family, there. The three of us. I promise." She threw Lilica into a hug, and invited Lysander to do the same. "Leave this nightmare with us. You're safe now." Tears streamed down her face. "But only if you follow us..."

It all happened so fast. One moment, happiness was at Lilica's fingertips. Every hardship she had ever endured felt so far in the past, it was as if it had all been one, long nightmare. Here she was, beneath Stella D'Mare's crystalline sky, safe and loved and with the one person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. And it was not the luxury that she lived, being wed to Chara, that brought her this happiness; it was the peace. The sense of belonging and acceptance. Once, she had been such a dark creature, ruled by the nature of her own magic. But it was as if all of that inky blackness had evaporated from her being, in Chara's presence. Lilica seldom used her magic, as there was little to no need, but whenever she did, now, it almost bordered on something celestial; or, at the very worst, neutral. No more miasma, no more acidic smoke that ate away at anything that it touched. Overnight, it seemed, Lilica had become an entirely new being, perhaps not one of light, but not purely of shadow, either. She understood what it meant to forgive oneself, and to move on. To accept love and to love in return, without apology. In essence, Lilica was the absolute best version of herself possible...

And for that reason, it was all entirely impossible, and nothing impossible could possibly last.

Something felt wrong, in the tips of her fingers. Simultaneously hot and cold, a sickeningly familiar sensation... and one that she recognized far too late. Lilica hear Chara's screams before she realized the darkness that had begun to consume her, eat her flesh from her bones, until she shriveled and crumpled to the ground. All the chthonic caster could do was stand in shock, her mouth agape, as slowly, thread by thread, her perfect world began to crumble before her eyes. No sooner did she kneel next to the decimated corpse of Chara Rigas, desperately trying to wish her back to life, to undo what had been done, that Lysander caught wind of the commotion and came barreling out of the Rigas estate. The look on his face when he saw what was left of his only daughter on the ground cut Lilica to the core. "Lysander... help! Please, you have to help!" She begged, her hands--those murderous, toxic hands--trembled in front of her. "I don't know... what is going on. I didn't mean... you know I would never hurt her!" 

Lysander, however, had gotten too close; to her, and to the devastating black fire emanating from her hands. It attacked him, and ate him up the same way it had eaten the life from Chara just moments before--and it did not stop there. The lush gardens, the foliage, the grand, marbled mosaics and RIgas estate were not spared, and crumpled like paper, equally as vulnerable. The beautiful blue sky above had turned dark, the atmosphere choked with the smell of smoke and death. In the blink of an eye, she had been happy. She had had everything, and more. And, in yet one more blink... it was all gone.

"...no. No, no, stop... stop!" Lilica shrieked, digging her fingernails into the blackened earth, where healthy, verdant grass had been just moments before. Only after everything was gone, and she was left alone, with everyone she knew and loved scattered, dead, about the terrain, did the violet-dark fire fade from her fingers. And all too soon; it hadn't lasted long enough to take her, too. "Take me with them. Take me with them!" She bade those murderous hands, clenching them into fists, fingernails digging into her skin. "Let me be gone, too! My life is worthless... let me be gone!"

Her futile pleas gradually succumbed to soul-wrenching sobs. On her knees, Lilica hugged herself, not for her own comfort, but out of her own deathwish, bidding those hands to ignite her, as well. They didn't, and they wouldn't, but it wasn't long before another pair of hands pulled her body into an embrace. It was like a voice from far away; the chthonic caster knew that someone was there, but her tortured and traumatized body and mind could not focus on them. The words, the touch, everything was but a whisper in the reality that was her misery, the death of yet another safe haven to which she could never, ever return. "I killed you... killed your father..." She only recognized Chara's voice as an echo of the person she had thought she'd just lost, for the choice had been made, and there was no reversing the curse. Lilica had bespelled herself to die; and with the death of that beautiful, marvelous dream, the only thing left to extinguish was her own life force. "I destroy everything I touch... let me destroy myself, now... let this be the end of my magic..."

"So dramatic." And then, there was another voice--one unfamiliar, to even the hears of the Rigases and the healers. Out of the ruination, a man dressed from head to toe in black stepped up to the duo who held the hopeless woman in their arms. Like Lilica, his eyes and hair were dark, and glimmered like polished obsidian. "This is not what I expected to find, after all this time... Snap out of it, Lilica. You are mourning nothingness, for there is nothing to mourn. This isn't your home; it never was, and it never will be. And if home is truly what you wish to find... then you're going to have to face reality, however harsh."

Lilica did not recognize that voice; at least, not consciously. But there was something about it... a vibration, of sorts, that brought her out of her fugue. Her tear-streaked face looked from Chara to Lysander in turn, and then at the tall man towering over her. "Who... what is going..."

"No time for preamble, I'm afraid. I do hope these intruders will excuse me," he arched a judgmental brow at Chara and Lysander, and reached for Lilica's arm to pull her to her feet, "But there is far too much at stake to allow you to wish your life away, at the moment." Without consent, he took the chthonic caster by the arm and pulled her to her feet, like she weighed nothing more than a ragdoll, but did not let go when at last she stood. A mysterious smile lingered on his face. "Save your questions. I guarantee, we shall meet again."

With his grip still on her arm, the unfamiliar man squeezed hard. Hard enough for Lilica to cry out in pain, and all but collapse, as though every fiber of her bone was breaking, and she screamed...

...only to awaken among the living, sitting upright in her cot. Immediately, the chthonic caster was wracked with gasps and sobs, her breathing erratic and her temperature below what was normal, given the chill of having spent so much time amid the water of the fountain. Lilica hugged herself and pulled her knees to her chest, resisting and refusing all help to warm or to comfort her, repeating go away, go away, go away... over any over, with the occasional trembling worry put to the words, everything I touch is destroyed... everything.

"Lilica. You're safe; you are among friends." Daphni knew that comforting the woman was futile, for a number of reasons. Not only was the chthonic caster so inherently shut off to her method of healing, but she had no real connection with her; not like Lysander and Chara. Furthermore, this woman, who had relied so heavily most of her life on a safe place deep in her subconscious mind, a place where nothing and no one could do her harm, now no longer had a safe haven. Atli had successfully destroyed it, just like Chara had destroyed yet another haven once before... but that was different. That haven had long since been abandoned, and Lilica had yearned to move on from it. This time, she had no intention of moving on. That place, that impossible world, was the last mercy she gifted herself before her life extinguished--and now, with it so violently decimated, it left nothing but yet another dark hole in the dark woman. Even with help, it likely would take years for her that gaping wound to heal, to allow her to form a safe place in her mind once again. For now, she was entirely unraveled, and entirely at the mercy of reality. 

But that was not the only concern that the Sybaian healer had for the dark mage. As Lilica hugged her knees to her chest, and buried her face against them, Daphni caught a glimpse of something strange on her arm. At first glance, she figured it must have been a wound or an injury that she had suffered while Stella D'Mare had been falling to pieces, catching her in the crossfire. But on closer examination, she realized it was much more than that. Afraid to touch the traumatized woman, who was so afraid that her own touch would melt everyone and everything, the Sybaian healer did her best to take note of the large, blue bruise on her pale arm, within which it looked as though something was scrawled into her flesh with a sharp point. Words, of some sort... a foreign alphabet that she did not recognize, small enough that it could have been handwriting. This was not the spell that Lilica had cast upon herself, cut into her own palm. This was something else entirely... and Daphni was willing to be that it had not been there, prior to her awakening.

"Who..." The exhausted Sybaian looked to Chara and Lysander, who both tried in vain to murmur comfort to Lilica. "Who was... that man?" What concerned her was not so much that she did not recognize him; after all, she had been confined to the damned infirmary for so long that she had no trouble believe she was completely out of touch with her allies' most recent relations. What perturbed and slightly sickened her was the fact that the man's presence had felt very tangible, and not fragile, like Lilica's renditions of those she loved, inhabiting her perfect world. He had been as real as her, as the Rigases, as Atli... and no one but the four of them should have had access to the sacred depths of Lilica's mind. The chtonic caster was awake and alive, with breath and a heartbeat, yes... but at what cost?

During this procedure, something had been breached. And the Sybaian healer was at a complete loss as to who had breached Lilica's mind, and how.

Chara gasped awake, into the dusty and dreary darkness of the infirmary. Frantically, she looked around, fearful of what she might see. Lysander was beside her, a little worse for wear but still conscious and uninjured. Daphni looked to be on her last legs, but she was up and moving about. The Mollengardian healer had gotten up to excuse himself. She heard him shamble off, loud retching sounds following in his wake. 

But despite the condition of their traveling party, it paled in comparison to the shattered woman on the cot who rocked back and forth, muttering words of distress. Lilica was awake, alive. They had done it; they had saved her from her own demise. But it was a hollow victory, one that brought a feeling of loss and hopelessness. Watching herself die, watching her father die, watching the city die twice--and watching Lilica lose herself, again, to the curse that she attributed to her magic...That curse now unleashed its plague of horrors upon the dark mage's fragile psyche. 

"Lilica." With the help of the cot, Chara propped herself to a kneeling position. She tried to comfort the woman with a soft, coercive press of her hands around her arms, but she had screamed in terror and scrambled away. 

"Lilica!" she repeated, in vain. "It was only a nightmare. What happened was not real! You never destroyed us. We're here, and you won't hurt us!" She had sneakily positioned a hand just above the small of the grieving woman's back. "See? We're making contact right now. Nothing is amiss." But her words, and actions, had generated similar results. Lilica could not be reasoned with in such a state. 

She rose to her feet, and looked at Daphni. "What medicines did Elias inject into Alster when he first awoke from his dream-curse? She's too hysterical. We can't help her like this!" 

Together, they had succeeded in locating a vial of the special elixir at the medicines table Elias most frequented. It took nothing less of ambushing the dark mage and pinning her to the cot, so adverse she was of their skin-to-skin contact, but they managed to inject her with the substance. It induced a calm, tranquil effect before long. While she was not asleep, Lilica was placed into a fuzzy, mindless trance. 

With a long, relieved sigh, Chara slumped from Lilica's cot, and sank back to the floor. She would have remained there if not for the Sybaian healer's inquiry about the mysterious man in black.

"I...I do not know," she admitted, and Lysander repeated the sentiment. "At first I thought her dead-beat necromancer brother found a way to infiltrate, but upon closer inspection, no. I've never seen him before, or heard tell of Lilica mentioning any other relations...whether he was a relation or not. But for him to call us intruders...he did not look any less of an intruder, himself!"

"But he seemed to have our best interests in mind," Lysander said, from his spot on the floor where he hadn't moved. "He aided us. Rather, he aided her."

"No doubt taking credit for our efforts to free her from that self-inflicted curse," Chara muttered.

"For now," continued Lysander, "I think we can all conclude that, whoever he was, he wants Lilica alive and on this plane of existence. And we can all agree to wanting the same." 

"But it could be for nefarious purposes!" Chara pointed to the bruise on the dark mage's arm that Daphni had called to their attention. Now that their charge had fallen into an uneasy lull, they were better able to inspect the strange, lettered scrawl left behind from the man in black's death squeeze. "I do not like the look of this cryptic message. Could he have cursed her with some other impossible-to-rid spell!?" The very thought of battling yet another curse sent her mind spiraling down a rage-bright corridor of red, blinding anger. A hard but earnest clap upon her shoulder snapped her out of her perverse thoughts. 

"Chara...we've done all that we can right now. Go and find yourself a place to rest," Lysander said. "We can all do for some. But you...they'll need you, Chara. The Rigases. You'll still need to lead them."

"Right." Unsteadily, Chara returned to her feet. She regarded Lysander and Daphni, before turning her full attention to the mind-fogged Lilica. "Please...look out for her. I don't know...how busy I will be in the coming days, or weeks. If I cannot be there for her as often as I'd like..." she reached over to brush the damp hair out of the dark mage's eyes, "do me this kindness. The same goes for Alster. And," she sighed, "Elespeth. I will try to get some rest, Lysander. But there are other matters for which I must attend. It...it never ends, I suppose." With a defeated shrug of her shoulders, Chara walked out of the infirmary, accompanied by the guards that had entered with her. There was no time for grief, no time for regressing into childish wants and desires. She had completed a task, for better or for worse. Had done all that she could do to save the life of her beloved. And now...she had a broken nation to run. 

And her first decree was to throw the necromancer into the dungeons. 

Everywhere, he saw holes. The entire universe looked like a moth-eaten blanket: never uniform, all threads loosed and frayed. By the rapid flashing of a star, an infinite number of new holes appeared. Through that flash, he noticed a new connection. The world that he called home was now intertwined with a dark plane filled with gnashing beasts. The veil between those two worlds tore asunder. And the hole, the gateway from their world to his--was in his head. 

He saw them squeeze through the canyons that the Serpent had carved. They made shelter there, in Dream, in his dreams. He played host to them. They arrived in swarms, departed in swarms. Their curiosity was great, but never insatiable, seldom staying for longer than a moment. They did not dare squeeze further; he would not allow them passage past the valley he had afforded them. You can visit here, he had informed them, but if you should find an exit route out of here, out of me, you will never return home. Like your kin before you, you will be trapped in my world for thousands of years.

Home. Here. The Serpent, who would forever find communication in the damaged sectors of his mind, had said Its faltering words in agreement. No...There. No there. Bad place.

Yes. Alster agreed. This world is a bad place.

His eyes opened to daylight streaming through cracks in the roof. The sensation provided little comfort to the agonizing headache that seared the backs of his eyes, his temples, the joints of his jaws and the back of his skull. It hurt to blink, to breathe, and to swallow. His throat protested from any attempt at movement, however beneficial. Despite the toll that being conscious exacted from him, Alster carried it with him into the struggle to sit upright. He succeeded on his umpteenth try, having pushed his shoulders up against the wall while he scooted backwards. But it was during these battles with trial and error that he discovered an eye-opening truth: his entire right forearm was missing.

The arm...the hand...everything...

Then, came flooding in the memories, all at once. Stella D'Mare's destruction. His confrontation with the Serpent. The Serpent's exodus. His own dissipation into the ether. Elespeth's rescue, pulling at the magic, inviting it into her own body...

"Elespeth." His voice came out in little more than a croak. In the corner of his eye, he saw her in the cot beside him. Pale. Bruised. Hooked up to tubes. Sunken, like an indentation in the bedsheets. But she was breathing. Alive. 

With all of his strength, he stretched his left arm towards her cot. His fingertips made contact with her chest. He felt her heartbeat. It was sick and bloated, overwhelmed by the extra work required for pumping. Closing his eyes, he searched for the tangle of residual magic that had hardened around her insides. He could sense that much of it had been removed, but there was still a vestige that she had trapped in the scramble to save his life. Concentrating, he untangled the knot, and pulled the magic back inside himself, where it belonged. But, instead of making him nauseated with heat and chills and ague as before, it seemed to...heal him, somehow. His headache lessened, and the rawness of his throat soothed until it was nothing more than a scratchy annoyance.

Had he released enough magic in his making of the Serpent's portal? Enough to dispel the sickness that was killing him? 

"That should help you recover," he told Elespeth's unconscious form. "...Thank you. As always...thank you."

For the most part, Elespeth's week-long sleep was dreamless, albeit solid for the time that it took her to recover. There were times that she thought she was conscious; when they submerged her in cool water to bring down her temperature, part of her mind was convinced she was caught in the snow with the coming of winter. Other times, when her fever spiked, she feared she might have been seated too close to a fire, with no way to escape. But when equilibrium and homeostasis finally stabilized in the Atvanian warrior's body, and for the last three days of her slumber, she felt absolutely nothing.

It was on day 8, following the Serpent's return to its own world, that Elespeth Tameris finally opened her eyes, with only the vaguest of memories of what had come to pass. For several solid minutes, she didn't even realize she was awake; not until she tried to move her body, and the stiffness and pain in her limbs, her back, and her neck made her cringe. "What..." Her voice was hoarse, almost non-existent, and her throat felt as though it were lined with blades. Despite that Daphni and the other healers had managed to keep her body minimally hydrated, filling her veins with the good and draining them of the bad, she was so desperately thirsty that she didn't even think twice to try and stand, to find a source of water, despite the weakness of limbs that she hadn't used in nearly a week. Her arms trembled as she pushed herself into a sitting position, and she forced her unused leg muscles to carry her weight as she tried to stand--only to almost immediately fall forward.

Fortunately, someone caught her before she could hit the floor and do more damage to her body. And she recognized his stature, and his smell, almost immediately. "...Alster." Her words were a sigh of relief against his neck, as she leaned her wait on his shoulder. "Water..."

No sooner did he help her sit back on her cot, that he placed a tin of cold water in her shaking hands. She did not hesitate to down the contents of the tin in a single breath, heedless of the drips that escaped the sides and dampened her neck and her tunic. The warrior did not put the tin down until it was empty, and her head felt clearer. "What... has happened? Is the Serpent... is it gone, Alster?" Elespeth waited patiently while the Rigas caster, who only appeared slightly more stable and well than she was, to recount what he could recall of the ritual that he had performed to send the Serpent back to its dimension. About when he was halfway through, however, the remainder of the words fell deaf on his ears. She had taken note of his arm; the only arm holding her, and the absence of the arm that should also have been holding her. At a complete loss for words, she touched his right shoulder, and expelled a soft sigh for the loss of his limb. "No more magic," she whispered, and shook her head. "Not... like that. Not ever again, lest there be nothing left of you... do you promise?"

And that went for her, as well. Though she had not eaten in eight days, the former knight's body felt heavy, in her core and in her limbs, as though something had been weighing it down for far too long. Alster's magic... had his magic done this to her? How much had he had to release to ensure his longevity? "How long... has it been?" She asked hesitantly. Part of her was not sure that she wanted to know. "Is Stella D'Mare... is the city... salvageable? Did many people die? What of Chara, and your deceased Rigas leader? And what... what can I do to help?"

Elespeth was not the only one to have awoken in a stabilized state. Unlike the Atvanian warrior, Lilica had been awake for some time--or, at least, relatively, so. On the first few occasions since being torn free of the curse that was supposed to take her life, the dark mage had come out of the drug-induced sleeps and trances just as hysterical as she had when they were administered. After a couple of days of those stupors, in a rare, lucid moment of her hysteria, Lilica begged them to stop--no more injections, no more sleep. In fact, it was as if she were absolutely terrified to sleep, and had soon begun to demand tea to help her stay awake. Simply relieved that something quelled her hysterics, many of the healers were happy to oblige--at least, for the first few days. But when it became evident that Lilica had not slept for quite some time, actively avoiding it by sipping on tea and staring into space, they began to worry, and as such, began to refuse.

Their well-meaning refusals did not last for long, however. For, worse than Lilica's hysteria, the cthonic caster had begun to become angry--and it was not long before her requests became demands. "Then let me leave!" She shouted at one of the healers one evening, heedless that there were sick and injured who needed their rest. "If you won't heed a simple request, then let me leave this place, and I will take care of myself!"

"You are far from suitable to take care of yourself right now." One of the healers argued, folding her arms across her chest. "Mentally and physically. And you will not see the end of this place if you do not allow yourself to rest."

"I have had enough of rest! Get me what I want, or I will gladly go and find my own herbs to brew my own tea. Don't think I don't have the means to try!"

It was only due to the fact that everyone was so tired, so over-worked, and spread so thin, that they did not have it in them to argue. Against her better judgement, the healer brought Lilica the stimulant beverage that she so desired; less than usual, but if it would shut her up for the evening and ensure that she cooperated in eating and staying hydrated, then it was at least a means of harm reduction.

Still, she would have no one touch her. So afraid was Lilica of her own presence, and her magic's own potential around so many sick and vulnerable people, that it gave her anxiety to be in their presence--particularly that of Alster and Elespeth, who had evidently gone through all hell and back. It would require so little to incinerate every living being, to deplete their life source from the inside out... and she was no longer sure if she could control it. It was a nightmare; a dream. None of that was real. The Sybaian healer, among many others, had tried to reassure the dark mage of this time and again; and, perhaps, they were right. But now the potential disaster had planted its seed deep in Lilica's mind, scarring the part of her psyche that had once reassured her. There was no safe haven, anymore; there were no good dreams. Only glimpses and flashbacks of what she really was, of her true nature.
She had never succeeded in rising above her darkness; it was impossible, for someone born so inherently chthonic. What she had assumed had healed, had only managed to mask itself and hide in the recesses of her being, until she had summoned it all over again, had killed Adalfieri, and...

And then there was Lysander.
Days had passed since Lilica had seen Chara. Just a vague recollection of the Rigas caster's voice, through her own screams and hysterics, but not once did she request her presence. This was in part due to the fact she was lucid and rational enough to realize how busy she must be, in picking up the pieces of the broken city, salvaging what was left of its potential and its glory. But that was not the only reason; and in fact, she was almost glad that Chara was keeping her distance, for fear that if she ventured too close, the Rigas caster would dissolve in her mere presence. I cannot witness that again. I cannot risk her death. I'm not a murderer... I am not a murderer! I don't... want to be a murderer anymore. Unfortunately, that had not stopped Lysander from checking in on her almost every day, and it was a blessing just as much as it was a curse.

Lilica did not have to look up from her steaming mug of tea to know that Chara's father had paid her a visit. The chair that had been fashioned for him, one with wheels to allow him mobility since his legs had gone lame, always announced his presence. And despite her protests and her warnings, he would not seem to keep away. Chara must have asked him to check in on her frequently in her absence. "If you are going to tell me that I need to sleep, or that I shouldn't be afraid of touching anyone... please save your breath. I'm tired of hearing it." Putting the porcelain mug to her lips, she took a long sip of the hot, bitter liquid. A this point in time, its potency had all but worn off completely in keeping her alert, and rather, it just barely staved off sleep. But paired with her willpower, she still managed to stay awake--because she knew what she would see, what she would relive, if she fell asleep. "I'm tired of hearing I'm not dangerous. Look at what I did to Adalfieri. Look at..." She swallowed a lump in her throat, and hugged her arms, which over the days had become red and irritated with the occasion half-moon scabs caused by her fingernails. The biting pain inflicted by her own hands helped to stave off the desire to sleep.

"How... how is Chara?" She ventured, knowing she asked every day, and that the answer was always the same: busy. Of course she was. What she really wanted to know, and what was always left unsaid, was whether or not Chara could forgive her. For what she had done to Adalfieri. For what she had done to her father. What she could still to anyone, at any time, regardless of her intentions. "Stella D'Mare... is the city salvageable? Enough to rebuild?" That last question, however, felt so odd on her tongue, and she couldn't quite place why. This is not your home; it never was. Where had she heard that, before? Or was it merely another manifestation of guilt from the depths of her sleep-deprived mind? Regardless... it was true, for so many reasons.
After all... how could she establish this place as her home, when not only was it in ruins, but she did not trust herself to be in the mere presence of the one person who truly made it feel like home for her?

Since laying hands (rather, a hand) on Elespeth the morning he broke his coma, Alster used the days preceding her awakening to come to terms with all that had happened. First, there was the obvious. Stella D'Mare, as he was afforded an opportunity to see from his sanctioned walks around the estate, was a sorrier sight by daylight than it was in darkness. His home, the one he'd cursed in the bitterness of his childhood, the one that he'd missed when away, the one he'd derided for its elitist behavior and throwaway wealth, was gone. It was a hollowed out shell. The Serpent had burst from Its egg, and the egg did not break clean. It had exploded, sending shrapnel from the center to every edge of town. Only the Rigas estate was spared the devastation. And, due to its beacon status among the annihilation, the grounds had become the city. 

Although Chara, the other Rigases, and the healers protested his help, citing reasons that conveniently omitted the loss of his arm, Alster lent his assistance in small ways, running errands for Daphni and the other Mollengardian healers in the infirmary. Keeping busy was the distraction he needed, for it was not only Stella D'Mare's sorry state that plagued him. 

There was the matter of his body--and his mind. 

Hands were the pride of every caster, and doubly glorified by the Rigases. They represented dexterity, versatility, complexity in spell-forms, magical adeptness, status, and skill. Despite his knee-jerk distaste for much of his family's traditional values, he would be a hypocrite if he didn't admit that the loss of his dominant arm had hit him hard. It was akin to the loss of his celestial magic, though he had faith, however little, that it would reawaken. And it did. There was no regrowing an arm. Not in the celestial discipline, anyhow. And short of regaining it from skin, flesh, and blood, would he even be able to project magic from an artificial limb--or learn to wield it from a stump? 

Perhaps even more devastating was that the blood oath scar, the physical proof of his and Elespeth's union, was forever gone.

He must have been quite a sight to the Rigases who paid him a visit or caught a glimpse of him from the infirmary window. His family's treatment of him, in the wake of the Serpent's exodus, was still mixed. But instead of overwhelming hostility and mockery, they regarded him with...pity. And he didn't know which extreme was worse. 

And his mind...he didn't even want to think about what was lurking in his subconscious. It was like an itch he could not scratch. Like parasites in his brain. He knew he was the host to visitors from another plane---from that plane. The Serpent's home. But what did that even mean? 

Fortunately, he did not have to think about the implications for long. He returned to Elespeth's bedside in time to see her awaken and attempt to walk on her own. He caught her, somehow, ushered her back to bed, and offered her a tin of water from the end table. 

Joining her on the cot, he listened to her rapid-fire questions and attempted to answer each one. 

"The Serpent is gone from this world," except It still lives in my head, he wanted to say, but there was no use frightening her on something that even he could not comprehend. For all he knew, he was going mad. It wouldn't be the first time. "I accounted for the size of the portal; something I could conceivably open with my magical output, and my body limitations." He hid the remains of his dominant arm behind his back. "It was no bigger than me, in the end. But it did the trick. I managed to convert the Serpent into pure energy, and suctioned It inside the portal. That display of magic...it really should have killed me. This," he flinched at her touch, but moved his arm for her to see, "is nothing, compared to what should have happened. You really risked a lot out there...almost dying in my place. It seems like you're always preventing me from dying nowadays." A half-smirk formed on his lips. "Your prevention rate is outstanding. And your endurance...holding that much of my magic inside of you for so long...I..." he lowered his eyes to the floor. "I am really sorry about that." He reached for her oath scar hand with his only hand, and gave it a squeeze. "No more of that magic," he promised, "if I can at all help it. Not like it will happen anytime soon." He hid his insecurities with a loud, belting laugh. "I'm pretty compromised, as it is. And who knows how much of my magic I lost in that ritual." 

He expelled his nervous energy with a sigh, releasing her hand lest he squeeze it too tightly. "It's been eight days. I've been awake for four of them. Stella D'Mare...doesn't look to have fared well, if I'm putting it lightly." He motioned to the infirmary: at the new patients and the new healers. "We've opened our gates to everyone in need. It's difficult to tell how many we've lost. Some have fled inland, into Andalari. We have aid here from Mollengard: healers and soldiers alike. Some of the leaders are in talks with Chara and the council right now. There are plans for building shelters and gathering any and all resources that haven't been destroyed. I don't know much else. They won't let me contribute."

"Plus, I was given a supplementary task, from Chara herself." His eyes traveled to a cot across the room. Lilica sat, crumpled up sheets tossed in a heap beside her in protest. Lysander was in a wheeled chair, facing her. "We're all keeping a watch on her. They shattered her dream world in order to wake her from the death-curse she placed on herself. She's doing about as well as you'd expect." He half-inspected the stub of his arm, wincing as he touched a too-tender spot of cauterized flesh. "She won't let me near, so we're all giving her a little space. Lysander and Chara are the only ones who have gotten close." His blue-green eyes flicked back to Elespeth. "You should rest, El. I know you won't, but...You can help me around the infirmary, but only if you make sure to stop and recover when you're feeling weak." 

Lysander knew he had some sway over the recovering dark mage. He had not realized his significance to her was that great--until he saw the dream version of himself, who, thanks to the Mollengardian healer's influence, was dispatched in a manner that felt all too real to him. Outside of her dream world gone awry, he had escaped Lilica's destructive magic, and was fortunate to survive with only his legs impaired. And it was for this reason that he maintained proximity to the chthonic caster at all. He had already experienced her magic's fury, and survived. Yes, he was a constant reminder of her predatory power, but he was also a reminder of her humanity. She could have finished him off, but she did not. She realized what she had done, and prevented the miasma from spreading beyond his legs. He was living proof that, even when her mind was bent on destroying, she had enough sense to recognize friend from foe. Perhaps that was why he felt comfortable sitting beside her, and why he felt confident that she would not succeed in chasing away him away. Her guilt would not allow her to lash out at him with an unreasonable amount of hostility, in fear that she'd hurt him a second time. 

He rolled beside her cot with his new chair, already preferring its mobility over that of the clunky palanquin the late Adalfieri favored so much. With the wheels, he still had agency, a self-sufficiency that would be lost if he relied on others just to move him from one room to another. 

Without warning, he pried Lilica's tea kettle from its serving table, and poured himself a generous amount with a special cup he kept hidden beneath the folds of his tunic. 

"Believe me, I can't sleep these days, either, so don't mind me if I steal some of your sleep-defying tea." He helped himself to a loud, unrestrained slurp. "No one here can sleep, after everything that's happened. You may have the best excuse, but believe me, you're not the only one who no longer finds relief behind closed lids." He tapped his fingers against the flower pattern of his own porcelain cup. It sported a crack down the middle, owing to the tremors that had signaled the beginning of Stella D'Mare's demise, all those long days ago. 

"And ooh no. I never said you weren't dangerous. Need I remind you, I was of the responsible party who locked you in a chamber for months precisely because you were a risk. But do you know what? We're surrounded by dangerous people. And even more incomprehensible--do you know who saved the remains of this city? Dangerous people. You, and Alster, and even your necromancer half-brother. Correct me if I'm wrong...but you did disconnect the Serpent from Its chthonic source, did you not? It could have obliterated us all, but we all stood a fighting chance. You bought us time, and protection. So," he pointed out his pinky finger as he took another sip from his cracked cup, "dangerous people do not always equate to evil. And say what you will about Adalfieri, but he provoked you into an attack. If anything, it was a suicide. And I," he shrugged, "am a fool who got caught in the crossfire. That's my loss, not yours."

"Chara, as you expect, is busy," he offered, punctuating his predictable news with a nod. "She's trying to broker an armistice with Andalari. Their nation is devastated after losing its seat of power, and many of their soldiers. They are all, so far, in agreement. But Andalari will only host our refugees if they pledge their loyalty to them. Mollengard has been providing us with food and supplies, and they're gathering building materials from the rubble as we speak. They've brought with them a cadre of capable earth mages, so rebuilding--a temporary city, at least--seems feasible. We still have access to our aqueducts and wells; they, fortunately, survived the devastation. And your half-brother," he raised an eyebrow, "has been especially useful. Chara threw him into the dungeons, but one of our own spoke for him, so now he's been at work dismantling the Andalarian army of undead that's still shambling around the rubble. All in all," he leaned back in his chair, "events are taking a favorable turn--as favorable as we can ask for, at this juncture. But Chara promises to see you, soon. She doesn't want you to think that she's abandoned you."

Of all of the presences who had attempted to force themselves upon her, Lilica could easily say that Lysander was of the least abhorrent of them. Yes, he checked in on her religiously, to make small talk, or even just to be quiet company, if he could not get a word out of her. He was honest and frank, he did not embellish the conversation or taper it to what she wanted to hear... but, most importantly, he was genuine. And while his visits were partly out of necessity, she knew, he did not seem to mind them, regardless of her behaviour or how she closed herself off to the world, lately. As what would be expected of someone his age, one who had lived and experienced far more than she had, he was, also, right most of the time. Dangerous did not equate to evil. And so much of their small camaraderie--her, Alster, even Elespeth, and for all intents and purposes, Chara--were dangerous. And each and every one of them had been instrumental in saving Stella D'Mare.

So, then... why was she so overburdened with the heavy feeling of guilt?

"Yes. I tried to trick the Serpent." She acknowledged after a long pause, absently picking at the frayed fibers of her one lovely tunic. "I offered it my chthonic energy, and when it was within my reach... I shut myself down, along with the Serpent's ability to expand its power. I rendered it weaker, because, yes, I wanted to be of help for something that I was partially responsible in causing... even if I was only Adalfieri's pawn for his own purposes. But... also..." There was no avoiding the truth; not when Lysander had seen it for himself. Not when Chara had seen it for herself. "It gave me an excuse to... cast the curse on myself--again. I was under the same spell, a long time ago, but I was younger and less informed. Instead of dying, I slept for over 70 years, in a complete stasis as I lived an imaginary life in my mind." She could not remember much of that time, not since she had asked Chara to destroy its remnants in order to sever herself from its draw; in order to move on. But, unfortunately, moving on proved more difficult than she had thought. "I wanted to be free of myself... so that I could be happy. Even if it meant death, it was such a... a welcome idea, that the last vestiges of my life would be lived in a dream of everything I ever wanted. That I could live the impossible, even if only for a short period of time..." As tears began to pool in her eyes, she blinked them away. "I... that also served my motivation. My own selfishness. Because I am aware of this reality and all of its futility, and I wanted to defy it. So I tried to take my life, and merely in the process did I also manage to do a last service to Stella D'Mare.

"So do not hail me the same way that you do Alster, or Elespeth, or even Chara. I'm dangerous, and I am not a hero." Her hands, unsteady as they lifted her mug of tea to her lips again, struggled not to tremble. "I am a coward who just wanted to run away." And, in a lot of ways... I still do.

But, of course, someone still served as her anchor. And even if the life she had dreamed with Chara would never come to pass, all for political logistics and the possibilities and impossibilities within Rigas society... she was not ready to walk away from her.

The reassurance that the new leading Rigas in power--as much as Chara could be, at this point--had not entirely forgotten about her came as but a small comfort. It was not as though she could hold Chara. She could not touch her, couldn't kiss her, for the devastating fear that her nightmare would become reality, and her beloved would dissolve before her very eyes. "If anyone can rebuild this city... then I know she can." The dark mage sighed into her cup of tea which, to her dismay, was already nearly gone. With her free hand, she absently scratched the now faded bruise on her other arm, where the strange, foreign language had been scrawled in a few collective words. With much else on her mind, she hadn't paid it much heed since awakening, though did find it strange. At the back of her mind, she had chalked it up to the remnants of whatever horrible means the Sybaian and the others had used to tear her out of her own self-induced curse. No one had brought it up, and no one had asked; as far as she was concerned, it was a non-issue.

"If... you happen to see Chara," she began, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Let her know... that I miss her. And that I am sorry." For anything. For everything.

Perhaps it needn't have been said, but it was something that had weighed on her mind for quite some time. Surely, the haughty and entitled Rigas caster must have felt anger, or at the very least, betrayal, for the fact that she had left her side to take matters into her own hands. Certainly, she had helped to weaken the Serpent, which had been a boon to a city in danger. But... she had also left without saying goodbye. Without saying anything at all--out of necessity, of course, for Chara never would have allowed her to leave. But had roles been reversed, Lilica would have been wounded and near incapacitated with hurt and betrayal. She could hardly imagine what someone as emotionally volatile as Chara had thought; or what she thought of the situation, now.

In all honesty, it might have been easier if the Rigas caster were angry with her.

When at last Lysander left, and Lilica remained the only one awake as the night crawled on. With the shadows on the wall her only source of entertainment, she struggled to imagine, to remember, what it was she had lost. Whatever it was that had been there, before she had been ripped from the depths of her own curse... But it was futile, for every time she sought to remember, she was greeted with the raw horror of what she had done. Even if it had not been real; even if it were only a dream, the very principle of destroying the lives of the only people she had ever loved ate away at her sore heart. Again and again, she watched Chara die at her own, murderous hands, when just moments before they had been so, so happy... And then, Lysander. As if everything she touched was cursed. As though she, herself, were a curse...

But haven't I always known this?

Of course, her magic had not flared up of sorts since her awakening, and no one had gotten hurt, but that was beside the point. She still fretted, was still terribly aware of her own potential, and all her delirious mind could mull over was just how she was going to move on, despite those visions lingering at the back of her mind. To say Lilica had ever been 'normal' would be a flat-out lie, but just when she thought she had achieved some semblance of normal, some vague idea of peace... she was once again awoken to the fact that it was fictitious and impossible. There simply was no room in her black hole of a life for a moment of peace. I destroy everything I touch. Anything, anyone I reach for will be gone. Because I don't deserve to touch it...

The heavy doors of the infirmary creaked open, and Lilica started like a skittish, feral animal, hackles raised and fingers digging into her skin, scabbed and dented from her own nails. She didn't know who she was expecting to see; the Sybaian, perhaps, trying to urge her to sleep yet again? But Daphni Adela was herself sound asleep, exhausted and spent by the work heaped upon her aching shoulders. No, standing in the doorway, she could make out a halo of pale hair in the darkness. Just a few steps away from the door, and there was no longer any mystery as to who the visitor was. The dark mage could feel the familiarity from across the room.

Lilica looked on with caution as Chara approached. She, too, appeared exhausted, but not the state of appearing downright ghastly; not like her. There was never a moment when Chara Rigas was not elegant; even in her worst of states, physically or emotionally, the woman always seemed to glow with Rigas confidence and pride. There was never a time that Lilica hadn't thought she was beautiful. It would take more than being overworked, more than her own beloved city nearly crumbling to the ground, to contend with the haughty blonde's poise. "You realize," the chthonic caster began, her voice hoarse and weak from the utter lack of strength for inflection, "that it would be much... much easier on the both of us, if you were furious with me. If you... hated me." Because then, maybe then, if I am not loved... I am not a danger to those whom I love.

"Aren't we all cowards who tried to run from our duties?" Lysander fingered the crack in his cup as he looked at the tepid liquid within, as if to scry for information. "I ran from my duties as a father, if you remember. I can't judge you for your selfish decisions, even if they amounted to heroism in the eyes of Stella D'Mare's survivors. But," he paused at length to down the remains of his tea, "I can still be angry with you, for Chara's sake." He slammed the cup on the counter beside the tea kettle. It rang like a slap to the face. The force was strong enough to fracture it more completely. The crack continued to the other side, adding a symmetry of the now unsalvagable piece. 

"You escaped from this world so you could run away with an imperfect version of Chara, and then die. Am I not wrong?" Though his voice was calm, it was a mere facade. His fingers tensed on his arm rest, digging into the soft wood. "Of course Chara would find a method by which to save you from your own folly. Because she doesn't believe that we should shirk our responsibilities to each other. Or break our promises. You broke that promise with my daughter, and traded her for an illusion. For causing her much distress," his voice took on a porcelain-cold edge, "...that is something I won't so easily forgive." 

The days following Stella D'Mare's destruction were long, exhaustive, and stretched on to infinity. Much work was to be had, and even fathoming or measuring the term "much work" was so daunting to imagine that Chara chose not to imagine it at all. She would fail before she even began. Instead, she chose to view one problem at a time. But even this approach abandoned her when she needed to contend with...the Rigas council. 

It was an inheritance that all Rigas Heads, or prospecting ones, anyhow, were given. They were advisors, five in total, and they lorded power over her position, which, to her unending frustration, was not entirely autonomous. Any decision made was required by Rigas law to pass to the council's vote. If three out of the five voted favorably, they could proceed with the measure in question. But if the majority were in disagreement, they needed to rectify or even scrap the measure until some form of compromise could be obtained. 

"Is this necessary, right now?" she argued, when they argued her idea to request for Andalarian aid. "We need every hand possible, and this territory is still precious to Andalari. If we allow them to return and recover their lost, they will help to clean and provide for our city." 

"Then we are only repeating history, Chara," Cyprian said, with a faux, over-indulgent patience that infuriated Chara with every one of his hand gestures or words. He always enunciated each word, slow and precise, as if relaying the information to a child. "Do you not recall what Andalari has done to us in the past? This war? What occurred here just a scant few days ago?"

"Yes, Cyprian. I am aware," she said, trying to hold the bite in her tongue. "But is relying on Mollengard any better? At least we know Andalari more intimately. We know what they want, what they've suffered and lost, and how vulnerable they are as of present. Tell me...what do we know of Mollengard?" 

"So are you saying to dismiss their aid?"

"No." Chara sighed. "I am saying that we pull aid from different sources so we're not beholden to them."

"So then we'd be doubly or even triply indebted to whatever additional nations we ask! Do you not see the simple economics behind this decision!?" He threw his hands to the table and stood up. Chara, already standing, crossed her arms. Do not engage, she warned herself. Do not fall to his bait... "Mollengard is already here. They are active and more than efficient in their contributions to Stella D'Mare. Our Lordship Adalfieri--may he rest in peace," he crossed himself, "made these arrangements, with our approval. Do you defy the wishes of your predecessor?" 

"I am challenging them, yes. Keep in mind, as you've read from the letters addressed to me prior to his death, that our Lordship only allied with Mollengard so that they would be cowed by the Serpent's power, and regard us as a city not to be trifled with or antagonized."

"Well, now we no longer have that Serpent's power to fall back on--no thanks to your unfaithful betrothed!"

All civility sloughed from Chara in an instant. She uncrossed her arms, and balled her hands into fists. "Are you implying that we should have allowed the Serpent to run rampant, destroying more lives, more homes, so that we'd have an edge on Mollengard!?"

"I am saying that Alster could have controlled the beast, as per our Lordship's plan!" 

"Because that was certainly feasible, Cyprian!" she said derisively. "We should bless the heavens tirelessly for the result that we've cinched for ourselves. We could have fared far worse."

"I do not think you understand politics as well as you think," Cyprian said, his voice returning to its infuriating condescension. "Be aware of your place, Chara. It is only by our grace alone that you stand in this position as temporary head. We will not forget your leadership in our time of greatest need, but do not forget where you should place your gratitude." He leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands across his lap. "I am opposed to our request for Andalarian aid." He looked to the other four council members, and their muttered their agreements, with apologies to Chara.

Never had she wanted to murder a man more than Cyprian, at that moment. Or the rest of the council, for that matter. Depose them all, and she could rule the Rigases as a dictatorship. At the very least, she could unseat each and every one, and replace them with far more capable hands. 

She seethed for the remainder of the day, blasted magic at an already burn-scorched wall in the hollows of a fallen building, and screamed into the sleeve of her dress. But as she calmed, she realized, with spreading guilt, that in her preoccupations with Stella D'Mare and her newfound leadership role, she had been neglecting Lilica. She had thrown herself head-first into politics, into reconstruction, into alliance building, into edicts and paperwork and city-planning, and she did so with a gusto that was sure to distract her from the crippling truth she left behind in the infirmary: she didn't want to see Lilica. It was all too much, too soon. She was not ready to face the implications behind the dark mage's motives, did not want to unpack her mental state, or deal with her own culpability. Any momentum she had gained over the last handful of days would all be for naught. She'd only return to that night when she believed she lost who mattered most...what mattered most. 

I can't go back there.

...But I must.

She crept inside the infirmary that evening, making certain to balance on the balls of her feet so as not to disturb the sleeping patients. But she did not make it far before the very object of her visit had startled to life. Even in the dark, Chara recognized her movements, and headed straight for her, making a gentle shushing sound all the while. 

She did not dare use a light spell, preferring to regard this broken and battered woman with as little of it as possible. Certain that Lilica wished for the same kind of anonymity in the dark, they remained in shadow. To see her fully illuminated, exposed to the scars of her body, her frazzled hair, the deep-set haunt of her dark eyes...it would be more than what she could handle, at that moment. 

Slowly, she sat down at the foot of Lilica's bed, fiddling with a diamond-studded ring on her finger. "I am too exhausted to be furious," she admitted, with a sigh. "That does not mean that I am not, underneath all of this...confusion. That's what I feel more than anything, Lilica. I am confused." She spun the ring around in swift circles. "I am confused because you helped save Stella D'Mare, but did so in the most foolhardy of ways--one that would guarantee your death. Not only that, but it guaranteed you a pleasant dream...with some half-formed version of me. And that...I won't lie, but that hurts, Lilica. It really does." She hunched forward in her seat, atypical for someone who always sat with straight-backed perfection. "Why did you want to run away from me? Help me to understand." Her eyes filled with tears. "And then I can be properly furious."

She deserved Lysander's ire; in fact, she deserved far worse than it, even, and she perhaps sought to encourage it. That self-defeatist, self-loathing shadow that loomed over her frail form wanted to be hated for what she had done, what she could do, and what she did not do. Had she any ounce of self-forgiveness, Lilica could had chalked it up to the sheer futility of the situation that she had faced. Her chthonic energy was responsible for the Serpent's ultimate awakening; she was culpable, and though she had been tricked, was still arguably the reason that Stella D'Mare had almost been completely demolished. Had she not done anything at all, but remained at Chara's side as the Rigas woman struggled to lead her people, would Alster and Elespeth have successfully subdued the Serpent? Had the Beast just that fraction more of power, without her interference, would it have destroyed them? There had been no way for her to know then, and she would never know, now. So it had come down to a judgement call: remain static and culpable, or take action in some futile pursuit of redemption.
Either way, it seemed she had been at risk of losing Chara and any hopes for their future, forever.

And, in a way, she had been prepared for that. If she could not have a future with the woman she loved, then she had decided it wasn't worth continuing on this meaningless journey that was life, when she was a walking apocalypse waiting to happen. And of course, like the coward that she was, she had drawn on the very curse that had failed her so many years ago... only this time, it would have worked. Would have, but didn't. And now, she was to be held accountable for something else, entirely.

The chthonic caster had no excuse. Everything that Lysander had said was right, to an extent. And no amount of explaining away her intentions could soothe his ire, or repair what she had managed to damage between herself and Chara. But the Rigas caster... she still deserved an explanation. It was perhaps all that Lilica could offer, at this point. "If it is any consolation: your father is quietly furious with me, on your behalf." Her voice felt raw and atrophied, having not used it in the long hours since Lysander had departed, leaving her in the chill of her own self-induced loneliness. "I will not deny anything. I did run away; I wanted to escape, to die. But... but not in pursuit of some incomplete version of you. No one and nothing could ever hold a mirror to you, Chara." She absently picked at the loose threads of the knitted quilt that had been draped over her legs. It did little to stave off the cold.

"I thought... so briefly, when I was still incarcerated, I thought that everything would be alright. Alster helped me. He helped me to heal the open wounds left over from the early years of my childhood, and everything felt right, after that. I really, truly thought I was transformed, free of myself, free of my darkness... And then, your esteemed leader put that illusion to rest." The muscles in Lilica's jaw went taut. Was this Adalfieri's fault? No, far from it. He could not create what was not already there; he had merely capitalized on her own predisposition to be consumed by darkness, by hate. She might have been a pawn, but she was no less culpable. "When I saw what I had done to him... to your father, who had been trying to help me escape, I was overcome with doubt. Doubt that being near you was at all good for you. Suspicion that I would only bring you down or... or hurt you. Worse than you are hurting, now."

Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she heaved a sigh of a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and looked up into the tear-filled eyes of a woman who otherwise seemed so strong. "I'm too great of a coward to die by agonizing means; that's why I went about it all the way I did. I knew that by removing myself from the picture, the Serpent could not siphon my dark energy, but I... I wanted to go peacefully. Though I did not know that you might be the last thing that I see." She bit the insides of her cheeks, hoping that the pain would stave off the ache in her heart. "My control over such a curse as what I cast upon myself ends at its casting. No one can control the dream that is shows you; but I hoped. Inadvertently... I hoped that I would see you, Chara. Because I knew I would be able to go in peace if the last thing I saw was the one person I've ever loved--and who dared to love me."

Lilica lapsed into silence, then, at a loss for further words. The tears in Chara's eyes were punishment enough for what she had done. "Chara." Her name was a sigh of remorse, and an apology, all at once. Her hands trembled in her lap. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness... and perhaps I shouldn't have it. I can't close my eyes without seeing you... without seeing what I did--what I could do, even without meaning to..." That image of Chara withering and disintegrating beneath her touch, how her mere presence had consumed everything... It killed her, on the inside. But perhaps not as much as it killed Chara to know that she had run away from her, only to end up with an illusion of her. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, or that of your father's. Or anyone's, for that matter. But... I've been enough of a coward, of late. So..." Swallowing against the terror of her own paranoia, with Chara's death at her hands replaying over and over in her head, Lilica lifted her cold, trembling hands to take Chara's into their embrace, as she leaned forward, her pale lips brushing against the Rigas woman's in a whisper of a kiss. Her heart pounded, her body shook... and then, nothing bad happened. Chara did not melt before her eyes, did not wither away into nothing. She was still very real; very angry, very sad, and very real. The relief that hit Lilica was positively dizzying, enough that she had to lower her head, resting it against the Rigas woman's shoulder to stave off the sudden onset of vertigo. They were getting worse, these dizzy spells, and all because she refused to sleep. But they were still preferable to the alternative: that terror which waited for her behind closed lids.

"Chara... you are my paradise. And my only safe haven." Lilica's throat tightened and grew warm, staving off tears. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so raw and vulnerable; she hadn't the energy to keep up her shields. Not in front of Chara. "Do not ever think for one moment that some shoddy illusion of you holds a flame to the real you. That version who was... tooperfect, too pristine, never angry or passionate. Deep down, I think I knew it, too." As soon as the dizziness passed, and she was confident that she would not fall over, Lilica righted herself as much as her small, hunched form could. "And whatever it is you need... whatever you choose to do, now, whether or not it might involve me, I will not stand in the way of your decision. I have no right to do so. But..." Pressing her thin lips together, she drew her hands away from her paramour's. "Either way, I need to get out of this... place. Your healers are driving me mad. And there are others in need of this bed far more than the likes of me."

It was true that Lilica was not the only one deprived of sleep. Daphni's work had never ceased, not for a minute in well over a week, since the city had fallen to near ruins. For when she was not busying herself with the ill and injured, she was at Elias's side, trying to keep him comfortable, trying to help in some way... but it was futile. Traditional medicines and her own means of magic would not offer him reprieve from what he suffered, and the only idea she had left, a rather drastic last resort that may or may not work at all, lay far from Stella D'Mare in unmarked lands, where an old mentor of hers resided. The trouble was, she needed to take Elias there... but he was in no way fit to travel, not by any means. So in the meantime, she gathered herbs and medicines in her downtime, sleeping so little that she was surprised she still had her wits about her--to some extent, anyway. For late that evening, as she returned from what was left of the Rigas gardens with a basket of herbs, she nearly ran headlong into someone. A familiar face, at least it seemed so, in the moonlight. Her tired eyes, rimmed with circles and darkness, took a moment to register why it was familiar. That healer from Mollengard, the one who had successfully managed to pull the dark mage out of her slumber by rather... barbarous means. Then again, who was she to judge? It was not a feat that she ever could have achieved on her own; she was no curse-breaker.

"Oh... my apologies." She bowed her head. "My eyes never seem to become quite accustomed to the darkness. Part of being human, I suppose."

She was about to ask him what brought him to wander the ruined remains of Stella D'Mare so late in the evening--or early in the morning, depending on perspective, but he beat her to the question. And she suddenly found herself at a loss for an answer that did not expose her intentions; or, rather, her feelings towards Elias. "I was collecting herbs. I hadn't time during the day... I know what I need, I cannot trust the other healers to fetch me the right quantity or quality of ingredients..." Her voice betrayed her, however, in the rapidness of her speech, and even in the darkness she could see Atli's brows furrow. She heaved a sigh of defeat. There really was no way to explain why she wasn't getting the rest that she needed, that her patients depended on to ensure she could deliver the best of her services. "Elias... has entrusted his care to me. I cannot let him down," she ventured to explain, and sounded as defeated as she probably looked. "Do not get me wrong, I don't favor one patient over any other, but he... he is not well. The illness that wracks his body is terminal, and my only means of buying him a chance at ridding himself of it forever happens to be too far for him to travel, in his condition. So..." She lifted her shoulders and let them fall in a shrug. "I am merely making do with whatever I can. Though this basket of flora will only barely take the edge off of his pain and discomfort."

Giving a shake of her head, the Sybaian healer shouldered her basket and offered Atli an almost apologetic smile. "Even the Sybaia have their limitations, it seems. I can save a person from their own mind... but not from their own body. Not always, unfortunately. I hope you do not see us as the saints that some perceive us to be. Too many have broken under that pressure, trying to live up to the impossible..."

Chara listened patiently to Lilica's reasoning, although playing such a passive role agitated all potential outbursts and admonishments, which gnawed along at the inside of her jaw, begging escape. She set it, firm and tight. Those thoughts cloyed and abraded within her, but she denied them the satisfaction of speech. She was far too tired to respond with coherent and reasonable poise, besides. Nothing would make sense, even if she did indulge her mouth to open and spew forth her vitriol. Instead, she allowed her head to spin, accepting the dark mage's pain. She closed her eyes to it, to the true agony that she was too preoccupied to address or to stop in time. But what if she was able to stop Lilica? Would the Serpent still be running rampant? Would the Rigas estate and everyone inside it, including herself, the Rigases, Alster, Elespeth...would they all have perished? 

Too many complexities were at play. She couldn't focus on anything but the immediate fears that Lilica had dredged to the surface. That life was unbearable for her. That she'd rather die than live in uncertainty. Even after Lilica's assurances that she was superior to the illusory Chara, she doubted that she was more alluring than death. To Lilica, Chara would always remain in death's shadow, and that was what she was truly up against. After all, she could not provide an end to the pain. Freedom from her poisonous magic. Release. Unequivocal acceptance and belonging among her peers. No...Chara could never fulfill Lilica's needs on such a deep, fulfilling level. It was not possible. 

Silence reigned between the two of them. Chara was seldom at a loss for words, but lost she was, her head adrift in the echoes of Lilica's words, and in the distortion of her own morose thoughts. 

That was when hesitant lips met her own. The warmth had brushed, in wanting. A sensation that seemed to arrive from so long ago. But it still felt right. Lilica belonged on her lips. It dispelled some of her inner angst. She responded with a meek press, though the reciprocation happened too late. The dark mage had broken their connection, leaning against Chara for support. No, she amended. They leaned against each other, both in need, both afraid, lost...helpless. 

She finally elected to speak. "If I did not expect to be hurt, I would not have pursued you the way that I did. I knew the risks, Lilica." A hollow little laugh rattled from within her rib cage. "Do remember, before we were together, I was in love with Alster. You could hardly call him stable or sound of mind. He had proclivities towards his own self-destruction. He always needed help. Struggled to stand on his own. Wanted so badly to die. Thought that he needed to, in order to make things right. Guilt-ridden. Self-loathing. Tortured by his magic, which posed its own dangers, not only to himself, but to others. Does any of this sound familiar to you, Lilica?" She frowned when the dark mage righted herself, a contact separation that caused Chara to slouch more severely in her seat. 

"I loved him anyway. It is no coincidence that I fell in love with you, in turn, due to some core similarities between the two of you. Of course, you are not a replacement for his affections. Maybe at first, but that is no longer the case. But I would be remiss not to mention that these similarities were the reason I began to feel close to you. I suppose it is my preference, to attach myself to the outcasts of society. And that," she sighed, "is my own damn fault. But I do not regret my choices, Lilica. I do not ever regret loving you. I still do not. I am committed to this. To us. Because I deemed it so. You cannot sway nor change my mind. But," she lowered her eyes to her ring, which she still twisted around her finger, "I will need time to...to process what you did. In the meantime, you need help. And, however long I am the overseer to this family, I will make that a possibility. The infirmary," she faltered, "I feel, is the best place for you. You are surrounded by those who are able to watch you and respond to your needs. And even if you left this infirmary...there is not anywhere else to go, Lilica. Our city is gone. The estate is what remains, and we've opened our apartments and villas to the surviving families who need it more. Mollengard is helping to build some makeshift housing units using salvaged materials, but they are not yet ready. There is only so much I am able to grant you," she concluded, with a contrite dip of her head. Slowly, she stood from her spot on Lilica's cot, glancing over her shoulder at the partially opened infirmary doors from whence she came. 

"I...I should take my leave. But before I do, I...I have a question for you." She cocked her head to one side, and looked meaningfully at the dark mage. "Who was that man? In your dream?" 

Atli spent the following days as far away from the infirmary as was conceivable. He knew it was unavoidable, considering his status as a healer, but he took up positions in the patient overflow areas, which were scattered all across the estate in individual buildings and in tents. He ran hither and thither, answering the calls that rang the loudest, doing whatever he could for the struggling populace. But all calls would inevitably lead him back to the main infirmary. Before entering, he'd always stand out of view, behind bushes or beneath the shadow of the eaves, and command himself to breathe. Once he maintained relative control over his faculties, he would slip through the doors of the infirmary and deliberately avoid the bed that the distraught dark mage occupied. He'd make wide loops, keep his head down, and will himself not to look. Never to look. After what he'd done to her mind, he refused to face that poor, broken-down woman. 

That evening, he couldn't sleep, a commonplace affliction that had only worsened since his arrival at Stella D'Mare. He threw on his clothes, left his tent, and decided to wander the gardens of the Rigas estate, the only space, he found, where he could take in some measure of peace. He loved the inviting smells of mint, of rosemary, coriander, tarragon, all sweet and spicy and sharp on his nose. 

But his midnight meanderings slowed to a stop when he encountered movement in the moonlight. Someone else was in his little haven. It was hard to tell their identity in the dark, but when they turned, and opened their mouth to speak...

"Daphni," he said, cordially enough. "What are--?" 

She filled him in on the details of her late-hour herb picking, and the circumstances behind her most pressing of matters. 

"Elias. ...He's the infirm Clematis healer...I believe? Well, we can't lose healers, especially those of that most noble Order. There are so few of them left. We healers in Mollengard modeled ourselves after some of their techniques. They are pioneers in the medical community. It would be a tragedy to lose our original progenitors. But look at me, railing my head off. My apologies." He expelled some of his excess energy with a sigh. "May I see him? I might be able to help."

At Daphni's agreement, they took a route back to the infirmary. After shaking his hands free of their nerve-induced cricks, he took a deep breath, in and out, and opened the doors. 

Not waiting for the Sybaian healer to lead, he took a circuitous path to where he believed Elias was lying. At Daphni's confirmation, he alighted by the man's bed, running tender hands along his fever-flushed skin. He checked his neck, then listened to the shallow wheeze of his breaths, the weak flutter of his lungs, the struggle just to retain a consistent rise and fall of his sunken chest.

Atli drew back from the bed and turned askance to Daphni, nodding gravely.

"He doesn't have a lot of time. He could die within the week. It's very possible. Fortunately, I have time." He withdrew a strange device from his pocket. It was made of brass, a small, solid pendant attached with a chain. Its surface was festooned with runic designs. In the center, a shard-like piece of metal jutted out at an particular angle. A little circular notch was carved into its center. 

"All of Mollengardian military carry this. It's a portable sundial and a compass. Mine, however, is not standard issue. Within it contains a potent red stone, rumored to be a droplet of crystallized blood from our goddess, Tunglara, ruler over fate and death. The stone has been kept and hidden within my family for generations, as we are the known descendants of Tunglara's son, Myskur the Sly. But you don't want to hear about my torrid family history. Only the properties of this stone. It can help one cheat death...but only for a little while." He kept his voice little above a whisper, apprehensive of any eavesdroppers in their midst. 

"This here is actually a moondial. Once you place the stone at its center, the affected party will have one full lunar cycle of extended life, free of illness or pain. But it comes at a price. After the cycle has ended, the affected will die of their affliction. The stone will only suspend this man's ails, but time will catch up with him at the end of this cycle...unless you find a cure." He offered the moondial to Daphni. "I am willing to give this to you. My family...there is little left of our legacy but this. It all ends with me, and with..." he trailed off, banishing all thoughts of his daughter. "I will give this to you, but in turn, you will teach me everything you know about your practice."

Whatever feeble hold Lilica had on her emotions began to break at the sincerity of Chara's words--probably the most sincere that she had ever heard the Rigas woman speak. To know that she had understood what she was getting into with Lilica, that she knew and accepted the risks, and that despite it all... Despite that she was dangerous and volatile and an inadvertent weapon of death and of pain, that Chara still chose to love her. That she did not regret loving her, not even for a second. Was that not what she wanted, at the core of her very being? To be so irrevocably accepted and loved by even a single person? And that this was a reality... it was overwhelming. She was too exhausted for shields and pretense, and so was Chara. This was real; this was genuine. And Chara was here, and she was angry, and she was hurt, all because she loved her.

Unbidden, tears broke free of their prison behind Lilica's eyes, and streamed down her pale face, temporarily warming her cheeks. She wanted to latch onto Chara and to never let go, but for fear of overstepping her bounds, of upsetting whatever delicate threads of their relationship still remained between them, she kept the urge at bay, and simply sat back to hear her out. Of course, her already heavy heart sank just a little at her lover's objection to moving her from the infirmary. She was, of course, well aware of the state of the city. That homes and shelter were few and far between, but even with the cold creeping in as winter time pushed towards its grand, icy entrance, she would have preferred to brave the chill than to spend another moment among the sick and injured, with healers cajoling her to rest. They had no idea what she saw behind her closed eyelids; they would not understand. And they were far beyond being of any help for her.

"Chara... you know that they can't help me, here." The chthonic caster sighed, pulling her knees to her chest. But it was a futile argument, as once Chara had made up her mind, others were hard pressed to ever change it. She had a nagging feeling that this was more about the security of knowing where Lilica was, than anything else, but after what she had done--disappearing, walking right into the hands of death... she could not blame her, and did not dare to.

And then came that question, one that she had pushed to the back of her mind, for it seemed to have paled in importance to other, more pressing matters. But there it was, that unspoken anomaly of which everyone knew (at least, those who had been present when she was torn from her own curse), but of which no one spoke. Not until now.
That man...

Lilica did not want to try to recall his face. Even at the time, when she had been so shattered with her own devastation of killing Chara and Lysander (or at least, thinking that she had), she had hardly registered the mystery person who gripped her arm, and left it bloodied, bruised, and scrawled with a strange language... On instinct, she pulled her sleeve further over her arm, covering that odd remnant of the curse that had nearly taken her. "I don't know." Came her reply several moments later, so quiet it was almost a whisper. "Or... maybe somehow, some part of me does know. But I don't want to think about it. I don't want to know. I just... I just want to be able to close my eyes again without seeing horror. I don't want to think about it anymore..." Those tears still leaked from her eyes, soaking the neckline of her tunic. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters because it wasn't real. Not real... just something I was made to see. It didn't happen..." Pulling her knees tighter against her small chest, Lilica rested her forehead upon them, repeating that mantra over and over in her head. She did not know at what point Chara had left; only that moments later, when at last she looked up again, the Rigas woman was gone. And heaviness settled upon her chest again as she pulled the woolen blanket up to her chin to stave off the chill of herself...

And against her will and her better judgement, at some point during that quiet repetition of her mantra, Lilica's trembling, exhausted body succumbed to sleep.

It was as vivid as it had been the first time. Chara's death, the spread of darkness from Lilica's fingers as she desperately tried to grasp what was left of her lover, tears streaming down her face. "No, no no no, please. Please, Chara, please..." She sobbed, falling to her knees, shaking and near hysterical. "Help! Someone help, please! I need a healer!" What she needed was a miracle, in fact, but neither that nor any healer appeared to lend her aid, leaving her alone with the death she had brought.

Until she felt a firm had upon her shoulder, and a matter-of-fact voice that rang vaguely familiar. "She isn't dead; come now, Lilica. Can you not discern what is real and what is not?"

Through tear-filled eyes, the chthonic caster looked over her shoulder at the dark figure that towered over her. Smooth black hair was carefully pulled into a ponytail, which hung to his mid back, and he was dressed in dark colours, indigos and violets and black. Dark, yet somehow, regal. And his face... It was at once unfamiliar, and yet, so painfully familiar, yet she could not put her finger on it... "Who are you? Please, you need to help--"

"Get a hold of yourself. You are victim of your own fear; look." He snapped his fingers, then, and suddenly, everything disappeared--to an extent. Darkness was rapidly replaced by simple night, speckled with stars and a full moon. The ground was no longer soaked with blood and littered with bodies, but fresh with damp grass. No sign of death and destruction anywhere. "You have been incredibly difficult to contact, and even more difficult with which to maintain contact. Let us at least converse in peace, without the carnage of your fears serving as unnecessary distractions."

"Who are you?" Confused as she was distraught, Lilica took a step away from the man, more on edge than she had been before. "Tell me who you are."

"Of course--we have never formally met, have we? Please forgive me my perpetual absence, Lilica. Existing within the plane of dreams has yielded some difficulties, however necessary it might be." With a smile, he extended a casual hand. As if there was nothing odd or suspicious about this encounter. "I am Theomyr Tenebris. And I am happy to finally speak with you."

But Lilica was not swayed, and she maintained her distance. "Is that name supposed to mean something? I don't know you. And I do not understand how you know me, or what you are doing here."

"Right... of course. You took the surname of your mother and a man that pretended to be your father. It isn't as if you knew, otherwise." Theomyr nodded, as if understanding suddenly sunk in. "What was it... Lilica D'Or, you call yourself?"

Breath caught in her throat, and heart pounding, Lilica hugged her arms close to her body, feeling unspeakably vulnerable. "Make your point, stranger. I have no time for pretense."

Arching a brow, Theomyr finally dropped his hand when it became apparent that Lilica wanted nothing to do with it. "I had hoped not to overwhelm you with information that I guarantee you are not expecting to hear... but if it is dire honesty that you want, then I'll happily oblige." Drawing an arm across his chest, he offered a noble bow. "My name and title is Lord Theomyr Tenebris, once ruler of the kingdom of Galeyn. And you..." He straightened, dark eyes surveying her as if she were some piece of art with which he was satisfied, but not entirely mesmerized by. "Your name, my dear, is Lilica Tenebris. You are, by blood, my daughter."

Ruler. Kingdom. Daughter... No. This was a trap. A trick, of some sort. Whoever this man was, he had found a way into her mind, and now he chose to exploit it by whatever means necessary. Lips pursed, Lilica took her fingernails and dug them, hard, into the underside of her wrist. "I'm dreaming. You won't exploit me, here." And she dug harder, and harder, in an attempt to wake up--

And then, just like lightning, Theomyr had her offending hand in his own, gripping her wrist tightly, a gleam in his dark eyes that suggested she was wearing on his patience. But his voice remained calm, which, for some reason, was so much worse. "You have done a lot of damage, Lilica Tenebris. You have killed and tortured, and you leave death in your wake, wherever you go--"

"Shut up! Let go of me!"

"And what if I were to tell you that you could make amends? What if I told you..." He knelt, then, to her height, like he were speaking to a child. "That you could save so, so many more than you have killed? That there are millions patiently awaiting your help, and that all you need to do is find them?"

By now, tears were building in her eyes. "What are you talking about? Let me go--just let me go!"

But Theomyr was unrelenting. "I know what you have suffered, Lilica. You are my own blood; you think that I cannot feel your pain?" With his free hand, he dared to brush away a single tear that trickled down her cheek. "I know what it is you want and need. There is a place where you belong, Lilica. With people just like you, with magic of the same nature. People who can help you come to understand your gifts, and that they do not need to be inherently destructive. That place, those people, they exist--but over a century ago, I hid it, and them. And now the kingdom of Galeyn lays dormant, and in wait of you. I can help you, Lilica, but first I need your help. To find Galeyn, and to awaken it."

It was too much, too fast, and even if Lilica had the means to reply, she couldn't find the words in time--

---not before she woke up that following morning, panting and sweating and shivering and feverish, all at once. Her throat felt raw, and she was surrounded by three different healers, which gave her pause to wonder if she had been screaming. Her head hurt, and despite the sleep, she felt far from rested... in fact, that dream--if it had, in fact, only been a dream--left her feeling more restless than before.

"It's all right--you're awake, now. It was just a dream." One of the more kindly healers assured her, resting a hand on her shoulder after she piled another blanket atop Lilica. "Everything is fine. Just wait here, and I'll get you--"

"No. I need to leave."

The older woman paused, mouth agape, wondering if the dark mage was slowly losing her mind, indeed. "Dear, you woke with a fever that has just broken. Please take the time to rest. If there is anything that I can retrieve for you, then I--"

"Vitali."

"What?"

"My brother. Vitali Kristeva. The necromancer." She spoke so quickly and with such urgency that she nearly tripped over her own words. Wiping perspiration from her brow, she took a breath to steady herself. "I need to talk to him. Please, send for him, if you will not allow me to leave."

Theomyr Tenebris... Lilica had never cared to know the details of her birth father, if that was indeed who the man in her dream had been. Someone who had never been there for her as a father was not worth her time and investigation. However... Vitali had alluded in the past that he had an inkling or two as to the nature and history of the mysterious man to whom they were both related (for better or for worse). So if there was anyone who could confirm or deny the details of what she had dreamed, then--unfortunately--it was him.

Daphni turned the moondial over in her hands, both in awe and humbled at this man's kindness. Because if this could truly grant them the time that they needed, long enough for her and Elias to travel, while rendering him well enough to do so... This was a debt that she could not possibly repay. No matter what. "Atli. When we return, and when Elias is well again... I will do all that I can to teach you what I know. Whether or not you will be adept to learn Sybaian practice, I cannot guarantee. But..." She lowered her voice, and gripped the moondial in her hand. "I know about your daughter, Atli. Vega Sorde informed me, prior to your arrival. The Sybaia have been successful in healing Forbanne in the past, and I have hope that your daughter will be among those successes. I tell you this, of course, in dire confidence."

Almost herself feeling on the brink of tears with gratitude, Daphni nodded her head. "Thank you. On behalf of me, and of Elias. This gesture will not go unrewarded."

She watched in silence as he left, and then turned her attention to the prone, dying form of Elias. One lunar cycle... With any luck, should time be on their side, they should be able to make it to their destination in approximately three weeks, should they travel by horse. This meant that Elias very well had a chance. 

Recalling the Mollengardian healer's instructions, she gingerly opened the moondial and removed the res stone of which he had spoken. And then, after placing the chain around Elias's neck, so that it hung at his sternum, she inhaled a shaky breath, and place the stone at the center of the moondial. 
And she waited.

Stella D'Mare was like a mosaic that had come apart. Variegated colors and materials littered the avenues where once they'd been pieced together into a functional radiance. Tivia walked upon those disassembled pieces: of dyed glass, clay roof tiles, painted lattices, uprooted gardens with withered stalks of herbs and flowers...A beautiful ruin. A patchwork of exquisite debris. Treasures poking out of the rubble. Priceless pots, cracked and shattered. Gilt-lined silks with frays. Broken necklaces strung up with pearls and sapphires. 

Despite her parents' protests, she volunteered as part of the clean-up team. They were responsible for sweeping up the streets, collecting salvageable materials and artifacts of worth, pulling bodies from half-collapsed buildings--and hunting undead Andalarian soldiers. Rather, Vitali helmed the latter part of the operation while the others provided support and a watchful eye, in case he betrayed them or chose to escape. 

It was through Tivia's own appeals that Chara released him from the bone-chilling, coral-lined walls of the Rigas dungeons, an area remarkably unscathed from the earthquakes. Chara had seen this as divine providence: that it meant the necromancer was fated to be kept shackled and behind bars. But Tivia pled his case. "We still need him, Chara. There are Andalarian undead littering the city beyond these walls. If we ever hope to revive Stella D'Mare, we need them gone, and he's able to undo their necromantic magic!"

"Very well," she conceded after some persistent convincing. "But you are to watch him. I place you under clean-up duty. You will report back to me at the end of the evening, immediately after your shift. Do you understand?" 

Cyprian was not pleased with Chara's assignment. "You mean to place my daughter under such toiling, trivial labors, and within distance of that vile man? I forbid it, Chara! Look at her face! And with her mind in its permanent state... do you think she is capable of anything, anymore? She fought for you and she paid the price. Leave her to her lifelong convalescence. She can do no more."

She had heard it all, not only in dreams the stars had shown her, but echoing from the lips of her mother. 

Ever since her return to Stella D'Mare, and into the arms of her parents, who were thankfully alive and safe in their own villa, she had needed to contend with their reaction to the irrevocable change that had befallen their daughter. Cyprian responded with anger, which he directed at Chara. Her mother...was inconsolable. 

"What did they do to you, my sweet Tivia?!" She cupped her hand over the burn scars, the stubbly hair, her melted eyelid, which had stretched her skin in a grotesque droop, her lips into a permanent grimace. Airlea retracted her hand as if the phantom flames had attacked her own baby-soft, porcelain skin, twisting and turning it ugly. She sobbed and fled from Tivia, locking herself in her bedchambers, as if ugliness was a disease and thus contagious. Her wails haunted the villa, and the words accompanying them were sharp, and clearly worded. 

"She cannot be my daughter! My beautiful little daughter! There is nothing left of her! She's ruined. Ruined! Why would the gods to this to me?"

Cyprian had made Tivia promise not to tell her mother that she was a star-seer. "After all, you wouldn't want to be responsible for her death now, would you? She is in too delicate a condition for anymore surprises." 

She needed to escape that villa. It was inhospitable, a stark reminder that she had changed so drastically that there was no longer a place for her within her own family. They feared her, saw her as too damaged, inside and out, meant for nothing more than a quiet life spent indoors, locked away from the world and from anyone who might, gods forbid, see her. They regarded her as a stigma that blemished their good name, especially Cyprian, who enjoyed a great deal of influence on the Rigas council. She was nothing, now, but a liability, a ghost of their daughter, come to punish them for no good reason at all. But they needed to appease her restless spirit. Maybe then, she would go away, and leave them to live the rest of their shattered lives in peace. 

So she did, but without their permission. She climbed out her window and joined up with the cleaning team. Since then, she had returned to the Rigas estate only to report to Chara. During evenings, she hid in the ruins of Stella D'Mare like a vagabond, making herself comfortable in small, hollowed out spaces in partially in-tact homes. She constructed her own bed pallets and decorated the space with broken baubles. One day, she even found a masquerade mask. It was green, threaded with gold, and bedecked along the eyes and edges with pearls and semi-precious stones. She snapped it in half, smoothed out the rough edges, and attached the mask to the burned half of her face. At least now, people might stomach the thought of looking at her. At least shecould, anyway. Mirrors were no longer as frightening, and she even kept a shattered one in her little hovel--as a reminder. 

Since the day that she spoke to Chara on behalf of Vitali, she hadn't said a word to the necromancer. She saw him from afar when the clean-up team gathered for their shift, but she kept her distance, as everyone else had. But on that particular day, when they were rifling through the hardest hit district in the city, where the Serpent had first emerged from underground, a healer came running (as best as she could on the uneven ground), to them, waving her arm around for attention.

"What is the meaning of this!?" demanded the leader of the team, crossing his arms with disapproval. "It's dangerous out here! Authorized persons only!" 

"I know," huffed the healer, struggling to catch her breath."But we have a difficult patient at the infirmary. She is favored by Chara and we must abide by her requests if they are within reason. She wishes to see the necromancer. I do not want her to cause anymore disturbances and I fear that if we do not respect her wishes, she could lash out with her dark magic. Or worse yet, we upset Chara."

"I see what you mean," mused the leader, his anger dissipating. His eyes caught the glimmer of Tivia in her mask, who was the only other being within earshot. "Tivia, go fetch the necromancer and bring him to the infirmary. I take it the two of you have some history, so you could keep him in line?" 

"I knew him from before, if that's what you mean." 

"Well, go and get him. He should be beyond those tumbled pillars. But see that this 'favored patient' is quick with him. I saw a few undead soldiers shamble up those hills over yon' and I'd like them eliminated before nightfall." 

Tivia found Vitali right where the leader had instructed her to look. She stood nearby and cleared her throat, waiting to attract his attention, in case he was stuck in deep concentration over some magic or another. Also...she hadn't known how to approach him. Though only a few days had elapsed since they communicated words to each other, the relationship between them seemed...different. She didn't know on what level they stood. He saved her life, and she, in turn, had saved his. He helped their city dispose of the undead soldiers, but whether compulsory or not, she wasn't certain. He seemed capable of leaving whenever he wanted, but he chose not to. Why, she wondered. 

But she hadn't the time to ponder. He was looking at her, now. How long had she stood there in a daze? 

"Oh, I....ah," she shifted her feet awkwardly, "...I think Lilica wants to see you. I'm supposed to take you to her, up at the infirmary. Whenever you're ready." 

Atli surrendered the moondial to Daphni, though his drawn features seemed almost to melt off his face the second his fingertips released the smooth, cold object. It was as if he had given up his own vitality, though he knew he was waxing dramatics. That stone had always been an unwelcome weight in his pocket, a reminder of the string of family tragedies which he suspected were notaccidents...and a warning that Mollengard could one day find that stone, and take it from him. It was far safer in Daphni's possession, even though he did not know her. Anywhere but in Mollengard's hands was preferable. As protector of the stone, he knew it was best utilized upon the bosom of one who needed it most. 

He allowed himself a sigh of relief as he dropped his hand to the side, and nodded. "I fear your teachings will be too late by the time you return." If you return, he wanted to add. "I can no longer wait to act. Show me what you know, anything you know, before you leave, or point me to someone who will. That's all I ask." His hands balled into weak fists. "You should know, from what you've been told, that I'm desperate. Give me hope. Any hope."

With a long, shaky exhale, he released the strain from his hands, and stepped away from her. "My apologies. I will call on you again before you leave. All you have to do with that moondial once you insert the stone into the center is have him wear it for the entirety of the cycle. You must track the moon phases and the exact time in which you activate the cycle, for he will die without any warning. That's what the dial is for. I...I wish you the best of luck. If you have any questions...I'll be sure to find you before you depart." With a hurried bow, he turned from them and hastened out of the infirmary. 

It was like waking up from a long, unsatisfying sleep. But with every minute, that dissatisfaction sloughed away from Elias like swatches of skin, revealing a red,virgin layer, all soft and rejuvenated, free of wear, of blemishes, of bloating from disease. Soon, he wasn't even aware of what had unsatisfied him. Something heavy once sat on his chest, but it had lifted. The water swimming in his lungs had drained away. Breathing came easily. A cool breeze fell upon his forehead. No sweat or uncomfortable heat clung to his body, adhering to his garments like unclean bandages. He felt...fine. It was a strange sensation, one that took some concentration to remember. Four years. He'd been sick for four years, but now...he had no idea how to feel healthy, how to respond to it. But that was, he was certain, what had washed over him, with alarming, magical rapidity. 

His eyes snapped open and he shot out of bed, testing out his newfound state of being. It had to be a hallucination. It was not possible...but it was. No headache followed his quick actions. No protest from his aching limbs, or a fit of coughs followed by gobs of blood. No feelings of suffocation, of needing to open his jaw so wide that it cracked, just to feel able to breathe. No spinning, no nausea, no hacking until tears streamed down his face. His mind returned to him, not foggy or bogged down by a paralyzing sense of tiredness, but sharp and focused. He made out distinct lines in the darkness. Shapes of sleeping patients in their beds. Of a figure standing before him. His eyes adjusted, and he saw her, there. Daphni.

"What did you do?" His words were came out in a steady stream, not faltered, breathy, or weak. It had a deep intonation, lacking rasp or rattle. He lowered his head, and noticed a heavy contraption hanging off a chain around his neck. "And what is this? Why...am I not sick anymore?" Though his inquiries were not of an accusing nature, they were filled with a touch of concern. "I think you had better explain your process."

It did not happen all at once; in fact, it took a small deal of time for whatever magic was about that stone to penetrate the arduous shell of Elias's illness. There was no flash activation, nothing to even indicate that the the stone and moondial that Atli had given her was working, at all--not for an hours, at the very least. She began to notice the difference in his breathing, above all else. It eased, became quiet and full, not rattling and laboured. Then, the colour began to return to his skin, from what she could tell in the pale slivers of moonlight that streaked his body with silver. And her heart raced with anticipation. It's working. What Atli said was true. His illness is lifting...

Dawn had just broken by the time the Clematis healer opened his eyes, at last. He sat up, confused and mystified, and rightfully so. She half-expected him to harrow in on her with resentment and suspicion, when recognition finally settled in his eyes, but... he didn't. All the same, there was evidence of grave concern. "Do not remove this--not for any reason. Do you understand?" Daphni picked up the moondial in her fingers, before gingerly laying it back upon his chest. "This is not a permanent fix, Elias. The Mollengardian healer... the only one who can be vaguely trusted, in my opinion, he appraisal of your condition was not well. You were given a week, and a week is not enough time for me to engage my last and final plan to help you. So... he gave me this, to help." Taking a seat at his bedside, she nodded towards the moondial. "You--we--have one month, exactly. You will be free of your illness until then, but should you remove this moondial, or should a month pass without my plan coming to fruition, then you will die. I... I apologize that I made such a grave and executive decision about your life without your input, Elias. But I made a promise to you, and I intend to uphold it. Besides..." A sigh passed her lips, and she shook her tired head. "With only a week left of some semblance of life... I figured that you had nothing left to lose. I can accept if you are furious with me. But I am not one to break a promise. Not one of that magnitude."

Running a hand through her hair, the Sybaian healer stood--and swayed, catching herself against the wall. It had been far too long since she had achieve a full night's rest. "I promised to provide the Mollengardian healer with some insight into Sybaian practices before we leave, so I must oblige him. But as soon as I finish, today... we will take a horse, and leave the city. If my estimations are correct, then it will take us approximately three weeks to reach our destination. We have time, but we must use it wisely."

Why Vitali had not yet left the city remained a mystery, even to him. After days of incarceration at Chara Rigas's bidding, he had been dead-set on evacuating the wretched place as soon as he saw the outside of that bone-chilling dungeon. At first, he blamed it on his injuries; fighting the undead the day the Serpent had broken free had left him exhausted and had worn on his immune system as well as his ability to heal. His back had at last scarred over, the skin raised and pink where falling upon jagged rocks and glass debris had pierced it and damaged the muscle tissue, but when it was still fresh and prone to infection, it had actually landed him a fever. That, in addition to Tivia's advocacy on his behalf, was enough to sway his release from the dungeons, but for a few days following, when he was not lifting the curses on the undead that still roamed the city, he would sleep off his pain and aliments following agonizing salt baths to cleanse the wound, not trusting the healers at the infirmary--or anyone, for that matter. And, when at last he felt his strength return, he did not use it to walk away, but rather, to participate in cleaning up the ruins of the city--but not for entirely altruistic reasons. After all, who knew what treasures might be found among the rubble? Perhaps something of which he could make use... though he had yet to find something of the sort.

All the same, it was worth the opportunity. That, and... something else was holding him there.

So as he rummaged carefully through broken glass and debris early one morning, while other denizens of the city appeared to give him a wide berth, he couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the Rigas woman, Tivia. She had a power that was worth capitalizing on, after all, and therefore had much potential to be useful. Although he hadn't spoken to her in some time, he did catch glimpses of her among the clean-up crew occasionally, though for the most part she seemed to have kept to herself. Until today, that is.

Upon getting to his feet, after kneeling in the rubble to look through piles of stone and glass, he suddenly caught sight of the ruined Rigas woman; only, she didn't look quite so 'ruined'. Not anymore. The burned half of her face was covered with an elegant green and gold mask, and she had styled her hair in such a way that it swept over the side of her head which lacked those golden locks, giving the illusion that she was not missing any hair, at all. Evidently it did not take long for her to find a way to put herself back together; it rather suited her.

"Lilica wants to see me?" Vitali arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "Are you certain you are not playing messenger to the wrong person?" But as it turned out, she wasn't, given then hesitant sincerity that he noted in her one good eye. It made him frown. What could Lilica possibly want to see him, for? She made no pretense of loathing his very existence. "Well, then. I suppose I had better see to my sister's needs. Care to accompany me, in the event that this is some sort of trap, and she means to do me in?"

A low chuckle shook his shoulders, and he made a dramatic gesture of offering her his arm in accompaniment. She did not refuse. "I enjoy and appreciate your new aesthetic, by the way." He pointed to his own face, in indication of her mask. "It suits you. Something tells me that a star seer needs a bit of an air of mystery; the mask grants you that well."

As they approached the infirmary, Vitali did not enter the tall building without hesitation, cautious that Lilica did, indeed, have some nefarious intention to do away with him. After all, last he had heard, she was not exactly of sound mind. But as he and Tivia approached the dark mage's bed, taking in the hollows and darkness beneath her eyes, and the trembling of her body, it was clear that she was in no condition to do away with anyone. "I daresay, you have looked better," he ventured, coming to a standstill at the foot of her bed, arms clasped behind his back.

Lilica ignored his slight and gripped her sheets with white knuckles. "Are you familiar with the name Theomyr Tenebris?"

The necromancer might as well have been made of stone. His already straight spine had gone positive rigid, and the smug smile on his lips had faded to almost nothing. It was a long, pregnant moment before he spoke again. "So you've seen him."

"He told me... is it him? Our... father?"

"Well... if he said the same thing to both you and I, then I can only guess it is the truth." Vitali shrugged his shoulders, giving an air of nonchalance that was more a lie than it was truth. "Funny, that he came to you. He visited me, only once, in a dream long ago; and I have been hard-pressed to contact him, ever since."

Lilica could feel her heartbeat in her face. So it was true--he had been telling the truth. Then... what else, of the onslaught of information that he'd told her, had been true? "How can he... I mean, is he dead? Alive? You of all people should know the difference."

"Neither, from what I can tell. But I have only seen him in dreams--as have you, I take it." Another shrug. "I take it your conversation with him was not so pleasant? You look as though you haven't slept in eons."

"Dreams. So he exists... in dreams? Or at least, that is how he communicates? Vitali... you need to tell me what you know of him."

That was, of course, the last thing that Vitali wished to do. Especially when his sister was so hesitant to confide in him what she knew. What did he ask of you, Lilica? The necromancer wondered, and not without a pang of annoyance and--perhaps even--jealousy. What do you know of that man, that I do not? "I am afraid I am no great wealth of information regarding our father, Lilica." He said at last, spreading his hands as though he had nothing to offer. A lie. "As I said, he has only come to me once, and I have nothing else to go on. And I am no more certain of our relation to him than you, although that you and I were told the same... now, I am convinced."

Lilica stared at Vitali like she could see through his lies. If only it were truly possible; he was far too cunning. "You knew I was your sister; I knew you were my brother, before I even knew your name. And he... he did seem familiar, though I am sure I have never seen him before, in my life."

"My apologies, Lilica, but I am not sure I can be of help to you. Not without knowing the nature of your encounter with him." The necromancer sighed, and the message was clear: unless you tell me what you know, then you will not know what I know.

And, of course, Lilica could read between the lines loud and clear. It was enough to almost make her regret her decision for sending for him at all. Instead, her dark, haunted eyes turned to Tivia. She could only guess that a Rigas caster had accompanied her sorry excuse for a brother to keep an eye on him; it was no secret that he was not the most trusted among the denizens of Stella D'Mare. "Please... can you send for Alster?" She inquired, not demanding, but pleading. "He... helped me before. He has the means to see my dreams. I realize time and resources are dire, but he is the only one who might understand, and who can maybe help."

"What, this?" Elias's nose scrunched up at the weighty, tarnished thing around his neck. "I wouldn't dream of shedding off this millstone. I'll just have to be careful to avoid any large bodies of water." He took it in his hands, observing the ancient device with a squint. "Is this some sort of sundial? Though that doesn't seem right, either..."

He listened to Daphni's explanation of events, frowning at how much he'd been absent from the awareness of time. Or from anything at all. Delirium had covered his eyes and ears and mind, coating him in some protective cocoon while the world spun around him--while the would happened to him. It took him a moment to swallow the news, but he determined to keep everything in stride. After all, he was alive, functioning, and...well. Not just passing for some parody of wellness, but actually well. And it was hard to act cross towards someone who made it possible for him to breathe. 

"I am not furious," he said with sincerity. "While I don't believe nor trust Mollengardian healers, or their tendency to overexaggerate death for prognoses that are too complex for them to resolve, I think it's safe to assume that...I didn't have long. And I was certainly not in a condition to be moved. Also, that this wasn't my decision to make." As if quoting from a book, he said, "When unconscious, the patient loses their right to make decisions for themselves. You were only trying to save my life...rather, extend it. As I would have done. As I have done. I'm only glad," he fiddled with the chain of the moondial, "that I hadn't actually died and been revived by the necromancer." Relief at last had lifted from his shoulders, and a calm acceptance swept over his features. "Even if it is only a month, even if we do not find a cure..." he trailed off before he could complete the thought. It wasn't fair to Daphni, and he knew it. 

Standing, he met with the Sybaian's retreating form, grabbing her arm and stabilizing it against himself. He was surprised at the ease in which he could move, the limberness of his muscles, the fact that he even felt strength after being bedridden for so long. "If I am free of disease for these few weeks, you bet heaven and hell I'm not going to lay around, sleeping and fussing and rotting holes in my sheets. I'm accompanying you." A tight-lipped smile appeared on lips that were still stained with blood. "You'll need someone to tend to you if you fall, after all." 

Vitali's eyes poked and prodded her appearance. They gouged into her, discerning and judging. She flinched visibly and kept her remaining eye to the ground, though she continued to exude an air of purpose. This was her task, and she would see it through without folding, like her own parents had expected of her, now that she was ugly and mad. 

"That's what the healer told us," she said, shrugging, out of lack of more clarifying information. "But...yes. I am meant to accompany you, anyway. I suppose the rest of the team doesn't want to be in your presence for longer than necessary." She chanced a smile, which curved up the non-grimacing side of her mouth. "I can't blame them." 

At the necromancer's proffered arm, she froze, for an instant. He still wanted to play this game with her? False cordiality? Gentlemanly respect? Or perhaps that was just his personality: charming to the point of ingratiation. Regardless of his motives, she took his arm, and began leading him towards the estate. 

Just as she was settling into a silent, contemplative walk, ignoring the man linked at her side, he turned the subject towards her. To her mask. Her hair. In half panic, she grabbed the bejeweled covering. Was he offering a compliment? A halfhearted nicety? A subtle mockery? Perhaps he was pointing out the futility, the frivolity of her cosmetic adjustments. He knew what was beneath the mask. Everybody was aware. But he was the only one to make mention of it at all. The rest had withheld their comments, out of polite omission. Forget an uncomfortable situation, and it would all fade into the background--that was the way of high society, of Rigas society, no matter the condition of their city or their people. What then, was Vitali trying to prove? Was his observation really innocent, or was he reminding her that she could not hide and present as normal...not from him, anyway? 

Then, remembering herself and her composure, she lowered her hand, and dipped her head into a grateful nod. 

"Thank you," she said, trying not to reveal the slurry of anxieties that had bounced around in her mind only moments before. "Though, I was merely trying to blend...not to stand out. I suppose that's impossible, now...but I thought I'd make the effort." 

They reached the estate and the infirmary without much fanfare. She determined to sneak them around, not wanting to draw attention to her disappearance. Chara had ordered the guards to keep silent if they saw her wandering about the grounds, but she also knew some guards were loyal to Cyprian, and they'd inform him of his daughter's whereabouts. She chose not to explain her clandestine affairs to Vitali, as she shoveled him inside the infirmary doors and followed close behind. 

Tivia had little familiarity with the dark mage, only seeing her in passing at camp, or hearing mention of her from Chara, whenever she deigned to speak more candidly to her "subjects." But even she could not help but react to this shivering, wilted, sagging woman with a touch of sympathy. She nodded in acknowledgement to her, then stood aside, knowing that this conversation was not meant for her ears. Still, she could not help but catch snippets of their discussion. Father. Dreams...No. She shook her head. This was too private a matter for her interference. She was about to excuse herself and slip away when Lilica solicited a request from her. 

"Alster? I may know where he is. If you'll give me a moment."

She found him at the library, in Main House. Though she had not spoken much with him since he woke from his coma, she knew that he had given up his villa to several familes in need, and took residency in a shelf cleared of books. Elespeth, of course, was nearby, sharing the shelf with him as he sat and read, balancing a book on his knee. The remains of his dominant arm were hidden beneath a long-sleeved tunic. He, like Lilica, like Elespeth, looked like all life had been drained from him. 

His eyes flicked from the page, over to where Tivia waited. Recognition set in immediately.

"Tivia!" He tried to close the book with his one hand but it slid off his lap and fell to the ground with a less than graceful thud. He flinched at the sound, but laughed away his bout of clumsiness. "It's one hell of an adjustment, I'll tell you that. I suppose it's been the same for you?" 

For some reason, there was a double meaning in his words. He wasn't only talking about his missing arm and her missing eye. She had the sense that some kind of madness was congregating in his mind, like the stars of her own inner consciousness. 

"Yes," she said, flatly, at a loss for elaboration...if he had wanted her to elaborate at all. "Hello, Elespeth." She forced a smile for the woman whom she still regarded as a friend. "I'm glad to see that you both made it out alive. You followed my advice, after all." Then, with a sigh, she turned back to Alster. "I wish I could say this is a friendly visit, but I'll need to steal you for a little while. Lilica wants to speak to you." 

A few minutes later, Tivia returned to the infirmary with Alster in tow. As he entered the dark mage's bed space, he frowned at the necromancer, wondering why he was there. "Vitali," he said, in a clipped, sterile greeting. But he didn't linger on the man for long as he shifted all attention to Lilica. He offered her a smile. 

"Lilica. I'm sorry I haven't been around to see you sooner. ...Well," he considered, "I mean, I have been around at the infirmary, but we all thought it best to give you some space. ...What can I do to help?"

Of course, it was foolish and futile to try and convince Elias to take it easy, when he had been doing just that for quite some time, now. But it was going to be difficult for her to belief that he was, in fact, all right--for the time being. Well enough to hold his own... and her, as well, it seemed. The Sybaian healer smiled in gratitude and righted herself, laying a hand on his arm. "I will inform you when I go to seek out the Mollengardian healer. You have my word. But right now..." Her smile faded ever so slightly. "I am exhausted, Elias. And as much as I wish I did not need sleep, I will be of no use to him, to you, or to anyone else if I continue to put myself at risk. But, if for some strange reason, I happen to fall out of bed... then I would be much obliged to have your help. Although, I would like to think that you would have far more important, or at the very least, interesting things to do, than to watch someone sleep."

Lilica and Vitali remained in uncomfortable silence while Tivia had gone to find Alster, something more than their typical, mutual dislike milling between them. And, they both knew, it was for the exact same reason--information that neither of them cared to share with one another. But Vitali was not beyond trying. He stood, back against the wall, and watched the shrunken figure of his sister as she hugged her knees on the bed. She looked positively ghastly, no doubt a result of what the Mollengardian healer had done to tear her away from the promise of death laid out by her curse, and he had thought that with the stress and exhaustion of depriving herself of sleep, she might have been an easier target with which to negotiate. But she had told him all that she cared to, it appeared, and this would not change. "Lilica, you summon me to discuss our father--and yet you wish to share nothing of what you experienced." He sighed, shaking his head in an air of mock sympathy. "I realize we have had--and still have--our differences, but if you could provide me with details, some form of context... I may be able to help more than you think."

"Vitali." The dark mage murmured without looking up, a tone of dismissal to her hoarse voice, but not of resentment or anger. Exhaustion and delirium had taken her beyond that. "Not a moment in your life have you ever deigned to help anyone through altruistic motivations, alone. You told me what I need to know; you needn't stand around any longer."

"Who said anything about Altruism? I, too, have often wondered about the man who calls himself our father. Call it curiosity, if you must, but being of his blood just as much as you are, and now facing an opportunity to simply learn more... forgive me for coming across as crass, but I do feel it is just as much my right as it is yours to learn what I can."

He waited, quietly biting the inside of his cheeks, but his sister made no reply; evidently, this was not up for debate. And what bothered him more than not knowing what she had dreamt, what had impelled her so to seek out the likes of him, was simply the fact she was in the know of something that he was not--something potentially very life-changing, perhaps. And he could think of no stronger, more vile pet-peeve than being left deliberately in the dark.

There was not much time to stew on his simmering annoyances, however. Not fifteen minutes had passed, before the masked Rigas woman, and her now single-armed Rigas cousin, breezed in through the infirmary doors. It had been some time since the necromancer had laid eyes upon Alster Rigas, but strangely, he seemed... better. Not healthier, perhaps, as missing an important appendage such as an arm was wont to cause difficulties of its own, but given what the man and his lover had overcome, it was no wonder he had such an idle air of, he daresay, serenity about him. After facing an arcane beast like the Serpent, and emerging alive, he had a feeling that little else could hold a flame to such a trial. Wasn't that just life, though? Survival of the fittest; what did not kill you ultimately made you stronger. "Alster Rigas." The corner of his mouth curled into a grin, and he offered a cordial nod. "Stella D'Mare's very own hero. My congratulations--and thanks--on your victory against the Serpent is long overdo, it seems."

Lilica had stopped hearing, let alone noticing, Vitali moments before. But as soon as Alster entered, a familiar and friendly face, she felt her shoulders automatically relax. "I need to talk to you." She implored, pausing as she took in the sight of his missing arm--but said nothing. Had not everyone lost something during this war? Was an arm really such a significant sacrifice, considering what could have been lost? "You helped me before. I think... I hope, maybe, you can help me again."

Taking a shaky breath, the dark mage turned her obsidian eyes to her hands, which still gripped the quilt, white-knuckled. "Something... happened, when I was pulled out of the grips of my curse. Beyond what damage the Mollengardian healer caused to my psyche. There was a man... he wasn't part of the dream. He was real. And last night... I made the mistake of falling asleep, and I saw him again. And he told me he's... my father. My real father. By blood. He said... he said all too much. And I do not know what to make of it." As if suddenly realizing the pivotal moment of this story, she snapped to attention, then, narrowed her eyes at Vitali. "You are free to leave, anytime. These details are not for you, necromancer."

"Whatever nefarious intent you think I have, Lilica," Vitali groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face, "I fear you are mistaken. How is it at all strange or suspicious that I might want to be in the know about the man who is also my father?"

"Tivia?" Turning her attention to the masked Rigas caster, she begged her help, once again: "Thank you for bringing Vitali here, at my request... but now I must ask that you see him out. Please."

"See me out? Sorry to disappoint you, Lilica, but all thanks to Tivia's compassion and steadfast logic--both of which you seem to sorely be lacking--I am not longer a prisoner, here. Allow me to see myself out." Standing tall, though looking considerably smaller without his violet waistcoat (which had long since been deemed beyond repair, the day that the Serpent had awoken), Vitali crossed the room--and paused, only briefly, to touch Tivia's arm. "Thank you, by the way, for speaking on my behalf." His tone was quieter, insinuating the words were only for her. And so was that disarming smile. "I do not exaggerate when I say you are among the better of the Rigases, here, miss Tivia."

Lilica waited until the necromancer was clear of the doors, and the heavy wood clanged shut behind him. But even then, she kept her voice low, for fear that he might--probably would--eavesdrop, somehow. If Vitali wanted to know something, then it was almost guaranteed he would find the means of discovering what it was he wanted to know. But she was not about to make it easy for him. "It's... too much to get into verbally. I woke up too quickly, too violent, and some of the details are even lost on me. But what I'd hoped..." She bit her lower lip, hard enough that it brought some color back into her pale flesh. "You can travel into dreams; and you have seen my dreams, before. Something tells me that all I need to do to see that man again is to close my eyes for long enough. It's as if he has some direct link to my unconscious mind, now..." In emphasis, she showed him the dark bruise on her arm, and the strange lettering that looked as though it had been carved into it, raised and scarred like a burn. "I am sorry to ask a favor of you, so soon after what you must have experienced. But I... need answers." And a friend, she added without saying, though that insinuation still rang fairly clear. "Could... could I ask you to stay here, tonight? In the infirmary? Long enough to wait until I fall asleep... so that I am not alone in my dream."

Much to her chagrin, although Daphni had intended to rest for just a few hours, the sun had sunk into the horizon, and the moon was full and bright by the time she opened her eyes. "...what? What day--what time is it?" Scrambling out of the empty cot that she had occupied, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the infirmary. Much to her surprise (and relief), she noted that the dark mage was... asleep. And not far from her sat Alster Rigas, of all people. Perhaps a comforting presence was all she really needed, she thought to herself, before she spotted Elias, among the supply desk at the front of the infirmary. "Elias." She spoke his name in a whisper, but it emerged as something closer to a hiss. She raked her fingers through her hair, tousled as it was from sleep, and sighed her frustration. "Have you actually allowed a day--an entire wasted day--to pass? You should have woken me up! This is time that could have been better spent. Do not let the effects of that moondial around your neck get to your head, so."

With another sigh of frustration, the Sybaian healer donned a pair of stockings as well as boots, and a cloak, as she prepared to set out into the cold of the night. "I am going to find Atli--the Mollengardian healer whom we both have to thank for your current temporary recovery. I cannot stop you from accompany me, if that is what you wish, although I do strongly implore that you get some sleep, instead. I just freed up a cot, for you; it's still warm." The corner of her mouth curled up at the quip of that joke. "But as soon as I am finished, we are taking a horse, and leaving the city, at which point I expect you to be completely ready--no hesitation. We cannot afford to waste any more time!"

Ever since sending the Serpent back to Its own world, Alster's demeanor had...shifted. Whether it was a conscious shifting or as a result of a life-altering experience, it was unclear. He simply felt a disconnect to the world around him. He was still present, still aware of what happened to him and to others, but it was as if he viewed these occurrences through smoked glass. Though, he still knew how to act and what to say to appease Elespeth and the people who asked about him. Every morning, he would direct himself into the role of Alster Rigas. Care about others. Aid in the recovery of Stella D'Mare. Disarm the concerned. Research texts of magic. Discover the toll of what he'd lost: an arm, magic...the mind. Do these things, he instructed, and maybe you'll tread ground once more. Maybe you'll find purchase, a purpose...a way to close the rift from within. Maybe then, life won't seem so foreign, so far, and so dimensionally adrift.

You make my home your home? The Serpent inquired through the rift in his head. 

No, Alster thought, and it was the only certainty he knew. Your home is never my home.

Tivia could sense Alster's teetering equilibrium--and it wasn't just a physical phenomenon. True, he walked differently, a skewed gait, as compensation for the loss of his arm, but his eyes were also foggy, concealing a truth that could easily go unnoticed beneath his surface deception. She wondered what had happened during his encounter with the Serpent. 

"Thank you," Alster said, in an automatic drone, activating whenever he needed to entertain Vitali's attention.It was no victory. Win, did not, against me. The Serpent hissed amusedly. "I'll also have to thank you for dispensing of the undead soldiers milling about our city. That is a feat also worth celebrating." But his polite comments ended there, as his eyes returned to Lilica and her request. Though, it was interrupted by Vitali's reluctant departure. Tivia followed close behind, nodding her farewells to Alster and to Lilica, as they exited through the infirmary doors. 

"I have to accompany you back," she explained to the necromancer. "You're not quite a free man. Only after you complete your task. That was the deal I made with Chara. But," the rest of her words faded away as a blush crept along the visible half of her face. She couldn't believe that she fell for the man's cheap flattery! Again, she berated herself for reacting to his every statement. Why? Why did she care what he thought of her? He was pretending, anyway. It was all in an attempt to win her favor, which would ensure his protection in the city. 

"You only say that because I spared you from the dungeon," she said with a snort. "So you can dispense with the flummery, Vitali." 

They hadn't walked far before Tivia, too distracted by the necromancer and his velvety undertones, almost rammed into a tall, still figure. He blocked their path, arms crossed, flyaways of white hair sticking to his forehead, which was wrinkled into a severe V-shape. 

"Tivia," his voice boomed, "the guards told me I might find you near the infirmary. And you," he pointed to Vitali, eyes flashing a deadly dark blue. "Step away from my daughter, you fiend." Before she could act, Cyprian loped over to Tivia and pulled her away, the pressure on his hand so tight that she bit her lip to keep from gasping. 

"Papa, I--"

"You've disobeyed me, Tivia. You fled our home, and disappeared to gods knows where for days! Your mother was worried sick! You are not to leave the villa again, do you hear me? And take off that infernal mask, would you!? It will give your mother false hope."

"Stop," she cried, trying and failing to pull away from his grip. "I am old enough to make my own decisions!"

"But you are not sound enough of mind, Tivia! You'll hurt someone, do you not understand that!?" His hawk-like glare fell on Vitali once more. "Begone, foul one. Or I will override Chara's directive and arrest you on the spot." 

At the infirmary, Alster took in Lilica's complex story with the appropriate nod. Distant of mind he might have been, but he still had an investment in those whose lives mattered to him. No amount of fog could conceal the dark mage's earnest request for company. As he looked at the inky blue bruise on her arm, he wondered: could he still travel into dreams? He hadn't tried since awakening from his coma. When he did sleep, he always drifted back towards the mind-rift, guarding it with care. The Serpent was always there, greeting him. 

Don't you want to acclimate yourself to your world, again? he asked the creature."Why continue to hang around me?" 

Drawn here It would say, and nothing more. 

"I..." he hesitated. "Yes. Of course, Lilica. I'll stay at your bedside tonight. We'll venture into your dream together, and see what this man--your father--wants to tell you. It's better to have another witness there with you, so we can both confirm his words, and compare notes." He traced the strange letters of her bruise into the air, trying to make sense of the archaic language. With a sigh, he shook his head. "I've never seen this script before. I'm a polyglot of both the spoken and the written, and this looks like nothing I've come across. So consider my curiosity piqued." He sat at the edge of the dark mage's bed. "Let's only hope this man chooses to reveal anything of note to you while I'm present. It might be intended for your ears only. But it's worth a try," he quirked a smile, "right?" 

Maybe this exploration into Lilica's dream is exactly what I need to wake up from my own, ironic though it is, Alster thought, massaging the shoulder of his half-missing arm. A sharp pain emitted from the space his dominant hand once occupied. He flinched, but he welcomed the pain. It was a favorable sign. A connection to his world. 

He stood up, and nodded his farewell to the dark mage. "I'll see you tonight, Lilica." 

Contrary to what Daphni believed, Elias had returned to sleep--in part to know if he was living a blissful dream, and if closing his eyes would awaken him to the reality of disease and impending death. The other part was in welcoming himself to a restful slumber. And it was. He hadn't dreamed better, or breathed more deeply, than in that instant. He felt frozen in time, remade, or unmade. An incorporeal being at the brink of creation, untethered and free. 

He woke to the moon. A beam of light shone through a hole in the roof that the canvas tarps did not conceal, hitting his chest, and the device that sat upon it. He saw the runic inscriptions illuminate in an ethereal glow, each stave and circle carved into the metal, as easily read as if in daylight. 

He was up and awake for an hour before Daphni stirred, a few cots away. He turned from his task of organizing his medical tools when he heard the sibilant tones of his name. Abandoning his work station, he met with the Sybaian at her bed, and he could tell, even in the dark, that she was miffed. 

"And what use would you be if you collapsed on the road from lack of sleep?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "Just because I have a one month window of health does not mean I'm strong enough to prop your unconscious body upright as we ride across the arid wastes outside of town. That, I daresay, would waste even more time and energy. Besides," he added, a bit testily, "I was doing what you would have ordered me to do anyway. I slept. So now we are both well rested. Funny, how well our bodies synchronized with each other." He snorted and made to walk back to his tools. "I'll grab what I need from my desk. Tell me where to meet you and when. I'll be ready, so rest assured. I would like to see this Mollengardian, before I leave, however. To," his expression softened, "to thank him, I suppose."

"Well, yes. It does so happen that you can endear yourself to someone by way of breaking them out of jail." Vitali chuckled at her observation, nonplussed by her resistance to his charm. He'd seen her blush, he knew her insecurities; hell, she literally wore them on her person in the form of a mask! It didn't take a genius to know that every little thing added up. "But, fine. If I am not trustworthy enough to return on my own, then by all means, I prefer your company to those of your Rigas guards."

It was not long, however, before their ironic moment of camaraderie was interrupted by the stern face of an older man--one who blocked their path, and would not budge to let them pass. The necromancer watched with the faintest hint of pity as Tivia's overbearing father grabbed her by the arm, in a way that no true father should put a hand upon his daughter. So this was why he had not seen her in quite some time; this wretched, old man was hiding her away from the world. Limiting her existence, because it did not suit his image and reputation to have it known that his deformed, star seer of a daughter was walking about the streets, drawing unwanted attention to herself--and, vicariously, to him. It was really none of his business, this dysfunctional Rigas family affair, but... 
Well, it wouldn't suit him to have his single safe link to Stella D'Mare's ruling family kept out of sight, out of mind, and beyond any ability to help.

"You do realize, sir, that you are only making a fool--not to mention a villain of yourself." The area was non unpopulated; many people milled about within the ranks of the city's clean-up crews, and the necromancer was sure to speak loud enough to be heard. Enough to turn a few heads. "That you would deign to lock up your own daughter--out of sight, out of mind... because why? Is her appearance really so abhorrent to you, that you have not noticed that no one else cares a whim beyond that she has returned to her city, safe and sound?"

The necromancer folded his arms tightly across his chest, satisfied that he was successfully drawing attention to the scene. Stella D'Mare's least trusted visitor, speaking so openly, so boldly, to a man of such social standing as Cyprian Rigas. That, alone, was enough to attract attention, let alone the harsh way in which he gripped his daughter's arm...

He could see the rage swimming in Cyprian's eyes, that arrogant Rigas anger simmering beneath. It was almost--no, not almost. That glare of anger was satisfying. "Your daughter was rather instrumental in ensuring the safety of others during this war, you know. Her visions, her foresight, impelled Alster to return to Stella D'Mare, wherein he saved your hallowed city from the Serpent's destruction. And yet... your value is not in her merit, sir, but in keeping up appearances. So who--" And then, voice still raised, he dared to look the elder Rigas man in the eye and dared to pry his fingers from Tivia's arm, allowing her enough berth to back out of her father's reach, "is the real fiend here, sir? The man who happens to believe in this young woman's merit, or the one who sees her as an embarrassment?"

He could only wonder--and hope--that Tivia's sway would be strong enough to bail him out of jail a second time.

That evening, as he had promised, Alster visited the infirmary and had taken a seat next to Lilica's cot. As much as the dark mage yearned for answers, and wondered about the man who visited her in her dreams, thinking of sleep did not come without trepidation and paranoia, knowing she would first venture back into that nightmare that she so wished to avoid. And what if this man--Theomyr Tenebris, her own so-called blood--chose not to make an appearance in the presence of someone else? It might be futile; but in that worst-case scenario, at the very least, Alster would be there to potentially pull her out of reliving that perpetual hell. She had an out... 

Exhausted as she was, it took some time to fall asleep, that evening. Not just for fear of what she might see behind closed eyelids, but for the fact that she wasn't so sure about how she would approach this intruder in her dreams. Obviously, he had an agenda of his own, and she would need to stand her ground... but not to the extent that it drove him away. Because he had information that she wanted--that she needed, if for no other reason, that for insight into her past. It was a very delicate balance, and the ice that she tread was very thin.

After several hours of futile tossing and turning, despite her inability to keep her eyes open, Lilica drifted first into a light sleep, one where she still felt aware of her surroundings... until those surroundings disappeared entirely, and she found herself standing--alongside Alster, who had successfully made it into her dream with her--in a garden. Night had fallen, and silver moonlight painted the flowers and plants in glittering shades of white and platinum. They stretched the necks of their stems up to the sky, much like a sunflower would to face the sun--as if it was the night, and not the day, that energized and nourished them.
There was no denying or getting around the fact that this place--wherever they were--was breath-taking and beautiful. Calm, serene, quiet. Enough so, that Lilica began to feel her apprehension melt away...

Until she turned to find a shadow behind her. "Ah--thank goodness. I hoped you would return." Theomyr smiled, though the corners of his mouth slowly dropped as he took notice of a third party. "...interesting. You saw fit to bring a friend, this time?"

"I don't know you. I don't trust you. But I trust him." Lilica stood straight, her lips pulled into a thing line, and she nodded to Alster. "If you want to talk to me, then you need to accept the both of us, here. And I want you to answer some questions."

Theomyr seemed to consider a moment, as if sizing Alster up. "Any ears that happen to pick up on what I can tell you have agreed to take on the responsibility of secrecy. Not to mention, the more who know, the more who might be in danger." At the suspicious look his daughter cast his way, he lifted an eyebrow. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Lilica, but I am not here to make amends for my absence throughout your life. There is a reason my home--and your home, for that matter--is sleeping under the weight of a spell so that it cannot be found. And that I have reduced my existence to little more than a Dream Walker."

Lilica's frown deepened. Of course, she had never expected her father--if this man was, in fact, her father--would seek her out to merely reconnect. Truly, she was not sure what she had expected, and wondered if it should come as any surprise that what he might tell her was so... dire. Regardless, she wanted answers. "I trust Alster. He has helped me before." She announced, before the first questions popped into her mind; trivial, seemingly, but for someone who had dreamt of naught but death and sorrow and pain and loss for so long... it was quite a change of scenery from what she was used to. "Where are we?"

"Ah. Now, that is something I'd hoped you would ask." Theomyr smiled, and turned toward a bush of pale roses. He ran his fingers over the petals, deftly, like touching snow without wanting to disturb it. "This is the Night Garden. A place that I hope you will see, someday. I figured you might like a change of... atmosphere, from what you have been dreaming, of late."

"This place is real, then?" Why was she so surprised? After all, it was implied. But there were more important topics to explore. "Why did you... what are you? Dead, alive?"

"I often ask myself the same question." The tall man chuckled and shook his head. "To be honest, I am not sure. Some days, I feel more alive than dead; others, more dead than alive. But I no longer exist on the physical plane, if that is what you are asking."

So Vitali wasn't far off in his appraisal, she thought to herself. "I won't bother asking how; I don't care." Like he hadn't a care for the circumstances for her life. "But... why?"

The raven-haired man lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "My safety. Well, mostly the safety of my kingdom. But mine, as well, so that I could be around--so to speak--to ensure that safety."

"Then I think you had better explain the danger, or none of your answers are going to make sense to me."

"I'd be much obliged..." Theomyr's dark eyes shifted from his daughter's face to Alster's, then, as if reassessing him for the second time, "Though how much I reveal depends on just how much you wish to involved yourself... Alster, is it? Because I am afraid I cannot say too much among those who would just sit idly with this knowledge, or--worse--let it slip past their lips, to others."

Tivia continued struggling beneath Cyprian's tightening fingers, but he held firm to her with all the restraint of shackles. But before he could reach out his hand and manacle her other arm, Vitali began to speak. The words sailed into her ears, but she could hardly believe what she heard! Even when looking straight at him, watching his mouth flap together and then separate, as mouths were wont to do when forming sounds and languages and sentences, she was in denial. Her own face went slack, and her body grew still. She no longer struggled. Was he...actually defending her? 

A swarm of thoughts rushed her head at once. Why? He didn't benefit from lecturing her father. In fact, this outspoken opposition to a high-ranking Rigas could get him arrested at best, killed at worse. Chara was in charge, yes, but not as one autonomous governing body. The council approved or disapproved of her decisions, and Cyprian...well, he practically owned the council's votes. He could easily dispatch Vitali, and that would be the end of Tivia's sway. She could only fish him out of the dungeons for so long before his residency was permanent. And if she put on a ploy, demanded that the stars spoke in favor of this man, Cyprian would lock her away before he got around to securing Vitali's own bars. 

So...why? Her brow contorted in confusion. Though she refused to take any of his antics as altruistic, she could not help but read the scene as such. Another blush crept across her face. No, this was all wrong! She wasn't supposed to develop any sort of rapport with the necromancer! He was only in service to himself, and he ruined lives: Lilica, Vega, and Haraldur all suffered from his sleazy, unsavory bargains. How could she, with any conscience, take Vitali's side, when she had lain with the mercenary who despised him so? Who wanted to protect her from Vitali's influence? Even she denounced the man and his...well...fiendish practices. 

But...

He really had a way with words. 

And...

He was using them to defend her. 

"Papa," she managed, before Cyprian exploded into a tirade, "This man saved my life. During the destruction of Stella D'Mare...he stepped in and eliminated the undead soldiers who were about to kill me. Surely, that must count for something, right? Your own daughter's life?" 

When he said nothing, she continued. 

"Remember, Papa, you sent me off to war, against my own will! Because you thought I'd learn a valuable lesson that a sheltered life wouldn't be able to provide. Well," she waved an arm to indicate her face, "lesson learned, Papa! This is in part your doing, too. Take some responsibility!" Her lone eye pricked with tears. "What use will sheltering me do now!?" 

She covered her mouth, horrified at her disrespect. She clammed up, afraid of his retaliation. A slap to the face, a roar of displeasure, a scathing punishment...a life sentence.

Instead, he loosened the grip on her arm and stepped backwards, regarding Vitali with the same amount of hostility as before, and Tivia as...a stranger. Someone who had changed so drastically that he could scarcely notice her, let alone command her to obey and behave. 

"You're right, Tivia," he said, pretending he hadn't heard any of the necromancer's pointed words, "you are old enough to make your own decisions." His glare rested on Vitali. "Curb that necromancer. He is your responsibility, now. Should anything go awry with him--the blame falls on you." He straightened a wrinkle from his tunic and made to leave. "Do not return home. Do not step through my door. You are no longer welcome. You'll only continue to break your mother's heart." 

Then, he left, continuing down the pathway. His gait was proud, but his shoulders were heavy. 

Tivia couldn't help it. She let the tears flow down her cheeks. "I...did he...did he let me go?" She rubbed her eye with her knuckle, endeavoring to blot away the very concept of tears. 

"No...no. Let's continue. I need to get you back out there. We both have a job to do. But..." she dared to reach over and touch his arm: it was soft, timid, more of a hover than actual contact, "...thank you. For...well...for seeing my worth, I suppose. Even if all this talk is a means to keep you from the dungeons." 

Alster half-expected that he would return to that gouged out valley of monsters, upon sleeping. Fortunately, he still retained his dream-walking ability. That, coupled with the proximity and bond between himself and Lilica, made it easy to follow her into dream. 

He was not expecting to see such beauty. They stood in a garden, and though it was night, the moon overhead drenched their surroundings in bright, silvery light. So many plants, the likes of which he'd never seen before, leaned forward to catch the celestial glow, their dew-sprinkled petals glistening.

"It's...beautiful," he breathed, finding no words adequate enough to describe the garden. "Is this your--?"

But his question hushed into an inaudible whisper when he saw a man seemingly materialize from Lilica's shadow. This must be him, he thought. Her...father? He saw the resemblance. Same eyes and hair, facial structure...but the way he carried himself was similar to Vitali, except with a little more...finesse. 

"Danger is nothing new to me," he said, with a small, cordial bow of greeting. As he bowed, his right arm, which he'd manifested whole in the dream, dissolved back into the stump that his radiant magical destruction had left behind. He then reconstituted it, and clasped both hands behind his back. "Neither is loss." 

He listened to their conversation in silence, figuring he would only step in when necessary: whenever Lilica needed a supporting voice or questioner. Until then, he observed. Observed Theomyr, the garden, the roses, the man's intentions, motivations...wants and needs. 

Then, something said made him skew his head to the side. He no longer exists on the physical plane, yet he's stuck between dead and alive... "Are you trapped within another dimension?" he inquired, thinking of the rift to another world in his own head. A world of corporeal beings and of energy-based lifeforms. Whether or not the rift even existed inside of himself or was a figment of his imagination, he hadn't yet differentiated. He postponed the research, terrified of either outcome. If it existed, he was playing host to parasites. If it didn't...he had finally crossed the threshold into full-blown madness. "An incorporeal place, made of pure energy?" His inquiry rode almost parallel to Lilica's own dismissal of the subject. It fascinated him to know of this man's story, but he also realized the estranged, rather, nonexistent relationship between father and daughter and dampened his interest a tad. 

Before anything could commence between the three of them, however, the man looked to Alster, and questioned him again about his involvement. This time, he actually considered the proposal. What would Elespeth say, after discovering that he threw himself head-first into yet another tempestuous situation? By agreeing to Theomyr's terms, would he be damning Elespeth anew? And so soon after their literal earth-shaking encounter with the Serpent? It wasn't fair to her, and he knew it. But...

He glanced sidelong at Lilica. She was in need. She trusted him and entrusted him with this information. To let her down now, when she was so lost and in need of guidance...

What a bleeding heart I am...

But perhaps he needed this, as well. The aftermath of the Serpent had left him without an arm, without a city...and without purpose. He never before realized how much he had built his life--and death--around the Serpent's defeat. He had walked away from it, more or less in one piece, and importantly, not dead. While he was grateful to have lived, especially with Elespeth at his side, he didn't know what to do with all his newfound time. He had never planned for the future because he hadn't planned on surviving at all. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel like he haddied, and what he lived now was an after-story, not connected to the narrative of the living. 

Like Theomyr, he felt a duality between life and death. He was in between, with no idea where he fit. 

Involving himself with Lilica's affairs would be a welcome reprieve, he resolved. A vacation from his most pressing question of: What do I do now? His most important life's mission had ended....and it stifled him. 

"I'm already involved," he told Theomyr. "Ever since I stepped inside this dream. Consider me an ear to your secrets."

Lilica felt her face flush red and warm as her father deigned to put Alster on the spot in such a way. It had required a good deal of courage, on her part, to ask Alster to simply be present now, on her behalf. But what Theomyr was asking... it was too much. The Rigas caster had already endured so much, had lost his arm as a result. Had nearly lost his lover, too, from what she had overheard at the infirmary of how his magic had come close to shutting down the Atvanian warrior's organs. How could she in good conscience ask him to be any more involved in something that should not concern him? She had wanted a friend; and that was why he was here. it had never been her intention to make him a hero, yet again, or an accomplice to yet another heroic action.

But before she could voice her protests, and demand that her father elaborate without making anyone beholden to the information (it was certainly obvious enough where Vitali had inherited that trait), Alster was already agreeing. The shock that registered on the dark mage's face was unmistakable:why? Alster had no obligation to involve himself so deeply in her twisted and convoluted familial affairs, and yet his agreement came almost without hesitation... "Alster." She spoke up, and shook her head. "You don't have to. I would never request that you take on such a burden. It is unnecessary... it needn't involve you."

Alster's mind had already been made up, it seemed. In a way, he appeared... well, happy. Or, if not happy, then almost relieved to take on this burden. And Theomyr did not give him a chance to change his mind. "Ah. Now that, young man, is the sign of a true friend. No wonder you have thrived in spite of your trials, Lilica; camaraderie of this sort is rare and almost unheard of." His lips pulled into a smile, and he dared to lay a hand on Alster's shoulder. "I cannot express how I appreciate you have looked out for my daughter. To answer your question, in exchange for your loyalty to Lilica, I suppose you could say I exist in an alternate dimension, of sorts. Or, rather, many different dimensions... as is the stuff of dreams. They never exist in only one place, and I exist where they do, finicky is the matter of which they are made." Turning, he made a gesture for them to follow him, as he made his way deeper into the garden. "A shame that each and every dimension is merely an illusion. Collections of wishes and memories and exist until those memories fade... really, just a twisted mirror of what is real. Makes me wonder how real I am, anymore." He let out a sharp laugh. "Then again, I am still here, in some form of existence, meaning that someone among the physical and living must remember me."

They passed by large pillars entwined with vines that, mysteriously, moved like tiny snakes, budded with white and silver flowers. As Theomyr's shadow passed them, the sleeping flowers opened their petals, as if to glance at him--and at Lilica--and shut once again when he was out of sight. "But I digress from the real matter at hand. To answer your question, Lilica, long ago--very long, before your birth, and even before Vitali's--Galeyn, your home, was in danger of falling into the hands of a nefarious sorceress. And all because I trusted too easily, and too much." He heaved a sigh of what was unmistakably regret. "Yes, a great part of this tragedy was my own fault. I let my kingdom and my people down because I was deceived. I feel you are right not to trust so easily, even if it made you so guarded with your heart and mind that it took me this long to find you.

"Her name was Locque, and she came into Galeyn in the guise of a pitiable soul, seeking refuse and comfort. We were never much for war and conflict within our nation; neutral ground for those in need had always taken precedence. She was very quiet; soft-spoken, did not ask for a single thing beyond refuge, and we did not ask for details... I have never met someone so good at knowing how to find out what they want to know." He stopped in front of the entrance of what looked to be a maze of tall hedges, tiny, white flowers peppered throughout the lush green. His smile faded. "I had never met someone who could so easily make you fall in love with them. Before I realized what she was doing... before her intentions became clear, it was too late."

Lilica's posture stiffened, and she glanced sidelong at Alster before returning her attention to her father. "So you fell in love with the wrong person. And now you are making it my problem?"

"If you want to speak logistics, I cannot make you do anything." Theomyr shook his head. "I am merely providing you with the explanations that you desire. Locque found a way into my heart, and within my heart was the very heart of my kingdom. By the time I realized that she meant to overthrow my power, to secure the power of Galeyn and the Night Garden all for herself, she had already put a plan into action; one that required my demise, at which point the kingdom and all that it had to offer would have fallen into her hands. I was left with no choice but to wrap Galeyn in a veil of shadow, so that it woud never be found. And my people..." He closed his eyes, then, shoulders sinking with remorse. "They have slept, as a result. And they have yet to awaken. And as for myself... I had to retreat to the only place where Locque could not find me." He spread his arms, indicating the brilliance of the scenery, and then dropped them in defeat.

"And what will you have me do, then? How do you expect me to rectify your mistakes? You need to be more specific."

"I want you--no, I need you, Lilica, to reawaken Galeyn. Locque still roams your realm, and it is only a matter of time before she finds her own way around the spell's implications. So extensive is her power that there is no magic she cannot reverse, with enough time and perserverence. And she... whatever manner of being she is, is not one to ever be short on time." Theomyr turned, his back to the picturesque maze. A plea resonated in his dark eyes. "Before I vanished myself, I ascertained that Galeyn could one day be reawakened by my blood. Locque does not know that I have fathered children; I can only assume as much, for the fact that you and Vitali are still alive. And as soon as you find the sleeping kingdom, it will recognize the return of its old ruler, through the blood of its new one. And that is where--and when--Locque's hold on it will end."

The chthonic caster pressed her fingers to her temples. Tears threatened to spill at the onslaught of information, this broad scope of her heritage and everything that it entailed...
Not to mention, the scope and reason for her very existence. Lilica had never considered that she had been borne of love; if anyhing, it would have been more palatable to entertain the idea that she had been the result of a mistake, as so many children were. Instead, she had been born for a purpose: to be the tool that would prove instrumental in reviving a lost kingdom, the result of her own father's folly. Little more than a contingency plan. "Why me? Why come to me?" She asked at last, unable to meet his eyes. "Why not burden Vitali with this task instead?"

"Lilica..." Theomyr arched an eyebrow and spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. "Would you trust your brother with the power of a kingdom?"

"And how do you expect me to find this place?"

"With my help, of course. I will guide you and advise you every step of the way. All I need is your agreement; that you will do this for me. For your home." The dark-clad man's tone grew all the more somber. "Will you?"

For her home... 
Lilica took a moment to take in the beauty and majesty of her surroundings. The serenity of the garden, the beautiful yet arcane power of its flora. Wasn't this what she had always wanted? A place to belong, among people who did not look at her as if she were a demon? Feeling helpless, she quickly glanced at Alster, who looked at her with a mixture of pity and understanding. She wasn't sure how it made her feel to have his pity. No more than she was sure how she felt sitting around, idle and shaken, in the ruined city of Stella D'Mare... "...I will." She said at last, her voice small and uncertain, but no less sincere. "Though I do fear for anyone or any place that must rely on the likes of me as its last hope."

Eyraille had been on its toes and holding its breath ever since its princess had returned--not only upon a roc that was not hers, but with a passenger who few recognized. At first, the officials who met with them the moment they dismounted the giant avian did not ask questions, and took Vega's word for it when she assured them her passenger was a very important friend of the kingdom. Both were in need of medical attention, and immediately received the care that they needed. Rest, however, was another thing entirely--at least it was for Vega. 

The Skyknight had expected that her brother would want to speak with her as soon as possible. About her absence, about her guest, and about the news that she had delivered. Immature as he was for a king, young and struggling under the weight of his own kingdom, Caris was genuinely happy and relieved that Vega had returned. But unfortunately, his quick temper led to a very quick change of demeanor, especially when she appeared so unwilling to divulge all that had occurred during her absence from her home. She did her best; there was only so much that she could relay, however, without rousing suspicion, and there were some things that her brother simply did not need to know. He did not need to know of Aeriel's fate; he did not need to know that she had succumbed to death entirely, only to be revived, and then brush with death all over again. It wasn't long before his insistence and hostility towards her quiet drove her to pull away, to allow him to sit on what he knew and parse the information before going into any more detail about allies and enemies. Vega loved and respected her brother; but with his power came the assumption that he was entitled to every detail of her absence from Eyraille. And that was not something that she was willing to divulge. Vega withdrew.

She withdrew not only from her brother, but from the rest of the palace denizens. From servants who she knew well enough to be friends, from fellow military commanders; she hadn't even had a moment to spare for Haraldur, and merely requested of the serving staff that he be treated as an honoured guest, while word of his heroism to Eyraille's refugees quickly circulated the palace. Vega kept her head low, helped with the rocs and the Skyknight militia to keep herself busy, and when there was no work left, she would lock herself away in her room and draw warm baths to stave off the cold that had perpetually set in her bones. 
There was nothing worse than being home, without it feeling like home, at all.

One morning, when she had run out of things to do and places to hide from her ever demanding brother, she finally set out to see Haraldur and how he was faring since his arrival in Eyraille. It was after breakfast that she knocked on the door to his chamber, one that was always reserved for high status and honored guests--and one that was close to her quarters, more importantly, so that she was able to ascertain he was only minimally bothered by palace staff. It had been over a week since she had seen him, and she worried for how he was faring in an environment that must have been so foreign to him. When he answered, she ventured a smile, but it was shaky and uncertain. Much like the rest of her demeanor these days. "Haraldur... I am sorry to bother you." Or should I be apologizing for keeping my distance? she wondered. Really, she wasn't sure what it was he wanted or expected, beyond refuge. But, that was why she was here, now. "Things have been... hectic. I have been trying my best to spare you the politics of this palace. If you're feeling well enough... I wondered if, perhaps, you would like to visit the refugees in the valleys between the mountains. They would be thrilled to see you."

Alster didn't want to ruminate over his deal with the devil, as he was coming to view it, even though Theomyr bore some striking similarities in demeanor to his necromancer son. He frowned at the hand upon his shoulder, tempted to shrug it off in annoyance. They were not familiar, and he wasn't appreciative of his most Vitali of tactics to manipulate and sway his emotions. Not that they needed to be swayed, anyway. He had agreed to listen, to involve himself, and to help, though that last part was implied, never spoken. 

"It's fine, Lilica," he said, electing for a smile as he walked with them through the garden. "You can say I'm doing this for selfish reasons." He allowed himself to be led around by the mysterious man who called himself LIlica's father, though he still gave him the side-eye, suspicion dominating the lines across his furrowed face. He relaxed a bit, however, when Theomyr detailed his experiences with dream dwelling. His constant unmaking and remaking, each time losing a piece of himself, becoming less, more scattered by the whims of chaos itself...the language was familiar to him. How many times had he lost unrecoverable pieces of himself in the mists where time stopped working? It was like he was constantly seeking methods by which to harvest the break-down of his very existence, body, mind, and spirit. 

Why, even now, did he regard high-risk opportunities as a form of salvation? If this world doesn't get to me first, he thought with a grim smile, then Elespeth will, for being her constant source of headache.

As they strolled around the garden, Alster shut away his thoughts and gave all undivided focus to Theomyr and his tale. His eyes met this monarch's eyes in curiosity. What a show of power, to hide away an entire kingdom, and its people, for an indeterminate amount of years. Questions started to buzz around his lips. They bubbled, one after the other, linking together like a string of pearls. 

"How long has this shroud upon your kingdom persisted? And how is no one aware of its existence? No other neighboring nations witnessed an entire realm disappear into shadow one day? No records tell of this kingdom and its history, or even of its language?" Then, as if answering his own question, he began to reason out loud. "Unless your shroud could alter not only the minds of your denizens, but the minds of those who had any memory of Galeyn in the first place. If so...that's powerful magic--powerful enough to adversely affect the people it's purported to protect. ...Will there even be a kingdom left to save, in the end? And...what in Galeyn is so important that you had to subject an entire populace to suffering a fate no better than living death? Was there no other way to save your people? Unless they would have died, or worse, in Locque's hands, isn't it selfish to take all your subjects down with you into this underworld? My apologies," he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, trying to expel all his speculations before they snowballed out of his control. "That should be none of my business. I've seen the destruction of my city. So many...dead. If I could have acted sooner...If I could have saved them all..." He closed both hands into tight fists. "If I had that ability....I don't know, maybe I would have done the same." 

After hearing Theomyr's proposal to Lilica, Alster looked over at her, watching her carefully...and with understanding. He couldn't direct her on what to do, and knowing how similarly their minds worked, he anticipated her response. She would agree, even though she had next to no information on this man, on his kingdom, or even of his true intentions. He could be lying, or manipulating her into his service. People had done so to her in the past, and he hated to see a repeat of her sordid history. He tried to convey as much to her with only the thin, pursed line of his mouth and a small shake of his head. But she, like he feared, had agreed. Then again, he, too, had blindly agreed to aiding in this man's crusade....so he was no better. 

"We've fared just fine with the 'likes of you,'" Alster said, electing to show his support rather than his reservatons. He knew she needed this: to find a belonging within herself, an ages old battle that couldn't even tread ground, because the foundations and circumstances of her birthright had been torn from her and never recovered, never replaced. She was floating in space, searching for purchase and purpose: a place where she could stand without sinking through to the bottom of eternity. "Stella D'Mare owes you a debt of gratitude, as do I...as does Chara. It's not outside of your capability to do good, Lilica. It never was." He sidled closer to the dark mage, and gently placed a hand, the hand that no longer existed in his corporeal form, over her wrist. "But if you need further proof, if this is what you need to believe in your power, I won't stop you from taking part in this quest--because it's something I would do, too." He shrugged helplessly. "We're a hopeless lot, aren't we?" Then, turning to Theomyr, his eyes resumed their suspicious glint. "But first, prove to us, to your daughter, that you speak the truth. That you mean what you say, and that this is not some ploy for power." He crossed his arms over his chest. "That shouldn't be so unreasonable a request."

Although unaccustomed to the wintry, mountain chill of Eyraille, having spent his years in the sub-tropical south, Haraldur whiled away his time out of doors. If he could not request a guard to escort him to the courtyard or the training grounds, he would stand out on the small balcony of his guest chambers. He leaned his elbows against the hewn granite surface, and watched the rocs weave around the snow-capped peaks of Eyraille. His breath streamed out like smoke. It floated into the sky like a signal, a flag that heralded his arrival. 

He did not approve of Vega's glowing account of his exploits in Eyraille. While he knew that she wanted to solidify his presence at her side, to secure him and protect him within the walls of the palace, he didn't view this sudden recognition and notoriety as a sound plan. No longer anonymous, he worried what this might mean for him in the long run. He was named, he was claimed, he had a reputation...and Mollengard would be quick to find him with that information. He would have retreated into the hills. He told Vega as much, when they first arrived to the kingdom under the cover of darkness. "I can live off the land," he'd said. "I only need a few provisions, and I'll be fine. No one will ever find me. ...You'll never have to hear from me again."

But she had argued against all his points, and she convinced him to concede on one concern, in particular. His wounds, numerous and infected, required medical attention. And considering how close he was to losing the ability to walk just a short time ago, he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks regarding his health. He agreed, and followed her inside the palace. While her practicality was what swayed him to remain, he realized that he wanted an excuse to stay close to Vega. What if she had another brush with death? What if she did die? What if her heart seized on the spot? And...what if he did lose her, not to death, but to life? He couldn't blame her if she decided to move on, without him. As far as he knew, their relationship had ended. He had finalized it in the worst possible way, and left her when she needed him most. Perhaps that was another reason why he stayed within the palace walls: he was awaiting his punishment. 

Long days had passed with agonizing aimlessness. She never called for him. He counted segments of the day by the meals he received, or the very few invitations to leave his chambers and explore. But outside of those doors was a world he was not quite ready to face. Nobles roamed those gilded hallways, and their gazes lingered on him with thinly veiled disgust. He would have preferred to stay in the soldiers' barracks, or even the dungeons. After all, why pretend to be an esteemed person deserving of the highest of honors? Though grateful to Vega, he didn't know what she had intended for him at all. Unless the discomfort, the waiting, the unknowability of his fate was the punishment.

He'd taken to pacing in his room. His ankle was still sprained, and it hurt to apply pressure, but he could no longer sit still. He felt caged, powerless, useless. His only saving grace was the wine that the serving staff brought to him for every meal. As was his request, they brought him an extra bottle or two, and he'd drink himself into a stupor. It was the only way he could sleep, nowadays, too wracked with guilt and anxious energy to clear his mind long enough to drift into a restful slumber. 

While on the balcony, he idly calculated if he could jump off the ledge and rappel down the palace walls with tied-up bed-sheets. If it were possible, if he could sneak away undetected...

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He returned to his toasty bedchambers, a marked difference in temperature now that he'd been outside for most of the morning, and pulled open the latch to see who awaited him on the other side. 

"Vega." At seeing her for the first time in days, he cleared his throat, trying to hide the sudden swarm of emotions that threatened to attack him all at once: relief, surprise, anticipation, regret...heartsickness. "No, not at all. I expected you'd be busy, especially after your long absence." And after so much has happened to you... But before he could think up some other emotionally-distant courtesy to spout upon her, she navigated the conversation to a place he was not expecting it to go, so soon. But instead of raising his guard, he lowered it. Dropped it, even. He could hear it clatter to the ground. 

"I...I'm not a good person, Vega," he said, gripping the door latch for support. "I only started to help refugees because one man was desperate enough to approach me, a stranger in the woods outside the border. He offered me everything he had to take him over the mountains to Eyraille, and I agreed. Then he begged me to go back and fetch his family. I agreed. Word got around about my 'services.' People kept finding me. The operation grew without my input. So I accepted the responsibility. Mollengard is an inhospitable place. We were all just trying to survive. That's all." He dropped his hand to his side, letting it sway in small, pendulous motions. 

"I'll go with you," he said after a pause, "I'll go see them. It's not like I can hide any longer, anyway. The whole kingdom knows who I am, now." It wasn't meant to sound accusatory, but he still dipped his head in apology. "You did what you had to do, I know. But if you think I'm going to get a hero's welcome...you're mistaken."

Theomyr, being no stranger to suspicion on the parts of others, was of course fully prepared to answer the onslaught of questions that he knew he'd face. And yet, many if the questions did not come from his daughter, but her companion. Unfortunately, Lilica's cooperation was contingent on his own, for better or worse. "I do beseech you limit your curiosity to the most imperative details; but of course, I will put you in the know, if it reassures you." The once-king folded his hands behind his back and bent his head. "I have lost all sense of time since leaving the physical realm for the realm of dreams, I confess. However... if I were to guess, then I would estimate that Galeyn has slept for over a century. And I have been gone for almost nearly as long." There was something about his voice, a waver in confidence that hinted at regret. "And we did not exist entirely unknown; just not widely recognized. A small, quiet kingdom, self-sufficient and surrounded by woods, we were no threat to anyone. But even more, I believe that we were left alone because we kept quiet about the source of our power."

At that, he motioned to the lush garden that surrounded them: brimming to the point where it was almost alive, its own entity. "The Night Garden has existed for longer than anyone can remember, and it has been our people, our blood, who are tasked with its care and upkeep. It sleeps, protected and dreamless, along with Galeyn's denizens. And it was the reason that Locque wanted the kingdom." Turning to a rose bush, Theomyr picked a rose, white tipped with silver, and handed it to Alster. "This garden reflects the nature of its environment. If it is tended with love and good intentions, then it has the means to heal, to protect, to invigorate its people. But for those with poor intentions... evil intentions, as would have been the case with Locque, it can just as quickly turn into a means of control. It can poison and kill and curse, and there is no telling how far it could spread. You must understand, Alster, that all that I did was a very last resort, and I had no choice. Locque had learned too much, and was close to discovering the way to cultivate the Night Garden's power to use to her own nefaious whims. It was upon me not only to protect Galeyn and my people from her intentions, but the rest of this world, as well."

"Had you no allies? No one who could help?" Lilica piped up, more engrossed with the unfolding of this tale than she cared to admit. "How stable can a empire, however small, be without friends or comrades? How is it that Galeyn was so isolated, and completely alone in this?"

"Ah. Well, truth be told, my dear, Galeyn was in close contact with one other pocket of a kingdom, not so different from itself." Theomyr smiled, but it was tight. "Unfortunately, when I reached out for their help with regard to the threat of Locque, they withdrew from us, and told us it was up to us to solve this problem. I know not what happened to that king or kingdom, in the years that progressed... perhaps it is still in existence. I suppose, that when you find Galeyn," he arched a curious brow, "then you will find out."

At Alster's request for final proof, when all was said and done, the once king of Galeyn heaved a heavy sigh and rubbed his temples. "Ah, that ever loathesome question. Proof. Sadly, there is little that I can do to prove to you anything I have said. Already, I show you the Night Garden. I can show you how to find Galeyn. I have no more power; no more than what exists in dreams, and Galeyn rests, unmanned, and unruled. Do try to understand that I, too, am making a good leap of faith in trusting you: a daughter who I hradly know, and an absolute stranger. Should you choose, you could lead to the final destruction of my beloved kingdom. I only hope that I am right about my appraisal of you."

"The Night Garden... tell me how it is used. How it was used, when you ruled." Lilica interjected at last, hesitation in her voice. "By what means does it bless and heal? Tell me that much, and I... you have my word, I will do what I can."

Such a simple and innocent question, after the barrage of accusation, genuinely surprised Theomyr. "By way of the properties of its flora, of course, alongside purification rituals. Not so unlike medicine, in fact. With the right knowledge, and the right practice, there are nearly no limitations to herbology. The difference is, this place is not merely a source of medicine. It is at once the healer and the healing, for body and mind--in the right hands, that is. All it requires is proper understanding, good intentions, and of course, care. But..." He furrowed his brows, suddenly suspicious. "Why is that information important to you, Lilica?"

"Because when I was running from myself..." Her voice caught in her throat, and she cleared it. "When I was running from my magic, I tried to refocus my attention. I... I became an herbalist. And I to this day did not know why the calling to take what the earth has to offer, in order to purify and heal, was so strong."

"Is that so." Theomyr's smile became warm, then, and he laid a hand upon Lilica's shoulder. "Well, I am happy to make the clarification for you, my dear. But I am afraid that I am not long for this dream, and you are not long for sleep. Let us talk again later, hm?"

It had occurred to Vega that visiting the refugees, who had found a home near Eyraille's mountains, might not have been an idea to his liking. He had always been open about his mixed feelings towards the people who thought they owed him his life, and he might never consider what he is doing as an act of herosim. However, with the alternative being keeping himself confined to this palace, an even stranger place with far more layers of uncertainty, she figured that there was a chance he would consider it a welcome excursion--or, at least, less aborrent to being cooped up.

"You know... the more that I live through," Not to mention, what he had died through, "The more I am beginning to understand that we, as individuals, do not possess the privilege of weighing the merit of our own character. We no more give meaning to our actions than we do our words; that is for the witnesses to decide." Absently, she rubbed the back of her shoulder, still bruised and aching from her not-so-heroic leap from her roc. The growing chill in the air did not do much to help, either. "Look at me, for example. To most, I am the deserter queen. Too overwhelmed by the responsibility of holding a kingdom in the palm of my hand, that I would force it upon the small shoulders of my little brother. I don't blame them for regarding me in such a light; in many ways, I agree. But..."

Exhaling, long and deep, she took a seat upon a decorative chest tucked against the wall. Since returning to the place that she called home, she felt a though she had less time to rest than when she had been at war. "Then, there are those who see me as an asset to the Skyknights, and think that I made the right decision; that it was my calling, and fate would draw me to it, regardless. Mind you, those people harbouring such a favourable mindset are few and far-between, but... who am I to choose to wallow in self-pity and let them down? You cannot do right onto everyone, that is downright impossible. But you can do right onto those who do believe in you, and that is enough. I am through trying to please everyone. Perhaps, " the corner of her mouth curled into a smile, and for someone who had spent so long feeling so defeated, it looked as good on her as it felt, "that is why I simply cannot be queen. Wait here; let me fetch you some furs. The mountains can be brutal with the cold setting in." 

As she stood, Vega took notice of his sprained ankle, and how it still appeared red and swollen. Another sigh, this one mildly exasperated, pushed past her lips. "For the love of the gods, Haraldur... have you not kept off of your feet for more than a moment? You are doing yourself no favors, walking on a sprained foot."

The Skyknight commander disappeared, then, and when she returned moments later, it was not only with a fur coat large enough to hug his large shoulders, but in accompaied of an older woman. She was dressed as the rest of the serving staff who milled about the palace, an older woman who must have at least been advancing into her sixties, with a kind smile and strong shoulders. She held a large, pewter bowl in her arms, with fresh bandages draped across her elbow. "Haraldur, this is Enid. She was my nanny for years; the only person who could keep me walking in a straight line. It sounds as though you could use something of the sort, right now." She flashed a teasing smile, hoping he would see the light-heartedness in her comment and not take too much offense. "I'm going to go prepare a roc to take to the mountains. Enid will see you out--and ensure that you will not be bothered."

No sooner did the Eyraillian princess leave that Enid took a single glance at Haraldur's sprained ankle and tsked. "I really thought I had met my match, raising that young lady. I thought for sure that one day, she would grow out of being so reckless. Evidently, there is no growing out of such a personality trait, is there? Same appears to go for you. Have a seat, sir." Dipping the bandages into the water, tinted slightly greyish-green and swimming with herbs of all different matter, she knelt to examine the swelling around Haraldur's ankle. "Now, I am no physician; just an old woman with a thought or two of tending to injured, I learned very quickly that there was no keeping her highness off or away from the rocs, no matter how injured she was. So, this was my compromise. I apologize in advance."

When the bandages were soaked, she wrapped them around the mercenary's swollen limb, overlapping and tying them tightly from halfway up his calf, all the way to his toes. Not only was the water itself below freezing, but the potent mixure of herbs and tinctures stung and burned through the icy temperature, bringing about the absolute worst of both extremes. "You'd best keep this on, too, you hear? It will keep the swelling at bay while you're traipsing around the mountains. Give it a moment, the burn won't last long."

Helping him into an equally snug sock, and then his boots, Enid helped him into the thick winter coat. "...you know, I don't know the first thing about war, or what you or her Highness experienced beyond this kingdom," she said, as she helped him secure the belt that tied the furs together. Her voice was quieter, now, and her spark had dampened ever so slightly. "I am sure it is enough to change a person, for good. But I... I have seen men return from war, before. I know what to look for. At least, I thought I did, but... it is different for Vega, isn't it?" She sighed and straightened her slumped posture. "It isn't like what I've seen before. Certainly, I understand wanting to be withdrawn, and I will not begrudge her that. But it is more than that. She is always so... cold, now. Spending hours in a hot bath, only to feel chilled again soon after. Born and raised near the mountains, as she was, I guarantee she has never been so sensitive to the cold. Yet she refuses to see a physician. And--call me a paranoid old woman--but I have this nagging suspicion that it has something to do with those strange scars on her body. Those scars were not there when she lest us for Tadasun... But how am I to do my job effectively and see to her needs if I no longer know what those needs are?"

She looked at Haraldur then, and it was obvious she was aware that he knew far more than she. And, of course, she hoped that he would tell her something--anything, to give her insight into what had happened to her princess. But she did not press; and when Haraldur made no venture to reply, she dropped her head in apology. "Forgive me, Sir. You owe me no sort of explanation; it isn't my place to ask. But... I must request, as someone who witnessed the princess's very birth, that if there is anything I should know--and anything that I can do for her--that you will tell me. And not for my sake, but on behalf of Vega's. You mean a lot to her, you know. I hope I am not wrong in assuming that feeling is mutual."

"So all lives are connected to this garden," Alster muttered in reply, turning the brilliant white rose around in his hands. It seemed to hum with vitality, a vibration that seeped into his veins and circulated throughout his system. Calm and lightness washed over him. He felt less encumbered, more attuned to his surroundings. The ever-permeating fog of his mind lifted--though it still hovered close-by, awaiting for its inevitable descent. He did not know if he imagined these sensations, as they may only have pertained to the people of Galeyn, but he could at least determine that the magic was powerful enough to affect and influence his empathetic tendencies.

"What power could Locque harness, if she seizes control of this garden? Could she smother the world in its entirety? Is no magic strong enough to withstand the thrall of the garden?" Already, he was cataloging methods by which he could deter the spread of a botanical pandemic. But celestial magic was ill-equipped in its dealings against terrestrial-based attacks, and his chthonic magic could only siphon. Unless the garden was entirely a chthonic creation, he could do little to stop it from reaching the already ravaged Stella D'Mare...should it travel that far.

Understandably, worry gnawed at his lip, which he grazed at with his teeth. "If so...this place...it's far too powerful to exist. Even if its stewardship remains in capable, well-intentioned hands, human nature is a strong, corrupting influence. If Lilica restores the garden, awakens your kingdom, and thwarts Locque, how can we be sure that nothing of this nature will happen again, with some other upstart leaving off where Locque failed?" He twirled the rose around in his fingers, watching the moonlight catch on the edges of its silver-tipped petals. "We'd be back where we started. If this garden has the means to end the world, shouldn't it be destroyed, or made completely inaccessible, locked even deeper into the dream realms? I understand if that's not possible, or even desirable, if by doing so would end the lives of your people. But...I'm just concerned about what this all means, in the end. So I'll only ask you these two questions. I must know the answers if I'm going to help: what is the Night Garden? And what can we do to protect it not only from its most immediate threat, but for millennia to come?"

He knew he was asking too many questions, but he was inherently inquisitive on matters involving the arcane arts, especially when those arts held such a claim on the balance of the world. It hit too close to home, to be faced again with an entity that, like the Serpent, could destroy many homes and lives.

Destroy, not, The Serpent hissed in his head. Only home, I go.

Whether Theomyr indulged him with answers or not, Alster thanked him for his time, even though time was merely a construct to this man. They faded away from the dream, from the haunting resplendence of the night garden, and blinked back into awareness. They were awake, at the infirmary, in the broken shell of Stella D'Mare. The first thing that Alster checked was his dominant arm, as if expectant, hopeful that it'd been restored in full. But all that awaited him was empty space. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed at what remained and leaned over to Lilica, who was awake and, not surprisingly, shaken by the information that had been saddled upon her already burdensome shoulders. 

"Are you really going to help him?" he whispered, keeping his voice as silent as possible, in case he disturbed any of the sleeping patients--or in case Vitali was still afoot, somehow, eavesdropping. 

"I know," Haraldur said, quietly. He leaned against the wide-open door, allowing Vega inside. A residual chill passed over him as she walked into his chambers. Whether it was a cross-breeze wafting through the halls of the spacious palace, or from his proximity to her, he couldn't tell. But upon his passive observation of her as she settled down on the chest at the foot of his bed, he could tell that she had grown more wan--almost gray in color. The grayness pervaded, passing through her eyes, her lips, and even on the shafts of her brilliant red hair. He lowered his eyes to the ground, where they remained, throughout the rest of her speech.

"I know," he repeated. "We can't change what people think of us, however much we disagree on their portrayal. And I'm not trying to do right by every person I meet; heavens know I never have. I'm only trying to do right by you." His eyes flicked back to her face. "By urging you not to believe in me."

But before he could elaborate on what he meant, Vega noticed the way he favored one foot over the other, and admonished him for the improper care of his ankle. "I can't sit still," he admitted with a simple shrug, as if that explanation would absolve him of guilt. "But it's not that bad off, really." 

But she was gone, dragging behind her another puff of cold air. As he bent over and inspected the tender spots of his ankle, Vega arrived with an older woman. He nodded his head in greeting, and drew himself into a polite bow. At the Skyknight's comment, however, he paused for one pregnant moment, wondering if she, or if either of them, could smell the wine on his breath. It was no secret, not to the serving staff and definitely not to anyone who could spare him a passing glance, that he was spending a judicious amount of time with the bottle. He responded only with the beginnings of a self-deprecating smile, but it faded when Vega left the room a second time.

Haraldur sat on the bed as Enid instructed, neither protesting or making empty reassurances. He knew early on, from his experiences with Arina, that once a healer or physician resolved to bandage a wound, there was little one could do to sway her mind. The best course of action was to remain seated, still, and obedient. Maybe, he thought, clasping for a pendant that was no longer there, if I'd listened to Shayl earlier, if I let her heal me then...she'd still be alive. 

No, he countered, then you wouldn't have been there to save her when the ground opened up. No matter what you did or didn't do...she still would have died.

Except for Vega. She was both dead and alive--and it was all because of him. 

Without a word, he offered his ankle to Enid. Though he hissed in pain at the temperature of the water mixed with the bite and sting of the herbs, he voiced no complaint. It was only when she began to speak of the very concerns that percolated his own mind that he looked to her with an open mouth, one poised for words, for the answers this kindly woman sought about her young charge. But those words didn't take form. Would she even believe them? Or worse, would she believe them, overreact, and regard Vega as a lesser creature, unworthy of life? Would she pity her, and try to end her misery? Return her to the grave whence she came, and where she truly belonged? Would she tell the king? Would the entire kingdom be privy to this forbidden knowledge? The living-dead deserter princess, they'd call her, or something of its ilk. And as for him, once they discovered that he was responsible for her revival, they would see him for who he truly was. Not a hero, but a soul destroying Forbanne who made a mockery out of Eyraille's royal family.

No one could know. 

"The war we fought out there...the enemy regularly employed magical means of combat. Vega was caught in the crossfire of that magic. This is how it chose to affect her," he said, at last. It wasn't a lie: only the vaguest of statements. A broad overview of events. But he hoped it would satisfy the woman's curiosities--for now. 

Testing out his wrapped ankle, and the new mantle about his shoulders and waist, he nodded his thanks to Enid. "She'll recover," he said, planting a steady, but gentle hand upon her shoulder. It was a hollow promise, but he said those words with as much confidence as he could muster. "I'll help her along, as best I can." Though I doubt my help will make it any better... 

He pulled the furs of his mantle closer around his large frame and made for the door, waiting for Enid to guide him to his rendezvous point with the Skyknight in question. "The feeling...it's mutual," he mumbled. But did she still see it that way? 

They met with Vega later, out on the cliffs where rocs were readied for flight. Waving his goodbyes to Enid, he aligned beside the Skyknight princess, took his hands to his mouth, and blew into them for warmth, making an exaggerated show out of the gesture. "I've been in the south for too long," he said, with a coy smile. "Any longer and my northern blood would have revoked its right to live in my body." Half in jest, half out concern, he added, "And you? Are you going to turn into an icicle on this ride, so soon after continued expose to balmy sea breezes and desert heat?" He sidled even closer to her. "We'll keep each other warm...won't we?" 

Before mounting the roc, Haraldur slipped on the helmet that Vega provided him, as further precaution against the cold. Leather straps concealed the sides of his face, and the lip of the helmet cast his eyes in shadow. "Maybe they won't even remember me--or recognize me." Minding his ankle, he climbed on board the giant avian, his arms slipping around Vega. He tried to ignore the longing that seized at his heart, that was triggered by mere touch. "I had longer hair then. And a fuller beard. And if I keep on this helmet, I could remain anonymous...at least for a little while."

"Everything, Alster Rigas, can be dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands." Theomyr's face tightened, suddenly, and the atmosphere felt suddenly very heavy. "Indeed, this miracle of a garden can very well turn into a curse if it were to fall into the wrong hands. I cannot say if Locque could usurp the entirety of all existence by harnessing its power, but I would be lying to say that is not a possibility. However... the people of Galeyn did not choose to be born into the role of caring for the Night Garden. Nor should they be condemned to sleep for eternity just because it has the potential to be dangerous and detrimental. As king, I would sooner make a sacrifice of my own life than to destroy the innocent lives of Galeyn. They are good people; perhaps some of the best you will ever meet, should you have the opportunity to meet them. Call it irresponsible, but I trust in them to maintain the integrity of the garden for eons to come. After all..." A sigh passed his lips, and he moved a stray, ebony hair out of his eyes. "I am the first to make such a grave mistake as to compromise the kingdom and the garden, so. As such, I should be punished, not them. And I will happily allow whatever remains of my existence to fade into oblivion, should it mean Galeyn has a second chance."

Lilica watched the change in her father's face as she spoke. She searched for signs of manipulation, such that Vitali would have employed to get his way. And, perhaps she was naive, perhaps she just wanted to believe, but... she saw the tightness in his jaw, and the lines beneath his eyes; they were etched with sorrow. This man, much though he could very well be a liar, genuinely seemed like a remorseful monarch who missed his home terribly. Someone hiding longing and loneliness behind bravado, when deep down, he only wished he could turn back time and undo his mistakes. Theomyr Tenerbris was desperate to do right for his kingdom, whatever it took. "Say we find it." She said at last, in addendum to Alster's questions. "Say I agree to find your kingdom, awaken its people, and restore the Night Garden. Then what? What will keep it stable, from falling into the wrong hands? Are you... will you find a way to return? To rule it again?" And, if so, can you be trusted...?

"The Night Garden is a gift to this world. A very precious gift, my people believe, from our ruling Goddess, Lunange. There is an ancient tale of how one of Galeyn's people won her favor many millenia ago. I would be happy to recount it to you, later on." The tightness in the once-king's mouth loosened just a little. "As for your question, Lilica... I wish I had an answer for you. But I will give you only honesty, and the honest truth is I do not know what will become of status. I have yearned for the opportunity to see Galeyn again, however unworthy I might be to continue to call myself its ruler. And, if I were to return, if it were possible, I would leave it up to my people to dedice whether I deserve such a return, or instead, exile for my dire folly. Regardless, I can assure you that my people--our people, Lilica, can hold their own. They know the Garden, what it needs, and how to protect it. If I did not have faith in them, then I would not seek to revive my kingdom. I beseech your faith in them, as well."

"And if you do not return? Or if you cannot?" The dark mage narrowed her eyes, ever suspicious. "What is it that you intend for Galeyn, in the future?"

"Merely... to live. To thrive. And to do much better than I." Theomyr lifted his shoulders. "I am a pitiful existence, a shadow of a man trapped in his own remorse, Lilica. And before I cease to exist, I must see that my beautiful kingdom is restored."

"And what proof do I have that you are even who you say you are?" Finally, the question that had been weighing on her mind slipped from her tongue, harsh and accusatory. But only because she wanted, so badly, to believe... "How do I know I will be restoring this kingdom to its true king, and not someone of no greater virtue than Locque, herself?"

Her father smiled again, as if somehow pleased with her suspicion, so as to prove a point he meant to make. "That is simple, Lilica. You do not need to believe right now that I am--was--Galeyn's king. Or even your father, for that matter. But the proof will show itself when you reach the kingdom." Plucking another white rose from its thorny bush, Theomyr pressed one of the flower's sharp protrusions into the pad of his finger. Rich, red blood beaded on the soft flesh in its wake. "Only Tenebris blood--the right Tenebris blood, I should add--can awaken Galeyn. Before I condemned myself to these realms, I ascertained that that very blood would be yours... not that of your brother's, as I think we both know he cannot be trusted." Then, he reached for her hand, and placed the rose in Lilica's palm, and gently closed her fingers over it. "Offer the Garden a single drop of your blood... it will know. And it will not awaken for anyone else."

If it was all an act, then Theomyr outshone even Vitali, in that respect. But there was so much detail to what he said, so lengthy an explanation... Had he been crafting that elaborate lie for a hundred years, or was it really the truth? It made her head ache that she could not know for sure. But her gut, for better or for worse, was telling her to trust him. "You do realize, that if I find at any point in time that you are deceiving me--I will abandon this mission completely." Her voice was firm and astute. She was tired of being played, and she would not be played by a man claiming to be her own blood. She clutched the rose in her hand hard enough that she felt the bite of its thorns pierce her soft flesh. "And I will not think twice about it. You will have to find a new pawn to do your bidding, and if their blood is not good enough, then that is your problem."

"At that, I understand." Theomyr spread his hands. "I am little more than a dream, Lilica. I cannot make you do anything, even if I wanted to, which is why I offer you only honesty. It is your prerogative whether or not you wish to see this mission through; like my people, you did not choose your blood, either." He bent his head, then, almost in supplication. "But this once-was king hopes that you see the virtue in what I am asking, and that you see it through. If not for my own, selfish wishes to undo my mistake, then for your own peace of mind, and the end of your own journey... To find that place where you will not feel like a curse." His smile was suddely sad. "Because you are not, Lilica. You were born a blessing. You just do not realize it, yet."

Lilica blinked awake to the onslaught of daylight flooding the infirmary. It hurt her eyes, and exacerbated an already throbbing headache. Slowly, she sat up, and shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. "...I have to. I... I need to find out of he is telling the truth," she told Alster, in a quiet, defeated voice. "That I am capable of more than destruction. I want... I need that peace of mind, Alster. But do not consider yourself beholden to his desires. You need not become any more involved in something that is not your burden to bear." With a sudden rush of conviction, then, she threw the blankets off of her legs, and stood so quickly it made her dizzy. "...I need to see Chara."

And so, she focused on that task for the remainder of the day, which was not easy, given how preoccupied the haughty blonde Rigas caster was. But after asking many questions and doing her own investigations as to Chara's whereabouts (it was not as though anyone was willing to tell the likes of her), she finally caught her in one of the only remaining Rigas villas that had survived the Serpent's attack. She knocked on the door, stood, waited, and knocked again. When no one answered, the chthnonic caster swore under her breath, and took her leave to open the door. "Excuse my intrusion," she said to Chara, who was sitting by herself, with an open bottle of wine in front of her. It was already half-empty. "But I need to talk to you, Chara. And, no, it can't wait." Gone was the wan, broken woman that Chara had visited in the infirmary. Lilica had bathed and brushed her hair, and bore a clean, new tunic that reached her knees. Conviction had brought a tinge of colour to her cheeks, and though she could do to put on the weight she had lost, it was the best that she had looked in quite some time--because Chara deserved to see her at the best. And so that the Rigas caster would take what she had to say seriously, and not assume them to be the ravings of a sleep-deprived mad woman. 

By the time Haraldur arrived at the roc stables, Vega had already prepared one of the giant avians for flight. Her won coat, lined with fur and stuffed with downm reached her ankles and the high part of her neck, around which was lined with pure, white feathers. Her hands were sheathed with gloves, once black, but the leather had worn to a dark grey. Covering her ears and wrapped snugly around her head was a band of knitted grey wool, thickly braided like her vibrant red hair, the very same fleece that covered her leather boots. In addition to a thick scarf that hung to her waist, she was well shielded against the cold, and looked as ready for the air as the avians that she rode. Cold or not, temperature would not keep her from taking to the skies.

Glancing Haraldur's way, she spoke her thanks to Enid, and mounted the roc, moving toward the front in order to allow Haraldur room in the back. Though her scarf hid her mouth, her smile reached her eyes. "The cold has never stopped me before. I do not intend for now to be any different." She lifted a sholder in a shrug. If anything, the nip in the air brought an attractve rosiness to her cheeks and the tip of her nose, brightening up the otherwise greyish pallor that ailed her skin. A reminder that despite what she had endured, Eyraille's princess was still very much alive, however much ane exception to the rule that might have been, given her circumstances. "Cold cannot defeat me, Haraldur. Nor do I believe it will defeat you."

The princess's blood automatically ran warmer as she felt the mercenary's chest press against her back, and his arms slide around her waist. It brought back find memories of previous occasions when they had kept one another warm, betwixt the sheets, so much so that perspiration glistened on their skin. With Haraldur, no matter the circumstances, she always felt so alive. But... then she recalled what Tivia had told her. What Haraldur had done with her. Why he had done it; and her heart sank all over again. I will never be alive enough, for him. Never again...

"If I get desperate, I can always take to the hot springs peppered among the mountains." She reminded him as an afterthought. "I've missed soaking in them; nobody else dares to do so in when winter arrives. But there is nothing better than being surrounded by the cold, and blanketed with the warmth of the stirrings of dormant volcanos." With another small smile, she cautioned him, "Hold tight, and keep your face down. If you think the air is bitter, now, just wait until we take to the skies."

As soon as he indicated he was prepared to take off, Vega tugged on the roc's reins, and it began to soar toward the sky, higher and higher, faster and faster, until it reached an altitude that allowed it to glide with the wind beneath its wings. "You do not have to remain anonymous, Haraldur. I am not making this trip just so you can hide, you know." Vega called over the wind moments later, casting a glace over her shoulder at the warrior. "Not from everyone. Some may not find joy with your return, and that is to be expected. But I know a few who will be delighted to see you. And I hope that for them, you will take off that helmet. I think you'll find the warm welcome that you might not be expecting."

Although the mountains were tall, and the valleys in-between seemed far, traveling by the skies took little to no amount of time. The roc landed on the outskirts of the refugee village, just before the slew of houses, farms and even some artisan shops that were preparing for the coming of winter. Dismounting, Vega stretched her legs, which were already beginning to feel the bite of the cold, before turning to help Haraldur down, minding his injured ankle. "Come. We don't have far to walk." She assured him. "You can lean on me, if need be. I might be cold, but I promise I am not fragile. I won't break."
When he was stable and secure on the ground, she took him by the arm, and moved towards the cluster of cottages and houses spread throughout the valley. Sheltered by the mountains, the wind did not blow quite so harshly, and a calm sheet of frost has settled upon the grass. Then they reached a small house towards the western end of the valley, one that promised warmth with a chimney piping smoke from what must have been a roaring fire. "Take off your helmet," she told Haraldur, a she knocked on the door. Not a minute later, a young girl answered, and Thora looked on, in awe at the man responsible for saving her and her family, what seemed not so long ago.

"No, of course. You're right." Alster lowered his head, contrite. "Even in my hypothetical condemnations, I wasn't thinking...that I'd be condemning myself along with your people--with the Night Garden. For--I'm something that is too dangerous to exist, and yet, here I am. I suppose I had a visceral reaction, a bit of knee-jerk self-hatred still wriggling around from inside." He smiled, but his eyes carried a similar weight and exhaustion as the king of Galeyn, himself. "I'd like to trust in your people...and in you. But that is not my decision to make."

He saw the desperation that drew severe lines into Theomyr's haggard face, which, with every word spoken, seemed to age and age, into timelessness itself. The tenderness of his words, the candor in which he relayed his wishes with the wistfulness of the fallen...they were sincere. He truly seemed in want for his kingdom's restoration, whether he was there for it or not. 

And even more than sincerity, Theomyr confirmed Lilica's own legitimacy, not only to Galeyn's throne, but to her own birthright. Despite the dark mage's insistence that she was born a blight on the world, the king of Galeyn inferred otherwise. Another small smile tugged at his face. A blessing. See, Lilica? he wanted to say. Love was in you all along. You weren't unwanted. Not at all.

He just hoped that this man had been honest with them--in all ways. It mattered not if his facts were irrefutable, but his intent and integrity needed to be true. For Lilica's sake...

When they awoke and discussed the merits of the Galeyn king, he nodded along to her suspicions, though not without revealing his own insights. "I think he's telling the truth. There was something very...raw about him. Desperate. It's a hard feeling to forge. But many have called me a fool before. Including you. So," he shrugged, "I may not be the best person to ask, here. But I'll still help where I can, Lilica." He rose from her cot, allowing her the space she desired. "After all, I'm already involved." 

As he left the infirmary, a retinue of people were waiting for him at the doors. He saw several Rigas guards, a few other Rigases of high status, the Mollengardian healer that had "spooked" Lilica awake, and other people he did not recognize, who he could only assume were other Mollengardians. Before he could question the meaning of the procession, a Rigas man stepped forward, clapping his hands together as in prayer. 

"Others may not yet recognize what you and your warrior have done for the city, but we do," he said, bowing his head in reverence. Alster was stymied into silence. "We were there when it happened." He motioned to the other Rigases present. "We saw it all." 

Alster's face turned hot. "I, ah--" 

"We want to do something for you." The man nodded at the dangling sleeve of Alster's tunic, beneath which his missing arm was concealed. "And we think we know what. Come with us. We may be able to help with your arm." 

It was done and decided: Chara wanted to kill Cyprian.

The opinionated man had transformed from disagreeable to downright hostile towards her. Whatever decree she made, he dismissed--and his rest of the council were quick to follow suit. Like sheep to their shepherd, they would saunter right off a cliff, if that was his orchestration. 

"I already told you, Chara," he said with such an avuncular air that she almost snorted from the idiocy, "we cannot ally with Andalari. How many times must we cover this? Mollengard is adequate. They protect us from any insurgents at the border." 

"So they say," she muttered, rolling a quill pen between her fingers and imagining it as a spear to shoot between his eyes. 

"So they," he began to sputter, "--they apprehended a dozen already! In the three days they've stationed themselves there!"

"They could have been envoys for peace. Mollengard failed to mention the color of the banners they waved. And keep in mind," she let the pen drop from her fingers, "we need to foster peace with Andalari. They still hold many of our citizens and will not move to cooperate unless we allow them passage into Stella D'Mare. They want to collect their dead."

Cyprian slammed his hands on the table. It shook with such force that the goblets of wine almost toppled over the white silk cloth. 

"Do you hear yourself, Chara?! You want to make a deal with Andalari, the nation who enslaved us for generations?!"

"Oh be reasonable, Cyprian!" she barked. "It was not enslavement." 

"Then what was it?" 

"I do not trust Mollengard!" She rose from his chair, fingernails digging into the silk cloth, the only barrier separating her from his throat. 

"Oh? We'll do you know who I do not trust?" His mouth proceeded to open wide, showing teeth with all intention to sink into its prey. "Your betrothed!"

"Alster? He saved us--"

"--from the mess he caused in the first place. Yes, I'm well aware." Now it was his turn to snort. "He should be exiled. Along with that dark mage that follows you around like some lost puppy. Her necromancer brother, too. He expresses an unhealthy interest in my daughter. In fact," his mouth widened into a grin, "I insist you dispose of all three." 

"Insist?! You haven't the gall--"

"-Oh, but I do." He jerked his head to the mute council members who sat like pillars and stared into their untouched wine goblets. "They will call for the vote, Chara. Remember, you hold no power over us. Over me. Your title is but ceremonial." He sat down with a self-satisfied flourish. "You might as well resign." 

That evening, when all had left her villa, Chara ransacked the wine cellar and drank, cursed, drank, and cursed some more. She imagined the wine as Cyprian's blood, and she was drinking him into a dry, shriveled up nothing. Satisfied by the visual, her rage had quelled and she was finally able to sit down and quietly spend the rest of her evening sipping at all her losses. 

Until the door knocked heavily and then swung open, revealing someone she did not expect to see. 

"Lilica!" She shouted in surprise, standing, with bottle still gripped in her hand. "To what do I owe this very unforeseen encounter?" She looked the dark mage up and down, taking in her clean, put-together state. It was hard to tell that she'd even been bedridden and half-mad at all, just by appearance alone. And seeing her alight with a determination and quiet, focused fury...she was intrigued by any proposal leaving her vivacious lips. 

"What can I do for you? Apparently, not much." She laughed at her own expense, before turning around and waving her inside. "Come, join me here on the couch. Help me finish this wine."

Haraldur shifted uncomfortably in his seat behind Vega, trying to readjust his position to as ideal a level as could be had upon a saddle. His arms tightened around her waist, in preparation for flight, but in doing so, he negated all his previous attempts to relax. The cold--it really did favor her. He wanted to press his fingers against her red, red cheeks, but kept those desires strictly inside his head. No. She's no longer interested in me...

Therefore, he bit his tongue about her hot springs comment--though he could not will away the visual of her, soaking in the steam baths, alone, naked, warm...wet. 

When they took off to the skies, the biting air rushed into his face, nipping away at the exposed flesh with an intensity he wasn't expecting. All the same, it was exhilarating, an experience he'd missed since relocating to milder climes. He leaned into the wind until his cheeks felt numb from the mountain air. Then, he anchored himself behind Vega again, taking a few much needed breaths. And once they landed safe on the ground, Haraldur almost forgot about his reservations in seeing the refugees. Nonetheless, they returned to him the second his feet slid off the ponderous body of the roc. 

Though he didn't need it (but wanted it), he accepted Vega's help and leaned against her as they traveled down the only road weaving through the quiet village. Everyone was inside, as indicated by the smoke streaming from the squat, stone chimneys. Still, he lowered his head, and the helmet provided the cover he desired. He was here, before. This was Thora's village. They weren't going to...were they?

By then, they were already standing by a door. Vega was knocking. He almost grabbed her hand mid knock. Almost ducked for cover. His ankle threatened to buckle beneath him. Yet, he remained, shaking on the inside, unmoveable on the outside.

The door swung open. There, on the other side, awaited Thora. Recognition set in her mellow features. She was expecting him. Haraldur cast a pointed look at Vega, before returning his full attention on the girl who nearly became his daughter. 

There was no use hiding from her perceptive blue eyes. He unbuckled and pulled off his helmet. Despite the coziness of the hut's interior, frozen pinions seemed to hammer their way into his every joint. He froze in place. The simplest of faculties had failed him: he could not move, speak, or think. Only stand at attention, a stiff, wide, soldier's stance. 

Thora seemed to understand. She moved closer, and slowly pressed her hand into his. "It's all right," she said, soothing. I know what happened, and it's all right."

Haraldur blinked. "...All right?"

"You didn't return because of the avalanche." She looked over her shoulder, at the woman who was watching them at her seat by the fire. One ladle-clutching hand idly stirred something around in a small cauldron. The smell of a hearty stew wafted through the air. "Because Arina, she," her hand tightened, "...and the others, too. They told me that you left, after seeing them safely here. You took responsibility for it all. But," tears pricked in her eyes, "you didn't, because you left. You would have stayed, if you truly wanted to own the responsibility. You left because you were afraid. Ashamed...You were, weren't you?" 

The careful construction of his features began to wear thin, like threadbare clothes. He could not hold her gaze, or his stance...or anything. Despite the ache of his ankle, he drew himself to one knee before her, prostrate. 

"I'm...sorry," he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, he would summon a demon of vengeance from her lips. "I ran. I ran for five years. I'm still running...always. I'm not strong enough, Thora. I took the easiest solution. War, killing, bloodshed...that's who they created. My only true identity." He closed his eyes. "I thought I ran out of choices. I was too unfit to stay for you. I...I am unfit...for anyone."

A swift flapping of warms wrapped around his neck. He half-expected them to grapple him, choke him until the world finally faded to black--as it should have, for him, a long time ago. But when he opened his eyes, those arms were still cradling his neck. Thora had buried her face into his shoulders, holding him in a tight embrace. 

"No, you buffoon," she said, between sobs. "Why would you convince yourself to believe...such nonsense?" She drew from him, and looked into his moistening eyes. "I never stopped believing in you. That you'd come back. That you'd find yourself again. That you'd find us again...right where you left us." She dried her tears on her sleeve. "You ran, but you're back. ....Don't ever run again. Promise me that!" 

"I... I ran out of places to run."

"That's not an answer!" 

He dipped into a slow, penitent nod. "I won't run. From you, from the refugees." He turned his head imperceptibly, towards Vega. "From Eyraille."

"Never again!" 

He faltered. "Never...never again."

She smiled in spite of her tears. "Good. I'll hold you to it, this time." She looked up, beckoning for Vega to join the circle. "Thank you for bringing him, your Highness." She winked conspiratorially at the Skyknight. 

Haraldur huffed a sigh. "I knew I was being set up."

"But you came, despite that." She slapped his shoulder, and began to walk over to the cauldron. "The two of you need to stay for lunch. It's stew. And it's compulsory for you to join." She pointed a finger towards Haraldur. "Especially you." 

"Well, it seems I have no choice," he said, with a small, shaky smile. Slowly, he rose from his knees, back to his full height. "I'm going by Haraldur now," he said. "...It's a name I won't stray from." 

She paused in helping the woman at the chair ladle the stew into bowls. "Well...that's definitely an improvement from Enginn."

She should have known this was where she would find Chara, and that the Rigas caster would be indulging in her favorite way to forget her sorrows and ails. A pang of pity stirred in Lilica's stomach; she could hardly imagine what Chara was enduring, trying to put Stella D'Mare back together, piece by piece, while the Rigas council offered so little to help her, and instead seemed to be following its own agenda. But there wasn't any time for pity, to beg for forgiveness, or to coddle her. Pressing her lips into a firm line, she shook her head at the bottle of wine. "Thank you, but no--I need to be of sound mind to tell you this, and I need to take you seriously. That said, you need to be of sound mind to take me seriously." Without another comment, she took the bottle of wine out of Chara's reach, before taking a seat on the couch next to her.

"Last we... spoke, you asked me about a man. The man in my dream, when you pulled me from death." Her throat felt simultaneously thick and tight, and for a moment, she was not confident that she could go through with telling Chara about this man who was both the key to her very past and future. But, for what she was about to do... she owed Chara this explanation. "I did not know who he was, at the time. But... lately, sleep has been finding me. And... so has he. Twice, he has found his way into my dreams, by some means. He is himself not a figmet of my wild imagination, Chara; in a sense, he is real. And he... he told me, that he is my father--my blood father. Of course, I was and still am skeptical, but... moreso, after picking his mind for answers... I am inclined to believe him.

"But I am not telling you this to put you in the know of his identity. I... there is something required of me. And I promised not to go into heavy detail, but I need you to know what I intend to do, and... why I must leave Stella D'Mare, for some time."

Very carefully, then, she explained what her father had told her. Of the sleeping kingdom of Galeyn, and how he besought her to find and awaken the kingdom again. But of the Night Garden and the sorceress, Locque... that, she did not divulge. It was unfortunate enough that Alster had found himself dragged into such an arduous task that should not be his burden to bear. She would not do the same for Chara.

By the time the chthonic caster had finished her recount of what she had found, and what she and Alster had gleaned from the mysterious man who invaded her dreams, she felt positively spent, with nothing left to give. She could not coax Chara's forgiveness for what she had done; but she could prepare her to understand what it is she had to do, now. In hopes that the haughty Rigas mage would not hate her for leaving--again.

"I cannot tell you how much of what we are told is true; but that is why I need to find out, Chara." Lilica raked her fingers through her dark hair. "If there is even an inkling of hints into my past and where I came from... or anything that can give me clarification about the nature of my magic, then I have to find out. I can't keep living in fear--I can't live in the dark of my own existence for the rest of my life. And I am not asking you to be okay with this decision; I am only asking that you try to understand why I am doing this... and, that I am going to come back, this time." Though her hands were cold from the chill of the coming winter, she disregarded the temperature and shifted her body to cup Chara's face, which was a mix of shock and disbelief. Lilica wasn't sure if she'd have perhaps preferred anger; or maybe it was just that she had become so accustomed to the Rigas caster's fire and passion that the normalcy of it all brought a sense of comfort. "That is what I want you to understand, Chara. I'm leaving--I have to, or I might have have this opportunity again. But I will come back to you, this time. No more hiding or running towards death. Do you understand that much?"

Vega said nothing and made no means to intrude on the moment when the mercenary reunited with the young girl who held him in such high regard. She had had a feeling that Haraldur might try to run, and had prepared to all but forcibly drag him back, if he did, but his sprained ankle seemed to have decided otherwise for him. Yes, running, she would have expected; but what she had not expected was for him to open himself up so thoroughly, render himself so vulnerable to Thora. She had not thought him ready, and truly had suspected he might never be ready. Never in her life had the Eyraillian princess every been so happy to be wrong.

The Skyknight returned Thora's conspiratorial smile and folded her arms, lifting her shoulders in a casual shrug. "Don't pretend like you did not think this was exactly what I had intended by bringing you to the mountains, Haraldur. You would not have agreed to come with me, had you not truly wanted to, at your core." This meeting; this closure what precisely what the mercenary needed in order to heal, to move beyond his past and to give him hope for the future. Of course, she had also prepared for him to harbor resentment toward her for arranging this without his knowledge or input, but... she did not get the impression that he resented her at all, regardless of what had become of the connection between them. Instead, she merely felt the same thing that she always did in his presence: warmth.

"Thank you, Thora. We would be more than happy to stay fro lunch," the Eyraillian princess smiled, following the young girl and the mercenary inside the cozy home. Without asking if help was needed, she made herself busy helping the small family to prepare for lunch, setting the table and bringing in baskets of bread and jars of jam. It allowed for Haraldur to spend some time alone with young Thora, for her to recount how her family had settled in near the mountains of Eyraille since he had saved them. Even throughout lunch, she busied herself with keeping her mouth full so as to allow the others to dominate the conversation. It had not really been her plan to be present in an intrusive way that would hold back all of the genuine feelings and words that needed to be said with this reunion, but she also would not insult the family by turning down their invitation. However, as lunch came to a close, she politely excused herself to leave and prepare their roc to depart soon. With the coming of winter, days and daylight grew shorter, and it was not safe to fly in the darkness of night, for a number of reasons--one being that she knew she had made an enemy of Mollengard, and who knew what kind of tactics they would employ?

About an hour later, as Haraldur and Thora family sat around the fire with hot mugs of coffee and tea, was when Vega finally returned. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were rosy and fresh from the cold, and a look of concern lingered on her face, but she waited for Haraldur to excuse himself before filling him in on the recent turn of events. "So... it appears as though the winds have unexpectedly picked up, and are continuing to gain velocity. The sun will set, soon, but already the gales are at such force that it is not safe to take the roc back to Eyraille. He is a young one, and not fully trained to bear the weight of two adults while navigating savage winds." She looked down, embarrassed at her own oversight. The weather had been so calm, earlier, and she had been so eager to follow through with her plan to reunite Haraldur with Thora that it had slipped her mind to check the weather. "I would not bother these people to stay until morning; they scarcely have enough room to themselves live comfortably. But I know somewhere we can go."

Since there was now no rush to leave for the palace that evening, the two of them stayed for just a little bit longer, before it was time to prepare supper. That was when Vega insisted that they leave, despite Thora's protests, but she promised the young girl that Haraldur would be back to visit, soon. "Bundle up," she told Haraldur, tossing his furs in his direction. "The bite of the wind is brutal. Keep your face covered unless you want frostburn."

And she was not exaggerating. Given how much the winds had picked up, she was happy that she had taken the roc to an indoor stable; the gales were rough and full of force, and she had to keep her head down to keep her eyes from watering uncontrollably. Muscle memory alone got them to their destination: a hunting lodge to the far east of the valley, so close to the mountains that the substantial height of them nearly blocked off any potential for viewing a sunrise. Light came from the windows, and smoke piped from a large, stone chimney. Fumbling for a key, Vega finally let the two of them inside. After braving the cold, the warmth of a raging fire almost assaulted their senses, thawing the ice in their veins and drawing a long sigh of relief from the princess's lungs. Unwrapping the scarf from her neck, she draped it over a coat hanger near the fire. "This was my father's hunting lodge. He liked to hunt wildcats in the mountains to stave off boredom; when the refugees first arrived here, some of the women and children and some expecting mothers stays here while other accommodations were being built."

For a home, it was small, but for a cabin, there were definitely signs that luxury was had, here. The cabin itself was broken up into four separate rooms, one being a large living room and equally large bedroom, a chamber with a claw-foot tub for bathing, and joint kitchen and dining room with all of the appropriate fixings to live comfortably. Best of all, every room bore a large fireplace--and Vega had made sure that each and ever one of those fireplaces were roaring with warm, hungry flames. It was probably enough for anyone not struggling with homeostasis and body temperature to find uncomfortable, but for Vega, it was absolutely necessary.

One by one, Vega stripped off her layers of furs and outerwear, until she finally huddled by the fire in her tunic and leggings, drinking in the warmth like a much-needed commodity. "I lit the fires after taking the roc to the stables, indoors. I don't think I'd have survived, waiting for this place to heat up while we were in it." Had she been any closer to the fire, she'd likely be consumed by it, and it looked as though her hospitality was put on hold until she was useful enough to be a useful human being. "There is salted and dried meats in the cellar. There might also be some aged cheese, nuts and dry fruits; not exactly a lavish supper, but it will keep us alive until morning. Unless you've already grown too accustomed fine palace cuisine." She grinned, knowing full well that someone like Haraldur far preferred the former. "And if you need to warm up faster, tell me now, and I'll heat some water for a bath. Not nearly as luxurious as the hotsprings in the mountains, but... believe me when I say, nothing is worth braving the summit of the mountains when the wind is as bad as it is now. Anyway..."

Holding her hands in front of the fire, she rubbed life into her aching knuckles. The flames cast her otherwise pale skin and coppery hair in a cast of gold, and she seemed to unfold, like a sunflower opening up to the sun. "...is there anything I can do to mak you more comfortable? You'll have to tell me, because otherwise, I will never leave this fireside." She chuckled, but in truth, she was hardly joking. "And... I apologize if you find it far too warm for your liking, despite the temperature outside, but you'll have to forgive me, Haraldur--because right now, I would not extinguish these fires for the gods, themselves."

"It's too late for that," chuckled Chara under her breath. She was about to position the bottle to her mouth to demonstrate when Lilica unceremoniously swiped the cherished swill from her hands. Deja vu--and a sharp annoyance--stirred in her blood. "Not again, Lilica!" She tried to bat the prized possession out of the dark mage's keeping, to no avail. In defeat, she sat upon the cushions with a rather hard flop. 

She listened to Lilica's lengthy retelling, and tried, with her limited focus, to follow what she anticipated was a story fraught with complex turns and sinuous curves. Her assessment was not wrong. With a silent sigh, she rested her head against the couch cushions, and proceeded to massage at her left temple. A massive headache was in her near future--and just when she'd begun to rid of the last one. 

"Your father. Your blood father," she repeated. "Real. In your dreams. He found you after all this time. Almost one hundred years--and it is only now that he decides to reach you. Have I inferred correctly, here?" 

But her eyes shot wide and her entire body froze in place when the words leave and Stella D'Mare stabbed into her ears.

"What!? Why--" She smartly closed her mouth and allowed Lilica to detail the why. But the information, or Lilica's hurried assurances, or the cool, chill hands on her fevered cheeks, did nothing to allay her suspicions or fears. Instead, she clamped the dark mage's wrists, and pulled her hands free from her face. She needed distance. Time to process. But they were all luxuries she couldn't afford. She couldn't run a dead city, and she couldn't maintain her lover to stay at her side. 

"It comes with no surprise that Alster flew head-first into this 'mission' of yours. The damn fool." Feigning calm, she remembered to breathe even, spaced breaths. "So he's going along with you, too? Both of you." The spacing between her breaths began to lessen. "To this...Galeyn. And you have no idea where it is located. For all you know," the spaces merged, "it could be far North, or off in the desert somewhere. We're approaching Winter, Lilica. While Stella D'Mare is mild year round, if you travel inland, through the mountains, or towards Mollengard," she almost bit her tongue on that cursed name, "...this is no time of year to go traipsing about with a one-armed man as your only companion!" Before her anger endeavored to engulf her completely, she tried reasoning with the woman. She took on a more placating tone, and even reached forward to hold her wrists again, this time more gently. 

"You do not have to do this now, Lilica. This 'father' of yours had decades to contact you. He could wait a few decades more--or at least until Spring. You still need rest. Alster still needs rest. I am afraid I cannot condone a trip of this caliber so shortly after...all of this has happened. You may be as good as your word, Lilica. You may think you are ready for this quest of self-actualization. Your promises may even hold promise. But you can so easily backslide, and so could Alster." She stroked her thumb against the dark mage's knuckles. "I want to have faith that you can do this, but this comes too soon. Give yourself some time to think this through. Your decision is too hasty. You've only had one actual conversation with this man, and already you are making plans to set off to this illusory kingdom. Or...dream kingdom. Whatever you are calling it!" She cracked her head side to side, hoping to expel some of the tension in her neck--and everywhere else. "I know you are trying to convince me that you are of sound mind...but you are doing a poor job of it. Again, I say that I do not condone this. And if you and Alster decide to leave, despite my express orders not to," her grip hardened, along with her eyes. A quiet anger propelled her voice forward, sharpening to a bloody point. "...I will take executive action. Whatever that action may be." 

She knew she hadn't any real power--not with Cyprian in control of the council. In fact, the removal of Lilica and Alster played to his favor, and might actually entice a modicum of cooperation out of him. Then, maybe she could move forward with her plans to revitalize the city. Yes, these were all considerations: Lilica and Alster (and even Vitali) in exchange for Stella D'Mare. But she was not about to bow to these conditions, or to the horrifying implications to her character, so easily. She planned to fight to keep them in the city. It would spite Cyprian, and be a move against him. It would suggest her willingness to play the game. She would not surrender to his whims. Lilica and Alster were staying. They had to stay. 

...She needed them to stay. 

Thora--and the woman who ended up adopting her in place of Arina--kept conversation light as they gathered around the tiny table and passed around bowls brimming with lamb and sharp-smelling spices. They spoke about the harvest, the weather, and how the refugees were adjusting to their new home. In turn, Haraldur shared a little about his own sojourns over the years, but omitted all but the last several months. He talked about Andalari, and Stella D'Mare's fight for independence, in which he played a supporting role. He spoke about meeting Vega at Tadasun's camp, an inexplicable reunion after five years. Then, he went into detail about the vegetation of the Southern Lands: the waving palms, strange, spotted flowers, aromatic fruits of bright orange and yellow, which ran sticky juices down your fingers at even the smallest nibble. All of this delighted Thora. Her smiles and her wonderment, still childlike despite her advancement into womanhood, elicited a smile from Haraldur, in turn. It was like the years had never come to pass. Thora was who she'd always been: bright, hopeful, and loving. He remembered letting her ride across his shoulders and sleep there, when she was too tired to cross the treacherous patches of ice. But when she was awake, she usually galumphed through the snow drifts with purpose, but never poise. She clung to him day and night, and despite his better senses, he could never deny her. Arina had seen how close-knit they'd become, and wanted her for their own child. Orphaned as she was, she was alone in the world. But she had chosen him, and she had chosen Arina.

But he had denied her, when it mattered most. 

She must have seen the shadow cross over his face, for she smacked the crust of her half-eaten bread against the back of his hand, snorting as she did so. "Enginn... I mean...Haraldur. None of that. No feeling bad for what happened. It happened already. It's all over." 

He responded only with a small, mute nod. It's never over, he thought, forlornly.

Their visit came to its bittersweet end once Vega arrived and detailed to him their change of plans, due to inclement weather. He pulled on his furs, cinching them in place with a belt. He slipped on his leather helmet, lined on the inside with rabbit fur, slid on the accompanying gloves, and wrapped a wool scarf several times around his face, until only his eyes were showing. Before they made their departure, Thora stood at the foyer, tears brimming in her eyes. 

"You will come back, won't you? This won't be the last time?" 

Crouching so that their disparate heights were level, Haraldur took the small girl into his arms and gave her a gentle hug. The furs on his mantle tickled her nose, and in spite of herself, she giggled. 

"I'll be back," he assured her. He ruffled her hair as he withdrew. "I already told you--I'm not running anymore." 

"Next time, you can meet all of us!" 

An uneasy chuckled sounded from behind his scarf. "One step at a time, kid." 

"Right." She wiped her nose and sniffled in apology. "I understand." 

With the warmth of the inviting fire at his back, Haraldur stepped into the shrieking wind. He followed Vega on their incongruous path, the air buffeting at them with pulsating waves of force. He held fast to her, half to anchor her from the bow-breaking gale, and half to give himself added balance for his sprain. 

Luckily, their laborious trek though the storm hadn't been for long. Daring to raise his head, he saw the glow of a lodge in the distance, a place he'd recognized in telling from Arina, who, when needing to recuperate in Eyraille before heading back to Mollengard, had stayed with the mothers and mothers-to-be, as a healer on-call. 

When they entered, intense cold turned into intense heat, and the resulting shock of extremes impelled him to yank off his furs as soon as he walked through the door. Once free of all his outerwear, he followed Vega to the nearest fireplace, where she hunkered down with finality, as if she planned to settle there for the rest of her life. 

He didn't blame her. Without his knowledge, she'd gone out in the bitterly winds, secured her roc for the evening, traveled to the lodge, lit all the fireplaces, traveled back to Thora's hut, and made the third and final trip with him in tow. Even he would have been driven to exhaustion. And yet, she still wanted to play hostess to him. To make him comfortable, when she was the one who needed comfort the most. Her body temperature was simply not equipped for long exposure to the elements--not like this, anyhow. He was beginning to regret allowing this trip to happen at all. It could have ended badly for her...and he was only too aware. 

"Vega," he elected for a smile, to cover up the flinch at her casual mention of not surviving the weather, and staying alive til morning, "don't worry, I believe you. If you'd believe it, parts of Central Mollengard are even colder, and its weather more nebulous. And you don't even want to hear me regale you of tales of my homeland. One big ice shelf, practically. More than once, I spent my nights burrowed under snow banks. More than once, I've eaten dirt to survive--so what I'm saying is yes, these accommodations are more than comfortable." He punctuated his point with an eye roll. 

"Anyway," he sighed, "I'm not the one you should be worried about. You've done too much, already." He lowered to the fur rug-covered floor upon where she settled, and cupped her frozen hands into his large, warm ones. "What you need is an extra source of warmth," he whispered, huffing his hot breath onto her fingers. "I'll stay here and be that source for you." But before he could move closer and entrap her in his arms, he stopped himself, and looked at her with equal parts hesitation and desire. "That is...if you want me to."

"I know--believe me, Chara, I know how ridiculous it seems. But his reasoning... the man who invades me dreams, my father, whoever he truly is... it is sound. Alster thought so, too." Lilica still was not certain whether she truly believed what Theomyr told her, or if she simply wanted to believe it. Either way, it was enough to make her want to find out. "My mind has always been too guarded; he wasn't able to reach me. Not until the near point of my death, when I was too vulnerable to defend against any intruders. And he ensured a way to continue to reach me." Pulling back her sleeve, she revealed the scar that looked like intricate pen scrawl on the inside of her forearm. Chara could condone her decision for other reasons, but it would not be on the basis that had simply imagined it all. It was real--and even Chara had seen the man to whom she referred as her father.

She didn't like the way that the Rigas caster struggled so terribly to come across as understanding. To placate her whims and desires, not so differently than she imagined she might do to a small child. Don't you realize that I can hold my own, Chara? That I did for years and years before I ever met you? she wanted to say, but bit her tongue at the last minute. The Rigas woman had a right to suspect her decision; not only had she not proven to be the most mentally solid and steadfast individual, but she knew what it did to a person when they were desperate for answers. It made them vulnerable, susceptible to manipulation. She had fallen for those tricks, once, and had fallen to the whims of the wrong person.
But after meeting Vitali, she had learned her lesson, and would never make such mistakes again. "I told Alster he need not come with me." Lilica puffed a sigh past her lips. "It is not his burden to bear. If you wish to talk him out of it since I failed to do so, then I implore that you do. He has been through too much, and you're right, he needs rest. But I... I've rested for long enough. What use am I to you or anyone rotting away in the infirmary, Chara? If I cannot be useful here, then I might as well be useful to myself. I have tread winter all alone, before. Do not think me a stranger to solitary travel."

And then, there it was; through her surprise and inebriation, there was that spark, that anger. That passion that was so characteristic of Chara Rigas, an anger that Lilica could no longer see as hostile, but rather, oddly reassuring. It was a sign that despite the turmoil of events past, some things did not change. Chara did not change; and as infuriating as it might have been, the dark mage was glad for it. "Waiting isn't an option, Chara. There is... there is more at stake for this kingdom than whether or not it is simply found." She stressed, pressing her lips together. "There are people whose frozen lives depend on it being found. If they do not exist, then shame on me for being fooled. But if they are real, and if I am able to help them, I cannot simply turn my back to... to what? Stagnate in a sick bay, where you would keep me, because you are too conflicted after what has happened to look me in the eye? I'm sorry, Chara." Gingerly, she pulled her hands out of the Rigas caster's grip. "But I am not seeking your permission and blessing to make this excursion. I am telling you so that you know my intention is not to run away; to make you believe that I am done running. And that though I am going to leave, I do want to return to you. If I did not, then I would not have bothered telling you a word of any of this."

Something about her threat stirred the kindling of a flame at the chthonic caster's core. She almost laughed; had leadership already gone to Chara's head so quickly that she thought she harbored such control over her people? And to be fair... I am not even her people. Not really. What was decided for Alster, who had ties to the Rigas family, and swore loyalty to them, was not her concern. But her own life, and her own choices--those were not Chara's to make, much though the haughty blonde likely wished to think otherwise. "Executive action, is it? And just what form of executive action do you plan to take, Chara? Will you have me arrested, like you did my brother, and keep me locked in your dungeons 'for my own good'?" Her shoulders stiffened, and heat crept into her face as one hand curled into a fist. And with a will to be daring, she leveled Chara with a look that lent no room for bargaining. "You think I am not of sound mind--and yet you, and your entire family, were yourselves manipulated by your very leader, for years and years. So who are you, really, to determine who is and who is not of sound mind, anyway? You know what I am capable of, Chara. You have seen it, you know that it can happen again, and you know that I cannot be held against my will. Adalfieri is dead, and I am not a Rigas prisoner any longer." Steely determination flickered in her eyes, a rare moment of self-assurance that bled into her aura. The part of her that wanted to grab Chara forcibly by the shoulders and squeeze hard settled for reaching forward and tucking her blonde hair behind her ear; a gesture that was both endearing and patronizing. "Just how much power do you think you have over me, Chara Rigas?" And just how far are you willing to go to prove me wrong that you haven't any at all?

Vega thought her heart might stop all over again when the mercenary took a seat in front of her, upon the thick, fur rug, only to take her frigid hands into his warm ones. It almost felt like looking at a different person; Haraldur had cleaned up well at the palace, his hair trimmed and his beard shaven, all which drew more attention to the green of his eyes and the warmth of his smile. She still dreamed about Haraldur, when her dreams did not consist of swimming in abysmal darkness, and of those eyes, that smile, those hands and how she remembered them feeling upon her body. Before she realized what was happening, she looked down, and noticed her hands were shaking, noticed her heart was racing. Swallowing against her uncertainty, the corner of her mouth twisted into a small grin. "Haraldur. I think you already know the answer to that," she murmured, struggling to pass as coy, and realizing that she was failing miserably. "I never stopped wanting that--or wanting you. It's just... well, I stopped believing that I am--or could ever be--wanted."

She recalled what Tivia had told her; that as soon as she had walked away from Haraldur, he had sought out someone else. Someone more real, more alive... because she was not enough. What was left of her was not enough. And that memory was enough to make her speeding heart slow and sink. "Tivia... told me." Was all that she said, and she did not care to elaborate, as they both knew what she was referring to. "But I'm not angry. I don't... blame you, really. After all, I was the one who walked away from you, because there wasn't enough of me left to be what you wanted... or what you needed."

Smiling sadly, she looked down at her fingers, raw and red from the cold, but slowly warming to the mercenary's touch. "But it doesn't mean that I ever stopped loving you, Haraldur. I knew I had to keep Mollengard from getting to you; even if it would result in awkward encounters later on. Your well-being is far superior to my happiness, whatever it is your well-being entails. I wouldn't stop you if you were to walk away from me, right now; so long as you donned those furs to keep yourself protected from the cold." She chuckled under her breath. "And, just the same... I don't think I could stop myself, if, on the contrary, you wanted to be near me. And regardless of what you want or need... all that I ask is this." The Eyraillian princess inhaled through her nose, and slowly through her mouth, steadying herself at the weight of her request. "Do not look at me like I am something... broken. Or something incomplete. Something half-here, and half-there. I'm still me, Haraldur. When the necromancer revived me from death, I came back--me. Sir Vega Sorde, Princess of Eyraille; not something pretending to be me. Not something lesser, not something fragile. Not something... else."

Slipping her hands out of his palms, her pinkened fingers touched his cheeks. He was so warm, despite having braved the cold, all the way to the lodge. "Do you remember, when you first showed me your scars? And how I showed you mine--my only scar, at the time--in return?" Vega breathed the memory on her lips, hoping that she was not exclusive in holding it dear. "I had never felt more beautiful--more worthy as a human being--than I did, then." A flush crept over her already pink cheeks at the fond memory. "Can you... are you still able to look at me, like that? Please, be honest. I have more scars, that before, but... I need to know."

"Oh...well when you put it that way--this is not ridiculous-sounding, in the least." She stood from the couch, and put her hands to her hips. "It sounds like this dream father is telling the truth; therefore, he is. Astute deductive reasoning from you and Alster. But I suppose my opinion holds no merit to you. I saw him, too, Lilica." She wrinkled her nose at what amounted to little more than a cattle brand on the inside of the dark mage's forearm. "He waltzed into your dream as if he were the only one able to save you from yourself. And then he was so bold as to call Lysander and me intruders! What was he, then? Forgive me if I do not trust you or Alster following the wishes of a mere charlatan." 

Her requisite anger had replaced any of the fog that the wine had once provided. Its soothing salve over life's rupturing pustule had lost its potency. All the events of the day, coupled with Lilica's spouting hogwash, had animated her into a pacing, face-reddening fury.

"If it is a task you want, Lilica, I'll be glad to put you to work!" She waved a hand at the door, to outside. "You can help clean up the city, or join the Rigas patrol. You are plenty useful to us, right here!" Now, she was rubbing both sides of her temple. "If you want to talk logistics, you and Alster are the most magically adept mages in this city. If word gets around that you are both gone, what defenses do we have, with our failing numbers and our injured? I cannot help but feel that you care more for a kingdom that you didn't even know existed, than one which has suffered, and needs every able-bodied person that we can afford. If you think there is more at stake for this...this Galeyn place, than what's been happening here, before your very own eyes...then there is no reasoning with you!" 

She continued to pace, back and forth, in front of Lilica, her hands traveling to her hair, which she had fluffed in disarray. "I cannot have you leave, Lilica. Neither you nor Alster. If you can only realize how much I am fighting for the both of you..." The anger in her began to twist, threatening to pass over the brink where it would sunder into the sea and extinguish. "And so soon after almost losing you...and him..." She shook away the fugue that threatened to over take her self-righteous ire. "When we are at a crisis, Lilica. When all is threatening to slip from my fingers. Thisis when you decide to cross me." 

Her eyes lit with foreboding when Lilica dared to challenge her. To throw her fire back into the fire, where it popped and exploded, kicking up cinders and ash, and making a mess. The dark mage's cheeks were red, and her eyes lit charcoal. Her voice was the poker, stoking the smoldering logs and wood chips. She was smoke, itself, rising from the prison of chimney stones and iron grates. She was wild, uncontained. Any attempts to restrain her would not happen with the ease in which Adalfieri had arranged it, not so long ago. Lilica would bite back and burn. This aspect of the dark mage...was frightening to behold. Alluring. Irresistible. But Chara had an argument to win, and she would not be defeated, when the past several days had been nothing but defeat, nothing but failure...and nothing but a series of second-guessing her worth, and authority. 

"So now you are comparing a leader well-versed in manipulation tactics, so you could smear my entire people, because you want to come off looking superior to them? To me?!" She slapped her hand away from Lilica and crossed her arms over her chest, her fingertips alight with etherea. She looked deadly, almost gleeful, for she knew exactly how to gain the upper-hand--and how to regain power. "This is my executive action, Lilica. Go. Leave. If this Galeyn kingdom is so important to you, then I will not stop you. But, if you do leave--I never want to see you again. You are no longer welcome at Stella D'Mare, or at my side. That is my ultimatum." She marched over to the door and swung it open with such force that it banged against the frame, and dented the smooth oak finish. "This discussion is over. Get out." 

At first, he thought the tremors in her hands were a continued reaction to the blustering winds outside. Even now, he could hear the entire lodge creak, the windows rattle, and the low, mournful howls run amok in their wintry playground. Then, came Vega's admittance. He was doing this to her. He felt her heartbeat through the artery on her wrist. It pounded and bucked with a ferocity that coaxed a surprised smile from him. He sandwiched that hand back between his palms, and raised it to his lips, kissing her fingers softly. As expected, her entire body seemed to shiver with anticipation. His smile transitioned into a deviant grin. "So you say." He nodded at her, at the entirety of her body, at the collective you. But he delayed any further movement, when she addressed one of his biggest mistakes to date. His smile faded, and his grip on her hands had lessened, as if deeming himself unworthy to even touch her. His head drooped and his shoulders sagged, eyes scanning the fur rug beneath them. 

"I...never got around to apologizing for that. Even if you're not angry, or you don't blame me, I...I know I should have been there for you. But I was angry. At the entire world. At everything that was happening. I lost Shayl to death." He closed his eyes from the memory. "I almost lost you to it, yet again. And I...I felt myself sinking away. Tivia--I sought her because I didn't want to sink. She was a link to the living that I thought I needed at the time. But that didn't work. I sank even quicker--into Forbanne. And I left because I had nothing else to give. I left because that's what I do. I run, when things become too difficult. I know that's no surprise," he snorted, a humorless chuckle. "But I thought I could be forthright, to at least one person who mattered most."

"But when I was out there, fighting, at Stella D'Mare...my thoughts were of you. I did not subside into Forbanne. Not completely. Otherwise, I would have succeeded in killing Vitali." He opened his eyes, which, in recalling that cursed necromancer's name, had become hard stones. "I had him, Vega. My blade was at his throat. He was bargaining for his life. Tivia...she was somehow there. She stopped me. That's when I realized I wasn't Forbanne. That maybe...I never could be one, again. Not in full, anyway. At the time, it wasn't a relief. I couldn't even kill a man I hated most in this world. But then the Mollengard horns had sounded...and I felt nothing but blind terror. Then," his lips upturned ever-so-slightly, "I saw you. Against all odds, in midst of the destruction and the chaos, you found me. Had risked it all...for me. That was when I made a vow to myself." He pulled one hand free from her, and rested it upon his own chest, in salute. "I'll always be in service to you, Sir Vega Sorde. Wherever you want me to be, whatever you want me to do. I'll be at your side, always, if that's what you want. Or I'll disappear forever...if that's what you want. Because," he reached over, and placed that same hand upon her chest, over her heart, "I'm sorry for everything. And..." his eyes met hers, and they lingered there with a longing that broke the residual stones that were lodged from before. "...And, I love you." 

"So..." he said into the awkward silence, "that's...that's where I'm at, right now." He scooted closer, and slipped an arm around her shoulders, about to redirect her head against his shoulder and cocoon her as completely as possible. But he faltered, when her words reached his ears, and her chilled hands touched his blush-heated cheeks. 

"I...I'm terrified," he said, squirming from the admission, "that death will take you from me. I've already lost so many. And every day is a reminder...that you could so easily slip away. I know that's the case with everyone who is alive, but with you... it's already happened, Vega. And it almost happened twice more, in such a rapid succession. Every time I look at you, I ask myself, 'Is this the last time?'" He took her into both arms, and massaged her hands across her back in small, rhythmic circles. "You are still you, Vega. That's why I'm afraid. Afraid that you'll fade and you'll fade, and you'll continue to fade...until you're gone. And I suppose...you were right. I can't handle that. I value your life too much. That's why I need to protect it. Please, let me protect it. And I know," he kissed the top of her head, "that one day, I can look at you without feeling like I'm losing you."

An impulsive, perhaps slightly insane part of Lilica wanted kiss the haughty blonde spewing diatribe. Anything to shut her up, and anything to be close to her, again. But the dark make thought better than to do this, given the fire in Chara's eyes that could not be tamed. She was not in a mental place to be reasoned with; she was overburdened and drunk, and things were not working out in her favor, or to the ends that she desired them to. Lilica understood her frustration; were their roles reversed, she was not certain just how understanding and supportive she would be in Chara's position. But none of that made the Rigas caster's lack of support any less. "I don't want you to keep me busy, Chara. I am not some child who requires onerous tasks so as to stay out of your hair." She muttered, brows and mouth drawn into a frown. "Maybe he is a charlatan, and if so, shame on me. Should that be the case, then when I return, I will never again try to make another heavy decision for myself without consulting your expertise, Chara. But you need to understand that this is something I need to find out. I've been... a prisoner to myself, for too long. I need to know for certain."

She watched as Chara paced, her cheeks aflame and her hands clenching and unclenching into fists. "I'm too dangerous to be considered an asset as a mage to Stella D'Mare, Chara. You know that. That son of bitch councilman certainly knows that; he made no pretense of telling me he would find a way to expel me and my brother from this city, while I was scaling the Rigas halls looking for you. And for that, wouldn't my absence work in your favor? To earn the respect of your Rigas council by exiling me and Vitali? It could work out for the both of us. And when the dust has settled, I can think of some reason for my return."

But Chara was having none of that; beyond reason and beyond listening. She was frantic and frenzied and couldn't think straight with the wine fogging he brain. All the same, it was all that Lilica could do to try. "Yes, I know the city is in crisis. But you have help; Mollengard is lending a hand. Andalari seeks truce, from what I understand. And Alster... I will talk to Alster. I will tell him what you said, and maybe it will be enough to persuade him not to accompany me. After all--is he not still your fiance, by law and reason? He should be here to help you. Not chasing farfetched possibilities with me. Chara--damnit, will you stop and listen!" Frustrated and winded, Lilica caught her lover by the arm and sighed. "I am not trying to cross you, Chara! And I am not trying to be superior to anyone--gods know, I'm noting more than a bottom feeder to your people! But I am trying to do the best thing I can think of for the both of us; and that is, if all of this proves true, then I will return to you a far stabler individual than I am now, that I can guarantee. I don't want to be a ghost of myself anymore, Chara. I want to find substance... I want to be whole, for me and for you."

Except that now, there was a hitch in her plan, in her ultimate desires, because Chara presented her with an ultimatum: one that, regardless of what she chose, she would use. The fury drained from the chthonic mage's face, leaving her pale again, an image of the moon against the dark like she had always been. That this woman--the last face that she might have seen, had her curse progressed, the pinnacle of her paradise, and every moment of peace she had ever relished... she would never see her again. Not if she chose to leave. But was she serious? Or was she just... angry? It was impossible to tell, at this point, but something shifted in Lilica, then. It felt as though something heavy were wrenching her chest open, and tearing out her insides. Was this what it felt like to have a broken heart?
At a loss of words, Lilica simply moved towards the open door, but she knew she could not leave on this note. Not without speaking her mind; and her heart. "I came here to tell you that I wasn't leaving you, Chara. Not really; it isn't my intention to make this venture and to never see you again. Whether or not Galeyn is real, you are my home. Not Stella D'Mare or its mild climate, not the luxuries it can offer. Just you; power or no power, Rigas or not." Absently, she picked at a loose threat on her tunic, which was already too big for her small frame, and now suddenly seemed to swallow her body. "I was wrong to leave you and place a curse upon myself; I hurt you, and that was the last thing that I ever wanted to do. Because if I have come to learn anything in my time here, and around you, it's that I... love you. Unconditionally. And..." Tears put out the fire in her eyes. She hastily swiped one from her cheek. "...I am sorry that I thought it was mutual. That I might also be deserving of unconditional love. I have been wrong about a lot of things, it seems."

Lilica swallowed a lump in her throat and approached the door frame, her shoulders at once tense and defeated. "And before you judge me for going against your wishes, maybe ask yourself this. If I were to give you an ultimatum--if I made you choose between me and your lineage... what would you choose, Chara? What is really important to you?"

But she did not want to hear the answer to that question, and no sooner did she finish speaking that she turned and leave Chara to her wine and her decisions. She had lost Lysander's respect; she had lost Chara's love. There really was nothing left for her in Stella D'Mare.

Galeyn, should it be real, was quite literally all that she had left.

Vega listened patiently, but she shook her head at the guilt that the mercenary still harbored. "I'm not looking for an apology. If anything, I owe Tivia an apology. We... I might have gotten too rough with her, after she told me." Heat crept back into her cheeks, this time from embarrassment at the memory of acting so disorderly. "I know you wanted to turn off every aspect of you that was human. I know that to feel is often to suffer. But I know you better than you think, Haraldur. And I know you have a heart more human than anyone I have ever met. Killing might perhaps be your talent, but your calling is to care. You saved Thora; you saved all of those people. They will never forget what you did for them. And neither will I."

Though her rapid heartbeat had slowed with the somber turn that the conversation had taken, it picked up again at the warmth of Haraldur's hand on her chest, a hand that she covered with her own. "I don't want you to disappear. I never want to wonder where you are, ever again." She whispered, quiet and sincere. "I want to know that you are safe. I want to know that you are happy. And I want you to know that whatever you must do to be safe and happy, I respect that... because I love you. I have for a long time, and that is not going to change anytime soon, not for any reason. Not even if you decide you need to sate your desires elsewhere, and go fuck fifty other women." The corner of her mouth pulled into a grin, making light of the atmosphere that was already too heavy. "Though I am a Sorde, and we have a penchant for a temper, so I cannot guarantee that I will react with grace. Look what happened to poor Tivia, after all."

The Skyknight pressed her body close to Haraldur's, her hand over his chest, and her head tucked beneath his chin. "You are not going to lose me, Haraldur. Death has tried to take me, yes--twice, in fact. And, twice, I cheated it. It will not touch me. Not now. Not so soon--you have my word. But..." She expelled a slow breath, relaxing against his sturdy frame. "If you are going to look at me like you are not afraid of losing me, then you need to start practicing now. I will not deny you the desire to protect; it is in your nature, and I would be a fool to deny that I need someone to watch my back. But I will not be looked upon as something fragile. I am a Sorde; and I am a force to be reckoned with. Ask Death, itself; it cannot hold me. So look at me, now." The princess demanded, her tone almost authoritative as she met the grey-green of Haraldur's eyes. "Look at me like I am not going to break, not going to crumble or disappear. And if you are having trouble doing that..." She pulled away by a couple of feet, her gaze purposeful and challenging, and tugged at the drawstrings on her tunic, which loosened instantly around her chest. "Maybe I can make the task more enticing."

Chara waited for Lilica to leave before slamming the door shut, locking the dark mage out, and locking her inside. Her legs trembled from the aftermath of what she had done. Her arms and cheeks still tingled from the effects of her touch, ears from her cadence, eyes from her gaze. But Chara's tongue burned in rebellion of her words. Why would you say such things? To a woman you claim to love, out of all people?! 

She batted away her conscience and directed all focus on the search for the half-drunk bottle of wine. Lilica had swiped it, but she'd later relocated it to the table behind the couch. Turning the corner, she spotted it: a monolith midst a featureless sea of white. That offending silk cloth was still spread across the counter-top, an eyesore of fabric that sprung thoughts of Cyprian and his hateful, smug, over-bloated face. With a wounded growl, she yanked it from the table, forgetting that her precious bottle was sitting atop it. It rolled over with a crash, and she, with a yelp, fell along with it. Wine erupted from the shattered container, splashing against the pristine white mosaic floors, and soaking the silk cloth in a dark, burgundy red. Only, it wasn't only wine that had soaked the cloth. A shard of glass had penetrated her arm. Though it missed a major artery, and was a shallow cut, the blood ran freely, trickling past her wrist, drenching her fingers, and dripping into the puddle of wine that formed beneath her. Whether it was due to the crash or the wound, or if they were the catalyst, Chara's entire body wracked with sobs. She curled into the fetal position, basking in the pool of her defeat, and her lips whispered a disturbing truth into being. 

"I care...more about power...and I hate it. I hate it!" 

In one final burst of anger, she ripped the shard from her skin. She gasped when she felt the serrated edge of the glass pull out of her. She threw her hand over the thirsty wound, staunching the flow--though part of her wished she let it bleed forever. 

"How are you doing, Alster?" 

The Rigas caster had gone pale, his skin cold to the touch. An uncontrollable tic kicked his right shoulder, agitating the invasive connection made to it a few hours ago. He ground his teeth and hissed from the multiple regions of his arm firing off electricity in instantaneous succession. His left hand reached over to clasp the pain, to muffle it, or to provide comfort to the trauma-induced area. Atli raised his tone in warning, and Alster stopped, mid-reach.

"Well," he said, with some poise, "losing the arm was far less painful." He gave a weak, morbid smile.

"That's to be expected." The Mollengardian healer placed a tin of water into his left hand. "Drink up. You're severely dehydrated." 

Alster did as he was told, guzzling the precious liquid until his shoulder twitched, and the ensuing shock that ran through his body caused him to gasp and choke on the water. His grip weakened, and he dropped the tin. Leaning forward, he coughed and hacked, until he dislodged the water from his lungs. Atli looked at him with concern. 

"Perhaps it wasn't advisable to perform such an experimental operation on you, when we hadn't the resources or the time." He bent over and rescued the tin, which had splashed its remaining contents of water, off from the ground. "Though it appears to have been a success, there were so many ways that this could have gone disastrously for you."

Alster nodded, though when it hurt even to make so small a gesture, he stopped. "You don't know how many times I've heard that, Atli--and you don't know how many times it has gone disastrously for me. But I survived it all, regardless. I suppose...I wanted to push my luck. To keep pushing. To feel connected by something. Even if it's only pain. Otherwise...why am I still alive?"

"Well," he sighed, at a loss for how to respond, "consider your push a success, but don't make a habit out of it. We'll have to run more tests, first, to see if your arm is in working order. Before that, however--do get plenty of rest. As per your request," he looked behind him as the flaps of his medical tent began to stir, "we informed your warrior."

Alster looked to the flaps where Elespeth emerged. He presented her with a small, triumphant smile, and waved her to sit at his cot.

"It was sudden, I know," he said, anticipating the warrior's reaction. "But the opportunity presented itself. Glaucus is a resourceful man, an erudite and a scholar." He nodded over to the quiet Rigas elder seated at the far corner of the tent, who was scrolling through the pages of a heavy tome, brow heavy with concentration. "He's been studying the magical properties of metals and crystals for centuries, and has an invested interest in manufacturing artificial limbs. He wanted to present the findings to Adalfieri, and fit him with his own working legs--but Adalfieri refused to undergo the procedure. Mollengard has had moderate luck in metal fittings for their soldiers on the field, so there was a combination of efforts and expertise involved. ...This is the result." 

Carefully, Atli pulled away his bedsheets, revealing a forearm made of sleek, black steel. It tapered off naturally in a simulacrum of a real forearm, and ended in a wrist-joint, complete with a well-crafted hand. It mirrored the proportions of his left hand: long, slender fingers, flexible to the touch, segmented in all the correct places, and capable of movement. On the opposite end of the new fixture, the metal looked to have been seared and hammered into his own flesh. 

"It's detachable," Alster added, following Elespeth's eyes and predicting her response. "It's not as bad as it appears. I...I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want you to worry, in case it went...wrong, somehow. But it didn't. It was painful as all get out, but...so are a lot of worthy things. I..." he glanced nervously up at her, "...what do you think?" 

"You...you'd gotten 'rough' with her?" Haraldur's eyebrow shot upward, and the more Vega spoke of it, the more he'd confirmed what exactly she meant by 'rough.' "I...well. Frankly, she didn't deserve that at all, Vega. Direct all your anger at me--if there should be a next time. Which," he hurried, "a next time wouldn't happen, of course, but if we're speaking hypothetically...I can take a punch. Or several dozen. Those women--hypothetical women--shouldn't suffer because I don't know how to control myself. In fact," he tilted his head so that he spoke into her ear, his voice gruff, low-pitched, and feral. "I'll take my beating now." 

But the lust within him dampened somewhat, once he internalized all the unwavering support and understanding that spouted from her parting lips. After all they had been through, and despite his warnings, she was stubbornly set in holding him with the highest of regards. No matter his mistakes, his terrible faults, his supreme indecisiveness, his proclivity to run, the violence that was beaten into him, the horrors that he'd inflicted on others, on children...she remained, with steadfast pride, at his side. Why? he wanted to ask. Why forgive me so easily? Why are you so determined to keep me safe and happy? I keep telling you, Vega. I'm not a hero. I never was... 

But it didn't matter what he said, and what he wanted her to believe. Her image of him was far kinder than any uninspired scrawl he could scribble onto canvas. Like Thora, who also forgave him for his transgressions, Vega, too, expressed nothing but unconditional love. He had to close his eyes for a moment, so as not to allow the sentiments to overwhelm him.

"I really...don't deserve you." He pressed his lips to her crown a second time, touching the fire-lightened sheen of her already fiery hair, feeling a warmth that the mere rise in temperature could not explain. And with the cry of her defiance, her challenge aimed towards Death, both elation and alarm rose in his chest simultaneously. Death was not something to be made light of, and the superstitious side of him agreed. All the same, he basked upon the glow, the sheer radiance in her statement. Vitality poured from her. He no longer saw the faded gray skin, the dull eyes, the brown leaf in the wind. He saw a sun deity, brandishing a golden lance of invulnerability, her eyes dancing with victory. As she pulled away from his arms, he looked at her anew, his eyes narrowing into a squint--as if it hurt to stare for too long, lest he be blinded. But his attention drifted elsewhere, down to the unraveling drawstrings, the unfurling of cloth, the promise that teased at him from inside...

"If you want me to look at you," he sighed, with mock frustration, "then you either trust me too much, or you want me to fail." He stalked after her retreating form, anchoring his hands against her outer thighs. Slowly, they traveled to her waist, up to her arms and shoulders. When they reached her collarbone, they burrowed beneath her tunic, helping her to dislodge that offending piece of cloth. And while his hands were busy, his hungry lips met hers in a sensuous kiss.

When a healer had sent for Elespeth to accompany them to one of the tents where Alster was staying, the Atvanian warrior immediately thought the worst, and it was everything that she could do to keep herself from panicking. "What's wrong? Where is Alster? Has something happened? Is he... is he hurt? You need to tell me!"

She heckled the poor messenger all the way to the tent, though they simply informed her that she would 'find out' for herself, which only put her all the more on edge. What could have possibly come to pass that they would be unwilling to explain it to her, to prepare her for what she was about to see? Had Alster taken a turn for the worst? She had not seen him last night, as he had told her he had a commitment in the infirmary; she knew he would not be back until morning, and yet, she still did not sleep, in the event that he would return, despite what he had said. But then morning had come and gone, and Alster still had not returned... She had put aside her worry, for the time being. There was so much to be done, since the Serpent had been returned to its realm, and he was frequently called to address something or another. For his feat, he had certainly climbed the ranks in term of Rigas esteem, and many now looked upon him with reverence when before they'd hardly looked at him at all. Of course he would be occupied, night and day... But what in all realms had he done to have a healer send for her?

Alster, so help me, you had better not have done something foolish...

Foolish, however, was a purely subjective term. And no sooner had she parted the tent flaps, that she took in the sight of her pale and tired lover... and the brand new addition to his body. Naturally, her first reaction was shock. Had he been planning this? This... replacement, for the appendage he'd lost? And if so, for how long? And why hadn't he told her? Why had he considered it such a big, glaring secret? 

"It... wow. A new arm...?" That light-headed feeling of shock gradually passed, and she took a seat on the end of his cot, in case the blood rushed from her head all too quickly. The smooth, dark metal gleamed in the light of the small fire lit in the middle of the tent to keep its patrons warm. "I... damn it all, Alster, I wish you had told me! You did not return last night, or this morning, and when I am on my last, frayed nerve, a healer sends for me to come and see you... can you imagine for even a moment what was going through my head?" The former knight took a long breath and raked her fingers through her hair. Though the after-effects of the war still showed on her face and in her tired eyes, returning to Stella D'Mare had favored her--this brief reprieve favored her. Slowly but surely, color was returning to her complexion, and regular, full meals had put weight back on her body, where harboring Alster's magic had stolen it. The after-effects of almost succumbing to death as her body struggled to maintain power that did not belong to her had yet to subside; her energy had yet to return to its peak levels, and healers from the infirmary insisted they check her blood every handful of days to ascertain that the Clematis healer's ministrations had worked, and she was not at risk of septic shock. But she was recovering, and so was Alster. At least, he had been, until he'd decided to put his body through more trauma than it deserved.

"I hope they are keeping you overnight to monitor how you take to this... procedure." Her green eyes swam with worry, where the metal appendage looked to have been almost brutally attached to his own living tissue. It was swollen and inflamed and looked burnt in some areas, and his reassurances did little to assuage her worry. "I cannot believe you put yourself through this for the loss of an arm... What if something had gone wrong? What if it had cost you your life, and I were to find out after the fact? Alster, please, for the love of all the gods..." She pressed her fingers to her temples, as a tension headache rapidly spread throughout her skull. "You can talk to me. Even if I do worry, I would prefer that I am prepared for the worst, should it happen... okay? No more secrets. Certainly not of this calibre." She nodded at the arm, which appeared so lifelike, despite that it was not a living part of the caster to which it was attached. It was the perfect mirror image of his other hand, and she expected it to move as lifelike as his surviving arm, but it was clear that so early on in recovery, he had not yet reached that point.

Taking a final, steadying breath, Elespeth found her composure again, and tried to see the situation from a rational standpoint. It was not her intention to make the Rigas caster feel guilty, or to dampen his spirits; clearly, this was something that he had wanted, and a risk that he had decided to take all on his own. And, it had been successful, up to this point. What he needed was her approval, not her criticism. "It's... different. I never really saw you any differently without your arm, Alster. You were never 'broken' or not 'whole' without it. But, well... two arms are definitely more useful than one. Can it..." Her fingers hovered over the metal hand, and with the lightest touch, she brushed a single fingertip over the expertly crafted knuckles. "Can you... feel anything? Like a real appendage? Or is it more similar to a tool?" And speaking of feeling, when she reached up with her opposite hand to brush hair from his forehead, she was appalled at how cold he felt. 

"He's freezing... can you get him another blanket? Stoke the fire? Anything. Please." She asked of Atli, concerned that the process had been so painful and the recovery so tenuous that all of his body heat was retreating to his core to keep him alive. Blowing on her hands, she touched her warm palms to his face. She wanted more than anything to crawl under the blankets with him and hold him close, to offer whatever warmth she could muster, but she didn't dare to compromise him in his seemingly fragile state. He appeared so understandably weary, and the occasional twinges of pain that he felt did not go unnoticed. When Atli returned with another blanket and draped it over the Rigas caster's body, she additionally requested, "Thank you. But... is there something that you can give him for the pain? To help him rest? This... I cannot imagine what this must have felt like."

Trying desperately not to look at where the metal forearm connected to his upper arm, for the sight made her own arm twinge in sympathetic pain just looking at it, Elespeth gently took Alster's real arm and gently massaged warmth back into his hand. "I'm going to stay here with you--for as long as it takes you to recover. It isn't as though I have been of much use to anyone else here, anyway."

A thrill of excitement mixed with relief, potent and electric, traveled down her body the moment Haraldur hastily pursued her retreat and put his hands on her body. Those warm hands, and those demanding lips that ensnared her own... The Skyknight all but forgot about being cold and eagerly shrugged off her tunic. Pulled loose at the neck by their collective efforts, it fell down her arms, her waits, and finally collected in a pile at her feet. In its wake was merely left the fitted piece of fabric that bound her breasts to allow for more comfortable flight and fits of armor, secured at her sternum in a simple double-knot. When the cool air came into contact with her exposed skin, she could feel it go taught, pulling tight around her muscles to trap in whatever heat her body had acquired, and it urged her to press closer to the mercenary for warmth.

"Maybe this is a set-up. Maybe, just this once, I do want you to fail..." She murmured teasingly in his ear, as her eager hands found the belt securing his trousers. "Because maybe... I am just as weak-minded, and I want to fail, too. So... let's fail together." Vega returned her lips to his, eager and hungry and demanding, as her fingers--still trembling with the racing of her anticipated heart--slipped the belt out of its loop, and the leather with its metal clasp clanked onto the floor. "What? You're not going to leave me to brave the cold all by myself, are you?" The princess grinned, putting a few feet between them again. She hooked her fingers into the band of her own pants, but didn't make a move to pull them off quite yet. Maybe, to some extent, the mercenary did deserve a proverbial 'beating', and some spiteful, albeit playful part of her indulged the idea of making him squirm a little. She had waited for him; he could wait for her. "Well? What are you waiting for? Do you dare to make Eyraille's princess wait? There could be repercussions, you know."

Of course, the humor of her jest sparkled in her blue eyes and in the deviousness of her smile. Aside from the desire that radiated from the both of them, how they had missed one another's company and intimacy, what thrilled the Eyraillian princess the most was how light Haraldur's heart had become. How they had just emerged from war, and yet, they found the time and the space above everything that they had suffered to play games with one another. And, most of all, she relished in the way that he looked at her--the way she had hoped he would look at her, again, one day. Not like he was repulsed. Not like she was something foreign to him, something that he could not trust to remain among the living. She saw the desire mirrored in his eyes, the untamed eagerness and impatience as she made him wait. And, selfish though it might have been, she relished in it. It boosted her confidence in a way that she had not felt in a very long time, in a way that she had never thought she would feel again.

I'm not broken. I'm not vulnerable. I'm unstoppable; I'll make you see that.

"You did offer to keep me warm," the Skyknight purred, her fingers fixing on, but not yet untying, the knot of fabric at the front of her chest. Firelight danced, playful and wicked in her eyes, and made her copper hair shine with flecks of gold. "If the offer still stands, I might just take you up on it."

Harried lines of frustration rimmed Elespeth's pursed lips, a look he was fast accustomed to seeing. It was an expression reserved only for him, and one that she wore more frequently than any other, nowadays. That, coupled with the worry for his well-being swarming in her green eyes, stirred a visceral reaction in him. His stomach took a few turns, which landed a kick to his sternum. He lowered his head and stared at his bedsheets, trying to conceal the rebellions of his body. "I'm sorry." His throat tightened on the apology. There was a strain to his voice, like untuned harp strings. "I know I should have informed you. But they," he nodded towards the other two people occupying the tent, "approached me with the suggestion as I was leaving the infirmary that morning. I agreed to the procedure without a second thought. It was my idea to undergo the surgery today. They wanted to wait until I was better." His eyes flicked to the steel appendage, which was propped upright on a valley-gouged block of wood, as a stand of sorts. It took the weight off his sore and swollen stump of an elbow, which needn't the encouragement to saddle him with more spasms of sharp, needling jolts. 

"But...I couldn't imagine another day like this, Elespeth. Like a cripple, past his prime. All my life, I've honed my craft with these very hands. They've had inherent worth. For a while, they were my only worth. The only reassurance that anyone ever gave me. When I lost my celestial magic, people told me that I at least have my hands. I could still learn. And when my magic returned...I exploited my usefulness. I've paid the price, and I thought I could accept it. But," his shoulder twitched, and the waves of pain punctuated his next words, which heightened and rumbled, "what can I do now, Elespeth? I can't help with restoration of the city. It takes me twice as long to do the simplest of tasks. I can't dress myself in under an hour, let alone hold and read a book without dropping it. How am I to be an effective healer, or an effective anything? I can't just sit around and allow people to view me as the deserving martyr who's expended his value, and who couldn't even die properly."

His eyes widened at the realization of his tongue slip. His heart ceased beating, and then started up again, compensating for the skips in his rhythm, and pounding at his chest even more frenetically. "I-I...I didn't mean that last bit, El. Forget I said anything." 

Atli, knowing a delicate situation when he saw one, cleared his throat and stepped to Elespeth's side. "Worst case scenario is he could have lost the rest of his arm," he said, hoping his presence carried enough weight to distract the warrior from Alster's latest flub. "I would have assured his survival, Elespeth. I've done plenty of battlefield surgeries and amputations, and I've designed a few metal fittings, myself. Of course, Alster will stay here overnight. This is my own private tent, so I will be here to monitor him the entire time. You may stay here as well, if you'd like." He tucked the heavy blanket beneath the Rigas caster, trapping him with insulation. Behind him, Glaucus, who'd closed his book and stood from his chair, pulled a small log from a stack in the corner and placed it into the fire. It crackled and popped its thanks as its red-orange arms devoured its newest plaything. 

"He took something for the pain, but only for the operation. He won't take anything else," Atli continued, crossing his arms. "He says he prefers it this way."

"Last time I took medicines for the pain, I relied on them too much," Alster said, his voice small and unsure of itself. "They fogged my mind. I saw them as a comfort I needed, rather than as a temporary reprieve. I need my mind more than I need ease." With what's going on inside my head, he thought, I need every one of my faculties to be alert and at the ready...just in case. 

"Maybe you can convince him. He seems more apt to listen to you anyway," Atli said.

"I'm still here, Atli, despite all evidence to the contrary," Alster quipped, but it was halfhearted and heavy. "Elespeth." He looked to the woman he loved, who was just as wan, and bleary-eyed, and emotionally-spent. But her hands were so warm, and they thawed the chill swimming in his veins. "Did you look at the palm, yet?" He urged her to examine his metal hand a second time, to turn it over and hold it close to her eyes. There, on the shiny, buffed surface, was a diagonal scratch; it ran from the base of the little finger to the base of the thumb. It was an etching, lightly gouged, resembling a scar. "I requested it. As a reminder to myself, and as a reminder to you. Despite how I feel, despite where I think I should be right now...I plan on surviving, El. And even though I'll never again feel the press of these two scars together, I have the memory, and I have you. So," he expelled a long, tired sigh, "it'll be all right." The fingers of his flesh and blood hand gave her a slight squeeze. "The pain will fade, over time. All of it." 

When the garment slid from her shoulders, slithering to the floor with a light susurrus, Haraldur's hands set out to explore the newly revealed territory. With his lips still locked on hers, his fingers traced the muscles of her small yet toned shoulders, and followed them to the notch between her collarbones. En route, he touched a leather thong that was hanging around her neck. One eye opened in curiosity. There, bouncing against the offending knotted cloth that concealed her breasts, was the roc pendant he'd carved for her. "You still have it," he breathed, pulling away from her lips. He turned the blood-stained carving around in his hands, forcing himself not to look at the blood-carved rune-mark emblazoned on her chest. "I can't believe you still have this thing. It's really not my best work." He dropped the pendant, where it swayed back in its place of guardianship over the knotted cloth. He made for the knot, eager fingers itching to undo it, but she retreated from him yet again, a devil-may-care grin plastered all over her face. 

"Oh, I see what this is." He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "Withholding as punishment." He shrugged, casual and exaggerated in its flippancy, as if his entire core weren't twisting from the delayed gratification of having her around him and inside of him. He began to pull off his boots, minding his sprain and the wrappings that bound the injury in place. "Though I wonder...if Iwithhold...what are the repercussions?"

He didn't make her wait long; he knew better than to test the patience of a Sorde. He slid off his tunic, which exposed his prominent forearms. Then, with the slow pulling of his undershirt over his head, he revealed the shoulders, what he always considered his best feature. Though littered with scars, his now naked torso appeared more varied in its composition; his skin, still tan from his years in sunnier, hotter locales, concealed the red discolorations, and highlighted the white. His hair, now mussed from the dramatic shirt pull, looked about as windblown as if he'd just stepped outside. 

"Is that enough, your Highness?" His hand traveled down to the rim of his trousers. He popped all of the buttons, but did not remove them. "Or are we now at an impasse? To be fair," he watched that knot over his chest as if he could will it undone, "I have fewer clothes than you do at the moment. So we are not evenly matched." He crawled back over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders yet again. "Maybe we could help each other with this last bit. After all...I can't keep you warm if I'm not close to you. Like this." He planted his lips on her neck, while those roving hands met with her own, which still lingered ever so teasingly over the knotted covering.

"Alster... no. Don't think like that." Elespeth took the Rigas caster's face in her hands and met the depths of his blue eyes, her brow lined with sadness and concern. "You are not a cripple--not now, and not before. Never. And no one thought so, I guarantee." Breathing a soft sigh, she leaned in and pressed her forehead against his own. "You're a hero, Alster. Stella D'Mare knows and acknowledges that. And even if you were entirely without magic due to the loss of a single arm, that would not negate who you are, or what you have done. It might have taken time, but you... I know you'd have adapted. You're not the first to lose an arm, you know."

The Atvanian warrior's face fell and her heart sank, at her lover's comment about going so far as to even flub his own death. He was quick to withdraw the comment as soon as it slipped out, but that did not negate the fact that he had said it, and that it was a sentiment that he still harbored. "And what of me, then?" She asked him in a small voice. "I'm just the useless foreigner who absorbed the overflow of your magic. It almost killed me, and I am convinced most of the healers at the infirmary think that I am more trouble than I am worth. I have no magic of my own, no real place here, and no purpose in the plans to rebuild the city. The only merit I hold is my association to you, Alster..." She flashed a humorless smile and shook her head. "I am so tired of everyone here humoring me just because they know that if they don't, you will be offended. And unfortunately, not even a prosthetic arm can solve that problem."

Realizing that her ire was getting the best of her, Elespeth took another steadying breath. "I'm sorry. I haven't slept well. Not in quite a while." Acknowledging Atli's comment with a nod, she rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed at the rather public outburst. "Thank you for ensuring his safety... and I am sorry that he is too stubborn to rid take something for the pain." She gently nudged Alster's good shoulder as a show of disapproval. "If by nightfall you are still in agony, I expect you to let them give you something to help you rest, Alster. Understood?"

At his request, she returned her attention to his new arm, and at its palm. Her heart skipped a beat at the symbolic scratch along the metal, one that so resembled her own scar. Glancing at her own palm, she compared the two, and a smile, unbidden, tugged at the corners of her mouth. "That's... that means a lot. Even if it is only symbolic, I'd be lying to say I was not touched. But if you think that that little scratch is going to be enough to sway my frustration that you didn't advise me at all of this decision, then you are wrong."

Raising her eyebrows, the former knight turned to Atli, who seemed to be overseeing the majority of her lover's recovery. "If he still refuses anything for the pain by nightfall, and it hasn't subsided, remind him of his options. Either he can let you help him, or I'll administer whatever pain relief you recommend, myself. And I am no healer, so," she arched an eyebrow at Alster. "I hope you understand that you are better off leaving that to people who actually know what they are doing. Don't force my hand, Rigas."

Bending to plant a kiss on his forehead, she stood and made her way to the tend flaps. "I'll be back later to see how you are faring. And... for company. If you want it." The unspoken message, of course, was that she wanted it. Another night alone, tossing and turning on an uncomfortable cot in a tent that did not keep in the heat, was enough to make her consider drinking whatever herbal concoction Lilica had supposedly been thriving off of while in the infirmary, to keep from falling asleep.

Vega's mouth pulled into a grin at the corner, and she picked up the pendant dangling between her full breasts. One that she had not taken off, not even to bathe, since she had found Haraldur and whisked him off to her home kingdom before Mollengard could find them. It held more meaning to her, now, than it had when he had initially carved it for her. Just like them, it had been coated in blood and cleans again, it had gone through war and back, and now it hung, stained but not broken, against her body: stained, bruised, scarred, but not broken. It was as if the pendant was indestructible; and so was she. "I don't wear it because it is or isn't your best work, you know," she told him, letting it fall against her skin again, sinking into that taunting crevice beneath the cloth that bound her chest. "I wear it because you made it... for me. You didn't have to, there was no obligation. But you did. And it is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received... But don't think for a second that this means I'm going to go easy on you out of appreciation."

Her grin broadened, mirroring his own, as he indulged her in the little game she played. Why not make him wait--just for a few minutes? For all she wanted nothing more than to feel his lips and hands on her body, warm and frantic, she also recognized that there was no rush. And it was just as gratifying to watch him squirm. "I'd like to see you try to withhold. To some extent, maybe." She purred alluringly, watching with hungry eyes. "But I can assure you that if you did, you would have a very irritated princess on your hands. After all--when else will we find the opportunity to be completely alone in the mountains? With no one to disturb us, and no one to answer to?" Eagerly, she tugged on her lower lip with her teeth, drinking in the sight of the mercenary's naked torso, every line and curve of muscle defined beneath his tanned skin. Her eyebrow twitched at his noncompliance when he stopped at his trousers, leaving them unbuttoned, but still hugging his waist...

"Well aren't you bold to withhold from me." The Skyknight purred, pulling her hair loose from its braid. Waves of fiery red and copper cascaded down her shoulders and back. "I don't recall saying anything about needing to be 'evenly matched', soldier. Do I have to use my authority to ensure your compliance?" But there was only so far that the Eyraillian princess could go with her act, and as soon as she felt his lips on her neck and his fingers fumbling to untie the knot of fabric at her chest, she felt herself begin to melt into his touch, his warmth. Slowly, her hands fell away from the cloth, silently giving him the permission that he craved to discard it. Unraveling, inch by inch, it finally fell to the floor with the remainder of her clothes, bearing the full swell of her breasts that stood firm and at attention, now exposed to the cold. That small fire growing between her legs intensified, and she reached for the waistband of her own trousers, loosening the buttons to match him. "Now we're even." Vega breathed, her breath hot on his neck. "You're lucky that I want you as badly as I do, mercenary... Or I might be angry that you didn't strip all of your clothes when I demanded it. If it's a game that you want... I like games."

Slowly, she slipped her hands into the waistband of his pants. The blue in her eyes glimmered with devilish desire as they met his. "So long as you come good on your promise to keep me warm." With a tug, she pulled him a half-step forward, closing the gap between them. "You'll just have to come a little closer..."

At the rise of Elespeth's voice, Alster shrank even further into his cot. His left hand struggled to break free of its blanket cocoon in its bid to touch her, to placate her--whatever it took. But any movements from his left side passed through his shoulders and emptied into his right side. The arm already shivered from residual pain as it anticipated another agonizing shockwave. He held his breath, but it was a reaction to Elespeth, not to the aftereffects of his operation. 

"I know that my magic almost killed you," he released the words into a long, breathy sigh. "It was exactly what I feared, Elespeth. Again, you almost died from it--from my burden, my responsibility. It was supposed to kill me, and me alone. Never you. But I am not any less grateful for your sacrifices, El. Because of you, we're both alive. And yes, I'm still trying to come to terms with it. But thank you...for having to deal with me all the time. I can't help what I feel, much as I try to keep any extraneous baggage from you." He kept his face lowered, too ashamed to look her in the eye. "It's exactly why I don't want to talk to you about these worries and fears of mine. They upset you too much. No matter what I do, I upset you. So," a small, bitter smile pulled at his mouth. "What's the difference?" 

"We're seeing two different stories here, El." He stared beyond her, at the flames pirouetting over the logs. "No one is humoring you because of me. No one cares if I'm offended. Glaucus," he pointed his chin at the quiet man in the corner, "and two Rigas guards, are the only ones who have given me any recognition. Others are keeping their distance. We are as we've always been, El. Outsiders. And I'm sorry that I didn't consult you about this, but...I didn't want you to stop me. You may not see the loss of an arm as a problem worthy of attention, but it is one to me. It doesn't matter who else has lost an arm, or who else has it worse. You've always told me that I need to look after myself. That's what I'm doing. This affects me. This matters. ...Anything to feel normal again." His eyes narrowed into a weak glare. "I'm trying, El. I'm really trying. All I ask is for some understanding. In turn, I'll be more forthright. We'll help each other through this...as we always have." 

He offered a small smile of goodbye as she made her egress through the tent flaps. As soon as she was gone, exhaustion seemed to descend from the sky and latch on to him. His bones felt weighted down and creaky. Blinking away the heaviness of his lids, he looked up at Atli, who was organizing some medical supplies on the bedside table. 

"...Do you think I'm pathetic?" 

"Only if you don't take your medicine." 

Alster hadn't been settling for long on the cot before a small figure barged through the tent flaps. He startled himself almost upright on the pillow, which pulled every muscle along his neck and shoulders. Cursing under his breath, he honed in on the intruder, trying to spot them through the pinpricks of black and purple swimming in his eyes. Tivia bounded over at his bedside, apparently not seeing his steel arm--or the reason he was bedridden in the first place.

"Alster..." She was out of breath. Leaning forward on her hands and knees, she took a few moments to catch her second wind. "I...I just found out. Alster...my father--he is going to exile you from the city. And he's gotten the entire council to agree." 

Alster's mouth puckered into a frown. So much for supposed acknowledgement for his heroics...

Haraldur did not need further encouragement to close their gap, though he was goaded tightly against her by the seat of his pants. A literal tug and pull, and they were entangled. He nudged his nose around the curve of Vega's delicate neck, passing hot breath along as he sank deeper to the folds of her body. With her cloth covering now removed, her breasts were on full display, and he did not hesitate to follow himself down. "Here," he said, rounding his finger slowly around her areola, "I'll make it up to you, Highness, for my misgivings are many. We can't have a crabby princess, come morning. If I disappoint you, you'll lock me away in my room for another eight days and nights. No more mountain trips for me. So," with a gentle push, he settled her down on the fur rug and climbed atop her, "let me express my loyalty to you, in the only way your most obedient servant knows how."

First, he started with her breasts. He kneaded them with his knuckles, generating the blood-flow. Then, he began to massage in tender circles around the nipple pad. All the while, he kept his body close, surrounding her with warmth, as promised. He kissed along her jaw, nipped at her ears, roved down her neck, returned to her jaw, then snagged her lips in his teeth. By then, his fingers were playing with her nipples, gentle but deliberate. He pushed down and released, recircled the pad, pinched the tips ever-so-slightly, and ran light scratches across the surface. Eventually, his mouth came down to investigate. Peppering kisses along the way, it settled, too, on the nipples, which he licked, and sucked. He writhed when she writhed, and listened to her body's response. He lessened his assault when discouraged, and emboldened himself at the encouragements. Feeling properly warmed up, he took her pants and her undergarment as one, bunched them up in his hands, and slowly pulled them downwards, past her thighs, towards her ankles. He gripped her rear end with one hand, then the other.

"Oh," he paused. "Right. I shouldn't keep you waiting. Now I'm the one who's mostly clothed." And, with a sly smile, he removed his hands from her, which had been roving ever-so-tantalizingly towards her front end, thrumming along the entrance, her doorway, like little trickles of feet. At his withdrawal, he rose upright, and slipped his trousers off in their entirety. He kicked them away from his feet. Now naked, and erect, he closed their proximity, as before. "Now where was I? Oh...right." The pitter-patter of his fingers returned to the doorway. They knocked, and entered.

Lilica hadn't slept the night that she had visited Chara, only to be driven out and reassured of the meaninglessness of her existence. She didn't want to sleep, didn't want to dream and see Theomyr, for her thoughts were suddenly so conflicted, and she did not know what to do. She had promised the man who claimed to be her father that she would make this venture to his so-called kingdom; he had seemed so desperate and sincere, and so ready to put faith in her. But... would it really be worth it, if it meant losing the one person that he had ever loved? 

Or--on the conrtary... was a love so tightly tethered to power worth it? Chara... would you not turn your back on me, in your pursuit for power? The dark mage's broken heart ached, and it was enough to keep her awake as she wandered the remains of the city. The thought that she had been all wrong about the woman she loved, and that their entire relationship had been little more than a metaphor for the Rigas caster's desire for power. She had told Chara that she would follow her, until she could not tread her ground any longer. Lilica had never thought that such a day would come, that she could not follow Chara any longer... But it should have occurred to her that the Rigas caster had never promised to follow her, in turn. And for that, she could not blame Chara for her vehement reaction to her plans to leave...
And despite it all, that realization did not make her heart hurt any less.

Come morning, Lilica had secured a hot mug of coffee from one of the food and drink tents stationed around the city, to keep its residents nourished and warm as they worked on rebuilding the city. Wrapped in a long, woolen sweater to ward off the chill, the chthonic caster had taken a seat in the ruins of the Rigas garden, where she had once felt such a conneciton, such peace. It overlooked the city and the sunrise, and provided ample solitude for her to sort our her thoughts. She needed to dissuade Alster from accompanying her on her mission to find Galeyn; she had promised Chara that she would do that much, and yet, the thought of traveling alone did make her hesitate. Later today... I will speak to him later today, she told herself, absorbing the heat from her coffee mug into her chilled hands. This was not his fight, and she would not draw anyone into this who needn't be involved...

A familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts. She wondered how long they had been talking to her, saying her name, before she had tuned back into the reality surrounding her. "...Lysander?" Lilica's first thought was a dark one. After crossign Chara, was she now tresspassing on Rigas property? Was he going to tell her to leave, or to facce consequences? Not that it mattered, really, when leaving was exactly what she intended to do. "I'm sorry if I'm treading where I am not permitted; I can take my leave, if you want." Her face fell, and she turned her onyx eyes to the ground. "I'm sure that Chara has already filled you in that I am taking my leave of Stella D'Mare... and that I will not be welcome back. It is a decision of mine that I did not make lightly, but with which I am impelled to follow through. For what it is worth, Lysander... I did tell Chara that I intended to return to her. That it was never my intention to leave forever. But..." With her coffee now grown cold, she dumped the chilled liquid onto the ground, as it no longer served as a good means to warm her hands. "She made it very clear that she doesn't want me to return. I don't blame her; and I suppose it is no less than I deserve."

Lifting her small shoulders in a shrug, she hugged her elbows to maintain warmth. "Please watch out for her, won't you...? I want to believe that she will be all right. And that she will find the success she desires and deserves."

Haraldur's fingers were like electricity, and Vega's nerve endings fired at his touches, both light and forceful. Goosebumps peppered her arms and torso at his unrelenting attention to her sensitive nipples, but not because she was cold; far from it, it felt as though a fire lad lit itself on the inside of her, and it continued to grow and grow. The tiny tips of her breasts had gone so taut at the pleasure of his touch that they subtly ached, mirroring that ache that was building on the inside, in anticipation of what she really wanted. But the mercenary was clearly in no hurry, and was possibly reveling in her impatience. A low moan escaped from her lungs when she felt his lips and tongue, and teasing pressure of his teeth on those hypersensitive tips of her breasts, pure pleasure that warmed her skin and made her want more, more, more of him, as she had felt deprived of this touch--of his touch--for so long. Tantalizingly, he let the game draw on and on until the subtle pink tint of her nipples had blushed and ripened to a deeper hue, teased to life with the attention that has coaxed bloodflow to their tips, enhancing any and all sense of touch that surrounded him. It wasn't long before the soft press of his tongue or even the gentle pinch of his fingers was enough to draw a whimper or an impatient sigh from her lips, and by the time he hooked his fingers into the waist of her pants, she thought she might crumble.

"You are indeed going to have a cranky princess on your hands," The Skyknight half-hissed, and half-sighed, as she watched him strip away the remainder of his clothes with needful, hungry eyes. "If you insist on teasing me with what you know I want instead of giving it to me, mercenary." But his games weren't over; not quite yet. And as he covered her body once again with his own, radiating the very same heat that she felt build on the inside of her, Haraldur placated her raging desires with careful ministrations of his fingers. They met no resistance in their entry; on the contrary, the the dampness between her legs that had resulted from her excitement invited the attention. A sigh, combined with a hiss, exited Vega's lungs at the mere touch of his fingers to such a sensitive area, and a shiver traveled the length of her body. But she was not cold; far from it, their foreplay had brought a glow to her blushed skin, and she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so warm, inside and out.

It was a blessing and a currse that Haraldur learned so fast, that he could read her responses to his touches and teasing like a book. He knew how to play her, what drove her crazy, and what would leave her begging for more--and, it wasn't long before he did have her begging for more. With every thrust of his fingers, that irresistable pressure build inside of her, and she bit down on her lip so hard that it became swollen. Vega sighed and moaned the mercenary's name, at once begging him to stop, and simultaneously begging for more. At last, she lost complete control, and every muscle in her body tensed as wave after wave of pleasure assaulted her body, leaving her feeling raw and light-headed. "Proud of yourself, are you?" She huffed, her cheeks flushed with desire that had yet to be quenched. She hooked a hand around the back of Haraldur's head, her breath hot against his lips, and lifted a knee to gently press against his erect manhood. "Now will you give me what I really want?"

Lysander was the one to find Chara on the floor that evening, bleeding and soaked in wine. But with his legs as dead weight, and his wheeling apparatus weighty and hard to control, he could do little but command her back into her senses, making all sorts of clattering noises until she could no longer ignore the disruption. She stirred from her puddle, and he wheeled himself to the wash room to fetch fresh towels, a basin of water, and a pot of salve for the injury. He cleaned her up, though she was unresponsive, and only followed instructions with the barest, most primal form of compliance. She was too drunk to explain what happened to her, so he bandaged her wound, forced her to drink water, and sent her to bed. He remained in her chambers all night, nodding off in his chair--until she came to early that morning. She was sick, and had vomited a few times, (which he had prepared a bucket for, beside her bed), but eventually, he wrenched the truth out of her. 

Cyprian intended to exile Lilica, Alster, and Vitali. Lilica was set to leave regardless, to go on some "fool's errand," allegedly. They had a fight. She'd said some terrible things. Drove her away, demanding that she'd never return. 

"I wish I could take it all back," she said, trying to weave through the tangle that had become her hair. "But she was right, Father. ...I've always chosen power. If given the choice, between her and the undisputed right to rule, I fear that I--"

"--not necessarily," Lysander mused, thumbing his finger to his chin. "If given the choice between the two, you wouldn't settle for one option over the other. You'd take both."

"All the same...that still means I will always choose power. My love does not come unconditionally. Not unless I benefit from the relationship."

"And how have you benefited from your relationship with Lilica? I daresay associating with her has taken you further back from your ultimate end goals."

"No..." She fought the tangles with wild abandon, but gave up with a groan. "She has power. Raw, concentrated, chthonic power. To harness it, to utilize it for my own...perhaps that was the realreason she attracted me, as did Alster before her. Powerful casters...but vulnerable. So easy for me...to influence." She shook her head, and flopped her hand on the bed. "I am no better than Adalfieri. No wonder why he favored me, and appointed me his successor. I may as well embrace it. This is who I am. And my first order of business," her brow pinched together, into a menacing glare, "is to destroy Cyprian." 

Chara dismissed Lysander so she could take a long bath. With hesitation, he departed her villa, but did not travel long before noticing Lilica sitting by one of the disjointed stone lips of the low garden wall. It was difficult to wheel around on rough terrain, but he managed to dig the contraption through the uneven ground and grass. He called out to her, and positioned himself in her line of sight, before drifting closer. 

"No, Lilica. You are permitted here. Well," he muttered, "for as long as the likes of Cyprian deems it permissible. I take it you've heard that bit of news. But," he held a hand out, palm flat, in a gesture to wait, in case she took her leave, "I've spoken with Chara just earlier. She retracts her statement from last night. You are welcome to stay, and you are welcome back whenever you return. She plans to go up against Cyprian, and overturn his body of influence. And when you have chosen a date of departure, she will provide you with horses and supplies, winter-wear, water, and rations. I will be in charge of provisions, so find me once you are ready for your sojourn."

He turned and began to wheel himself away, but then stopped on a pivot. A look of entreaty fell on his haggard face as he glanced over his shoulder, at her. "Please don't give up on her. I am worried. She has it in her mind now that she is only a vehicle for dominion and domination, and we both know that is not the case. She is misguided, but not beyond saving or beyond hope." A smile tried to replace his careworn features, but to no avail. "Do come home when you're able, Lilica. I will miss you, and your herbal concoctions." Then, he rolled away, without another word. 

On the night at Tadasun's camp, a time that seemed so distant, Haraldur had promised Vega that he would find out what she liked. They had kept busy for a good chunk of the evening, him experimenting on her body and its natural quirks. He remembered that her knee would twitch whenever he drew on her nipples. The small of her back would arch when his hand stroked along the dimple there. Whenever he got her started, her sensitivities spanned from head to feet. He could touch her anywhere, and elicit a reaction. Already, he felt her skin slick with sweat. It smelled of smoke, of roc dander, of leather, and something sweet, unidentifiable. He licked along the pads of her breasts to taste, and the sweet ardor of her tickled his tongue.

As his fingers roved around inside, he delighted in watching her squirm, her pupils dilate, her lips tremble with unspoken ululations--or curses. He knew she was cursing his name for putting an extension on their game. But he wanted her primed. He wanted her ready. No matter how much she wanted it now, the delay would turn the water wheels inside, and fill her close to bursting. And though he was more than prepared, more than eager to build themselves together as one unit, he loved watching her. The short, gasping breaths, the way she rocked her head back and forth, her heaving chest, the shiver that seemed to ripple her body like a gentle current on the shore...it was beautiful. He was doing this to her, before they'd even finalized the act. He wanted to internalize this moment as much as he could--though the desires burned so hotly inside of himself, that soon enough, he could hardly stand the wait. 

"I think you've suffered enough." The curl of his fingers twirled out of her, but not without giving one last lap around the rim. "And so have I. I'm ready...when you are." 

At the favorable signals of her body, he complied. He pulled her pants from her legs all the way off her ankles. They joined his own in the pile on the floor. Her legs spread willingly for him. He set himself in between. Felt as her calves folded over his back. He slid his hands up to her shoulders, leaned in close--and entered. 

She was so wet that he slid right in. There was no resistance, no tightness. Only ease. He began a rhythm that she readily followed. The rhythm turned percussive: the drone of thumps, the smacking of skin, the grunts and yips, the gasps and moans. His heart drummed in his ears as she throbbed inside of him, to the same speed. They took the upbeats, the downbeats. A euphony of two, synchronizing into perfect time. They were a metronome. 

Escalation was quick to reach his head. A fire raged in his lower extremities. It blazed through his core, frying him with an intensity that cracked him open. He writhed from the destruction. He wanted to surrender to the conflagration that ate, consumed, and engulfed, with a hunger to match that of a bear. He did surrender. A growl racked through him. He shuddered. He convulsed. And before he came, he withdrew himself from her, and went all over the floor. 

With a long, satisfied, yet exhausted sigh, he slumped beside Vega, and stared up at the vaulted, wood-beam ceiling that criss-crossed over their heads. 

"Fuck. ...How I missed that. You're a lion, Vega." He brushed her coppery hair out of her eyes. "So much...so much...life."

Lysander's sudden show of support came as a blessing and a curse, simultaneously. Words that she both needed, yet did not want to hear. Not just prior to her decision to leave. It would be so much easier if they all hated me, the way they used to, she thought, her shoulders falling as she stood to face Lysander. His words... they might have brought her a modicum of solace the night before. Perhaps shortly after she had left Chara's room, eyes fogged with tears. But the night had allowed her time to process her decision, to come to terms with it--and with Chara's feelings on it. "...thank you, Lysander." She nodded in acknowledgement, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I do not blame Chara for her outburst. I can only imagine the extreme pressure she must be under, with her responsibilities. Under those circumstances, I might very well have reacted the same."

At the mention of Cyprian's decision--one of which she had caught wind hours ago, not at all to her surprise--she merely nodded in acknowledgement. "Believe me, as someone who has not belonged anywhere for as long as they can remember... I have a knack for knowing when I am not wanted. And I know precisely those who do want me. Luckily enough, my plan to leave preceded his plans to exile me." Frankly, Cyprian and his intentions were the least of her concern. "Thank you for your help and support, Lysander. I am not sure when it is I'll be taking my leave, but I imagine it will be soon. I... need to speak with Alster, first. I certainly did not imagine his name would fall upon Cyprian's list of those he wishes to excommunicate from the city... but, he said he would leave with me. To help me. I am caught between talking him out of it and accepting his help.

"In any case... I will be sure to let you know before I depart." Pulling the long sweater tight around her small body, she nodded her thanks to the Rigas caster--one who had no reason to be kind to her, and yet, whose kindness still persisted. "I do not know how long I will be gone. In a way, I am sure that Chara can benefit from time away from me. To focus on her reconstruction of the city, and circumventing Cyprian's influence. And, when all is said and done, if she still wants me to return... then, perhaps I will. But only if I hear it come from Chara, herself." Laying a hand upon his arm, she offered a small smile. "Thank you, Lysander. Please look after Chara. And..." She paused, fighting the pressure that she felt behind her eyes. "...thank you for caring. Even if I do not deserve it."

Elespeth was not long away from Alster, that day. Especially when she realized she had overreacted at a time when he had potentially needed her support. It was just an arm, or lack thereof, for that matter, but she had gone into her tirade as if it had been a life or death situation. The Mollengardian healer overseeing Alster's recovery seemed honest enough; he would not have let anything terrible happen to Alster, nor would he have suggested the procedure if the risks were too great. So the warrior had walked it off, had thought on it, and finally returned a few hours later, with some books under her arm. She offered a shy smile as she pushed past the tent flaps, and took a seat on Alster's cot. "I thought you might be bored..." She explained, indicating the three books that she thought might have interested him--one on healing practices, as he had indicated an interest in studying to be a healer, as a means of turning of a new leaf. But her face fell as soon as she took note of the sadness in his expression. "Alster... what is wrong? Are you well?"

He wasn't well--and as it turned out, everything was wrong. And as soon as he explained to her what Tivia had disclosed, that his days in Stella D'Mare were numbered, Elespeth went entirely pale. "...it isn't true. They... the council cannot be serious." She breathed. The books slid from her hands, and into a pile upon the floor, the loud sound startling the Mollengardian healer who was working on something off to the side. "It cannot be true, Alster. Not after everything you have done! This is absolutely ludicrous."

Taking him by the hand--his only remaining hand, as she did not dare upset his mechanical arm--the warrior looked him in the eyes with reassurance. "It will be fine, Alster. You aren't going anywhere--I will speak with Chara, we will both make sure of it. No one has the right to excommunicate you from your home. Not when you were the one who saved it."

His surrender to his own desires brought the Eyraillian princess a deep sigh of relief. She loved him; she loved the way he played and teased, loved the way he felt and moved inside her body, his back warm against the backs of her calves. Once already, he had teased and taunted her to her own pleasure's peak, but she was far from exhausted and spent--not yet. Not before she had what she wanted. The Skyknight's hands hooked around his neck, and she tilted her head back, moaning softly as every nerve in her body went alight for a second time that evening. He started off slow, but it was not long before she was urging him to embolden himself and increase his pace. Vega's fingers dug into his skin, she sighed his name with wild abandon, she moved in tandem with him, perfectly synchronized, perfectly fitting. The pressure, the pleasure built and built; she felt herself falling apart all over again. 

Whatever mere stitches of adamant obstinacy that were holding her together were not long for this world. For mere seconds before Haraldur succumbed to his own primal desires, and the allure of flesh and all it had to offer, Vega found herself crashing, fast and hard, as if she had just fallen off a roc--only it was a far more pleasant sensation, and far less painful. Another gasp wrenched from her lungs, and she'd have collapsed if she weren't already lying prostrate on the floor. Speckles danced in her vision, and the entire room, bathed in the warmth of the firelight, had never felt so warm. "You make me feel alive." She breathed in response to his affirmation, one that made her heart swell. The way he looked at her was reassurance enough that he meant it. "I haven't felt this hot in quite some time." Came her addendum, punctuated with a teasing wink.

Reveling in one another's company for a little bit longer, allowing tone to return to their exhausted muscles, they eventually picked themselves up off of the floor and cleaned up after their tryst. Vega donned her tunic, again, which was long enough to fall just past her backside, but she neglected the pants and undergarments, not feeling the need. After ensuring all evidence of their bout of passion was successfully eliminated, Vega tugged on her lower lip, appearing to be deep in thought. Finally, she spoke. "You know... we're going to have to be more tactful, if we want to get playful back at the palace." A small grin illuminated the deviously playful expression on her face, and she slipped her arms around Haraldur's waist. "We need to keep things clandestine... for a while, at least. So we'll have to keep all... 'evidence' of our fun as minute as possible." In reference, she glanced at the floor that they had just cleaned, and her expression fell ever so slightly. "What... I mean to say is... When the necromancer revived me, I overheard the Sybaian healer speaking to some of the other healers. She said the probability of my revived body ever being able to foster new life, at this point, is... it isn't very likely." Vega pressed her lips together, and scratched the back of her head. "...I think she was right. My body... it hasn't experienced a moon cycle in over a month and a half. And that has never happened to me."

The Eyraillian princess was careful to keep emotion from her voice. Haraldur had already made it clear some time back that he did not see children in his future, and whether the desire was sincere or not, it was not her place to question it. It was not disappointment that she feared to see in him; rather, the return of that look in his eyes, seeing her as less than alive. Even now, she was afraid to look, lest she see that look in his eyes, again. To try any lighten the gravity of the air, she added, with a wry smile. "It's fine. One less thing for me to worry about. Anyway... all I am saying is that you don't have to be concerned with being too careful. Just... more discreet."

To while away the hours, Alster traded one topic of deep thought for another, and focused on the configurations of his new arm. Anything seemed preferable to dwelling on his worries made manifest: that the majority of his family still despised him, or were terrified--indifferent, perhaps. Or, they were confused, and the council used that confusion to full advantage, influencing decisions without protest or resistance. He really wasn't surprised, no matter the public opinion. Alster Rigas had been vilified since the day he awakened the Serpent as a child. No amount of fancy magic could dispel that deep-seated perspective of him. It simply wouldn't fit in their narrative, to have a once-prodigy, now fallen, now disgraced, rise up and repent for his past mistakes. No. The only scenario in which that story could survive was one in which he had died. 

You're thinking about it. Stop thinking about it! He cursed himself, and forced all attention to his arm. 

It had moved only once in the hours since it was installed. An uncoordinated wriggle of thumb and forefinger--but Atli and Glaucus remarked that any movement at all showed great promise. The arm was Glaucus' design, and the materials belonged to his vast mineral and ores collection. Imbued in the arm were pulverized remains of a meteorite that had crash-landed outside of Stella D'Mare two centuries ago. As with any matter heralding from places beyond the stars, meteorite rocks reacted strongly to celestial magic, being made from the same source. The pulverized remnants in Alster's arm served as an amplifier for his magic, and directed the source of his etherea. The goal was to open contact between his own magic and the meteorite's own. Once he was connected to that energy, mobility would be possible. Though, the science wasn't exact. Glaucus warned that his ability to operate the arm might come in spurts at the beginning, or only work for short stretches at a time. Since he would constantly need to channel celestial magic through the arm, doing so would become tiresome. Still, some functionality was better than no functionality, or no arm at all. But...the simple matter of function was the least of its troubles. 

The surgery was excruciating, for one. Though he'd been given topical ointment for the pain, and some intravenous shots, he wanted minimal relief, in fear of losing any grip he'd still maintained on his mind. To install the forearm, Atli sawed off uneven pieces of flesh and bone, and carved farther inside, creating a concave dome shape for the metal fitting to rest. Next, he connected the wires of Alster's body with the wires of the device, for the transfer and recognition of signals from the brain to the new limb. Last, he added the supports, which prevented the fixture from simply snapping off his body with the bulk and weight. Atli drove pins into his bones and cauterized the steel frames in place, save for the port area, which could be detached through minor surgery. 

"You will need to clean the port area every day," warned Atli, "to prevent infection and decay. The outer casings of your supports do detach, so please pull them off at day's end, so those key areas of your skin can have exposure to air and dry out. You will also need to regulate the pain with frequent application of the ointment I've given you. And if the pain is too unbearable, remember, you have other options." He pointed to a syringe filled with the pain-numbing, mind-numbing substance, and placed it with care inside of a case. "We will have to fit you for a back brace to wear for when you're on your feet. With the heft of the steel arm, you will have uneven weight distribution that can affect other key areas of your body. Also, when not in operation, you will need to wear a sling for the arm. Maintenance is lifelong, I'm afraid, as is the pain, Alster." Atli said, his voice breaking in sympathy. "I do hope it brings you some measure of good fortune." 

Alster snapped out of his recollections when Elespeth walked into the tent. He tried for a smile, but she had caught his melancholic mood before he could disguise his features. With a sigh, he admitted the goings-on with his family in relation to him, and what they wanted to do with him. 

She had taken the news far worse than he. 

"I'm afraid they are serious," he said, with weary acceptance. "To them, I've done nothing but create problems, which they thought it my due to clean. But nothing has been cleaned. There is still a mess--just less of one, since we had intervened." He moved his fingers along Elespeth's hand, glad to feel their effortless glide borne of flesh, bone, and blood. The warmth of her touch. The inviting tickle, brush, and stroke. "I'm a reminder of the mess. I am the mess. They don't know what to do with me now, since I," he hesitated, "did not meet their expectations; I didn't die. This is their method of coping with the loss--or the lack of loss. Though to be fair, the opinions of the council do not always reflect the majority. But it doesn't matter. I can't say I didn't see it coming, El. In fact..."

He paused in his exploration of her hand. Paused his breath. Even his painful shoulder spasms had ceased--for a short time. Though he'd promised to be more forthright, he was so tired of upsetting her, so tired of causing her stress and anguish. Still, he forced himself to look into her eyes, themselves turbulent pools of storm-green, sharp and charged with electricity. 

"Lilica... I ...without really thinking it through, I had agreed to aid her in...an errand, of sorts." He waited for the change in atmosphere. Tentatively, he continued. "One that will take her outside the city, in search for a kingdom that's in need of rescue. While...while I didn't specify my degree of aid, it was assumed that my aid would take the form of...traveling...with her. For an indeterminate amount of time." He lowered his eyes and prepared to flinch, waiting for the inevitable descent of that storm. "I promised to keep the details of this quest a secret. The more people know and are involved, the more dire the chances of seeing to this kingdom's recovery. Again, I didn't consult you. I was...thrown into it. Hard for me to say no outright. I know that's no excuse, El," his breaths began to run ragged and shallow, "but I...if I'm going to be exiled anyway, then there's no need to overexert yourself in trying to relieve my name. We both know it's not going to happen--even with Chara's assistance." He tried for a smile, but it shook and didn't hold form. "I don't think my exile is permanent. Or Lilica's, for that matter." He squeezed her hand. "Between you and Chara fighting for us, it won't last, I know it." He tried to even his breathing, to find the core within him that had accomplished feats of strength, endurance, and pure, unshakeable will. "Besides," a smile finally found form, and it stretched across his lips with mischief, "do they really think they can keep me out of the city?" 

Haraldur was content to stare up at the ceiling, pressed up against Vega, for the remainder of the night. So loathe was he to rise, that he pulled her back down a few times and moaned about how the idea of anything but relaxation and sleep was akin to taking a long hike against the keening gales--naked. Eventually, he snorted out of his obstinacy, and slowly crawled into his discarded pair of trousers. But once he'd snapped out of his fugue, he cranked himself upright, and went about cleaning his own patches of waste material with a rag he found in the kitchen space.

"How is this for clandestine?" Taking the soiled rag, he threw it into the fire. Sparks caught onto the material and erupted into a small, moldering pile of to-be-cinders. "Evidence, gone. Well, some of it, anyway. We're still here, after all." The flaming rag notwithstanding, the fire had begun to dwindle. He reached over and tossed another log into the waiting flickers of light. "I don't know about you," he turned to her, running fingers through her hair, "but tactful play sounds like a challenge I'm more than willing to take. I think, between the two of us, we can run a pretty sound game, with none the wiser." His lips pulled into a sly smirk. "Wouldn't you agree?"

But, like Vega, the mirth faded from his eyes, as he prepared for her solemn bit of news. His hand slid from her hair, and returned to the floor. Before he could give a proper reaction, however, he studied his face into its routine impassivity. He knew that infertility was a possible result of, well, death, but, as with many of its gifts and curses, he chose to ignore the details. Although he told her he wasn't suitable to be a father, it was still his greatest desire to sire children with the woman he loved. And now that the mere chance of that future had collapsed before his eyes, it was difficult to respond. An unnatural silence lapsed between them for longer than he'd planned. 

"Yes. One less thing to worry about," came his echo, but it was hollow and faraway, as echoes usually were. He reconstituted a wry smile, for her sake. "With our liaisons erupting in full force, it will be much easier to keep the area clean. Better not to leave a slug trail all over the palace," he chuckled, "right?" 

With a suddenness even he wasn't expecting, he perked up to his feet. "Are you hungry? Because I am." He veered off to the cellar door. "I'll cook us something--though by your admittance, it's probably going to be a salt-cured steak of some sort. Which is fine by me. I'm a simple creature. I see meat, I eat it." He looked over his shoulder, at where she was lounging by the fireplace. "What would you like?"

Be it denial or a steadfast resolution, Elespeth only heard bits and pieces of what Alster deigned to rationalize. How someone could be so calm in the face of their own exile from their home--a home that they had saved from destruction, and had lost their arm (and almost their life) by doing so. It was not only ludicrous and unfair, but it was a dire insult to Alster's efforts and feats--and, by extension, her own efforts. Because Elespeth Tameris had not veered so close into death's merciless path, once again, only to have the feat that she had been trying to protect entirely discarded. 

"How can you be so... cavalier about this, Alster?" The Atvanian warrior breathed, perplexed and blown away by the Rigas caster's lack of reaction. "I know you struggle with your own self-worth, and that is your own battle to fight, but... gods, Alster. You saved Stella D'Mare! I don't care that you were the one initially to summon the Serpent, you sent it away, and paid the price with your arm. The only reason that the council has to send you away now is through their own damned cowardice." She leveled him with her green eyes, sharp and fierce. The eyes of a warrior who would not rest in the shadow of injustice. "You threaten them. They are afraid of you because of what you can do, and as such, the only thing that they see fit is to send you away. But you do not have to listen, Alster. At the very least... you can fight it. Or... allow someone to fight it in your stead. I will do that for you. Chara will do that for you. So many of us will stand for you, Alster, if only you would allow it."

But then, the conversation took yet another turn--one that involved the chthonic caster, Lilica D'Or. At this point, Alster's argument had lost all credibility, to the former knight. Why in all of the world would he decide to take off on an errand with that dark, solitary being? The one who in the past had both attacked him, and aimed to kill her? Had he forgiven her so easily? While Elespeth had always practiced from a standpoint of peace and reconciliation, she also tried to maintain some modicum of logic when it came to keeping allies. And not only did none of this add up, but Alster wouldn't even tell her the details. A lost kingdom? Why and how was this suddenly so dire and issue that it required his immediate action? "And none of this... none if it sound entirely madto you? Not at all?" She asked him, her voice low and slow, in emphasis of her own frustration. "Lilica is our ally, yes, I realize this. But it wouldn't be the first time that she has come unhinged. She could be leading you on a wild goose chase, Alster... you shouldn't go with her. I know I cannot influence your decisions, but that is where I stand on the matter; that you will only be putting yourself in more, unnecessary danger, and so soon after you underwent this experimental surgery... I don't think you are making a sound decision."

Forgetting entirely about the books that she had brought him, she touched Alster's face and pressed a light kiss to his lips. "Let me see what I can do. I will talk to Chara to work on lifting this exile. And if I cannot... then I will go with you."

Turning on her heel, Elespeth hurried out of the tent without a glance behind her, and made for the Rigas estate--or what was left of it, where she knew Chara to be staying. It was not long before she found her, looking slightly worse for the wear. The bags under her eyes suggested lack of sleep, and possibly succumbing to the lure of alcohol to ease frustration. "The exile," was all she said, out of breath as she was. "Chara. We cannot let this happen. Who made the decision? I will appeal to them myself if need be. How can Stella D'Mare condemn its very own hero? Please." Reaching out, she took the newly appointed Rigas head by the arm. "I know you are not fond of me, but you are fond of Alster. Help me prevent him from leaving. I..." Her voice, lowering a hitch and growing softer, betrayed her defeat. "I need him, here."

It was as she had expected, so Vega did not know why it still hurt so much to see that disappointment mirrored in his eyes. The silence that fell between then cut her like a knife; but what was she to do? Hide the truth from him until it really mattered? Had she anticipated seeing the hurt and brokenness mirrored in his eyes, she would never have mentioned it, but she understood his need for distance, and allowed him to make his way down to the cellar to retrieve something to cook. "I guarantee that all you are going to find is salted meats and dehydrated vegetables; maybe some nuts and dried fruits, as well." She cautioned him, with a light smile. "I still find it a little bit difficult to stomach meat, but... bring up whatever you can find, and we can make something together. I'm not going to deprive you of hearty meat just because my stomach has grown weak to the smell of it being cooked."

Reluctantly donning her leggings, as he ventured into the cold cellars, Vega prepared a spit for the fire, as well as a pot to rehydrate some vegetables. Her prediction of what variety he might find in the cool cellar below was accurate; plenty of salt-cured meats, a wide array of root vegetables, and some dehydrated fruits, for the most part. The one lucky find that she had not considered was aged cheese, which only ripened in flavor the longer it sat with its hardened rind. While Haraldur placed the cured deer meat on the spit to warm it to a palatable temperature, Vega added water and dried herbs to the vegetables and stirred together a stir to warm them from the inside out. They spoke little as the food cooked, and Vega set the dining table for two, but when at last they sat down to their meal of stew and meat and cheese (or just stew and cheese, in Vega's case), the discomfort of the silence had eaten away at her resolve to let it stand.

Just a few bites in, after allowing Haraldur time enough to nip his appetite in the bud, she cleared her throat softly. "Haraldur... up until tonight, there was no way for me to be certain that you wanted to spend another moment with me, let alone any form of future," she began, staring into her steaming bowl of vegetables and broth. "The circumstances... or, I guess, the price I paid for 'coming back' from death didn't bother me. It didn't seem to matter. But... it does matter to you. Doesn't it?" He needn't have replied; the stillness in the air about him, and the way he avoided eye contact, said it all: regardless of his stance on fatherhood, one day, it was his desire to have children. To move on from a past that had caused him to fear them. "I just want you to know, that if that is something you see as important... well, there is nothing to say something cannot be done. If I can be pulled from the clutches of death, then who is to say there isn't a means to reverse infertility?" She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "I know it probably sounds ludicrous; maybe it is. But I just want you to know that if it is not something you wish to give up on... then I will not give up on it, either." Finally, he looked up, and she met his eyes with a smile. "You deserve the future that you have dreamed of. And I want to give you that future."

"I'm in far too much pain to feel angry about this," Alster muttered, a monotone response to Elespeth and her animated fury. "Plus, I know my family well. I know that my power has always threatened them--my mother included. And I know they aren't likely to forget my transgressions from the past. We Rigases are a prideful lot, and are slow to forgive dishonor and shame--and mine was to such a widespread extent. Who knows if I'll even be forgiven at all?" 

What he failed to mention, however, was that he was almost relieved to be leaving the city. He couldn't help but wonder if his eagerness to travel with Lilica was in part an excuse to escape. Stella D'Mare was in ruins, and the stress of piecing it back together so soon after suffering both a spiritual death and revival wore at his already weary bones. While Chara did not expect him to contribute to restoration, he felt obligated to lend his one remaining hand in service to the cause. But the more he did, the more he considered himself useless--and not for lack of motor ability. He believed he had reached the pinnacle of his use to Stella D'Mare, and he could possibly give no more in his condition and state-of-mind. But with Lilica and her search for Galeyn, it was different. It was new, it was fresh, and there were no preconceived biases that would draw shadows on his character and involvement. No judgmental eyes to cast their disapproval, or judgmental lips condemning his name. It was the very distraction that he needed to sharpen his perspective on his continued role in the Rigas family, and in his homeland. In a sense, he was searching for what Lilica, in her desperation, was eager to find: belonging, in the wake of their failed deaths. 

"Oh yes, it sounds entirely mad and...well, unsound," he admitted. "But I have seen what I need to see in order to come to this decision. Lilica needs help. She may feel like she can do this alone, or that she must do this alone, but if you believe that she's come unhinged, wouldn't you want for her to have a companion? Someone to watch out for her? I want to be for her what you've been for me, El. You've kept me from the brink, more times than I can count. Allow me this, please." He bowed his head, half in apology, half in supplication. "I'll keep well on the road. Atli has already instructed me on arm maintenance, and has already begun fashioning me a sling and a belt for my back. I have ointments, and syringes for when the pain becomes too unbearable. All I ask for is about a week of recovery; that will be enough time to monitor my condition, which will deem me either fit or unfit for travel. And--El, wait!" 

She had silenced him with a kiss and swept out of the tent in a flurry of ignited purpose. Helplessly, he watched her depart, hoping that she would find Chara, and dreading any chance encounter between her and the man responsible for his exile. 

Chara had taken a long, much-needed bath, to rinse out the wine, blood, and vomit that had clung to her hair and body. Though it was a luxury that the bygone pleasures of Stella D'Mare could no longer sustain, she would not allow the council--especially Cyprian--to see her as little more than a slovenly, unkempt mess, wearing defeat like kohl around her red-rimmed eyes. 

She had just tied her damp hair into a loose weave and slid into a long-sleeved woolen dress, when she heard a knock on her door. Anticipating anyone at this juncture, she stiffly walked over to the foyer and practiced her most staid, unruffled expression before opening the latch and welcoming...Elespeth. "I was expecting you--at some point." She opened the door wide and ushered the Atvanian warrior inside. After shutting the splintered door, she leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest. 

"Do you not believe that I am doing whatever is necessary to prevent this outcome, Elespeth?" She thumped at the door with the heel of her foot, pounding out her frustrations before they reached her head, and her mouth. "This ruling was decided upon by seven blowhards and their slime-encrusted curmudgeon of a ringleader. Majority vote overrides my contributions. They love to remind me that I am only a ceremonial figurehead, that I have not been elected to Head in an official capacity, and that I hold position only as an honored and honorary council member and therefore do not have the authority to contest their votes. I understand your grievances, Elespeth, for they mirror my own. But this man loves to flaunt his power, and lord it over my head, full in his satisfaction that I can do little to stop him." She kicked herself away from the door and flopped on the couch, the same one as the night before, where Lilica sat beside her, holding her hands in ones so porcelain-cold and pale..."You cannot reason with him. He has a personal vendetta against Alster and myself, ever since the day I won the rites to Alster's hand in marriage, over his own daughter, Tivia." 

She almost left her comments at that, and about waved Elespeth out to the door in dismissal. But when she grabbed her arm--the arm which met the shards of the bottle last night and were still raw, tender, and healing, she flinched and yanked it away from her hold. "Do watch where you are grabbing, warrior!" The remnants of her verve and righteous anger had returned, trouncing upon her practiced apathy like feet upon a garden bed. "I have an injury--careful, you buffoon!" After tucking her arm away from the handsy warrior, she took a long, impatient sigh. "Look. Your needs...they do not go unreciprocated. Lilica, I..." she shook away the thought before it had a chance to destroy her resolve. "I fully plan on discrediting this man. On tearing apart his insides, and sitting upon a throne of his entrails. This, I promise you. However...we mustn't act, now. We must allow him to believe that he has won. Besides, he refuses to cooperate with any of my future decisions unless I see to the departure of Alster and Lilica. ...And Vitali," she added, an offhanded, unimportant detail that shook from her in a shrug. 

"Let them go, Elespeth. We do not have the support to reverse this ruling. But we will--soon." She settled into her cushions, crossing her legs. "I also must mention, that if you dare to act on your own, and approach this man, and the council, I will not support you. In fact, I will stop you, and it will not be pretty. And that," she scrunched her lips into a fake pout, "would most assuredly upset Alster." 

Now distracted by the prospect and the pursuit of a meal, Haraldur descended the cellar stairs, and rummaged through the barrel of salted venison tenderloins and roast cuts. After collecting a few hearty pieces, he was about to aid Vega in her gathering of vegetables, but realized his hands were covered in the grease and juices of the venison, and retreated them with a sheepish apology. "You'll have to let me know if you'll one day be able to consume meat again," he said, wiping his hands of salt crust with an available rag. "I'd...well, I'd really like to hunt and cook for you." He threw up his hands helplessly. "We've established I have a talent for killing--hunting, included. But I know the best cuts, the right amount of seasoning, the correct balance to cook and sear..." Trailing off, the sheepishness transferred to his smile. "A little silly, I know--considering you can have whatever you'd like at the palace, and why would I even need to go through the trouble if we're already living in luxury? ...But I'm afraid you're not going to find much use out of a mercenary, survivalist, and huntsman in this setting, Vega--except as a sentient pole. Or a fuck-toy--not that I'm complaining about the latter."

He silenced his rattling mouth, knowing that his talkativeness was a mechanism against deeper thought. And what awaited him there, he wasn't yet prepared to unpack. It was easier to focus on surface-level needs, which he concentrated on with a precision that stole away his ability to converse--a stark difference from moments earlier. With all of the ingredients sectioned out in the kitchen space upstairs, they worked on their individual projects. The salt on his venison roast did not require much flavoring, so he kept extra spices to a minimum, as he drove the hunk of meat through the spit and rotated it to his liking. 

Eventually, their dinner was prepared, and ready to eat. Though his stomach rumbled something fierce, he was conscientious of his tearing of the roast, not wanting to upset Vega's appetite. As he alternated between bites of meat, spoonfuls of the vegetable stew, and hunks of the aged cheese, she returned to the subject that he'd tried so hard to dismiss. He set down his half-eaten roast and looked across the table, to her. Their eyes met, but only briefly. "It doesn't matter what I want, Vega," he said, idly playing with a rag, which already accrued stains of grease from his fingers and mouth. "I'm not going to force an outcome if it's not meant to be, or if it hurts you, or if it puts your body through unnecessary stress. This is your decision, too. Would you even want that life for yourself?" He set aside the cloth and stirred the spoon around in his bowl of stew. Stirring, but not eating. "It's not possible for us, anyway, even if you could...well..." he conveniently omitted the word conceive. "I am not your consort, and it's unlikely that I will be...or can be. I have no status, no title, not even a surname. I have no education, and my past affiliations are with a nation that can become your greatest enemy, if you're not careful. I'm a brute, a berserker, a soldier of fortune, whose loyalties can change with the flip of a coin. We couldn't even marry, let alone..." He shook his head and scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth, exchanging chewing for speaking. A far easier feat...for a brute.

Elespeth wasn't sure exactly what she had expected of Chara Rigas, a woman who had ever agreed with her on anything, and even when she did vaguely agree, she would spin her opinion in such a way as to make it seem as though they were not agreeing on the same thing at all. And perhaps that was precisely what was happening right now. But why... why now, of all times, would she not recognize this as urgent to act now? The Atvanian warrior was not stranger to the Rigases and their finicky politics, and the roundabout way that they tended to deal with issues. But when the well-being of the man she loved--the man that she knew Chara still loved, to some milder extent--was now on the line because a blowhard councilman saw fit to exile him unlawfully... she had expected different. What's more, was while the addition of the necromancer's exile came as no surprise, she was all but blown away to find that Chara was taking Lilica's exile in stride. Was it perhaps that she was still angry with the dark mage for leaving her to do away with her own life? Or was the newly appointed Rigas head simply too tired to care, anymore?

Either way, it did not sit well Elespeth. A clash of anger and sadness and despair urged her to reach for something breakable, to smash it, to scream and yell at Chara, in the characteristic way that Chara Rigas had done so to her so many times in the past. But she could not deny that defeat did do strange things to a person and their motivations. Perhaps she and this Rigas caster were no different.

"So you will lie back in wait, in the hopes that this will result in your council taking you more seriously." Elespeth pressed her lips together and shook her head, fury causing her hands to tremble, and sorrow weighting her too heavily to use them properly. "Chara, do you really think that this man who opposes you so will agree with anything else you have to say if you let this happen? You are lying back and playing into his hands, just as he desires! And he will continue to sneer again and again, each and every time you step down and allow him to have his way. Is this really what you want? To hold back on helping those who matter to you, just in case you might find some other way to quietly allay his actions and intentions? This... this is not the Chara Rigas that I have come to know. And here I never thought I would kick myself for wishing you would mature to a point where your anger no longer ruled you." She lifted her arms in a heavy shrug, her mouth set in a line. "I was wrong. About a lot of things, evidently. But your decisions are yours; to some extent, I guess." And with that final show fired, the only retorts that she could think to leave a mark in the Rigas caster's pride, enough to put a dent in her pride, Elespeth turned away. "I will not waste any more of your time." 

She marched out the door without looking back, not wanting to give Chara Rigas the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

Lilica has spent a good deal of time thinking. She deliberated what she would need for this foray into this unknown, what might be reasonable to ask for from Lysander, who had kindly agreed to provide provisions, and what she could live without. The dark mage was no stranger to traveling light and living frugally; she had done that for a good deal of her life, and only since meeting Chara had she become a little bit spoiled in her experience of luxuries. Fortunately, it had all been brief enough that she had not forgotten her roots: lowly, poor, unwanted. It would not be a difficult stretch to return to that lifestyle.

But she was not the only one to consider on this journey, she came to realize soon enough. Alster had his own needs, and she had not traveled with him, before. And if he still saw fit to come with her (considering they were both to be exiled, it would only make sense that they stick together), then the least she could do was see that he was accommodated. After some time searching, only to no avail, the chthonic caster finally caught wind that Alster was in one of the medical tents not far from the infirmary--which in and of itself was cause for concern. That is, until she pushed past the tent flaps, and saw something she had never expected to see. "That... wow. An improvement from no arm at all, I suppose? Though by the looks of your face, it does make me wonder..." Lilica eyed the Rigas caster's brand new appendage with curiosity and amazement. If the healers and mages here had made it possible for the sophisticated hunk of metal to function just like an ordinary arm, then that was truly an amazing feat. But... had he considered the timing of it all?

"So... we are to be exiled." She addressed the not-so-well-hidden elephant in the room, cutting right to the chase. "Originally, I was going to come to try and talk you out of accompanying me, in hopes that it would allay some of Chara's concerns. But, well... if we are both to be excommunicated from Stella D'Mare, then it might be best if we stay together, anyway. So, now I am here to discuss what we might need in terms of provisions. And considering your brand new appendage..." She raised her eyebrows at the heavy, prosthetic arm. "I suppose it is a good thing I came to consult you. Do you... think you will be able to travel comfortably with that?" Unfortunately, regardless of his answer, it seemed that he would not have a choice but to find a way to be as comfortable as possible.

"I am sure that one day, I will forget about the smell of my own, burning flesh, and I will find a way to palate meat again," Vega assured the mercenary, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And even before--I would eat anything that you hunted and cooked for me, Haraldur. Between you and me, while I did grow up with good food on my plate, I guarantee that none of the cooks, or even the butcher in our employ particularly likes to get their hands dirty. It is kind of pathetic, if you ask me. Maybe that's why I'm so smitten with you; you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. Do what it takes for the best results. But..." She moved her food around on her plate in contemplation. "I guarantee your worth far exceeds your hunting skills and sexual prowess, Haraldur. You think I haven't been propositioned enough by men seeking bragging rights for laying with Eyraille's princess?" She snorted, tearing a off a piece of cheese and bread. "If I wanted a fuck-toy, I could have had many, already. Though I would be lying to say I didn't thoroughly enjoy our torrid affair..."

But as the conversation moved to more serious territory, her smile faded. Did he not realize how serious she was? How devoted she felt to him, to the point where her emotions felt as though they were entirely beyond her control, regardless of what she wanted? "You're wrong, Haraldur." Vega shook her head, picking at her food, in a disinterested manner. "What you want does matter, because what I want is a future with you--whatever that means. Whether children are involved or not, I want you to be happy, and I want to make you happy. My body is stronger than you think; I'm unbreakable, because I believe that I am. And I want to do whatever I can, whatever will make it possible for us to be together." Rolling her shoulders back, she raked a hand through her russet waves. "You have a higher standing than you realize. Whether you like it or not, in the eyes of Eyraille, you are a hero. If I wanted to make you my consort? Nobody would dare question it. Not even my brother. In fact, he might very well see it as the only sound thing I have ever done in my life. And if I wanted to marry?" She raised an eyebrow. "Well, the plausibility of that isn't what worries me. Your deeds are as good as any standing. You are not of Mollengard; you are a victim that escaped it clutches. The only thing that would give me pause to not consider asking for your lifetime devotion is the fact that I would be asking you to put up with me for the rest of my life. And, well... I am a Sorde." Finally, that cheeky smile returned. "I can be a bit of a handful."

Finishing off the bread and cheese and dried fruits on her plate, she stacked her dishes and brought them to the wash basin to clean--later. The night was drawing on, and all of the warmth she'd accumulated from her proximity to Haraldur during their play earlier was beginning to dissipate. "I'm... I just want to be honest with you. That is all," she told Haraldur, on her way back, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "And I am asking that you don't give up on me--or your desires for your future, whatever they may be. I just want us to be in this together. Can you promise me, that much?"

"No. I will lie back in wait, because nothing else can be done Elespeth!" A snap of that anger lashed to the tip of her tongue. "Do you think that I enjoy sending both Lilica and Alster out into the wilderness on a nonsensical hunt for some allegedly forgotten realm? I want them gone no less than you do, but the motion of exile has been ruled, has received an almost majority vote, and I cannot contest it. The decision has been made and it is effective immediately. If you are looking for a loophole, one will not be found in time to prevent their departure. But that does not mean we cannot overturn this decision, Elespeth!"

But she was already tearing open the oft-abused door and making a loud show of her disapproval. She half expected to see another crack appear in the finish once slammed shut, one to rival that of her own episode from the night before. While she understood Elespeth's rage, for she'd experienced it to an even greater extent, raw, unfiltered anger would not win them a victory over Cyprian and the council. It had to be channeled, directed--and pinioned towards hate. She cared not if Elespeth agreed with her methods, just as long as her methods bore results. And untamed, volatile behavior was one of her greatest vices, and the first thing she needed to eliminate. They would take advantage of that most glaring vulnerability, and continue to treat her like a child whose favorite toy had been taken. She needed their respect, their attention--so she could tear them all down with her teeth. 

But once Elespeth had taken her leave, Chara shuddered out a long, seething breath. With no one watching her, with no performance to affect, she flew to her feet and smashed a dinner plate onto the floor. 

Although Atli had retired to bed that evening, the healer allowed Alster use of the bedside lantern, provided it was on a dim setting. But he didn't need too much light to read. Earlier, he collected the books that Elespeth had dropped, and flipped through the tome on healing practices she'd been so kind as to fetch him. Not that he could concentrate on the words, or on anything but the pain of his arm coupled with his dread over Elespeth and her crusade, which they did not mutually share. Still, it helped to have a solid object to manipulate. He felt the weight of the book on his lap, the gritty texture of the brittle pages, the dust intermixed with a nutty, almost sweet aroma...it almost lulled him into something approaching sleep, or the best he could manage with the tampered sections of his arm lighting all his synapses on fire, usually at once. 

He startled to attention when a breeze swayed through the tent, a breeze with a shape, that was not Elespeth, Glaucus, or Tivia. Lilica had swept her shadowy self into his temporary quarters, no doubt having heard about his operation and investigating for herself. He nodded her a greeting and slowly slapped his book to a close. "I've told Glaucus to spread the word of my surgery. It might rack me up some pity points and the Rigases might actually be moved into guilt, and allow me to stay a bit longer." His right arm twitched into an involuntary, painful shrug. "Silly notion, I know. You seem surprised, though, so the message hasn't traveled far at all, it seems." 

He gave a careful twist of his neck so he could view the arm, still sitting, unmoveable, on its wooden platform, as if proudly on display for all to marvel upon such a feat of medical and engineering prowess. "Well, I assumed that if I was to be exiled anyway, I'd want to have this surgery done sooner rather than later. It may not make much sense, to leave this city severely compromised, but I'll be more useful on our journey with two arms instead of one...even if the one arm is dead weight, at this point. But it won't be for long: I'll make sure of that." He refrained from reaching over with his flesh and bone hand to touch the black steel casings of his new arm. "So no need to worry. I've considered this procedure with more care than Elespeth believes I have." 

He nodded over to the small work table in the middle of the tent-space, beneath which Atli had fixed up a sleeping pallet and was now fast asleep. "Atli is preparing everything I will need for this trip. I'll have a sling for my arm, so it's not as burdensome to heft around, a weighted belt to offset the differential, topical ointments for the pain, syringes for emergencies...It shouldn't get to that point." He gave the twitch of a reassuring smile. "I don't know when you plan on leaving, but if you'd like to wait for me, Glaucus is appealing to the Rigas council to give me at least a week of recovery. But if you'd like to depart sooner than that, I can rendezvous with you somewhere. As is," he looked beyond her at the tent flaps, as if expecting someone else to arrive, "I still have my work cut out for me, trying to convince Elespeth not to accompany us." 

He listened while he ate, though he faltered in between chews, in case his loud, uncouth table manners were considered disruptive, especially during their more serious conversation. When food was on his plate, it was difficult to both eat with gusto and concentrate on whatever topics were brought to discussion. With apologies to Vega, he set aside an exclusive period to finish devouring his meat and stew. Cleaning his hands and face with the rag, he took his plates to the basin, stacking them neatly beside Vega's. His mind now clear enough to take her words into full effect, Haraldur returned to the table, pulled a chair up beside her, and sat down. 

"Are you certain no one would question our union?" He contorted his brow, doubt furrowing along the gathered lines. "I don't know how the Sorde monarchy operates, but if my experiences with the Rigases mean anything..." Trailing away, he thought about Elespeth and Alster, and wondered if they ever survived. If they managed to cull that serpentine beast at all. If the city was a complete, unsalvagable ruin. And--if Mollengard had already invaded it, taking the defenseless territory for their own. He sighed away those concerns, focusing on the subject at hand, though promising to address them later, when he was better able to piece what actually had happened there. "What I mean is...they were hardly warm or welcoming to Elespeth, who had given her undying loyalty to their cause, and who had risked her life many times. Yes, her loyalty was to Alster, but the entire family reaped the benefits. As far as I know," if she's even still alive, he wanted to add, "they still don't accept her. So, while my deeds may be worth noting to your nation, to your brother, I doubt that they are enough to warrant, well...us. If we were so convinced that I'd be well received, why the sneaking around? Why the clandestine affair? The need to hide me for so long, deep within my own chambers?" 

He sandwiched her hand between his own, trapping her chilled digits in his mitten-like warmth. "The future...let's not worry about that right now. Let's first worry about what's in front of us, and what's in store. It's easy for us to talk about possibilities, but what's the use of speculating?" One hand roved down the backs of her knuckles, trickling down her arm, a slow, massaging swipe. "I'm in this with you, Vega. I promise." He quirked a smile and brought her into his arms, pecking a kiss on her lips. "From one handful to another."

"Well, I do not tend to associate in the groups that carry and perpetuate the gossip. I am not welcome in them." Lilia shrugged her shoulders. "I am also highly suspect by many of your Rigas brethren, and they were hesitant to tell me where you were. Otherwise I'd have come sooner. It's... have to say, rather impressive." The corner of her mouth quirked a faint smile. "I daresay, I don't think I would have been so quick as to challenge you back in Messino's camp, if you had wielded a contraption of an arm like that. It gives you that intimidating edge that you have always lacked otherwise."

Taking a seat in a nearby chair, and looking about as weary as she felt, the dark mage did not miss the comment that Alster had made about Elespeth's feelings towards his new aquisition; he had not said much, but it was enough to confirm her suspicions. "So your significant other does not readily approve of your new arm, I take it. Or... is it the venture you intend to make? Assuming you have explained your intentions outside of your exile..." And by the way his pale face fell, with a sadness in his eyes that mirrored her own, she did not need a verbal answer. "Ah... well, I supposed we have that much in common, then. Chara is not fond of my decision, either... one that I explained to her prior to the announcement of our exile. I am sure you can easily imagine that we... it... did not end on good terms." Lilica twisted her hands in her lap, but did not venture deeper into the subject. "In any case: tell your warrior to direct her anger and resentment toward me. I asked for your help, and I hardly allowed you the opportunity to refuse, given how Theomyr put you on the spot, so. I am used to processing others' hatred." She could not yet refer to him as her father; not because she did not believe him, but because it was just too new. And she feared that she had already gotten her hopes too high that everything he told her was true.

"I have no intention to leave right away, so take the time that you need to recover, if your brethren will allow it." The chthonic caster reassured him. "But... I will leave it up to you to convince your warrior that she is not to accompany us. And if I must step in as an outlet for her anger, I will do so. But only if you wish it. I feel that there is more that you could tell your warrior to allay her fears and concerns that what I could tell her. And given how miserably I failed explaining it to Chara... I would encourage you not to let me get involved." At last, she stood, having nothing more to say, and fearing that the Rigas caster might begin to ask questions or offer her reassurances about Chara. She did not want to hear them; she had heard enough from Lysander, and anything further, she wanted to hear from Chara, herself. The haughter new Rigas head did not need others to speak in her favor and relay her apologies; she had a tongue, and Lilica of all people knew she could use it.

"I do intend to try and sleep, tonight... I will see what more Theomyr can tell me to help us prepare. Until then, regain your strength as much as possible. We will reconvene when the time comes to leave."

Leaving Alster to rest, Lilica stepped out into the waning day, pulling the wool around her small body to stave off the cold. But she did not get far before coming face to face with a particular face she did not care to see. "Away with you, Vitali. I have nothing to say to you."

"Now, what sort of greeting is that?" The necromancer, dressed in a suspiciously regal double-breasted, button-down coat, raised his eyebrows in mock offense. "I merely wondered if you had heard about our eviciton. It does not sound as though the Rigases mean to give us much time; so in light of reaping the benefits of working together, I have come to offer you something."

"I have no desire to bargain with you, Vitali."

"I am not suggesting a bargain. What I am offering, Lilica, is my apology... and my loyalty, from this day forth." Vitali bowed his head, in emphasis of his guise of sincerity. "No tricks, no strings attached. I want to work with you. We both have powers that are unparalleled; imagine what we could do, together."

She didn't have time for this. Lilica was tired; she was worn from her fight with Chara, and she was overburdened with Theomyr's demands. Without saying a word, she pushed past her brother, only to be halted by a grip on her arm. "Unhand me," she hissed, tearing it from his grasp. "I am not a fucking idiot, Vitali. I know what you want. And I have been given specific instructions not to let you have it. We will not travel together, and I do not want your help--or your lies."

"I am asking that you listen, Lilica. I do not know what it is you think I want; but the truth is, you and I want the same thing. We want a somewhere; a place, and most radically, a home." Something serious and raw was mirrored in the necromancer's dark eyes, and for a brief second, he almost had her swayed. He went on. "I have been running from my deeds for long enough. I have done what I have done out of habit, and so that I could continue to survive. But what if I finally had a reason to stop? A place that no longer required running or making deals to my benefit? I am weary of my own power, Lilica. Why do you think I have chosen to reman in Stella D'Mare? Why do you think I have gone to lengths to ensure my sanctuary, here?"

"I've had enough of your silver tongue, Vitali." Lilica bristled, angered by his persistence. "Relay this to someone who might actually find you credible."

"I will take a blood oathe."

She turned, and paused right away. Surely she misheard. "You will... what?"

"To prove my loyalty and my intentions. I will take a blood oathe, not only to refrain from doing any harm to you or those you care about, but to help and protect you. I know that you are looking for Galeyn, Lilica; I know of it, and I have sought it, too. But not for the nefarious reasons you might think." Closing the gap between them, he offered his hand. "I will do my part to ensure your safety on your journey. And in return, I will find my home. This is no easy trek, Lilica, for what little I know of Galeyn, there are safeguards all along the way to defer trespassers. I will find those safeguards--you know that I can--and keep informed. That is my offer to you."

It was too much; she was too vulnerable, and in no way capable of making a sound decision, not in the way that he wanted. But perhaps he knew this; the necromancer had a way of sniffing out vulnerability. He thrived off of it. "If you ask me, Vitali, this sounds no different than any other scheme you have pulled. And I am not in a position right now to give you an answer; at least, I am not stupid enough to do so."

"Then you will at least consider it?" He asked, but Lilica had already walked away on hasty feet, for every moment she remained in Vitali's presence was another moment she feared she would give in.

For all Vega adored Haraldur, the man's pessimism was truly infallible. Heaving a breath, the Eyraillian princess pulled her seat closer to the mercenary. "You have limited--and very specific--experience with monarchies. To compare the Rigas Empire to the Sorde Monarchy is simply night and day, Haraldur. The Rigases are proud, and their pride stems from their self-sufficiency and their magical prowess. They are a people of abnormally long life and strict tradition. In a way, the same could have been said about the Sordes... once. But not since my father's death. And not since he brought Eyraille down with him." She couldn't blame him for his lack of insight into the affairs of her home. He hadn't been there for much more than a week, but the more he spoke, the more it felt as though he was makng up excuses. She tried to look past it.

"Here is the truth, Haraldur. Eyraille is alone, and hurting. And it cannot hits back on someone who performed feats such as yours. Does it mean the entirety of the palace and ruling council will welcome you? No--but they don't accept or welcome me, either. And I'm a direct descendant of their king." Tugging absently on her lower lip, she struggled for a smile to lighten the gravity. "I'm sorry you've been so isolated. I thought I was protecting you from the stress and hassle of, well... of everything. And I shouldn't have, because I know you can protect yourself. I owe you an apology, for that. But... even if we could be open with our tryst..."

That grin widened, and she gave his hand a squeeze, planting a kiss on his cheek. "It can be fun to be bad. Poses something of a challenge... don't you agree?" 

Her hands slid to his shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "This handful is going to turn in for the night. Whenever you're ready... I'd be much obliged if you'd keep me warm."

A more genuine smile lit up Alster's features, followed by an amused chuckle. The pulsating movements of his shoulders alarmed the tender areas of his seared, sealed flesh, and a powerful wave shot back in painful retaliation. He winced from the admonition of his body and ceased the joviality, though amusement still crinkled in his eyes. "To think, maybe I would have won the begrudging respect of my peers, if only I lost my arm sooner, and replaced it with metal casings." Though it was a throwaway comment of hers, and meant as a joke, a light jibe against his slight build, boyish features, short stature, and shuffling gait, it bolstered his spirits to hear that not only had she accepted his new appendage, but that she described him with an adjective no one would ever pass through their lips, when looking at him. It didn't matter that he dual-wielding chthonic and celestial magic while leveling an entire battlefield, or opened a portal to another dimension and slurping an Eldritch beast through it. No one thought he was intimidating. Many feared him, yes, but that was not the same. It was his actions, his magical inheritance that they feared. But if the populace of his family felt intimidated by him, then surely, events would have unfolded differently. And although Lilica transitioned to a more solemn report, he couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence warm him from the inside, combating against the pain in his joints, and the chill that had sapped away his vitality. 

"I understand why they're both upset," he said, referring to Chara and Elespeth. "After all that has happened...and after they almost lost us. They don't want to lose us again. They're protective. Overprotective, even. And it's not like I'm able to stay out of trouble for more than a moment, so Elespeth's reaction is well-deserved. I will appeal to her, without using you as a scapegoat. You've earned enough scorn around here...like me, I suppose." He shook his head in wonderment. Though, when he spoke, it was with resignation. After all, there was nothing else he could possibly prove to his family. He accepted that it would take time to earn their respect--if he would even earn it back at all. "It seems like we can't surmount old biases no matter what feats of heroism we pull. People will see what they want to see. And Rigases are determinedly set in their ways. Take care, Lilica." He bowed his head to her. "Keep me abreast of any new developments." 

When she departed, Alster peered over at his steel arm, so solid, so inflexible upon its wooden platform. A hunk of cumbersome metal. An impractical decoration. A harbinger of pinching, near-paralyzing agony. What a mad fool he was, to undergo such a body-altering process, with no guarantee of success or anything but near constant pain. Was he that desperate for a solution? For control of himself? For confirmation of life and the pain of living? Of the wee hope that the surgery would have killed him? What if he'd made the wrong decision? What if--

No, he barked to himself. No more regrets, Alster. They get you nowhere. Your family still hates you. It doesn't matter. Break this cycle of misery. The metal fingers twitched, then flexed. And live for yourself. 

He knew that Elespeth would be returning. Although all indicators of their bond had been erased, along with his hand, and forearm, it was already long-established that their bond surpassed the mere mixing of blood and matching scars. He sensed her approach. And he was ready for her. 

In the hours following her arrival, he'd kept busy, not only by empowering himself through affirmations of self-worth, but by concentrating on his arm, feeling the avenues of magic prickle and twist at the port entrance, encouraging them to interact. To enter and flow and imprint and become. The arm was his, now. Theirs. We claim this arm he meditated. It's ours. Ours...

He'd taken his consumptive powers of concentration even further, and managed himself into a sitting position, with his legs firmly planted on the ground, off the side of the cot. Movement was an excruciating process, but he'd crossed the hurdle. Huffs of breath wheezed out of his lungs, and his stomach churned in protest, threatening to exhume his last meal should he continue with the exertion. But then the weakness had passed, and he stabilized. By the time Elespeth entered through the flaps, he was standing, cradling the steel arm in his flesh and bone arm. 

He wasted no time. He strode toward her, best as he could manage. His fierce-set eyes met hers as he stopped, at a sword's length apart. "We are talking. Now. And by the stars, Elespeth, you are not going to run off before I've had my say." 

Without warning, the steel arm stretched out, found Elespeth's wrist, and curled cold, mechanical fingers over it. He was surprised by its sudden, jerking reaction, but dared not show it. 

"I'm leaving. This is inevitable. But you, Elespeth...you must stay here." A hint of his requisite compassion softened some of the harsh edges of his confrontational pose. "You can't come. It could endanger the entire mission. The more that people know the details of this kingdom, the more it's at risk. Trust me in this, El." The metal fingers loosened. "I'm going to return, whether I'm welcome back or not. I will not leave you behind for good. Never." He set his jaw tight and firm. "So stop whatever it is you're trying to do here and just let this happen." The steel arm deadened, and he caught it in his other arm, hiding his flinch and his buckling legs. "All right?" 

Since the day she "officially" broke free of her father's rule, Tivia returned to her normal duties helping around the city. As they cleaned and salvaged the streets of its colorful detritus, she accumulated more baubles for her little crawl-space residency. When she needed to return to the estate, whether to fetch more materials, pass along a message to a guard, or report to Chara, she expressly avoided any well-trodden areas, apprehensive of encountering her father, who was causing quite a stir within the council. Already, she had caught wind of his intentions to exile Lilica, Alster, and Vitali, and wildly sought out the latter two with the unsurprising, yet infuriating news. That man...there was a small place in her soul that began to feel hatred for him.

As of late, she hadn't experienced any divine communication with the stars above, of which she felt relief. She could almost ignore her episodes from the past. Perhaps they were situational. Stella D'Mare and the Rigas family were in danger, and she was the most accessible contact and vehicle for the stars, which were desperate in their attempts to bombard her with relevant information. But now that the event had come to pass, perhaps the stars had no further use for her, and would allow her a relatively normal life. Maybe she wasn't a seer, after all: only a temporary, necessary choice, that had burned herself into smoke and ashes. 

Somehow, she didn't believe her own assessment. Life wasn't so simple in its solutions. She'd never be rid of the connection, she reasoned. And yet...she feared that she wanted the connection to persist. She'd learned to appreciate the messages, and even looked forward to the searing, intense ecstasy brought about by her auditory and visual hallucinations. It made her feel special, feel wanted...and now, she had gone fallow. Felt empty. Discarded. Nothing more than an abandoned daughter, who dreamed in want of blood-trickling screams ringing in her ears. 

On that particular evening, she was traveling the estate, about to retire to her hovel after passing along a message regarding the second clean-up shift. En route, she saw Vitali, and a retreating Lilica. She hailed the necromancer as she drew closer. "What did you say to her? She doesn't seem mollified by whatever it was you proposed." She played with the small gems rimming the broken mask she donned. "My father is unreasonable. I'm afraid I'm no longer useful to you, Vitali. My influence can no longer protect you in Stella D'Mare. So," she tilted her head with curiosity, much as she tried to keep her interest hidden, "what are you going to do, now? It doesn't look like Lilica wants you to join her little fellowship."

It took no small amount of time for Elespeth to calm down and process her fruitless conversation with Chara. At a loss, Elespeth wandered in the cool air, parsing through what few options she had left before her, at this point. Unfortuantely, both seemed futile and without any positive outcome. Either she confronted the Rigas council herself and went down fighting an injustice over which she had no control, or she sat back and let it all happen, let this city expel the man who had saved it, while she did nothing to prevent it. The bigger question was: could it be easier to live with the fighting a losing battle, or not fighting at all?

But I was not raised to not fight, she reasoned, pulling her cloak close to her shoulders. And if Alster will not fight for himself... then who will?

Circling around, she finally found a levelheadedness that had eluded her since she had come upon Alster with his new arm. None of this had to be easy for him; losing his arm, losing his arm, and very nearly losing his life... and nearly losing her. He didn't need lectures right now. He needed her support, and she had been selfish to show him judgement in his stead. And she... contrary to what she thought, or believed, she needed to not be alone.

Had she had an inkling of what Alster had been preparing to tell her, however, she would have reconsidered her change of heart.

"Alster... I talked to Chara. I thought she would be able to help..." The Atvanian warrior brushed through the tent flaps, this time with far less of a charge than before. The past day had really depeleted the fire in her core that had kept her going since the defeat of the Serpent... or whatever sort of victory you wanted to call it. "But it will be okay. I won't let them make you leave; I just need to figure out a way to appeal to the council. There has got to be a---"

It had never occurred to her that Alster had the potential to take her off guard; not in the way that he did, now. It was shock enough to see him climb to his feet, bearing the burden of that arm, and close the distance between them. She was nearly convinced that her heart stopped when that contraption of an arm secured a vice grip. "What--what in hell, Alster!"
But the words that followed resonated as the greatest shock of all. What had happened? How long... had he actually been planning this? How long has it been since he had come to terms with--or come to the decision to--leave...? It was his voice, but the words... they did not sound as though they belonged to him. Had she been deluded about what she'd thought the Rigas caster wanted and needed for so long that she had completely overlooked this side of him? 

As desirable as it was to think that he simply was not capable of sound thought, having hardly recovered from an experimenta; surgery, none of that mattered through the determination in the Rigas caster's eyes. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he was doing. And for a moment, she saw that familiar Rigas fire that she had expected--that she had hoped--to see in Chara. It might have astounded her and given her a new perspective on her respect for him, if it didn't weigh so heavily on her heart. As soon as the grip of his new hand loosened, faint prints from the metal fingers left as a memory on her skin, she snatched her arm away and took a step back. A new arm... that was palpable. It was something that she could adjust to. But this new side to Alster... "You wish for me to stay here. To play nice and wait for your return." The Atvanian warrior pressed her lips into a thin line, meeting his newfound steely resolve with her own, just as sharp as the blade she wielded. "When you found me at the Tadasuni encampment... after I had left Stella D'Mare. I begged you not to leave me again. And then, you very nearly took your own life."

That painful memory ignited a flame at her core that began to grow with each subsequent realization. "And then you showed me regret. You apologized, you cared for me when I was sick, and--again--you promised you would not leave. And, again, I believed you, because I needed to believe in something. Because I do trust you, and I take your promises to heart. And now..." Elespeth spread her arms, indicating the whole of what had occurred since Stella D'Mare had nearly crumbled in its entirety. "Now that everything has fallen apart, you plan to venture off somewhere else, somewhere I cannot follow, to find new meaning... and you expect to mollify me with yet another promise of your return? And what will your words be this time, Alster, if you do return? Will you promise me, for a third time, that you will not leave again, until you find some convenient reason to break this promise? Because I am sick and exhausted of hanging on your goddamned promises, Alster Rigas."

The flame in her core reached its peak, and then just as quickly, it burnt to ember, leaving her feeling cold, spent, and defeated. "I love you, Alster. I can't change that, even if I wanted to. But I don't want any more promises, because I don't want to hear your heartfelt apologies when you break them. Because I know that you will." Her eyes felt hot, with pressure surging behind them, threatening tears... but she had none to cry. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. "I can't stop you from leaving, and I wouldn't even if I could. But you cannot expect me to thrive off of my trust in you when your solution is telling me to stay here, in a place that isn't even my home. Not without you in it. Without you, do you sincerely think that I am treated much better here than I would be back in Atvany? The only difference is I am not seen as a wanted traitor.

"Though those... those are my own problems. Not yours." She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. It hurt less to feign nonchalance. "And this... is yours. You need to do what you feel is right for you, Alster. And I will do what is right for me. Whatever the hell that may be."

When she left, this time, it was not with an air of urgency or fear, but a solemness that bordered on cold.

Lilica was right; Vitali knew vulnerability when he saw it, and he knew the opportune moment to exploit it. Which is precisely why he did not go after his sister when she stormed off. She was tired and confused and more desperate for camaraderie than she wanted to admit, and while it had been the right moment to plant that seed of possibility in her mind, it was far too early to reap it. She would think on it, probably for a long time, up untilit finally came time for her to leave... but he had a good feeling. He had gotten to her; he had seen the look in her eyes, that hope. Lilica had always been an open book, and anyone who could be read could be manipulated.

It was an early victory, and not one that was guarateed, but he was ready to bask in it when a familiar presence closed distance between them. Tivia Rigas had evidently caught wind of their conversation, and her curiosity was piqued. Annoying, in a way, but drawing attention was always a risk when he had attendency to cause a scene. "Trying to mend a burnt bridge, however futile it might scene." Vitali shrugged his shoulders, nonplussed. "I figure that if we are both exiled, it is safest to travel in numbers, at least for a time. The world is not exactly a safe place; then again, perhaps putting distance between ourselves and Mollengard is one of the safest moves we can make." He chuckled and shook his head, as if the warmongering nation was trivial enough to make light of.

"Of course she is upset. She doesn't trust me, and with good reason. I have made a name for myself, haven't I? My history writes itself and wants to write my future, as well. But I would like otherwise." His lips tugged into a smile. "I thank you for your help in keeping me out of your dungeons here, Tivia. But Stella D`Mare has never been a ghost of a home, not for the likes of me. Lilica... she doesn't want to be alone, either. And I think she will come around. I am depending on it."

His smug smile dimmed ever so slightly, and he looked Tivia in her one remaining eye. "Imagine, discovering the possibility of a place where I might actually find the opportunity and the security to make some drastic changes. Necromancy is a gift that yields a terrible burden; it serves you well, and leaves you worse off than before. Lilica and I have more in common than either of us would like to admit; we have the same desire." Again, that smile, but this time... different. "The possibility to reach our utmost potentials. In a place meant for kin such as us."

Though the surge of energy had petered from his body, threatening to crumble him to the ground in spasms and fits of nausea, his resolve had not waned. Will alone was what kept him standing. He refused to surrender to the guilt of her words, the accusations of promises broken. It would not serve him to kowtow to a an already delicate situation that was far greater than her and her power to prevent. Although he offered her an apologetic glance at the pressure marks his hand had pressed into her flesh, that was the extent of his mercy. He did not know its own strength, or that it would even latch to her with such force of power. It could be, he surmised, attuning not only to him, but to Elespeth, as well. They shared the same thread of destiny, the same strip of cosmos wherein their twin stars reigned, and it was possible his arm was acknowledging her as an equal. But he hadn't the time to speculate on magical matters when it was hard enough to placate the person who mattered most. 

"I'm not asking you to play nice, Elespeth," he retorted, straightening his beleaguered shoulders as far back as the pain would allow. "Fight for me. Avenge me. Here, in Stella D'Mare. Convince the council to clear my name. Chara desires the same result: work with her. This is a process that will take some time. The solution can't be had now, not with the air of contention that's blowing through every aspect of this estate. I know my family better than you do. They will not listen to reason: even less so if you're waving a sword at them."

He drew both arms into his stomach, holding it in place as it gurgled and fought against the strain placed on it. Breathing became difficult, but not from nerves, this time. He was simply too weak to stand, or to expend any amount of magic, which he had done, unintentionally, to power his steel arm. "I'm not breaking any promises," he said, with an adamant push of his voice, a forceful plosive that projected forward, into her ears. "Taking my own life...now that would be leaving, and you already know the depths of my regret and apology in that uninformed decision. But I'm not leaving you. Elespeth...we both know we can't adhere to each other's sides for the rest of our lives, much as we'd like. I learned this the hard way, when we separated...when I drove you to leave. You may have cut ties between us, but I never did. You were never gone. Just...afar." 

His intensity began to dwindle, as the screams of his body could no longer support the fire of his spirit. "One day, you will leave me. That's the inevitable truth. Your lifespan...it isn't as long as mine. Never would I ever suggest that your natural departure from this world is abandonment. And this right here...this is not abandonment. I am going off on a journey. And I'm returning--which you may have the ability to expedite. It's up to you if you want to believe my inane words or not. I am a pretty insidious person, after all." The remnants of a self-deprecating laugh filled the tent. A slight, disarming gesture, and only half-convincing in its genuineness. 

"We'll always be together in dreams. I'll assure you that I'm alive and well, every single night, if I have to. I'll annoy the snot out of you, until you'll want to wake up, just to rid of my constant badgering. Whatever it takes to prove to you that you're not alone. I love you...but sometimes, circumstances pull harder. We can't always obliterate those circumstances, but the love still holds. It doesn't fall apart when one isn't nearby. It's not diminished, or made less. At least, I hope so. And...we can either spend our remaining days together, enjoying each other's physical company, or we can spend them apart, in resentment of each other. I leave that to you, El. If that's how you want to punish me," he gave her a patient smile, "I'll accept it." 

It appeared that she chose the latter, as he expected. She whirled away from him, and, not for the first time that day, brushed out of his tent, when all he wanted from her...was to just stay. 

"But I'm not staying," he muttered aloud. "so how can I expect...clemency? Why would I..."

Guilt had finally pierced through his defenses, and smothered him. He bowled over, at last, vomited the contents of his stomach, and half-crawled the rest of his way to his cot. Too weakened to climb into it, he collapsed beside it on the ground.

Luckily, the commotion had wakened Atli from his slumber. Cursing under his breath, the Mollengardian healer positioned the unconscious Rigas caster into the cot, stabilized areas of the highest pain threshold with pillows and blankets, and stoked the fire for warmth. "What a mess." He sighed. And, for good measure, he injected Alster with a sedative, locking him into sleep and a pain-free lull for at least a full night. 

While they were still a little unfamiliar towards each other (much as the necromancer feigned otherwise), Tivia knew Vitali and men of his caliber. He was self-serving, opportunistic, and operated on a code of morals that favored only him. If people benefited from his decisions, all the better. If not, oh well. However much she acknowledged his less than savory character, which he even admitted in his speech to her, she caught a twinge of something more. Was there...a little wistfulness, wedged in with his bombast? A desire for something resembling a home, with people who would accept him unconditionally? She couldn't help but feel that he was hinging too much hope on this mere possibility. He painted this kingdom as an idealistic getaway, tailored for people just like him. And she, a fallen idealist, soured her mouth at the description.

"You might be waiting the rest of your life for a place such as that," she said, but she was not dismissive. There was no ill will in her statement. It was nice to dream, and she wouldn't scorn him for the thought, regardless of the dreams he no doubt had snuffed for many of his victims. "It sounds like something that would exist only in your dream curses. I suppose I can't blame you for the curiosity, though." She looked over her shoulder, at where Lilica had departed not long ago. "She might come around. And if not," she shrugged, "that's never stopped you before. You seem pretty gifted in moving about unseen. Either way, I wish you well." She bowed her head, adopting one of his common affectations, though it was not done to mock. In a way, she was showing solidarity, while also keeping her distance. She wanted to trust this man, and validate his concerns and vulnerabilities...but even if she wanted to, she could do little more than listen, and lend support. This was not her battle; she had her own. And, with a word of farewell, she went off into the night, to face off in the battlefield--against her father. 

"I made it abundantly clear that you are no longer welcome in my home, Tivia," Cyprian barked, when he saw his daughter standing in his front doorway.

"You're right," she said, in as languid and uninspired a tone as she could muster. "You did. And since you are so high-tier, so influential among the council, I take it that your home extends to the whole of this estate. Which means...I am no longer welcome here."

"What are you--"

"--But I've noticed that you did not place me under your list of persons to exile," she interjected, her one eye flashing from the jeweled glimmer of her mask. "So I will make it easy for you. I take my leave of you. I take my leave of the Rigas name. What use do I have for a family who would turn their backs on me, despite my efforts to save them? Why would I stand in support of your policies when you exile the man who saved my life? When you exile Alster, who has been nothing but kind to me, who has also kept me alive, and safe? You," the same flash in her eye revealed itself to be welling tears, "you don't care a lick for your daughter, do you? For, if you cared, you would be relieved to see me alive. But you are not!" Her hands balled into fists. "So...I am going to go with the people who have treated me favorably. I stand with them. And if you don't watch it, Father, other people who support Alster, and what he has done here...they might abandon this family, as well. Then, you will rule over nothing but the ashes of a dead legacy!"

Before he could counter her words, she ran off his porch, and disappeared into the night, trying to silence the sobs that racked her throat.

"And, you may be entirely right." Vitali acknowledged the Rigas woman's counterpoints about his idealism. Frankly, it was not like him to be idealist. And he was no stranger to criticizing others rose-colored views. In short, this was entirely uncharacteristic of him... but that alone spoke something of this legendary kingdom. Or at least, the necromancer's beliefs of it. "There is so much potential for this not to pan out as I hope. Perhaps it is all a hoax; maybe the man infiltrating my sister's dreams, filling her head with promises of this kingdom, is simply lying and manipulating her. Or, perhaps, if such a place does exist, it is no longer salvageable. And if it is salvageable, which I also feel to be a farfetched notion... it very well could not be the place the I am hoping for. It might be just as great a political mess as Stella D'Mare." He knew his political humor would not be lost on her, given her father's power and his abuse of it, and he quirked a smile.

"But, consider the alternative. That I do not accompany my sister in search of this place. I am not welcome, here, or anywhere else, frankly. My days would be spent as they always have been: wandering in search of something, and running from those whom I have crossed in order to make some sort of gain. I won't lie, the game was fun, at first. Exhilarating, in my early days. But now..." Vitali lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Who knows--perhaps I am just getting old. Or maybe I am getting bored, and tired. But I want something else, and the possibility of finding a place that may give me just that is too great an opportunity to turn up. In the worst case scenario, well, maybe I will find something else that piques my interest, along the way."

Of course, Tivia was correct: he was resourceful, and when he wanted something, he would stop at nothing to have it. Either Lilica would accept his company, and together they would follow their father's guidance in search of this elusive, legendary kingdom that was supposedly their true home, or he would find a way to follow at a close distance, shadowing her every step. His offer to Lilica was not for the right to accompany her, much though he had made it sound that way. It was an offer to work together, to work with her; but regardless of how their camaraderie unfolded, he would be there. Whether she liked it or not. "I do hope it is not as you say, though. Not some saccharine paradise akin to what my curse can imbue." The necromancer wrinkled his nose and absently straightened his lapels. "I myself have never experienced the effects of such curses, but what I am looking for is something real--not a dream. Yes, I want a change, but I also want a challenge. A balance of the stable and the unstable. Do not get me wrong, I want a reality, Tivia. Not a dream. And," he nodded his head at her kind words. "Thank you, for the well wishes. I rather hope we cross paths again, sometime."

"I think you already know the answer that I am going to give you, Lilica. You needn't have waited to see me again to divine it."

Theomyr sat among the flora of the Night Garden, insomuch as it was imposed onto his daughter's dreamscape, as she paced in front of him, more agitated than usual. But it was the first time since their initial meeting that she had chosen not to drag a third party along while speaking with him, so it was progress, of some sort. At least, he thought so. "But if you don't like my thoughts on this," he went on, watching her walk back and forth, wringing her hands, "then what are yours?"

"Thoughts? No, I don't have 'thoughts'. I have knowledge; I know my brother." Lilica snapped, still tense from her previous conversation with Vitali--hence the impromptu meeting with her father that she had managed to initiate, only after hours and hours of struggling to fall asleep on her own. "He was not asking permission. He knows of Galeyn, and he knows that you are sending me to find it. And because he wants to find it, too, he will not take no for an answer. His offer was merely that of courtesy; work with me, or work against me. Regardless, he is going to find a way to follow, or to beat me to it. He will play nice, or he will play dirty--but he 'will' play. Mark my words."

"True though that may be of Vitali's character, he cannot find it without instruction. And only you will be receiving instructions from me." The once king of Galeyn tapped his lips thoughtfully. "Vitali is powerful, yes, but he is not without his own limitations. Your mind is so guarded that it took me up until the point of your near death to reach you, here. Even a necromancer such as he cannot access what you know, or what you are told, without your permission."

"But he can still follow. He can still find a way." Expelling a frustrated sigh, the dark mage ran her fingers through her hair, before settling on facing the man who claimed to be her father. "You want to know my thoughts? Well, I think it is safer to accept his olive branch--however contrived it might be--and agree to let him come along. This way, we can at least keep an eye on him. And I will not be alone for him to manipulate at his will; I will have Alster, with me. He will help keep him in line."

Once more, Theomyr shook his head. "I still do not think it to be a sound idea."

"Well, none of this is a goddamned 'sound' idea, is it?" All of the anger, the frustration, and the fatigue that had resonated with her following the fight with Chara came out now: directed at a safe source. One that would not risk turning away his only hope to fulfill his wishes. "You are asking me to trust you, to lead me to some place that may or may not exist. I have agreed, but the sooner you come to realize that we are going to have to compromise on the terms of this venture, the sooner we can get it going." The chthonic caster folded her arms across her chest. "I don't want the threat of my brother breathing down my neck or plotting something nefarious if I refuse his terms. Not to mention: he offered to take a blood oath. Promising not only to refrain from doing harm, but to protecting me. I know a thing or two about blood magic, and it is binding. I do not trust him, but I trust an oath."

"You do make a fair point, my dear." Theomyr sighed through his nose, unhappy with this recent turn of events, but there was little that someone without a physical form could actually do about it. "I don't like it; I told you, the fewer people in accompaniment, the better. But your terms are your own, and you are the key to finding Galeyn. However... I am sure that I do not need to caution you about dealings with your brother. You know that he will use each and every loophole possible to his advantage."

Lilica nodded. "And I will nullify each and every loophole that I can. If he wants to play it as being as well-meaning as he says, then he will agree to let me dictate the terms of the oath. You are forgetting," she arched an eyebrow and smiled, ever so slightly. "I have had more dealings with the necromancer than you have. He manipulated me, once; I learned from it. I will not let him play me again. If you expect me to trust you, then you, too, much trust me, in this."

"It does not appear as though I have much of a choice, does it?" Lilica saw the resemblance to her brother when the once king of Galeyn rested his forehead in his palm, a decidedly dramatic gesture that was certainly characteristic of his necromancer son. "Lilica, I have had far, far too much time to plan how this was to pan out. I have carefully taken note of the dangers and threats associated with finding Galeyn, and everything that I have suggested to you has been for your own protection. But... I suppose, it is unrealistic to expect everything to go precisely as planned." A tired smile tugged at his thin lips. "It could be that I have had far too much time to think... I do trust you and your experiences, Lilica. Even if I am not so fond of this decision."

I have been alone for so long... did you really expect me to be willing to make this venture alone, in the first place? Lilica almost snapped, but reeled herself in before the outlash. It would accomplish nothing. "I will speak further with Vitali. If he does not agree to a blood oath on my terms, then he will not be accompanying me." She told Theomyr with resolve. "If his plans are as nefarious as they always have been, Alster and I will keep him at bay, and he will not be part of the search for Galeyn."

Theomyr nodded, his long, dark ponytail falling over his shoulder. "Do keep me enlightened, then." That small smile broadened. "I do thoroughly enjoy our chats. It breaks up the monotony of this partial-existence."

The trouble with visiting her father in her dreams was that her sleep never proved to be restful. Lilica rose that morning, as exhausted as she had been when she struggled to fall asleep... but at least she knew what she had to do. And that first thing that she had to do was find Vitali, and bind him to his own promises.
Leaving the temporary tent that she occupied, among others who had been helping to restore Stella D'Mare from the ground up, Lilica pulled the woolen sweater around her small body in search of coffee, or some other stimulating beverage to give life back to her pale face. She did not get far when she nearly found herself colliding with someone who she distinctly did not wish to see. "...Elespeth." Immediately, the dark mage raised her hands, in fear that the warrior might lash out, knowing her to be the reason that Alster was choosing to depart peacefully instead of fighting his exile. "I you will listen--"

"Save your words, Lilica. I have no bones with you." The Atvanian warrior, who also looked as though sleep had missed her entirely, shook her head, did not raise her hands as if to strike. Tough the chthonic caster did note that a sword was strapped across her back, and smaller daggers in her belt, like she were preparing to go off to some battle that belonged only to her. "Alster is capable of making his own decisions. If he did not truly believe in this... quest that you proposed, he would not go. There is nothing that I can say to him to change his mind."

"I apologize, all the same, for the turmoil this must cause you." Lilica bowed her head in regret. "I know I was hardly alive for your combined efforts to save this city... but I have heard extensively of them. It is not fair that your solace in the aftermath has been so brief."

"And so what? Nothing is fair. Life is not fair, Lilica. You cannot claim credit for every ill turn of events, much though I am sure you would like to, to fuel whatever self-hatred keeps you motivated." Elespeth rubbed her temples, clearly fighting off a tension headache. Her hair was braided again, but very tight and severe, no nonsense and not a strand left loose in the wind. "It... probably is for the best, this departure. Let's be rational; Alster is a Rigas. I'm nothing. When I am aged to that of a grandmother, he will still be young and spry and energetic... I... we have been living a lie. It may be high time to reconsider my place here in Stella D'Mare, anyway."

Lilica had expected vitriol. However, she had not expected those words to fall from the Atvanian warrior's lips. "...what?" Was all she could muster, dumbfounded in complete disbelief. "Elespeth, don't be rash. Even the stars--"

"To hell with the stars, Lilica. They cannot extend my life. And perhaps I do not want a life with someone who will outlive me, tenfold. Who will find love and happiness again when I am nothing more than a memory, if I even make it that far. But--what of you?" Her pewter-green eyes were suddenly on Lilica, in such a way that the dark mage almost felt naked. "How does it work with you and Chara? You have magic--can you will yourself to live to the same extent as she? Can the two of you grow old, together? Or will she dig you a grave when the time comes, and think nothing more of it as her life continues?"

She wanted to be sick; for a second, she thought she might be. All this time, that people had been telling them their relationships with Rigas mages were an abomination, atrocious... they had not been merely critical. They had been right. And it had not occurred to her until now; not fully. But... maybe that didn't matter, anymore. "I don't know how it 'works' with Chara and I anymore, Elespeth. She is no happier for my departure than you are for Alster's." The chthonic mage shrugged a shoulders to dispel the weight if the blow. "I honestly don't know what my future holds for me, let alone anyone in my life."

The Atvanian warrior seemed to diminish in her forward demeanor, just a bit. She nodded her head, taking a step back from the mage, as if realizing she had completely overstepped her bounds. "Of course. I'm sorry, Lilica... I am acting out of place."

And without another word, she took off, to where, only she would know. They both faced battles ahead, it seemed; the trouble was, there was no way to determine if they could be won with swords. Or with magic, at that.

Several days had passed since Alster's last encounter with Elespeth, which had predicably ended in disaster. On the first day, when at last he drew away from sleep, he was surprised to learn that Atli had given him a dose of drugs that ate away his precious time for a full day. 

"I tried to respect your wishes, Alster," the Mollengardian healer threw his hands in surrender, "but you didn't leave me a choice. You were causing reckless injury to yourself, roaming about on your feet when you should have been in recovery, taking ill as a result of doing too much too soon. You can't expect me to sanction this type of behavior. You've had a major operation, and whether or not magic has expedited the process, it is still a process that I expect you to take seriously." He flopped down on the chair that faced his work table, idle fingers flitting through the disorganized pile of supplies specific to the care of Alster's new arm. "If I had any authority to lop off the head of the man in charge of this inane proviso, you know I'd exact it in one fell swoop. To oust one of their own, with full knowledge of the surgery, and its demands for convalescence," he gave a disapproving shake of his head. "Though...it is not my place to criticize your country's politics." 

"We're not even a country," Alster said with a twinge of bitterness. "Just a shell of one pretending to be something greater. We Rigases will be our own downfall." 

If not the lot of you, something will strike you down, Atli wanted to rejoinder, but kept silent. He knew of Solveig's plans for Stella D'Mare, not one of which included peaceful cooperation. At least, not on a continual basis. Mollengard will be your downfall. Who is to say that there will even be a Stella D'Mare when you return...?

Over the next few days, Alster did as Atli instructed; he took plenty of rest and engaged in low-risk activities. He read, he drank plenty of fluids, and when he did wander out of bed, it was only for routine exercise. By the fourth day, he was well enough to make small jaunts outside the tent and around the paved pathways of the estate. He enjoyed stretching his legs and taking in the cool air of the morning, which warmed to a comfortable enough temperature come afternoon. But even then, he could not enjoy his walks in full. Counter to the surge of fierce determination from the night he confronted Elespeth, Alster now felt like a buried fire, snuffed under the weight of a landslide. All progress he'd made during those prime hours was locked away, and he, barred access to its insights. Though he tried to remain productive by honing control over his arm, no attempts neared as close to the amount of reactivity with Elespeth, and he could hardly concentrate long enough to instill even an uninspired little twitch of the thumb. Every five minutes, he glanced over at the tent flaps, wishing, willing for her to return, with all the patient hope of a dog awaiting its estranged owner. But when she never came to visit, he gave in to resigned despair. And when he surrendered his depression to sleep, it was the Serpent who always awaited him on the other side. 

"If you're going to unseat my sanity," he told the horrendous, coiling thing whose space occupied everything past sight or senses, "why wait? Because I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Won't, It said, glibly, if even possible with a creature whose voice transcended basic human comprehension. It spoke through the mind, translated as by a sieve into faulty, earth-based linguistics and emotion. Need you.

"No. We're done here. I want nothing more to do with you!"

Need me, you do, too. Its coils tightened around a nondescript rock surface, constricting it into dust. It revealed its ponderous head and the acidic eyes, which were capable of driving a lesser person to madness. And he was a lesser person. 

"Need you? What do you mean?"

Magic...eats you, still. But not now, no. Because I take it. Eat it. Make mine.

Alster tried not to stumble out of the dream from mere shock. Was this true? Was the Serpent acting as buffer to the ongoing siphoning loop of his chthonic magic? He thought for sure that his wide-scale release of such immense power would have broken the siphon, but according to the Serpent, it did not. It was still in effect, but the vast creature of darkness pulled the chthonic magic through Dream, by way of their worlds-wide bond, and absorbed it before it had the chance to wreck havoc on his own body. 

"Is that...is that why I haven't seen the other creatures around? You've chased them away?"

They can't have this, the Serpent almost gurgled with pride. Won't have this. Powerful, I grow. With you. 

This time, Alster did startle himself out of his dream. He bolted upright, and screamed. He screamed for the pain of his limbs, screamed for the madness, or the reality, tearing holes in his mind. He screamed for the magic hell-bent on destroying him. He screamed for Stella D'Mare, for the betrayal of his family, for his arm, for the Serpent who would never leave him alone, who would follow him throughout life, and even through death. And, he screamed for Elespeth, whose love he feared he lost. Stars, fading, fading, into darkness, into mist...

For the first time in a while, he turned his remaining hand to his throat, and clawed his way in. 

"Elespeth."

Shortly after waking from his nightmare, Alster sought after her. Atli wasn't in the tent at the time, leaving him alone, terrified, paralyzed into a panic. He'd managed to break free from the throes of self-injury long enough to identify his need to find someone, before more damage was done. He bandaged the wounds across his neck, threw on his arm sling, and hobbled out of the tent in search of Elespeth. With their bond, he located her in minutes. She was outside, having found a patch of ground flat enough and wide enough to train with her sword. He tried again to gain her attention, but his voice was now scratchy from his injuries, and it hurt to speak. 

"Elespeth." She stopped. Turned around. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, defeated...haunted. He shivered, hugged his steel arm as if it could provide any warmth, and stared, in shame, at the ground. 

"I...I can't be alone right now. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but please." He stumbled toward her, and searched her face. For anger. For disinterest. For rejection. "I need you." Don't walk away, his eyes begged. I don't know what I'll do... 

After storming off of Cyprian's veranda, Tivia went into hiding. She knew he would call guards to locate her, and likely imprison her for insubordination, or treason. It didn't matter that he disowned her, or that she in turn disowned him. In his eyes, she was still his property: a disobedient daughter who needed discipline.

Fortunately, no one knew where to search. Her hovel was well-hidden within the depths of the ruined city, where none but the clean-up crew ventured. She hunkered down in her one remaining refuge, and spent her days in solitude, leaving only to scavenge for food, water, and blankets. They were easy to obtain: Mollengard was more than happy to oblige her, and since they had no knowledge of the intricate politics or hierarchy of the Rigas family, they did not think to apprehend her. 

But she realized she could not hide for long. They would catch her in due course. She was not stealthy like Lysander, or resourceful like Vitali. In fact, with her missing eye, she was more prone to trips and crashes, and was often unfocused in her spatial awareness. She had to follow through on her threat made to Cyprian: leave with Lilica and the rest. The only problem was that she never spoke to the dark mage on this hasty decision of hers. 

It took a good part of the day and some covert maneuvering to find Lilica, but at last, she spotted her, taking her leave of Elespeth on a patch of land not far from the estate's main gates. Walking low to the ground, she slipped into the shadows behind her, and whispered for her attention. Once received, she waved her into a gutted building, half-collapsed but recently cleared of its rubble. 

"This may seem like suspicious behavior," she admitted, as she took a wide sweep of the small room, "but there's a reason for it. My father...he's after me. I disavowed the Rigas name. He's leading a search party to find me. To contain me. I know he is. He believes I am ill, and that I am not acting with reason in mind. So...I..." she backed herself further into the far corner, away from the gaping holes that were windows, "I mean to ask if I...can accompany you. It doesn't have to be for long," she hurried. "Just until we leave the city. But under the collective protection of you, Alster, and Vitali, I believe I'll be able to escape this city undetected. I can't stay here...but I won't jeopardize your mission, either. Once we're free from this place, I'll go." Her words wavered, betraying her affected calm. In truth, she was terrified of traveling alone. Where could she go? She had few, if any, survival skills, and her lone presence on the road would be a glaring target for thieves and brigands. 

"But," she amended, "were I to travel with you long-term, I could help you keep Vitali in line. I've had...previous dealings with him. I think he trusts me--as far as that man could ever trust another living being, I assume. And Alster...I'll assist with his arm, so he won't slow us down if we're in a hurry. I...but I understand if I'm imposing, and..." she fiddled with her hands, squeezing them together. "And...at the very least, can you let me accompany you out of the city?"

The benefit of having trained as a knight for the entirety of her life was that it was an identity that Elespeth could easily fall back upon. And as vulnerable as the city of Stella D'Mare was in its given state of ruins, perhaps what it needed was warriors to help protect what was left--at least, that was her hope, as there was little else she could do to make herself useful

The war fought among the Rigases, Stella D'Mare, Andalari and Tadasun had been taxing, but not in a way that she felt had made her become stronger. Not long after storming out of Alster's tent, the Atvanian warrior had taken a good look at herself in the fragments of a broken mirror from one of the villas that had yet to be tidied. Her body was wan and thin, with perpetual dark circles under her eyes. Despite how hard she had fought in this war--more mentally than physically, it seemed--it appeared as though she had lost muscle mass in her arms, legs and torso. Though far from vain in any sense of the word, this infuriated her to the point where she stomped on the shards of the mirror, until they were little more than specs of glitter in the dirt, and she could no longer make out her reflection. Is this was my decisions have done to me? She quietly dreaded, biting her lower lip to stave off tears. Where was the strong warrior who had hailed from Atvany with a purpose? One who had become stronger for what she had suffered and endured? It was as if this war had erased everything that she had built up to, everything that she thought she had known about herself... and she wanted herself back.

Perhaps, that was the first step in the next chapter of her forever.

So the former knight took to training again, every chance she got. Still wielding her blade--the one that Alster had enchanted to her touch, so long ago--she practiced her forms tirelessly for the next few days, only stopping to eat and drink, and sometimes, to rest. No one stopped to ask her what she was doing, or why, and they simply let the determined warrior practice in the art that she had trained in for so long, figuring it was better to leave some questions alone. Elespeth relished in the lack of interruption, and the therapeutic focus that her sword lent her. It was an easy rhythm to fall back into: it made her feel strong, it reacquainted her with those dreams that she had harbored as a child, ones that her brother, Farrin, had nourished and helped her to realize. It was far from a solution; but it was enough to keep her mind off of her upsetting depart from Alster a few days ago.

That was, until, early into the evening, he sought her out.

The Atvanian warrior was so focused, so returned to her fighting roots, that she nearly forgot to lower her sword when a familiar, raspy voice called to her from behind. The shaken, pale frame of Alster stood out from the gathering darkness, cradling his prosthetic arm, his eyes dark and haunted. For fear that he might collapse, or disintegrate, she dropped her sword then and there, and moved towards him, taking his one remaining arm to stabilize him. "What the hell are you doing, Alster?" She hissed, feeling that anger and hurt she had felt before resonate in her gut, but mostly, it out of fear for his well-being. "You can't just be wandering around in the cold--are you even recovered, yet?"

The cold had yet to reach her, for the amount of training she had done over the past handful of days, but Alster was thin and pale, and did not look well, let alone warm. Regardless that she was sweaty, and probably smelled as though she had been working her latent muscles to exhaustion, she pressed her body close to his to keep him warm as she led him back to his tent. He was shivering when she helped him back onto his cot, and there was no shred of anger left in her at this point to fuel a desire to turn away; not this time. All that was left was concern... and regret. "And you wonder why I was so upset... so angry about your desire to depart." She breathed, tendrils of hair sticking to her face from her perspiration. "How can I believe you will be well when I find you like this, and you haven't left, yet? How do you plan to fare on the road to some imaginary place?"

Her eyes grew shiny, but the tears did not fall. "I know I cannot protect you forever, Alster. Not from everything. And maybe... maybe I just don't understand why, or what is driving you to do this. So make me understand. Tell me what is going on... talk to me. Please. I wouldn't listen before... but I will now." She bit her lower lip, inhaling on a sniffle, willing those tears away. "But if you can't talk to me, then I... maybe I don't want to be a part of this, anymore. To grow old and die, unable to protect you when you are still at a pinnacle of your own youth... I don't know anymore, Alster. I don't know... if that is a future that I can stomach."

And there it was, her insecurities out in the open. Perhaps Alster had no idea how heavily his words had resonated with her; in fact, it likely had not been his intention for it to resonate with her. But it had, and now with the uncertainty of their future before her, these latent fears were finally taking shape. "You were right; one day, I am going to leave you, because I am going to die. I'm not a Rigas, I have no magic, and I am as mortal as the day is long. And I know that you will be fine without me. But the idea that your forever and my forever will never really coincide..." She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. Finally, tears trickled down her cheeks. "I don't want you to leave. Not if our time together is already so... finite."

Lilica couldn't catch her breath--not for a moment, it seemed. She had held it the entire time she'd faced the Atvanian warrior, for fear of some erratic compulsion that might cause her to lash out... and then, it left her in a deflated sigh, when the woman reminded her of her mortality, and the implications that it had regarding her relationship with Chara. The conversation had left her feeling listless and empty, and she was half-tempted to return to her tent and hide from the world for another day... But something caught her eyes before she gave in to that all too familiar sense of defeat. Someone waved her down from the shadows; a flicker of something glittering in the low light, like a mask...

Furrowing her eyebrows, the chthonic caster sighed and followed the figure into the rubble. On any other occasion, she might have erred on the side of caution, but whoever sought her attention had caught her at just the right moment where she cared too little about anything to consider her safety. Lukcily for her, she was not met with someone who meant her harm (or, worse, Vitali), but instead, the young Rigas woman whose face had been damaged during an Andalarian attack. "Tivia Rigas..." More confused than she was intrigued, Lilica arched an eyebrow. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

She wished she hadn't asked the question, the moment that Tivia began to answer. A low groan resonated in her throat before the Rigas woman even finished. What had happened to ths supposedly secretive mission? First she had unintentionally dragged Alster into it, only for Vitali to try and worm his way in... and now Tivia Rigas? What in all hell was she thinking? And what did she want from this? "I don't think you realize what you are asking." The dark mage pinched the bridge of her nose and took a slow, calming breath. "Tivia, no one should be accompanying me on this venture. Nobody was supposed to. But Alster was unwittingly dragged into it, and now my brother is trying to scheme his way into it... There is no way this is safe, for any of us. And imagine the repercussions on Alster and I if we were caught smuggling you out of the city."

Lilica shook her head and brushed dust off of the front of her sweater. It did not take long to accumulate it, amidst the rubble. "I don't think it is a good idea, Tivia. I'm sorry."

But... what if she could keep Vitali in line? As well as keep an eye on Alster, who would no doubt need special attention for his prosthetic arm? There was no pushing aside the possibility that the Rigas woman had put forth. Even if Alster could take care of himself, Vitali remained a wildcard... and as she had explained to her father, it was safer to allow him to accompany them, than to leave him to his won devious devices. And this woman, this ruined Rigas caster, was rumored to have the abilities of a seer. What better person to keep an eye on Vitali than someone with esotheric intuition?
She hated herself for her rationalizaitons...

"Tivia... wait." She turned, just as she was about to leave the Rigas woman in the darkness of the rubble. Her eyes shone with a mixture of determination and regret. "Maybe... we can work something out." She sighed. "There is a way that you could be of help to me."

Fire pits had been set up throughout the ruins of the city to stave off the winter's chill for those confined to their cold tents, and the workers cleaning up the city. Vitali had stationed himself near one of these fires, glowing an unnatural blue, sourced from rubble and friction, but kept alive throughout the night with magic. He was a patient man; at least, he knew when to be patient, when it would benefit him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his sister approached him, following their conversation. But what he had not expected to find was Lilica in accompaniment of noneother than Tivia Rigas. He raised his eyebrows in exaggeration of his surprise. "Lilica. I hoped you would come find me, but..." He turned to the Rigas woman. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Tivia?"

"In exchange for joining our little party, Vitali, you promised to take a blood oathe. That, and only that promise, is what will get you what you want--but I make the terms. And Tivia," she nodded to the masked Rigas woman, "has offered to be of help, as well. So here is my ultimatum: if you wish to be included in this journey to find Galeyn, then you will bind yourself to your oath--to the both of us."

"I beg your pardon?" Arms folded across his chest, the necromancer furrowed his brows. He was being played. "I have no qualms about making an oath to you, sister. But why involve Tivia?"

"Because, Vitali," the dark mage stepped closer, until there was but a breath between them. Something ominous, threatening, swam in the depths of her dark eyes. "I want to cover all of my bases. And if you break the oathe that you have sworn to not one, but two people, then not only will you live to regret your treason; you will regret it, twofold." She did not miss the concern that flickered on Vitali's face. He knew she meant business. "Are you forgetting my history, Vitali? You are not the only one who deals in curses. And unlike your eternal sleeps, mine can be far less merciful. So this is my offer. You are welcome to join us, if your intentions are pure. But so often, they are not; so we are ensuring a contingency plan, in that event. You cross me, you will regret it. You cross Tivia--or even Alster, who has her blood--and you will find no out for your treachery. So." Reaching into her boot, she withdrew a thin, ritual dagger that seemed to hum with low vibrations of energy. "What is your answer? Rest assured that whatever your decision, I am impartial."

There was no missing the dispelasure written on Vitali's face. Had he not expected her to think this through, and so thoroughly? It was perhaps the most satisfying moment Lilica had spent in her brother's presence. But he would not give her the satisfaction of voicing his deep displeasure, however much it made his blood run cold. "I promised to be of help to you, Lilica. Furthermore, I cannot recall ever wanting to mean harm to miss Tivia, either." He shrugged his shoulders, feigning nonchalance. "If a promise written in my blood to the both of you is what you want, then you will find no resistance from me. Shall we begin?"

No spell, no curse, and no oath is without its cracks, sister. The necromancer quietly seethed, despising the control he was about to let Lilica assert. Nothing displeased him more than being kept in check. Do not think I will not find them, if need be.

He prepared for the sting of rejection she was readying on her lips. Already, her eyes had sharpened, like the sword before her, pointed and eviscerating in their ferocity. She was going to open her mouth, and condemn him, leaving him nothing more than a bleeding carcass as she walked away, better for having cut her ties with him for good. He waited for the end, for her back to turn, for her to disappear. But she never did. And her ensuing words were not of dismissal, but of intense concern, concentrated into fury. Then, her arms encased him, and though she was damp with sweat, it was warmth that found him. He leaned into her side-hug, and released the breath he'd been holding since his wary approach. 

"I needed to find you," he explained, following her lead down the path that returned them to his tent. "I wasn't wandering. I knew exactly where I needed to go, El. As I always do, when looking for you." 

When they passed through the flaps, Alster obediently settled into his cot, though he was less tired in body, and more tired in his soul. "Please don't go," he said, fearing that once she secured his position as stationary and safe in his cot, that she would make another grand exit, and leave him stewing in the aftermath of his mental collapse. This time, she did not. His shoulders slumped with relief, and his head lolled forward, as if ready to fall off his neck from where he tried to hack it away with the nubs of his nails. With his left hand, he patted an open spot for her on the cot, inviting her to sit. 

"I'll tell you. I'll talk. In turn...don't walk away. Not now." He tried to swallow back the dread and alarm that re-tightened all of his muscle groups, including the bulges in his neck. Was she serious in reconsidering their future? Had he driven her to this point, where she saw herself unfit for his company because of their differing rates of mortality? But before he could latch on to that cause for alarm, he took another breath, and focused on what he promised to reveal. 

"The truth, El. The truth is this. I want to leave. This place...it's poison to me. Stella D'Mare was always inhospitable, always stifling, always a harbinger to some break in my mind. I fear it's happening again. Madness." He clutched the blanket tightly in his left hand. "Right now...there's a schism in my dreams. I don't know if what I'm seeing is real, or if it's the result of my fears made manifest. I don't know if I'm going mad, or if it's...much worse than that. Staying here...will undo me. I need to escape before I...before I slip away." He closed his eyes in an attempt to mask the contortions of his face. "I'll be better once I'm away from here, save for one detail in particular." His flesh and bone hand searched for her, found her, and weaved through the fingers of her own hand. "I'll be leaving you, and I don't want that. I never want that. This place, I imagine, isn't hospitable to you, either. But you can also do a lot of good, here. Better than I could."

He opened his eyes, and looked into her tear-strewn irises. They were filled with so much anguish, lost as they were in the dregs of their future. He shook his head at her worries, his mouth working into a sad, contrite smile. "Elespeth," he almost cooed, "what I said the other night...that's not our only option. I'm sorry that I worded it with such finality. I was not born with an extended lifespan. It was given to me through ceremony. Every Rigas qualifies, after they reach a certain age. Rigel sacrificed his immortal life so that we could share his unused years. They are passed along through the blood seal. And we have been known to gift those extended years to those who are not of Rigas blood. It is a rare occurrence, but it's happened in the past. And you already possess some of my blood. You are one step closer than most in receiving Rigel's gift." He scooted closer to the warrior, desiring proximity, her touch, an embrace...however much it would hurt his ailing limb. 

"That is what you can do here, Elespeth. Help Chara to make this city a home for us. With the right people in power, you can become an Honorary Rigas. You will have acceptance, and you will grow in age alongside me. And if we can't make that happen through the proper channels, I'll perform the ceremony, myself." An iota of that stubborn Rigas pride shone in his eyes. "We're already defied improbability, Elespeth. Don't underestimate what I can do when I'm motivated. That is," he leaned forward and kissed the tears from her cheek, "if you'll continue to stand by me." His hand trembled in hers. "I don't want us to end. And we won't. We won't...unless," his eyes moistened, "you decide on a different path...without me."

Tivia found the terms reasonable. More than reasonable, in fact. She wanted to discover for herself if the necromancer's words rang sincere the other night. They were endearing sentiments, fanciful in construction. And if he really desired a new start, to have the opportunity to begin life afresh, then she wanted to oversee his intentions for herself. If he was serious, and if he wasn't just spouting some halfhearted twaddle in an attempt to move her into empathy with his plight, then he would agree to a double oath. 

As expected, Vitali reacted to the prospect with protest and discomfort. He didn't like to be bested, she thought with an inner smirk. And it was hard for her not to find a sliver of satisfaction in their partial defeat of this man, however much they preserved each other's lives in the past. She supposed she still felt some solidarity towards Haraldur, and this was her version of revenge for what had been done to the Skyknight princess and her roc. She, of course, was the chief instigator, but he was responsible for the deed.

She stepped forward, and took Lilica's proffered dagger. "This is my choice as well, Vitali. I agreed to it. She is not forcing me into this." She checked the tip of the blade: it had a wicked edge. A bead of blood pooled from her thumb. "I've been harmed enough by my own family. Do you seek to harm me as much as they did me? Somehow," her voice grew small, "I doubt you could, even if you tried." 

Without a second thought, she slashed her palm with the dagger. She bit her lip, but did not flinch. Blood dribbled from the incision, sending sticky-wet rivulets down her wrist, where it soaked the fine hemming of her tunic. She passed the blade to the necromancer, hilt first. "I will no longer call myself a Rigas," she announced, "but Rigas blood still flows in my veins. And Rigas blood is a very powerful magical tool. Any oath made by it is, I expect, quite binding." 

Chara had grown into the habit of taking walks at night. It was quieter, then. A less likely chance of bumping into somebody unpleasant, by which she meant the majority of the Rigas elite. Even the friendliest of the Mollengardian soldiers elicited feelings of hostility in her, though she did well to hide her contempt.

Days had grown more unbearable. She knew where they would lead, no matter how much she worked to extend the departure of Lilica and Alster. She supposed the latter had given her a boon by having the gall to undergo a risky surgery. The fool had his uses, after all. And, at risk of alienating his supporters, Cyprian was hesitant to offer clemency for Alster's recovery--but offered it, he had. Chara marked it as a minor victory, though it rang hollow, because they were still marked to leave...and that, exile or no, Lilica would be leaving, regardless. 

While she could not come to terms with her senseless departure, Chara was begrudging in accepting its inevitability. Control was an illusion, a wind-up toy that danced with the precise twists of a key, but always petered out and died. And she could control the situation no better than she could will that toy to move, unprovoked. She had no key. Only the idea of the key. Everything that she thought she had...was false. 

But that didn't mean her relationship with the dark mage was a ruse. She had to keep telling herself that. It was real, their interactions genuine, and never some ploy for domination. They had love, they felt love. But, even she was unsure that it was love at its purest. Perhaps she confused it for lust, in all its widespread iterations. How could she face Lilica, if she couldn't even answer her most basic of questions with confidence? Would I choose you over my family? Over Stella D'Mare? ...I don't think I could...

However, she lost her opportunity to decide to face her. Because, when she looked up from her daze, she saw Lilica there, on the road outside of the estate. Their eyes met. 

"Lilica." She tried to contain her apprehension, the blast of energy that sent her heartbeat tumbling down to its own demise. She straightened her posture, and tucked her hands behind her back. An insular gesture. Contained. Calm. 

"...Would you like to come with me to my villa?" She almost blanched at the wording. So unobtrusive. It lacked punch and demand. "There are some things I'd like to discuss." She sighed. "Rationally."

They were a mess, the two of them; but, at the very least, they had one another. It was difficult to process Alster's words through her own distress and exhaustion. If he had not meant what he has said--that someday, she would leave him for death, regardless of her wishes and intentions--they why would he have mentioned it, at all? Was that not an inevitable future that the two of them would one day have to face, when their own futures no longer coincided?
Evidently... that was not the case.

How had he not mentioned this to her, before? The possibility that they could share complementary lifespans... that their futures would not diverge so abruptly, one day, with her own life reaching its expiry, while his was hardly half-over? Needless to say, the Atvanian warrior was at a loss for words, so she listened--really listened--to Alster for the first time, as it was all that she could do. Finally, when she remembered her tongue, she still found herself unable to mollify him with her full compliance. But perhaps it was for the better; he deserved her honesty. "Even so, Alster... even if everything that you are telling me is true, I cannot tell you with a shred of honesty that I am in favor of staying here--in the very city that you hate, one that is killing you and driving you mad--while you leave in search of some better horizons. It... isn't fair."

Elespeth's shoulders sagged, and she dropped her head to her chest, wishing that they could come to a compromise. But there was no middle-ground, and there was no chance of her having her way. And even if she could wrangle events to unfold in her favor... she wouldn't dare to do so. Not if it meant they would not be in Alster's favor, as well. "This place drives me crazy, too. I can empathize with your plight. Consider what you are asking me: to stay here, in a place that is not my home. Where I have no friends or confidants, and my usefulness begins and ends with my fighting skills... though now that the war has come to an end, there is not much of a need for those." Not that any of that would stop her from training. It was, perhaps, the only thing that could possibly keep her sane, agreeing to Alster's plan. "And you're asking me to work with Chara. Chara. She hates me, Alster, regardless of what she might try to tell herself or convince other people. How in the hell do you expect me to influence her, let along reshape this broken city into something better than it was before it fell to the ground?"

Sighing, she straightened her shoulders, and wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm not going to pretend that this doesn't sound like an ultimatum. And I am not going to pretend to be okay with it. But I... don't want to take a different path from you. I have fought too hard and risked too much to maintain a place at your side." It was as if she had gone through all of the possible stages of grief, in the past handful of days, from disbelief to anger, denial and bargaining, and finally, a sad, solemn acceptance that she could not change this course of events. She could not change what Alster wanted to do; and she could not stop him from doing it. "You know what is best for you. I will do what I can for this city; but... please don't hold me accountable, if nothing has changed by the time you return." 

That is, if he returned... Of that possibility, or otherwise, she still could not be certain. But she had traveled enough to know that travel could change a person, and could change their mind on a lot of things. And if it did not, then there was still the high probability of danger, and that ever-present whisper, the promise of death.

Lilica could not be certain what she had expected from the Rigas woman when they confronted the necromancer. Sure, she had agreed to help ensure that Vitali was bound to his word and his supposedly "pure" intentions, but the extent to which she seemed invested in it was above and beyond what the dark mage had thought. Just what sort of history and interactions had developed between these two? Something had occurred with regard to the Skyknight princess from Eyraille, as least, insomuch as word of mouth stipulated. And supposedly, it had something to do with her brother, and with Alster's masked cousin. But beyond that, the details were lost on her, and Tivia's steadfast determination was enough to sway any suspicions that she shared the same mindset as her brother.
Nonetheless... it did seem suspicious, how the Rigas woman was so eager and so willing to bind Vitali's promise to her blood. But she was not going to argue Tivia's cooperation.

"Why you would align me with the actions of your twisted family, Tivia, is well beyond me." Vitali frowned, arching an eyebrow. "If I intended to do you harm, would I have risked my skin standing up to your father? When he would have locked you away until the world forgot about you? Don't get me wrong, I was not expecting gratitude... but I certainly was not expecting this from you, either."

"You can bemoan your bitterness towards your own wicked transparency later, Vitali." Lilica interrupted, lest he find a tangent that would change the Rigas woman's mind. She might have been powerful, and she might have known what she wanted, but she was no less vulnerable. After all, Vitali sought the vulnerable for companionship; they were the most easily manipulated. "You can only play people so many times before the learn better." Taking the dagger from Tivia's hand when she had finished drawing her blood with it, the dark mage took her brother's proffered hand, and not-so-carefully opened a cut along the palm of his hand. Vitali would not give her the satisfaction of flinching. "You're sure about this, Vitali?" It was his last chance to back away from a promise that would bind him; because she did not think he could resist his own lies. "Do you bind yourself to us? To the promise of working towards goals that might not serve you personally, and to refrain of doing us harm, or benefiting from ill luck befalling us? To the promise of working with us, and protecting this party--Alster included--at all cost, to the full extent of your abilities? And to the promise of putting forth intentions that only seek to benefit the true cause of this venture: finding, and protecting the secrecy and power of Galeyn, and nothing else?"

"Yes, Lilica. I do." Vitali sighed heavily, as if annoyed at her exaggerated mistrust of him. His blood pooled in his hand.

"And do you accept any and all consequences, harmful, unfortunate, debilitating, or even fatal," her eyes flashed, "should you break any part of this oath, by but a fraction?"

"I understand, and I accept the consequences."

"Then, Vitali Kristeva..." Drawing a long cut from her hand to her wrist, she gripped the uppermost part of the blade's hilt, leaving enough room for Tivia to take a hold. When the Rigas woman was ready, the two of them knelt, and plunged the dagger into the ground, and Vitali's feet. "As sworn by the names Lilica Tenebris and Tivia Rigas..." A red pentacle, adorned with various runes that jumped and shifted like the flame of a candle, glowered upon the dry soil, with the necromancer standing at the center of the star. As soon as a drop of his blood hit the earth, mingling with that of the women whose blood had conjured the pentacle, the circle, the star, and the ruins disappeared completely. Lilica and Tivia stood, and the chthonic caster looked her brother in the eyes. "Consider yourself bound to us."

Leaving the dagger harmlessly embedded in the dirt, Lilica pressed the sleeve of her woolen sweater to the open wound. It could not be healed by magic, lest it interfere with the blood oath; but that was far from a real concern. "We will be leaving as soon as Alster is deemed well enough to do so. Already, we have overstayed our welcome, in this city. Be ready, when we are, or be left behind."

Without another word, she turned her back and left, bidding neither her brother or Tivia goodbye. Vitali withdrew a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the open wound on his palm, frowning in annoyance at the inconvenience of the laceration. "She could at least have spared my dominant hand..." he muttered, and heaved a small sigh. "Well, Tivia, I do hope this allays some of your concerns. Though of late, I am at a loss as to what I could possibly have done to earn your mistrust."

There was little satisfaction or peace of mind to be gained by the blood oath Vitali had taken. No matter how it was spun, the fact that the necromancer would accompany her on a mission that had initially been meant only for one--and now consisted of four--left Lilica feeling uneasy. Or perhaps that feeling could be attributed to the amount of blood she had already lost, having gone too aggressively on her skin with the tip of that dagger. With her injured hand now wrapped in thick rags, which were already growing soaked and stained with dark crimson, the chthonic caster opted to remain in the chill of the open air to help the laceration to heal. Blood flowed much more slowly when it was cold, not to mention it kept her awake and alert, her mind turning over one thought after another. They only had days left, if that, before Cyprian would force them out of the gates of Stella D'Mare, and there was still so much uncertainty surrounding the details of where exactly she would be headed... Theomyr had told her so little, promising only to reveal more after they departed. He wanted to hold tight to his secrets, until there were no longer questionable bystanders who might also learn them.

She was just about to pass by the Rigas estates when she came upon a familiar face, one that she both yearned to see and dreaded seeing. Lilica still did not have words for Chara, simply because she did not know what to say. But it was too late to turn away and pretend like she hadn't seen her; Chara met her eyes, and made her way over to her, suspiciously professional and calm. Lilica couldn't help but wonder how difficult it was for the Rigas woman to maintain this level of calm, when her own small empire was in shambles around her. Are you really asking me, or will you become upset if I refuse? she almost asked the question aloud, but caught herself before her tongue could get her into trouble. And, anyway... a part of her wanted to see Chara, again. A part of her always wanted to see her, and dreaded that she would be putting distance between the two of them. "I agree. There are matters that should be discussed." But the question was, how long would she remain rational, when she found out that Tivia was not accompanying them?

"Lead the way."

He saw the emotions flitting about her face, an intensity that was rapt with attention at his explanation of lifespan logistics. The thought of their disconnection in years must have affected her over the several days since they last spoke. To him, it was a careless aside only meant to serve as an example. While he hadn't given much thought into their disparate aging process before, he never considered it a problem because it was possible to extend Elespeth's years. Forget the family-sanctioned methods that he needed to clear with those in charge; that was merely a surface level annoyance. He clung to the fact that it could be done, whether permissible or not. 

"It was a hypothetical. I wasn't really thinking. I was by no means trying to scare you by implying that we couldn't age in unison," he added, as if reading her mind. "But this method of aging isaccessible, and not past our capability to obtain. I," he hesitated, "I just assumed that maybe...you didn't want to live that long. That you would want to live a more mortal life. After all, all your other friends, your family...they'll die before you. If I am the only reason you'd want that life, well," he slowly slipped his hand away from her grip, "I suppose it's something to think about. We have a while, still." He pretended the situation didn't affect him, no matter what option she chose. But was he truly fine with watching her grow and die, at an expedited rate relative to him? Just as she hadn't wanted him to move on without her, with half his life still unlived, he wasn't certain that he could stomach watching her die, so soon. It was all so soon. 

He shook away those stray concerns, for they were not paramount. The immediate future lay before them, another future in which they were to separate for an indeterminate amount of time. "No, you're right. It isn't fair." He moved his hand up and down her arm, in soothing motions. "I would love for us to leave, together. But this is not my decision. I'm only a passenger on this journey, not the driver," he said, referring to Lilica. "I'm sorry, El. You know that I am. I'm asking too much of you. But this is the closest place we have to a home. We fought for it. We saved it--much as we could, anyhow. It's hurting and it still needs help. Where else can we go? And I know that Chara is...abrasive," he nodded sympathetically, "but even she is aware that she needs allies. She will accept you. You can provide her with much needed perspective. Things may not change, I understand that. Rigases are...well, let's be frank. Some of them are horrible people." He squeezed out a small smile. "But they--we--can no longer afford this stagnant way of thinking. If we want to run as an independent body, we must dispense of the old ways as soon as possible. That's why I think you'll be useful here, Elespeth. And...this is my promise to you--though you may be tired of hearing of them."

He fished into his pocket and pulled out a ring: a dainty band of gold filigree, studded with diamonds. "I managed to rescue this from my villa," his face reddened as he stared at the ring, too nervous to meet her gaze. "It was my mother's...more jewelry than what she could properly manage. I know that you're more partial to swords than precious stones, but, well...this is the convention, and..." He fiddled with the ring, looking inordinately interested in its design. "I know this is far from the best time. I'm a wreck. Unstable, broken...absent. But...it's yours, if you'd have it. If," at last he raised his eyes, to look into her own. He offered her the ring. "If you'd have me. As...your husband." 

At the start of the ritual, Tivia began to feel something pull on her from inside. In reflex, she edged away from the tip of the pentagram where the dagger was embedded, and watched the proceedings from further away. The pull never lessened. It tugged and insisted on its direction, which pointed towards the necromancer. As if in response to this strange sensation, a blinding flash flickered before her single eye. She closed it tight, but the flash replayed in a composite over the darkness: blue, and beating. Alive, whistling: a high-pitched keen, though it was soft. Faint. A star. A visitor. But it said nothing, and did nothing else, before retreating, leaving behind kite trails of dust, spotted all across her vision. Dazed, Tivia opened her eye and stumbled toward Lilica, but she was already in retreat, having accomplished the ritual and wanting nothing more from their company. Shaking her head from the vision, Tivia pulled an old rag from inside her pocket and staunched the wound on her palm. She shifted towards the necromancer when he began to speak. 

"You haven't earned my mistrust," she told him. "But you've earned the mistrust of Lilica and Alster both, who have been wronged by you, and who I need to appease if I am to travel with them. I'm aware that I'm a dispensable addition to our little retinue, and I must make myself useful. If this is what it takes..." She trailed away and busied herself with wrapping her wound with the cloth. "I don't intend to harm them, or you. In fact, I want to believe in your words the other night, Vitali, and to assist you with that future. But if you want to begin anew, if you want that life for yourself...it begins here. I'm on your side, but only if you're on mine. And it's aligned with Alster. It's aligned with Lilica. Because right now..." her head bobbed in defeat, "the three of you are all I have." 

Their procession to the villa continued in silence. Chara remained in front, though she twisted her head several times to ensure Lilica was at a measurable distance behind her. When they reached her front door, she opened it and waved the dark mage inside. As she closed the door, her free hand shot a light spell at the candle chandelier above their heads, which bathed the entire front room in a pool of faint radiance. She moved over to the couch, and invited the woman to sit across from her, as they did just days ago. 

"What happened, there?" She jerked her head at the slash mark that Lilica's bloody sleeve tried to hide, but to no avail. Not waiting for a response, she drew to her feet, and rummaged in the back room for some bandages, a fresh cloth, and a small basin of water. When she returned, she pulled the mage's hand out of the cocoon of her sleeve, and dabbed at the injury with the now-wet cloth. "It looks like a blood oath scar. Are you joining a harem with Alster, now?" she deadpanned. No trace of anger wrinkled at her forehead, or twisted her lips. "He does enjoy making blood-binding contracts. Never with me, though. But I am not important," she shrugged, as if unbothered by this unorthodox opinion of hers. 

"I hope you had the chance to speak with Lysander." She wrung the blood-water out of the cloth and into the basin. "He will order whatever provisions you need for your journey. You are welcome back, of course." She used the dry end of the cloth to clean the wound. "I spoke out of line, the other night. I will not repeat my mistake, rest assured." She spread a small pot of green, sticky salve over Lilica's palm. "Will you be requiring anything else for the trip?"

"Alster. To which friends and family are you referring?" Elespeth arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "You were there with me, at Atvany. I do not have a family; I am as good as dead, to them, literally and figuratively as they believe me to have died." She shook her head. That memory, and Farrin... it would never cease to haunt her. "And my friends... they are here. And, frankly, they are limited to our own circle." She smiled sadly. It was no fault of his; this was all her own doing. She had made this choice. "Vega is bound to her kingdom, a place where I do not belong any more than I belong here. I don't know what became of Haraldur, and perhaps I never will, but neither of these people... of these friendships... warrants a desire to continue living my life at the pace that I have. They are both in search of their own meaning, and... I had already found mine." 

Elespeth's eyes turned downward, at Alster's prosthetic hand, with its makeshift scar. She looked at her own hand, with that very same scar. "I knew what I wanted when I agreed to be bound to you, Alster. Why else would I have committed to this bond? Why would I have fought so desperately for Stella D'Mare, when you are the only reason I belong here? I have thought about it, Alster, and I have thought a long time. And... I do not want to leave you, with centuries still tagged onto your life. Nor do I want to have to put you through watching me die."

'Abrasive' was putting it lightly when it came to describing Chara Rigas. She was unpredictable and out of control, and completely at her wits' end with rebuilding a broken city while receiving so little support throughout the endeavor. The Atvanian warrior did not blame her; but she was not certain that she was the best individual to help her, either. Not since their working relationship was... rather non-existent. "I want to help, Alster. As much as I am not connected to this place, I do want to help. Honestly. If I knew how I could be of help in a way that Chara would actually be in favor of..."

Something glittered in Alster's palm, as he reached into his pocket. A dull gold, embedded with tiny diamonds, like stars... She knew what it was, but her stunned mind was lost on its meaning, until Alster began to talk, to put it in perspective. And then came the words:

If you'd have me. As...your husband.

Wrapped up in a moment of disbelief, she hardly knew what to say. He was... But this meant... Was this what she thought it was? Was he asking her what she suspected? It was obvious: too obvious, and yet, she was so full of doubt, that she had to clarify. "You... you're asking me to... marry you, Alster?"

Her voice had grown soft, almost a whisper. She hesitated to take the ring, even as he nodded his affirmation. "Is this what you want, Alster? You know it won't be approved. Not within the tight-knit rules of your Rigas family and everything that it dictates." She bit her lower lip. "They'll fight you on your decision. I... won't be welcome into the inner-workings of this circle.

"But..." But she knew what she wanted--and he knew what he wanted, regardless of his state of mine. He was not delusional on pain medication. He was unwell, but still, surprisingly sound of mind for what he had been through. And... he was the only thing that she had left. Our place in life is together... Even as Lilica said. The stars agree. With hesitant, trembling fingers, she took the ring. It felt heavy and warm between her thumb and index finger. "We have fought more hostile battles... and I would be willing to fight this one, with you. For the privilege of being your wife, Alster."

While she'd have preferred to keep the details of her bloody hand to herself, Lilica hadn't much of a chance to hide it, and Chara was fiercely observant. Before she could open her mouth to reassure her it was nothing, she was up and searching for bandages and a wash basin. And since she was beyond lying to Chara--because at this point, there was no reason, and nothing to gain from keeping her in the dark--she offered her the unsavory truth. "It is a scar from a blood oath ritual." She confirmed with a nod, wincing when the water irritated the fresh laceration across her flesh. "But no, Alster was not involved. I wouldn't bother him for the condition that he is currently in. Tivia, however..." Lilica sighed, knowing that she was reaching a turning point that would likely shatter the Rigas caster's earnest effort to keep her anger in check.

"Your cousin has decided that she will accompany us. I refused her, at first, but... she found the crack in my resolve. Just the other day, Vitali expressed his desire to accompany us." She pressed her lips together, still finding the thought of playing nice with her brother to be fairly unsavory. "He is also being exiled, and knowing him like I do, my choices were either to agree to his wishes, or risk having him follow us, anyway... and wreak whatever havoc best serves him. So I agreed--on the condition that he swear his loyalty by blood. And Tivia... well, the two of them have developed some sort of neutral-territory where they can function like comrades. She says he trusts her, and I am one to believe her, because she is the only one who has not suffered at the hands of my brother." Absently, she picked at the fraying hem of her sweater. She had been wearing it for so long and in such chilled weather conditions that it was already fraying and developing holes in the arms and along the hem. "So she agreed to be part of the blood oath. Vitali's word--as good as it can be--is now tied to both of our names. And as a result, a single, treacherous slip-up on his part will come back to haunt him, twofold.

"And... listen. Before you become upset over this," she began, hoping she had the time to get her words out before Chara's anger could erupt, "Your cousin told me that she'd have planned to leave, anyway. She has been mistreated by her father since she returned with a disfigured face, and she no longer feels that she can call Stella D'Mare a home. So her options were to leave and wander on her own, or at least be in trusted company. Well... mostly." She wrinkled her nose at the thought of the necromancer and his silver tongue. "I don't know Tivia well, but she will have Alster. She has promised not only to keep Vitali in check, but to help Alster with that new mechanical appendage of his."

Lilica stared at the green salve that Chara smeared across the open wound on her palm, which prompted thoughts of what they would require for this trek. "Other than the obvious, being horses, warm clothes, and non-perishable food, I suppose it would be advisable to keep some emergency medicines, on hand. For wounds and sickness. We will not have a healer accompany us, and I will discourage Alster from using his magic. That new arm siphons too much of his energy, as it is. But otherwise, Chara, we will make due. Stella D'Mare is hardly in a state that allows it to share what little provisions in has left."

When her hand was securely bandaged, and the trickle of blood slowed to promote healing, she pulled her crimson-stained sleeve back over the appendage that she had used to bind her brother to his word. Chara's apology--or as close as she would get to voicing one--was the only thing that she had needed in order to secure her decision to return. It was not like the Rigas woman to backpedal on anything that she had said, even in a fit of anger. But... Chara's word could only do so much. "If I am able to return, Chara, then I will. But only if you manage to lift the exile; I cannot and will not make war with Cyprian over a decision that means so little to the rest of the city. But... in the event that you cannot convince him to offer clemency to all of us, then I must beseech that you prioritize Alster's return. Obviously." It was not without sadness and regret that she made the request, but it was only fair. And if Cyprian were to let anyone return, then it would have to be Alster; after all, this was his home, and he had contributed to it the most. "He does not deserve this exile, not for what he has done for this city. It was his home to begin with, and I'm... little more than an intruder, in the eyes of the majority of people making decisions."

Running her uninjured hand through her hair, she cast her gaze out the window of the villa. Beyond the glass, in the distance, stood the ruins of the fountain--a place that she knew she had always been draw to... but for what reason, she could not remember. "His warrior is not taking well to news of his leave; perhaps even less so than you, are, Chara. I saw her, briefly, this morning. She looked as though everything she thought she had and knew is now gone... Alster's pending departure has wrecked her. All the same..." Lilica shifted on the sofa to face Chara, hoping--praying--that tonight would not end as it had the last time they had shared this couch. She didn't think she could bear it. "Should it come to pass that you cannot lift my exile, I will make sure that you know where I am, and that I can be found. I promised to return, if that is what you want, and I will return to you the best way that I can. Even if I am not permitted to cross through the gates of Stella D'Mare."

This city had once provided her a great sense of comfort and relief, what felt like so long ago... But what she had not yet told Chara, what she did not have the heart to tell her, was of how her fond memories of this place had been ripped away from her, along with the curse that had almost taken her life. Atli had successfully pulled her back to consciousness by destroying everything that had tethered her to that dream, including the fond memories of Stella D'Mare. She could not forget Chara; even the strongest magic could not unravel her feelings for the Rigas woman, they were far too ingrained. But the garden, the fountain, the peace of luxury... she could not recall them, as hard as she tried. Chara was her only tether to this place, now. She wondered if they would have the opportunity to form new memories, together.

"But... thank you. For inviting me back here, regardless." She tried her best to muster a smile. "It feels good to be welcome. Even if only by one person."

A smile beamed across his face, its like one that had not been seen since before the destruction of Stella D'Mare, and before he fell ill with a degenerative magic disease. It hearkened back to the days directly following his healing session with Daphni, glowing with shades of relief, joy--and a little bit of mischief. "Elespeth. Since when have we ever done something that merited approval?" He helped her to slide the ring on her finger. As he had predicted, his mother and Elespeth shared in the same size. "I know there will be naysayers. Firm head-shakes. A resounding chorus of 'No.' But that, in comparison to what we've faced...a minor annoyance." He waved his hand around like he was swatting a fly. "They're my family. They're meant to be disagreeable. But a change is nigh. The Rigas legacy will not survive without making concessions. Whether or not they do, for you, I will not take back my decision to wed you." He lifted his prosthetic arm, displaying the etching on his metal palm. "We already are, in everything but name. All I am doing now--is announcing it to the world." 

He leaned forward, and planted a kiss on her lips. It was a quick one, however, as a thought crept its way into his blissful moment of release. It nagged at his last spoken words, and attached to Elespeth's doubts regarding the Tameris line, in Atvany. 

"Well...maybe not the world," he said, once he withdrew from their kiss. "I know they believe you dead, in Atvany. Most of them, anyway," he amended, remembering her youngest brother, Lyriq. "And I don't think much can be done, without upsetting the tenuous politics and policies of your nation. But...if there is a way to alert your family without alarming Atvany, without having them reveal you to the crown, I will find one. Consider me at your service." He bowed his head, for emphasis. "I don't want you to go through this life regretting any missed connections, be it friends or family. I don't want you to live feeling resentful of your commitment to me and only to me, while other opportunities pass you by. As you've said," he folded his hand over the one which possessed the ring, "you feel unwelcome here in Stella D'Mare. That is the last thing I want for you, though I can't force you to befriend Chara, or anyone else, for that matter. However," he perked up, "I can give you some amount of closure." 

He playfully spun the ring around on her finger. "I've spoken with Chara and Tivia over the last several days. According to Chara, Vega flew into Stella D'Mare shortly after the Serpent's emergence, searching for Haraldur. And according to Tivia, he was spotted a few hours later, about to murder the necromancer." He snorted, trying to hide his frustration with Tivia over her prevention of that very satisfying event. "She has reason to believe that Vega and Haraldur found each other, and are safe in Eyraille. They're afar, now, but I'm certain we'll be able to see them, again. Oh, and Tivia will be here, as well," he said, continuing to list allies for Elespeth to befriend. "Glaucus is an influential man, and firmly on our side. And Lysander--he is less volatile than Chara, and is able to convince her of your intentions. They can all help you, here. So, you see?" he leaned his forehead against hers. "You won't be alone. And once I return," he kissed her brow, "we will marry--if that is also what you want. I know I am shameless when it comes to romancing," he said with a chuckle, "so don't only do it for my sake. "

Chara was left with no choice but to absorb the flood of details that penetrated her already vulnerable defenses, one stab at a time. The dark mage was relentless in her information sharing, and each point burrowed deeper than the next. Vitali was accompanying her, now? This would have been more than enough to process, but it only dawned on her after mention of that treacherous man, that Tivia was now party to Lilica's nonsensical adventure. Throughout the discourse, Chara's bandage wrapping tightened like a vise around Lilica's purpling hand. With a curse and a hurried apology, she undid the bindings and wound them at their proper levels of snugness. 

"That is not surprising," she said in agreement, remaining as unperturbed by the information as was manageable. "Cyprian has ordered city-wide searches for Tivia ever since she proclaimed her 'difference of opinion' and 'absconded from Rigas duty,' as is his claim. He wants her taken into custody, and placed under his watch. I've only performed the minimum of service to his blasted cause. Good on her for evading capture. Though, if possible, the man has transcended from surly and appalling to a repulsive, unstoppable abomination. He is...he..." She twisted the cloth in her hands, ready to tear it in twain had she the dexterity to perform such a feat. But with a calculated series of breaths, she sank into an uneasy calm, and lessened her grip. 

In silence, she collected the stray bandages, the basin, the cloth, and the salve pots, and stood to excuse herself. She only made it to the dining area when she slammed the basin on the table and sank to her feet, devolving into a mess of sobs. 

"How am I to...how can I..." Her mouth tried to form words, coherent thoughts, but they were choked by her frenzied gurgles, and her shuddering breaths. She tried again. "Everyone who may hope to support me...they are being driven away. And you are collecting them for your own nebulous cause!" She planted the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to stifle the broadening pitch of her sharp, suctioning cries. She promised rationality...And what a fine mess of that she was making! "Soon, even Elespeth will come traipsing along after you. She will refuse to stay behind without Alster, that pathetic wench! I cannot rely on her. And how could I expect Lysander, in his condition, to, to..." She was inaudible for the next few minutes, and near-inconsolable, lying, as she was, on the floor. She could hardly notice nor tell if Lilica joined her, or made any sort of contact. She only saw the tiles, the very same ones which soaked in her wine and blood a few nights ago. They were still stained, a muted pink against the china-white. An ugly blotch. An eyesore. No amount of scrubbing was able to erase the blight to which her eyes were now subject. It made her sob all the harder. 

"I can't do this alone. I can't. I can't! I cannot lead if there are none to follow! There will be no returning for you if he has his way! There will be nothing at all. Nothing." She flicked the word against her tongue, liking its rhythm, its cadence. There was something cathartic in its utterance, like a mantra of power. Except, it was not of power. It was of release. Of surrender. Ceding control. Strength. Responsibility. Nothing. She said it again. And again. It was so musical. Attractive. An escape route. Everyone else was escaping, anyway. Why shouldn't she? 

She made the mistake of returning her gaze to the floor. She screamed and smacked her hand against it. "I want to burn this floor, Lilica! Oh gods. I want to burn this entire place down. The Serpent should have destroyed it all!" 

She gasped, then, and her sobs slowly subsided, shocked and subdued by the outburst. Nothing, she told herself. Just fall...into nothing.

The gold ban felt heavy on her finger; not in a way that made it uncomfortable, but insomuch as she would likely not forget its presence. She had hesitated to put it on, to wear it out in the open to make a statement, but when Alster declared that he wanted the world to know of his decision, she accepted its place on her ring finger. Her hands felt ill-suited to such a luxurious piece of jewelry, simple though it was. They were dirty and calloused, and she had unwittingly bitten her nails short under the stress she had been experiencing. But... it fit. Like it had been meant for her hand, all along, the same way it had been meant for his mother's, when she had been alive. A small smile touched her lips. "I am sorry that the hand that wears this is not as elegant as the jewelry that adorns it," she sighed, and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "But if this is the hand that you want it on, and if you are willing to accept that this might be the catalyst that causes your family to turn their back on you entirely... then I will wear it. Gladly, for the world to see."

Elespeth leaned in to Alster's kiss, and for a moment, her worries for the future subsided. It felt like the way they had been before; too in in love to care, especially with regard to other people and their opinions. It was perhaps the happiest she had seen Alster in a very long time. He was so sure of himself and full of hope... it made her heart swell with comfort and pride. But, simultaneously, it broke her heart all the more knowing that he would leave. At least the promise he had made--this oath in the form of a ring, as binding as any ritual--would guarantee his return. That is... if it was within his power to return. "I believe I have already divulged to you my thoughts on marrying just for the hell of it." She mentioned, chuckling soft and low in her chest. "I never thought I'd be the type of woman to wear a ring. And yet, here I am. Do not think I take it lightly. I want our futures to coincide... I want this. In fact, I cannot recall ever being so sure of something, Alster."

Though it did lift her spirits to hear news of Haraldur and Vega have survived, and found one another, it was still only hearsay. But it was sweet, nonetheless, how desperately he was trying to reassure her that she had allies, here in Stella D'Mare. If only she could take it to heart; but, sadly, the warrior knew better. "Perhaps I'll take to Lysander. But he is no less a Rigas--no offense intended, of course. I highly doubt that he thinks much more of my usefulness than Chara. I really don't know how I can be of help, here. And if you think I am going to spend my time picking up garbage and debris while I await your return, Alster, then please may it be known that even I have my limits." A small smile cracked at the corner of her mouth, but it was humorless. "Though I guarantee that is precisely what your adoring cousin will put me up to. I am little more than garbage to her, myself. I am not sure how you think I will make a difference. But if offering my friendship to her in earnest will appease you--then I will do so, so that at least when you return, I can tell you in all honesty that I tried."

Carefully, so as not to upset his intricate new arm, Elespeth wove her fingers through the metal replica of his had that had been eaten away by his magic. It was smooth to the touch, and, surprisingly, warm. Not malleable and soft as flesh, but warm, with a life of its own to it. Every day, it really was becoming more an extension of him, and less a tool or accessory. "Regardless, I appreciate your optimism about everything. Even if you're faking it--which I suspect you are." She raised her eyebrows, and leaned in to steal another kiss. "But if you think for a moment that this ring and this promise absolves you of my anger, then you are wrong. If this city is still standing by the time you return, and if I myself have not been exiled, then you are sure as hell going to make up the lost time to me, Alster Rigas."

Reigning in her anger in favor of rationality appeared to be taking its toll on the Rigas caster. Lilica struggled not to wince at the pain when Chara bound the bandages too tightly around her injured hand, though she could not hold back the sight of relief when Chara loosened the binding, allowing blood to once again circulate to her purple fingers. They tingled as sensation began to build in them once again. "He is a monster. I have no doubt." She agreed with a consoling tone. Chara appeared to be on the brink of breaking, that much was obvious from her demeanor, the stiffness of her shoulders and uneven cadence of her voice. It caused a good deal of hindsight and regret, having informed her of the recent additions to their party. "But a rule like his will not endure. History has confirmed that over and over. He is slowly alienating everyone who could possibly help him or lend him power, and he will soon learn that he cannot have the results that he wants and rebuild the city at the same time. That is why Adalfieri put you in power, Chara. He might have been a scheming, miserable old man, but he knows this city and what it needs... and you are what it needs."

Much though she would have liked to, the chthonic caster refrained from following Chara as she left to replace to wash basin and the cloths, hoping that allowing her a moment of space would be enough for her to collect herself. Lilica held her breath, listening, watching, waiting, and then, sure enough, Chara broke. Sobs wracked her body, and she fell to the floor, flinging accusations and despair in Lilica's direction. The dark mage considered for a moment, then heaved a sigh, before she made her way over to wreck of a woman on the floor. "I'm sorry," she told her, kneeling on the tile next to Chara's wretched form. "I know that this is a lot of information--unfavorable information--but I want to be open and honest with you. The truth is what you deserve, Chara, as unpleasant as it might be. I'm... I don't have the will or the energy to hide things from you. Not anymore."

Taking Chara by her arms, she pulled her upright, frowning at the red mark on her head from striking the floor. "Get a hold of yourself--is this how Adalfieri would expect you to act? To give up so easily?" There was an edge to her voice, but not an unkind one. Someone needed to slap Chara out of this stupid, drag her out of this pit of defeat. And that person would have to be Lilica. She would not leave until she knew that Chara was stable and safe--for her own sake, if nothing else. "Alster and Tivia are accompanying me, yes, but that is all. I will not permit the company of the Atvanian warrior; I have already told Alster, as much. No doubt he is dealing with that very damage control of his own." Based on the air about Elespeth when she had last run into her, Alster hadn't been doing any better a job than she was with Chara. It was never easy, convincing the one you love that you must leave, and that they could not follow. "If you are convinced that everyone you cherish is leaving you, then perhaps consider working with Elespeth. You might have your differences, but she shares your state of mind; the only difference is, she has less power. She is at her own wits end trying to reconcile the fact that she will be left alone, here, and friendless. This could be an opportunity for you to secure a very powerful ally. After all, she has proven to have her uses, hasn't she?"

When Chara had collected herself (as much as the woman possibly could), Lilica helped her back to her feet, grabbing a clean cloth to dab the wetness around her eyes. "She might not have magic, but her body has proven to be an adaptable conduit for it, if the need arises. And Cyprian has not deemed her threatening enough to exile... frankly, you could use her to keep an eye on Mollengard. I think we both suspect that their intentions here can in no way be entirely altruistic..." She had had a bad feeling about the presence of the warring nation ever since they had arrived--and frankly, she loathed to leave Stella D'Mare, with the possibility that when she returned, it would have become but another branch of Mollengard's extended control. Concern swam in your eyes. "To hell with Cyprian, Chara. Let him be his own downfall. You are in the presence of a nation of conquest, and you cannot show weakness, or they might seize the opportunity to pounce. That should be your concern. Do what you are doing to quietly rebuild, and let the warrior be your envoy between the Rigases and Mollengard. She is a fighter; as a result, they may extend their respect and trust to her. You are not alone, and you can play this in your favor. And when I return, I will help you clean up the mess. That is my promise to you."

When she returned... not if, but when. A promise that she had no intention to break. Not merely an option or a possibility, it was a given. "If you'll wait for me... I'll come back to you."

With a brisk shake of his head, Alster lifted Elespeth's hand and rotated it in observance. He noted the rough-hewn edges of her calluses, the little nubs for nails, the streaks of dirt, and the scar tissue that spotted the skin in flecks of pink and alabaster, like bits of mica in granite. "This is the hand that saved my life. One of two hands. It's the hand that's held a sword as it defended me. The hand offered to me as I fell, the hand determined to lift me high. It's the hand that held me steady on the worst days and on the best days. The hand that has worked and toiled tirelessly for everything gained in life. I speak no falsehood, Elespeth. You have the most elegant, beautiful hands out of anyone else I've met, and that ring deserves no finger nobler than the one on which it sits." He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. Kissed her knuckles. Kissed the ring.

He soon traded her hand for her lips and they again met each other face to face. He closed his eyes, and told himself to remember everything about this moment. The way their mouths slotted into each other, the erratic, yet oddly rhythmic bellows of air that whistled in and out of her nose, the heat that she generated, more inviting than any fire, and even the way she smelled--though he knew she might have been self-conscious about her sweat-soaked body. He captured everything that his senses would allow, but they had their limits, and memory, when reliving this moment, would always degenerate, on and on until he remembered little more than the memory itself, half-formed and inaccurate. But it was what his heart felt that was important, never mind the details. And his heart was not as quick to forget. 

Yes, he had forgotten much since he was compelled to sleep, and live in a dream utopia, which rewired and overwrote some key years of his life. And when that dream was vanquished to set the foundation for something both he and Elespeth had created together, the remains of his utopia washed away. Even now, the muddied waters washed ashore, bringing with it the flotsam and jetsam of the forgotten. Slowly, memories collected, but he'd never again recover the entire whole of the story. Like the wreckage on the shore, it was all broken, mere pieces, warped and discolored and rusted shut. But Elespeth was not gone. She was not sea-detritus, smashed on the rocks and left for discovery. She was the lighthouse, a beacon that guided his path in times of darkness. And it was frequently dark, frequently stormy. It was in her that he found his safe harbor. And if he could summon this fragment of their union during his long journey away, it would act as his compass. He'd never be lost, and he would always find his way home, to her. 

He pulled away from her, and tears glittered in his happy eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, with a self-conscious sniff. He wiped away the tears with his sleeve. I'm...it's been rough, for me. ...For both of us. And you don't know...how much I needed this right now, Elespeth. Thank you." 

Setting aside his over-sentimental reaction, he lent an ear to her continued doubts about her usefulness in Stella D'Mare. He nodded, and actually considered what role she could play. "Start with what you're good at. And no, I'm not suggesting hauling trash. Though," he put a finger to his chin in consideration, "is it so bad to aid in building homes for displaced families? Mollengard can certainly use a hand, and you have the stamina for the task. And perhaps this display of strength will endear you to Mollengard. They respect hard work, and don't discriminate based on gender. And," he lowered his voice, in case Atli was nearby, "they are worth keeping an eye on. I don't trust their motives--even if they helped to give me this arm." 

As if on cue, it...reacted. Elespeth's touch seemed to awaken its potential, and the mechanism whirred to life. Magic flowed through the metal casings, and he felt the vibration of energy. A radiating warmth. Slowly, each metal digit lowered, meeting with the back of Elespeth's hand. He smiled at the sight. "It likes you," he chuckled. "I don't know how I'm going to replicate that on the road, without you." After her quick kiss, he manipulated the hand to slide from her fingers and plant itself against her palm, scar to scar. It looked bizarre, to see a simulacrum of a hand, a steel contraption with ball joints and ridges and plates that resembled an armored gauntlet, interact with skin and flesh and bone. With something real and pulsing. And for a moment, he felt like less of a person, and more of a tool. Of hard, unforgiving metal. A machine. He shook away those morose thoughts and concentrated on how the hands still seemed to align, to fit, to belong. Somehow, they matched each other: star to star. 

"You may do whatever you'd like with me when I return, I give you my word," he said, punctuating his words with a nod. "But," his smile turned coy, "we do have some time before I leave...if you'd like to follow through on some of that anger. It might not be...as exciting," he admitted, citing his mobility issues, "but I assure you, I'm not as fragile as I look." 

Chara did not struggle when Lilica hauled her to her feet. Instead, she stiffened like a rag doll, and fell against the dark mage with almost her full weight. It felt nice, for someone to support her, for once. While her sobs had deteriorated, her body still shuddered from its aftereffects. Her mouth remained open, taking in deep, rejuvenating breaths in lieu of her nose, which was stopped up with mucus and in a constant state of sniffling. And while the dark mage fussed with her head, she stared at the other woman blankly, not quite comprehending any pain other than that which landed her on the floor in the first place. 

A post-cry high began to settle over her. There was a numbness, but with it came bleary-eyed clarity. Nothing had changed, no, but it all felt so far away. So...inconsequential, from behind the lens of compassion fatigue. But, events were still circling past her ability to grasp, Lilica was scheduled to depart in mere days, and many of her allies would be driven out of the city. It was easy to cling to pity, to fall apart in a safe environment, so that she would not fall apart when and where it mattered: with eyes all around her, watching. But she also realized that she could not make a habit out of despairing with a gusto that threw her to the floor like some spoiled child having a tantrum. It was beneath her to act so impudently, and in front of a woman who respected her, no less! Whether Lilica continued to respect her was another story, but she did not want to divine the result. 

"That was untoward of me," she muttered. With a more revitalizing intake of breath, she transferred her weight off the mage and began to walk on her own, back to the couch--but not before swiping an extra clean cloth off the dining table. She dried her eyes and cleaned her nose, but so far said nothing to Lilica. The inevitability of her departure continued to sting, and her feelings towards the other woman remained...complicated. Still reeling from her almost-suicide, and now this sudden, mysterious venture...even a person who was not a walking representative of stress would react to events in a less than rational way. 

"...Are we seriously discussing Elespeth's use to me?" It was as if she awakened from her fugue only now, to find that they were treading some unexpected territory. Lilica was advocating for the Atvanian warrior, a woman only as useful as her association with Alster? "A sword-slinger, whose greatest contribution to this war was as Alster's minder, and a battery for his magic? And what could she possibly do on her own?" She leaned her chin into her hands, feeling a bone-weariness wash over her. Sobbing on the floor for so long did nothing to revitalize her energy, and Lilica's presence had only contributed to her draining life-blood. 

"We are assuming, of course, that she will be able to function once Alster departs. And if she can, I doubt she will reach out to me. It is obvious that we do not fancy each other. I will give you this, though," she sighed as she half leaned, half slid against the couch. "Cyprian can have the council. He can have the power. It can corrupt him and undo him until there is nothing left for anyone to salvage. It is far better for me to focus on protecting my city, and not fighting toe-to-toe with him on an already skewed battlefield. So...you are right. I will focus my attentions on Mollengard...with my very limited resources." She still shuddered to think of Elespeth's credentials. They seemed so incidental, so unassuming. And perhaps...that would make her the perfect spy. 

"Maybe Lysander can train her on the finer art of stealth and information-gathering," she conceded, with a shrug. "And as for you..." She looked askance at the dark mage. "I'd ask you to stay, here, tonight, but I am far from pleasant company right now. I will only fall asleep and drool on your lap. But," she gnawed at her lip, worry drifting through the filter of her apathy, "who is to say you will like what you see once you return? This place may be more grotesque than what you originally left behind. And I," she laughed, a dark, foreboding rattle, "will fare none the better."

"Are you just saying this to ingratiate yourself to me?" Elespeth teased, but was no less moved by his own personal appraisal of her wartorn hands. No one had ever cast her in such a light, before. To many, she was like an old, chipped, china mug; well worn and used, and no longer beautiful for it. But to Alster, it was just the opposite: she was made more beautiful by everything that had tried to kill her, yet did no succeed. Her scars and cuts and calluses were not imperfections, but embellishments. The Atvanian warrior had never felt beautiful before she had met Alster. "Because although you do a very good job of it... I am still angry with you, Alster. I am angry with the situation that you have been dragged into, and I am angry for how it will steer the both of us onto paths that do not coincide. So you had damn well better return to me, do you understand? I will not live my life dreaming of you. I will live it in your presence... or I will not live it at all. And that, is my decision."

It was difficult to be angry when he was kissing her, though. When they were wrapped up in a moment that was only about the two of them, and no one else, as if nothing else mattered or existed. When his face was wet with rogue tears that weighed on her heart and threatened to crush it. Pulling away, she sighed, and wiped his tears with the corner of her sleeve. "None of that. It makes it too difficult to be properly angry with you," she chided him, shaking her head. "You're still standing, Alster. We both are, and we cannot let what has happened... we can't let what we've been through catch up to us and ruin the potential for better things. Look at you: you have an arm, again, one that seems to function just fine, in an experimental surgery that could otherwise have gone wrong. Things are looking up. They will eventually work out in everyone's favor, of that I am sure. I have no magic; and I cannot divine the stars like Tivia, but I have always been advised to trust my gut feeling. And right now, my gut feeling is telling me that everything will be okay... even if, right now, events are not favorable."

He was trying so hard to convince her that she was wrong about her standing in Stella D'Mare. He wanted so badly to give her a purpose and make her feel that the inevitability of her remaining in the city while he left had its merits. Truth be told, she wanted to roll her eyes at him. She was not some child to be placated by being kept busy, and frankly her purpose seemed to crop up wherever it was that Alster went. With him gone... perhaps there was little more purpose here than for her to do as he said, and pick up the broken pieces of a city that didn't even really accept her. Grunt work; busy work. Something to keep her mind off of the fact that he was gone. "Of course. Rebuilding homes of privileged families who would otherwise want nothing more to do with me... that would be the noble thing to do." She snorted, and exhaled heavily through her nose. And his mention of Mollengard almost made her want to groan. "I should 'endear' myself to Mollengard... The conquering nation. Really."
But then... it began to make sense, especially as he further unpacked the meaning behind his suggestion. Elespeth hadn't trusted Mollengard for so much as a moment; she had learned too much about the nation during her time in Atvany, which had loosely allied with the conquering nation eons ago. Perhaps what endeared them to each other was their favor in punishing those they deemed treacherous... Even if they were innocent. Like her. Like... Farrin.

"All right... all right. You win. You've found the niche." The former knight sighed. "I don't trust Mollengard, either; I never have. It should say enough that they have allied themselves with Atvany." She shook her head and scratched the back of her neck. "If a spy is what you need, then a spy is what you will get. I'll see what I can do to find out what they are really planning." And take care not to let my Atvanian roots show, she silently added. Nothing good could come of them learning that she hailed from Atvany.

She was about to urge him to rest, for now, and bid him goodnight, when suddenly the Rigas caster's smile turned coy and suggestive. "Do you mean..." Elespeth raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Here? Now? Are you really in any... condition to be considering that, Alster?" But... she did like the idea of releasing some of that pent-up anger; or at least making his decision to leave more difficult. Pausing after but a moment, the Atvanian warrior stood. Slipping her sheath off of her back, she set it on the floor, and slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned her tunic. She shrugged the garment from her shoulders, the chill in the air tightening her skin and causing the tips of her nipples to stand pert, and she reached for her belt, unlatching it... and then pausing. "Maybe, though... maybe I should just stop here." She flipped her braid over her shoulder and placed her hands firmly on her hips. "Just to give you an idea of what you are walking away, from--and what you will be missing." She stood, tantalizingly, just a fraction of an inch from his reach from where he sat on his cot. "Or... just to give you an idea of what is waiting for you. When you come back."

"Yes, Chara. I know; it is ludicrous. But..." Lilica heaved a heavy sigh and raked her hands through her hair. "Indeed, I am vouching for the Atvanian warrior. I don't know... perhaps a part of me still feels guilty for almost killing her." She shrugged her small shoulders. "But it only makes sense to me that if the both of you are in a similar position, then now might be the time to put your differences aside and finally call a truce. She is Alster's lover, and she is not going anywhere, anytime soon. I think it would do you both well to work out your issues and accept one another as a fixture of sorts in their life." 

Spending so much time alone, as she had, the time leading up to her departure had provided Lilica with time to think. And, in spite of her own lack of sleep and the nightmares that continued to plague her when she was not meeting with her father in her dreams, the dark mage had developed fairly sound ideas to facilitate taking her leave from Stella D'Mare, whilst ensuring that Chara--among others, but primarily, Chara--would be all right. And it had occurred to her that allying herself with the Atvanian warrior might not be such a bad idea--in theory. The truth was, they could either be one another's greatest ally, and company, during a trying time where they were parted from the ones that loved. Or, alternately, they would drive one another thoroughly insane. But Chara had already teetered on that brink, and really, there was little else left to lose.

"Chara, I won't stay here if I'm not welcome. I know... you're upset with me. Perhaps you would use a stronger word, but that is what I shall call it, for now." She looked the Rigas woman over, from her blood-shot eyes to her tear-strewn cheeks, the tangle of her blonde locks as they fought among one another her her harried state. She was a wreck; and Lilica might not have been the sole cause, but she knew that she played a large part in it. "But, if I'm being frank, I am hesitant to leave you tonight if no one else is here. You're overburdened, and... acting irrationally. As much as I know you are trying to act otherwise."

She took a step back, to give her space, but she did not leave. And a strong, stubborn feeling inside of the dark mage told her that she wouldn't leave. Not until--or unless--Chara ordered her to do so. In which case, she would not resist. "I know I have no right, asking you to convince me you're okay." She sighed at last, her shoulders slumping. "I don't like that my decision is impacting you so negatively... It is inevitable, but I don't like it. Especially when it has fallen so closely in step with previous decisions of mine that have left you shaken. And if you don't want me here, then say the word, and I'll be gone... but only if you can give me the name of someone else who I can send here in my stead." Her face softened. "It doesn't have to be me, Chara. But unless you can look me in the eye and declare that you are emotionally sound, right now, I do not want to leave you alone..."

When Elespeth brought attention to his tears, rubbing away the remnants with her sleeves, he sighed her affirmations. Although hers were hopeful sentiments, a certain gravitas returned to his voice. "I'm glad to see that you are looking with positive eyes towards the future, Elespeth. It's easier for me to view it as the same. Besides...I'm tired of seeing the coming days, the coming years, as nothing but a repeat of disaster, an endless cycle of suffering and regret. I'm done with that mode of thinking. At least," he scratched the back of his ear sheepishly, "I want to be done with it. And that's why I gave you that ring. I want to pave for us a future full of good tidings. Of better memories to come, which we will create, together. Everything will be okay," he affirmed with a nod, "because we will make it okay."

He shifted in his sheets, peeling them off a body that was gradually warming from the fire inside the tent, and from Elespeth's own radiating aura. Whether it was excess energy sloughing from her long hours of sword training, or from her consistent indignation regarding upcoming events, he felt the chill in his veins abate. Layers were no longer necessary. "I know you would love to paint Stella D'Mare in one color here, Elespeth, but the truth is that this is not a city exclusive to the obscenely rich, and it's not entirely populated by Rigases--much as it seems so to you. You've spent the bulk of your time inside the gates of this estate, but you haven't seen the city in its entirety." 

He closed his eyes, sinking into a memory of the gleaming capital in its heyday. A place of gardens, manicured trees, jewels, colored rooftops, and gilt-terraces. But--also a place of slums. Slapdash walls, broken walkways, houses leaning on each other for support, and people seeking shelter in narrow, fetid alleyways. "We also house a sizable population of the less fortunate. When the Serpent," he flinched, the memory behind his eyelids growing more vivid, "...when I awakened It, those fifty years ago, an earthquake shook the city. The hardest hit area was the ghetto in the north of town. They suffered most casualties...and it was all due to this nobleman's folly." He pointed to himself. "Over one hundred people died that day. And so many more have died now. Most of whom you see here in the city, aside from Rigases, are those people, Elespeth. Those who did not have the means to escape. They are here, intermingling with the privileged, who, yes, have also lost their homes, their livelihood, loved ones near and dear to them. There is not a soul here in Stella D'Mare who hasn't experienced loss of some sort. In this, we're all equal, all deserving of aid." He half-opened his eyes, but kept them averted, watching the wrinkles of his blanket form cracks and fissures in the fabric. He felt the vibrations. The tremors. 

"That's why I surrendered my home: to do what little I could. I'd gladly do more for them. I would build them new shelters, clear this city of debris, provide healing, or whatever magic may hope to make a difference here. But I'm compromised, bedridden, sick...exiled. I'm not asking you to care about these people, Elespeth. Just to understand. This is not damning work. And the Rigases are not Stella D'Mare. This city is so much more than vapid opulence and cruel excess. Stella D'Mare was a home. Is still a home, to the people who haven't yet given up on this smashed, crumbled ruin." He ran a hand through his hair, combing back the tangles that had accumulated from making his home a bed for the last several days. Once done preoccupying himself with the task, he looked with apology at Elespeth, realizing he went on too long with his call to action and entreaty. 

"Mollengard may be a conquering nation, but they are contributing more to restoration than the Rigases. But I know this is not an altruistic maneuver for them. They seem to want to accrue a debt from us. Something to lord over our heads. A reason to turn their swords on us. It's a shame we can't glean any insights from Haraldur, himself." He transferred his hand to rest on his chin, having grown tired of fussing with his hair. "I don't know if he's told you, but he was once of Mollengard, a Forbanne soldier. Pray you never face one in battle. They are berserkers on the field, but also possessed of a lethal, calculating grace. I have reason to believe many of the soldiers here in Stella D'Mare are Forbanne. Be careful, El. While I'm away, you must also do well to protect yourself, here. For my own peace of mind. It goes both ways." 

It didn't take long for Elespeth to respond to his not-so-subtle suggestion. Of course, she, as a courtesy, asked the requisite questions pertaining to his health, but not a moment later, she was shedding her tunic with a haste that belied her staunch refusal to expose more than her breasts. He stared at them, nonetheless, wishing them, willing them closer, but whenever he edged along the cot in pursuit, she dangled them just out of reach. He gave an exaggerated groan, though the frustration expressed in that groan was real. But, he supposed, he had mentioned his willingness to take whatever punishments she deemed fit. With a resigned nod, he looked to her, and smiled disarmingly. 

"I'm just grateful for what you've decided to show me, El. I'll take the image of your breasts with me, and cherish them during my long, lonely nights." He said, making certain to keep his expression sincere and innocent. Ingratiating, as was her earlier claim. "But are you sure you don't want anything from me?" At that, he lifted his left hand, and sent a small shock of electricity towards her, towards her nipples. They sparked and popped, transferring a sharp, playful, stimulating current between the two points. 

"I've already accepted her." Chara massaged her shoulders against the couch cushions, trying to encase herself within its soft embrace. Movement alone, however incremental, was enough to keep her awake long enough to engage the dark mage in what precious little chatter they could generate for each other. A strangeness floated in the air between them. It collided with unfamiliarity, rumbled with disquiet. It was not so much an unprovoked sensation, or even a surprising one. Even if Chara could look beyond events that preceded Stella D'Mare's destruction, she would find herself at the estate, alienated from Lilica by a locked door and Adalfieri's wishes. In truth, they scarcely spent any time together during the last several months. And now, once they broke down literal barriers and those of certain death, yet another obstacle planted itself in their way. What then, was the point of sustaining their relationship? Was there any salvaging it when it was built upon constant separation? One in which she couldn't even reconcile as being for unselfish, unadulterated reasons--at least on her end? 

"I've accepted her," she continued, realizing she drifted into space for a few minutes, fighting against the compulsion to sleep. "She is an admirable fit for Alster. She keeps him alive, and reins in his martyr-like obsessions and attempts to curb his impulsiveness. But do not mistake my acceptance for camaraderie. I'd rather not waste time sharing words with her, for she is dull, simple, uninspiring, and elicits in me little hope for her capabilities outside of fighting. I shall give her a chance--out of lack of other options. Perhaps she will surprise me."

She dismissed the entire subject with a hand wave, that looked as though she were conducting an invisible symphony--or directing someone to the gallows. With the hand still suspended, she stared up at it, needing a focal point that was innocuous. Non-threatening. One that didn't have deep, dark, soulful eyes, or a presence as encompassing as a void. She'd fall forever if she looked at her, now. 

But then, she did. She tracked the dark mage's movements, and found those sonorous eyes. She felt the darkness envelop her like a cold but soft blanket. "As I have said...I am not pleasant company, and none would be fit to act as sentinel over my soon to be unconscious body. And although..." her words drifted, slurred, "although I am cross with you, and I do not know what I feel when I look at you, or if any of the feelings are good ones, I...." In surrender, she closed her eyes, and nodded to the empty spot beside her. "I...want you to stay. If you are to be gone, with no guarantee of return other than a paper-thin promise that I could rip apart with my teeth...I might as well accept you here, too. Like Elespeth," she yawned, "you are accepted. But unlike her...you are far from simple. On the contrary...your complexity tires me so, Lilica." Already, she was half-asleep, "So tiring..."

It was true, she quietly conceded, that she had only experienced a fraction of the grand city that was Stella D'Mare--and she should have known better to think that its demographic consisted only of the rich and privileged. The cities in her own home of Atvany were very similar, in fact; many liked to present themselves as well put-together areas of dwelling, with large, lush houses and a rich aesthetic, when in fact there were many who continued to live in poverty. The difference was, it was not often that you saw these people, for many of them worked for the rich, who preferred to keep them hidden. Even she had only ever experienced a handful of encounters with those born of less fortunate status than her, but she had never doubted their existence.
So... why doubt the existence of those people, here, in Stella D'Mare?

It did cast a bit of a different light on her motivation to help rebuild the city. There were those without homes who could not afford to rebuild them... And Mollengard's efforts were not to be trusted. Not for a moment. It was true,that no amount of busy work would truly keep her mind off of Alster, or keep her heart from missing him. But it would still give her a sense of purpose when everything else felt so futile. Of course, she kept those thoughts to herself, for the sake of the anger and betrayal that she continued to feel towards the man who was leaving her for a cause that wasn't his own. Because that anger was all she had left to cling to, lest she lapse into sadness and despair, undoing anything and everything that could possibly make her useful.

Though Alster, in all of his cunning, seemed dead-set on changing her mind about her anger.

That strong-willed part of her mind almost had the resolve to walk away, just then. To leave him with the image of her half-naked body in his mind, and make him spend the extent of his journey in want and in regret for exactly what he was missing, because she did not want to be the only one of them who was left behind to hurt. But the Rigas caster had curious tricks of his sleeve--figuratively and literally. 
The electricity stemming from his fingertips didn't hurt her, not really, but it did leave her startled. On reflex, Elespeth gasped and jumped, and rapidly folded her hands over to chest, having far from expected him to perform a trick like that. "What in all creation, Alster." She hissed. "Where did you think up that?"

The worst part was, she didn't hate it. In fact, for lack of a better word, the sensation was... thrilling. It awakened every nerve ending in the sensitive tips of her breasts, leaving them feeling warm and buzzing, like a caress or a warm vibration. And it awakened that part of her--that stubborn, needful part of her--that made her want more. And it made her wonder how that subtle electric touch would feel on other sensitive areas.
Of course, this only made her angrier. That he could make her want him so badly, when her mind was dead-set on walking away and leaving him in want, as punishment for his decision to leave the city without her... 

Pressing her lips together, the Atvanian warrior let that anger fuel her passion, and she all but threw herself at the Rigas caster, pulling him into a hungry kiss as she pressed her body tightly against his. "Fine, Alster. You want this little victory? You can have it." With haste, she helped him work out of his tunic, taking care not to upset his prosthetic arm in the process. "But... you had damn well better make me feel good in the interim."

Slipping her belt off of her hips, the Atvanian warrior stepped out of her trousers, leaving them in a heap on the ground with her tunic, before she carefully climbed atop the Rigas caster and straddled his waist. "Is this what you've been doing in your spare time? Thinking up these tricks? And you're only inclined to share them with me, now?" She wrinkled her nose, but pulled him in for another kiss. "You are an enormous pain in the ass, Alster Rigas. But somehow, I still love you for it."

"I have found," Lilica began, helping Chara back to the couch, where she wearily took a seat. "That when you allow people the opportunity to surprise you... often, they will, and often for the better. I have no real reason to advocate for Alster's warrior, Chara; I have no relationship with her, beyond having attempted to kill her, some time ago." She shrugged her shoulders. "But she has come through for us. She has come through for Alster. Don't befriend her, if that is not your desire, but do try to work with her. Ultimately, working with people is far easier than trying to work against them."

Something warm eased the pain in her heart as Chara, however much it was in her own defeat, invited Lilica to stay. Perhaps there was a part of her that still clung to what they had--or at least, what they used to have, between them. A feeling that Lilica could not forget, even if almost every event surrounding it was now little more than a foggy array of colors, sights, and sounds in her mixed-up memory. And that... that was what hurt most of all. Knowing that when she left, the only true memory of her happiness that she would carry with her was that of Chara. And even if there was time and opportunity for the two of them to relive any of those lost memories, she doubted the Rigas woman whose heart she had broken would be willing to fall back into those old patterns. Sharing space with her... this was as good as Lilica would get.

Noticing that Chara was nodding off, and quickly, she took her by the arm and urged her to stand. "Don't fall asleep here when you have a bed where you can rest," she suggested, helping her to her feet. "Take advantage of that. Most are making due with cots; don't shy away from what you've got." With a considerable amount of coaxing, she managed to help Chara into her bed, where the Rigas woman fell asleep almost instantly. And it took every ounce of willpower that Lilica had not to stay there with her. Not for the opportunity to sleep in a bed, but for the chance to be close to her one more time, before it was time for her to leave. She wanted to... but she couldn't. Not without knowing if it was what Chara would truly want, and the unconscious woman had no way of conveying how close she wanted to keep her. So it was with a good deal of reluctance that she left the Rigas woman to sleep in her chambers, as she returned to the sofa in the adjacent room to lie down. When the chthonic caster slept, that night, she mercifully did not dream.

When Chara awoke the next day, groggily leaving her bedroom, she was greeted with the sight of a tray of food, breads and cheeses and fruits, and the subtle smell of invigorating essential oils. Lilica was nowhere in sight, until the door of the villa opened, and in came the dark mage, carrying a pitcher of crystalline water and a smaller tray of sweet pastries. When she looked up, she offered a small smile and set the remainder of the food items down on the small table across from the sofa. "I figured you might be hungry after having such a rough night." She ventured to explain. She decided not to go into detail about how she had had to put together the tray entirely on her own, as not a single Rigas attendant would offer her any help. Not when she had officially been exiled. "There is also a hot bath waiting for you, if you feel inclined. I know the extent of how emotional and mental turmoil can take its toll on your nerves."

Understandably, Chara hesitated, clearly not having expected any of this from the chthonic caster. To allay her shock, Lilica sighed and ventured to explain. "I'm not trying to superficially ingratiate myself to you, Chara. I'm not trying to sway whatever opinion of me you might have. I know I've hurt you, and I accept that things cannot be the same between us. I just..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "I did not want to leave on a negative note."
And... I wanted a good memory. Just one, to carry with me.

A deviant smirk lifted one corner of his face. Subdued in form, for he wanted to downplay his little trick of magic and its effect on Elespeth, it reflected a playfulness that cast motes of light in his blue-green eyes. Which, at this particular moment, were more green than blue. "There are dark corners of the library, Elespeth, that often go unexplored. But if one knows where to look...well, let's just say I've done a lot of reading these past few days. Of all sorts." 

Idly, he juggled little bolts of lightning from fingertip to fingertip, watching them arc and fork in jerking flashes. He pretended not to notice Elespeth's expression or change in posture, which had opened to him and his...cantrips. Before, he worried she would react little to what he hoped was an enticing offer, and hadn't wanted to see her scoop up her tunic and leave in anger. It was easier to watch the wires of light flick across his hand, each tiny bolt a wish for her to stay. Stay, Elespeth. Stay. While their conversation, her proximity, and acceptance of his proposal had mollified him, even cheered him to levels he hadn't thought capable of reaching, he feared that her departure would nullify his favorable mood. Alone, at the mercy of the slithering inside his head which hungrily swallowed the outpouring of his excess magic, leaving him wondering if it was madness or reality manifest...

It was too early to lose grip on himself. 

But he should have known not to worry. He chanced a peripheral peek at her, and saw the quiet before the inevitable fall of torrential rain. Her body shivered, as if the electricity was running rampant from inside. Her lips pursed, her jaw clenched, her eyes dilated...

And she pounced. 

He hid his flinch of pain from the solid attack. It slammed into his stomach and kicked at the attachment of skin and steel of his arm--but he didn't care. Eagerly, he accepted her kiss, fighting back with equal ferocity as he felt his clothing slide off his body. He wormed his way out of the sleeves, and with his left hand, worked on undoing his belt and trousers. 

"Well...I needed to find reasons...for you...to still want me." He flashed her a pathetic smile. "Something to help soothe your ass pain. So...I got creative." 

Now that his trousers were off, the two of them met, naked, her on top, and him pressed against the cot. He met her lips a second time, and when he did, he fed her that same vibration of electricity. It buzzed against their open mouths, a weak but invigorating pulse. As he pulled her close, his prosthetic arm also reached forward, entrapping her in its steel embrace. Free now to roam, his left hand traveled down her shoulders and torso, anchoring at the point past her navel. It perched, and waited, and...when the time felt right, it delivered her a shock. 

Chara spent a tumultuous night battling her sheets, battling the spectres that bloomed behind her eyelids. They all lined up in formation: the council, shoulder to shoulder, with Cyprian helming the charge. Behind him, a moving landscape. Thick stalks of grain tipped with sharp steel: a collective with feet. They marched as one, featureless in face, but people, nonetheless. Soldiers. Mollengard. Cyprian pointed a condemning hand at her: it burned with blue-white flames of etherea. She clenched her fists, but they crumbled, forming innocuous little ant hills at her feet. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words turned into wind, harmlessly whisking past the ears of all. She tried to walk, but her legs washed away in the ocean foam. Cyprian laughed. The army charged forward. And all she could see in the distance was a shadow, which flickered...and was gone.

Lilica. 

She jostled herself awake, kicking the sheets off her bed, digging her nails into her palms, and thrumming curses on her lips and tongue--just to feel her control, however minuscule, return. Looking at the dusty morning light streaming into her window, she realized she was alone. Had Lilica...? Was she...? 

Chara landed hard on the tiled floor and pounded out of her bedchambers, down the corridor, and into the main dining and living area. Her nostrils flared, taking in the aromatic smells of nuts, fruits, cheeses, of lavender and rose, almond, fresh cream, honey and mint. Before she could question her olfactory hallucination, her eyes confirmed what the nose detected. Sure enough, she saw a basket of bread beside a wedge of goat cheese, pine nuts and pistachios, dried figs and citrus...and turning, there was Lilica, carrying honey cakes and cream-stuffed pastries topped with almond slivers--her favorite. 

"What..." With faltered step, she closed the distance between herself and Lilica, head cocking at a severe angle. "I do not..." She cleared her throat, testing out the most favorable tone of voice that would express her befuddlement. "Explain. Please." 

And explain she did, though it did not make the whole scene any less incongruous. With a sigh, she drifted back towards the hallway. "Let me...I shall go take that hot bath now. I will return." 

Once in the washroom, she stripped naked and submerged herself in the steaming waters of the bath. After acclimating to the temperature, she dunked her head beneath the surface, soaking her hair and feeling a pinkness return to her pale cheeks. The tub was scented in perfumes of rose and bay leaves, which permeated throughout the vast space. Resting her head against the lip of the tub, Chara rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, Lilica," she bemoaned aloud, "why try, so? Why..."

She wanted to stay in the bath for the rest of the day. But as the water grew cold, she launched herself out of the tub and towel-dried herself before the vanity. As she did, she stared at her hair in the mirror. It was so stringy, lacking in volume and shape. It, a limp, dead thing, trailed down her back, offensive in its length. How did she allow herself so horrendous a look for so long? She blanched at herself in the mirror, sat before the vanity, and pulled a sharp pair of shears from the drawer. 

When she returned to the dining area, she was wearing a red vest atop a long-sleeved dress. Though it revealed little, it clung to her form like a second skin. Kohl lined her eyes, accentuated with dark, smokey shadows. The rouge sculpted her cheeks to a severe point, and her lips painted the scene of a massacre: red with blood and death. But the most noted change was her hair. Where it once hung down her back, it now curled at her shoulders, her fringe swept off the forehead and pinned with a jeweled barrette. Now that it was shorter, the waves cascaded more prominently, aggressively--like a storm destroying ships at sea. 

She sat down on the couch beside Lilica, where the food had been set and prepared. She took a slice of dried orange in a well-manicured hand, and nibbled at it with the cool, apathetic finesse of any practiced noble. 

"This was unnecessary, Lilica," she said, after finishing her slice. "Most of Stella D'Mare's food stores have been destroyed. All that remains is here, at the estate. Everything else has been provided by Mollengard. The effort does not go unrecognized, but," she drew away from the enticing tray, "this plate of food is best enjoyed by all, not just one. As is, I alone am occupying this villa, when Alster has already relinquished his own. Not that Cyprian or the council members have done the same," she muttered, hate filling her line-precise eyes. "But I endeavor to be better than them. And that is why I cannot accept this food. ...In full."

Not a beat later, she swiped the cream-filled almond pastry off the tray and bit into it with uncontained relish. She moaned with each bite, savoring the flavor like an old, edible friend. And when there was nothing left, she licked her fingers of the cream, instead of daintily drying her hands off the napkin. Gone was the finesse, the poise. None could possibly exist in the face of such delectable desire. 

"You...did not see that." Her eyebrows carved into her upper lids: a glare of warning. "Just how I shall not see you take that other almond one for yourself." One of those glaring eyebrows rose, taking on a position of challenge. She dared her to take the other pastry. Ordered her, even--by crossing her arms and refusing to talk until she did so.

Though bearing in mind Alster's relatively fragile state, Elespeth experienced a good deal of difficulty in reigning in her passion. It had felt like since long since they had lain together, ans like any typical human being, her desires had quietly been yearning for an outlet. But it had never been the right opportunity, nor the right time, or place, or occasion... In short, the proud warrior had grown almost timid in expressing herself intimately, or her intimate desires, for the mere fact that there was always some overarching threat or priority that overshadowed one's trivial human needs. But here and now, the usually-timid Alster Rigas had plainly teased her with the opportunity to delve back into simpler needs... 
And it came down to the fact that she simply couldn't resist her urges--or resist him, for that fact.

Ever a competent multi-tasker, the Atvanian warrior found no reason to pull away from their lingering kiss in order to help Alster shed his trousers. The feat was simple enough, her hands busying themselves with the task while she hungrily kissed him until they were both breathless. Skin to skin, now, she pressed her chest against his, and clutched his shoulders. The cool, curious sensation of his prosthetic arm against her warm skin sent a shiver through her body, but not an unpleasant one. "And why was I never informed about these dark corners of your library, hm?" She teased, gently catching his lower lip between her teeth. "Alster, I have never stopped wanting you. I just honestly figured that... that you had lost interest in... well, all of this. I mean, considering we have been combating one threat or another for eons, now... I did not want to bother you with my simple desires, is all." She planted kisses down his neck, and back upwards to his jaw and chin, before finding his lips again. "If I had suspected that you were as wanting as I was... then I sure as hell would not have waited for this invitation. Not that I don't appreciate it, of course."

She fell into another easy and enticing long kiss with him, quietly humming her pleasure as she felt his left hand travel down the length of her body, dipping further and further, until it came to rest on a particularly sensitive spot that jutted below her navel. And when she least expected it, just as she had become comfortable in their mutual tasks, his devious hand sent a shock through that small, yet intensely sensitive area. Understandably, she let out a gasp, and her body jerked, but not in pain. That quick, sharp, stimulating jolt resonated in her body, stirring a familiar warmth in her nether-regions. "Gods, Alster." She moaned quietly, her body relaxing once again. "Why do you choose now to show me your more creative side? When you are just preparing to leave?"

Pulling back ever so slightly, she moved one of her hands to meet his, where it rested so innocently yet so devilishly at that small apex between her legs. Her eyes were half-lidded and hungry; she wanted more. "I want to know what else you learned from those dark corners of the library." she purred in his ear. "Enlighten me."

Lilica did not realize she had been holding her breath until she felt it release through her nose. A part of her was certain that Chara would respond with anger; would chide her for her trite and futile efforts to mend the gap between them, and send her away. But instead... she took her leave to make use of the bath that the dark mage had drawn for her. Relief flooded her such that the chthonic caster had to take a seat. This was a good sign; that she wasn't refusing her favors meant that she couldn't possibly hate her as much as she had expected... And maybe, just maybe, something could be salvaged. While the Rigas woman bathed, Lilica took the time to arrange the foods she had brought so that they were piled atop the small table in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Not that she was anywhere near being an expert at culinary display, but she wanted to hit home that this was about more than just bringing her a good meal... I can't believe I've stooped to this, she thought miserably to herself, sitting back at last when she had finished. I'm about to leave Chara for an indeterminate amount of time... and I want her to notice my efforts.

Evidently, the efforts were going both ways.

It was impossible for Lilica to not notice the way she Chara presented herself when she emerged from her bath. Dressed in a flattering gown that hugged her body, with rouge accentuating her cheekbones, kohl lining her expressive eyes, and crimson on her lips, the Rigas woman looked positively dressed to kill.
And... who was to say she wasn't?

"Your hair..." The remark slipped back Lilica's lips before she realized she had said anything at all. So as to clarify that it was not a criticism, she followed with, "It's lovely. It really... it suits you. All of it does. It's very... you, Chara."

Watching as Chara sat down to eat, she nodded in understanding of her concern for all of the food before her. "I know. I realize that food is scarce and should not be dealt out in so cavalier a fashion, but... I just figured that this is something you deserved. You've done nothing but run yourself into the ground, trying to rebuild this city, Chara; you need to something nice for yourself. And I know that you wouldn't, so... I took the liberty to do so, instead."

At least it appeared that her efforts did not go unappreciated. The dark mage couldn't help but grin at the pleasure Chara took in the small handful of sweets that she had brought. "How is it that I am only now learning of your penchant for dainty pastries?" She chuckled, and did not resist when the blonde woman pushed one of the pastries into her hands, as well. It was certainly as delicious as it looked, but Lilica cared little for the taste of sweetness on her tongue. What moved her was the sight of Chara; regal and proud and exactly how she remembered her being. Even her hair, shorter though it was, drew attention to her strong shoulders, and framed her stern yet beautiful face. It warmed Lilica from the inside out: because this was the woman she had fallen in love with. 

"This is the you that you should show the world; the you that you should show your council." She couldn't help but remark, in between bites. "Powerful and bold and intolerant of nonsense. You wear it well." And in contrast, it made her pale all the more in comparison to Chara's beauty. Next to her, in her ratty sweater, with the sleeves rolled up to hide the bloodstains, and her own stringy black hair with her face ever devoid of color, she looked like the peasant that she was, next to Chara. And it reminded her of just how undeserving she really was to be in her company. "Though if you're trying to show me up... then you should know well you needn't even have to try to accomplish that." She chuckled. "It isn't as though I can hold a flame to your glamorous aesthetic, Chara."

Incredulity impelled Alster to delay the return of their mouth-to-mouth union. Though his hand was on its reconnaissance mission, surveying the mounds of her breasts and the ridges and valleys of her abdominal muscles, he scanned her eyes, and found that she was serious. "You think...I lost interest?" He laughed, an uproarious eruption that quivered his body with lightning energy: all jerks, all booms, all brilliance. "Since the day I tasted you for the first time, I've never lost interest. I've always wanted you, Elespeth, despite all circumstances that have prevented us from meeting again in the middle. I might not be all flesh and blood anymore," his steel arm seemed to throb in response, "but that doesn't mean I still don't have an appetite. Here." He nestled his nose in the crook of her neck, between her collarbones. "I'll express it to you, now."

That was when he delivered her the shock from down below. His fingers, still sparking with electricity, entered her, each exploration a spiral of tantalizing power. It sizzled, sending arrays of heat and vibration spreading from the point of origin, onward. He likened the electricity to the healing pulses he administered to patients at the infirmary, a technique he learned from Elias. He even remembered one of the first words the grumpy Clematis man uttered, in reference to him and Elespeth sharing the same bed: something akin to a "sexual healing." He almost laughed to himself at recalling such a insignificant, inconsequential memory, but it made sense. Perhaps they were engaging in a sexual healing. Or if not, it was definitely sexual. 

Something from which he was not expecting, throughout all the static-driven sojourns beneath the surface, was the response of his prosthetic arm. It remained as an anchoring point for him, slung around Elespeth's waist for the duration. But now, it too tingled, and heated to a pleasant temperature. I wonder if I could...

He closed his eyes a moment, and concentrated. Pictured the black steel shape, sleek and plated like armor. The moveable digits, pressed so slightly against Elespeth's pliable skin. He thought of the circuit of his body, of his magic, which also flowed through that dead lump of metal. I can make it alive...

A black, amorphous substance streamed out from beneath those steel fingers. They were harmless little wisps, but they all congealed together, darkening into shadow, and blocking the two of them out of view trapping them within an opaque, but vaporous and breathable cloud. 

"I didn't learn this one from the library," Alster said into the darkness. His fingers slowly exited Elespeth, the lightning glinting in the spaces between the cloud. "So you can't accuse me of hiding this one from you. Even though I've hid us from each other." He pressed a lightning-tinged hand on her chest, feeling her writhe before him. "Feel me on you, Elespeth," he whispered. "And let me feel you. We don't have to see each other to know that we're here, together." He found her there, in their own personal oblivion, and entered.

"Oh, quit with the flattery," she said, uncrossing her arms once Lilica had obliged in eating a pastry. She tugged at a section of hair, smoothing it into uniformity behind her ear, where it joined the ranks with the rest. "I didn't do it for you." Her voice rang out more harshly than she had wanted. As a distraction, she picked up another pastry, and fed it into her mouth. Red lipstick smeared against the sugared bread topping, riming the confection in a ring of pink. 

It was the truth, she debated with herself as she listened to the crunch slide against her teeth. She could not show weakness before the council, before Cyprian, before Mollengard. Even if she had to paint falsities across her face and reshape her hair, her very being, she'd fain sculpt away the cracks and imperfections. To look as impassive as marble. As unmoveable as earth. As cruel as Death's scythe. And as uncompromising as a wildfire in the dry season: only rain would cease its spread. But Lilica hadn't denied the reason for her physical transformation. She had only expressed her inadequacies in sharing a presence with her--a typical concern, and one that Chara, to no avail, had attempted to silence. 

She finished her second pastry with a little more restraint, electing to wipe her sugar and cream-encrusted fingers with the provided napkin. "As I have said," she drew a glass of the mint-infused water to her lips, "you saw nothing. Nor will you speak of it to anyone. I," she swished the water in the glass, staring at it intently, "I indulged in my love of pastries a little too liberally, as a child. So much so, that I was...portly." She wrinkled her nose at the word. "I could not shed the weight, so I took a few...extreme measures, to ensure that I did." She shrugged, as if it were a thing of the past, and no longer relevant. "Now, I partake only during special occasions. I assume we are calling this occasion special?" She tilted her head to one side, at Lilica. "Your departure...I suppose that it is." 

She drank the contents of the water as though it were wine from the bottle, and placed it with care on the counter. "Anyway," she coughed. Whether it was the water or the discomfort that lodged in her throat, she couldn't tell. "I tell you this...private matter," she muttered, "so that you can understand that I too was not always so glamorous. That I achieved this," she waved to herself, "by unhealthy means. And that you needn't worry that I am 'showing you up.' As I have said," she straightened her shoulders and twisted to face Lilica, "I did not paint myself and hack off my hair for you. Why would I, when you will not be around to bask in my company? That is a waste of my resources, Lilica."

[i[Maybe[/i], a little voice breached the cloud of pomp, obstinacy, and self-important bombast, maybe you did, Chara. Why would you not wait until after her departure? Why present your new self now, and allow Lilica to thirst upon it first? Because...

Yes. She wanted the reaction. The stare of those onyx eyes, widening with approval, darkening with regret for leaving at such an inopportune time, twitching with unbridled lust. She wanted a rise out of the dark mage. Approval. Longing. Something that would prove she was worth the attention. If it could not be achieved by her rotten personality alone, then perhaps her appearance would speak the truth in her place. 

"Come on," she stood from the couch and forced Lilica to her feet. "I'll grant you a boon. In exchange for...for what you have done here, however much it reeks of trying too hard." A tight, closed-mouth smile grew on her full lips. "But I cannot deny your attempts to win my favor, however hollow and unnecessary, since you still insist on this," she blurted like a curse, "voyage." She led the dark mage down the hallway, past her bedchambers, and to a door beside the bathing area. In opening it, she revealed a capacious closet, lined with outfits for every occasion. "I mean to donate this collection, anyway. But you may have first pick." She drifted down the aisle, and stopped before a section of more sensible outer-wear, including traveling ensembles and winter jackets. They were woolen and fur-lined--utilitarian. But there was a stylish flair in the way the bodice pinched and opened out, like flower petals. 

"Take as much as you would like. We are not quite the same body type, but they will fit you with a belt. And do not say you will make due with the monstrosity that you are wearing." She directed a fiery glare at her and the offending sweater in question. "If you are so adamant in returning to Stella D'Mare then you will properly dress for the journey. I shall not hear a complaint in edgewise."

Hearing Alster's confession, the spark in his eyes and the desire in his voice as he debunked her concerns regarding his attraction to her, made Elespeth almost giddy with relief. That he could toss out the idea of her concerns in so cavalier a fashion, as if it were the most ludicrous idea that she could have divined... It left her with a deep sense of hope. As if he were not actually leavingher; just parting from her physically, for a period of time. He was not discarding her or everything they had for the potential of some higher or more rewarding purpose. And that was all the confirmation that she needed, not only for the sake of her own security, but to reignite that fire between them that they had been forced to repress, in light of more pressing matters.

Tilting her head back, the Atvanian warrior moaned quietly at the sensation of those electric fingers slipping inside of her. Her fingers, latched to Alster's shoulders, tightened around his skin as she struggled to contain herself, so as not to let go so and fall over the edge so soon. Wave after wave of pleasure teased her from the inside out, alighting every nerve ending in her body. Goosebumps formed on her skin, but not from the chill in the air. On the contrary, she felt so uncontrollably warm, the more she writhed with Alster's ministrations. The throes of passion forced her eyes shut, as she savored every second their intimate time together, only forcing them open when she no longer felt that vibrating tease of his fingers. Suddenly, everything had gone dark, as if they had been swallowed by an abyss. Only the faint flicker of his fingertips, sparkling with the electricity that drove her wild. On any other occasion, this might have startled her, and put her on the defensive. But Alster was still there, with her; his skin against hers, the firmness of his prosthetic arm around her waist, and the whisper of his breath in her ear.

"What trick is this?" She purred, shivering at his electric touch as it traveled across her chest. The dark had enveloped them entirely, and without a shred of light let in, but she could feel him against her. She felt it, taken only slightly by surprise, as he entered her, but he found no resistance, only her quiet moans of passion.

Feeling at once light-headed, yet heavy with soaring passion, Elespeth moved with him, finding his lips again and capturing them hungrily with her own. Encompassed as they were by thick, black nothingness, the heat emanating from their bodies was trapped and encircled them, causing the small space to grow hotter and hotter. Paired with the electric heat of Alster's fingers, which drove her crazy wherever she roamed, it was not long before perspiration collected on their brow, making their skin slick amidst their throes. In the darkness, they moved with each other, a tangle of arms and legs and breathless kisses. The coolness of his metallic, prosthetic arm had grown warmer, to the point where it felt as warm and comfortable as skin, and the hum of electricity on his fingertips kept her excited and on her toes. 

"Alster..." She breathed his name, part sigh, and part moan. But whatever else she meant to say died on her lips; and it needn't be said. That she loved him. That she wanted him, and had never stopped wanting him. And that no matter how he framed it, his leaving would inevitably break her heart.

"Of course. You didn't do it for me." Lilica amended without resistance, regardless of whether or not she believed Chara's words. "I don't deserve it. I'm just happy to see you looking like yourself again, Chara. That is all I meant." Just as happy as it made her to see the Rigas woman enjoying something, even if it was as simple as a sugary pastry. She noted the way it made her sigh, the enjoyment palpable on her face. But that moment of reassurance was broken by a rather heartfelt and secretive confession from Chara, who clarified her stance on being caught eating sweets and pastries. The faint smile on Lilica's pale lips faded. She could empathize, in a complementary way, having always veered on the other end of the weight spectrum--so thin that her monthly cycles were so infrequent, she could not recall the last time she had suffered the nuisance of that feminine curse. Of course, that was no reason to celebrate. Nor was it a reason to rejoice the means by which Chara had evidently shed her extra pounds.

"I... never knew that, Chara." She confessed, although it was obvious; how would she have known, without the haughty Rigas woman trusting her with that information? But she trusts me with it, now... Right before I am preparing to part from her. It at once made her feel humbled and guilty. "Looking at you, none of that would ever have crossed my mind. You have such astute control over your life... I'd assumed your stature was the same." Of course, that very need, that thirst for total control, was what had driven her to take drastic measures for the body and the weight that she wanted. "I've struggled to put weight on for so long that I've come to accept that this is what I've got: a body that can hardly hold its own and function like it should. I think it's the result of years and years of just not caring to care for myself. I haven't even had a monthly cycle since long before I met you; though perhaps that in itself is a boon. One less annoyance to deal with."

Making light of serious issues always downplayed their severity, and perhaps not in a healthy or conducive way. But it was a tried and true coping mechanism for a time when she felt like a straw would break her back. And she had a feeling that Chara was in a similar position. "Your secret little indulgence is safe with me, Chara," she assured her with a smile. "If you want to call this a special occasion... little though it is. Although I am sure that Cyprian and the rest of the council would beg to differ, and relish in seeing me, Alster, and my brother out of their city."

Once again, the haughty Rigas mage reiterated that she had not dressed for her viewing pleasure. Lilica put her hands up in defeat. "I get it, Chara. You've made it clear that you did not dress for me. Though whether you did or not, and whether there was any effort to be had, you wouldn't have any trouble showing me up." She shrugged her shoulders and lowered her hands. "Even at your worst you shine line a star. Don't pretend like you aren't aware of that; you are an impossible face not to notice."

Perhaps that was the response that Chara had been hoping for. A light flickered in her fierce, blue eyes, and before Lilica knew what was happening, the blonde caster was pulling her to her feet and dragging her toward her closet. The array of outfits that she had on display for Lilica's viewing pleasure was more than she had ever owned in the entirety of her lifetime. In fact, some of them looked to have not ever been warm, as the lines of the hems were crisp, and the fabric was without a wrinkle. Of course, her immediate reaction was to decline. I can't wear her clothes. I feel guilty enough as it is... The last thing I need is to carry a piece of this guilt with me. But as soon as she opened her mouth to decline, the words died on her tongue. Chara was trying to be nice; in a way, she was trying to make amends, perhaps. And she would be heartbroken and furious if Lilica were to refuse.

Reluctantly, the dark mage stepped up to a pale grey overcoat. It was the smallest that she could find, that would reach her feet without dragging on the ground, and it appeared to be woven from wool. It would keep her warm, even if it was far too elegant for her style. "If you're willing to part with this, then I am sure I can give it a little bit of appreciation." She said at last, pulling the coat from its hook. Shedding the frayed sweater that she had been wearing, and letting it fall in a pile around her feet, she pulled her arms through the coat and rolled the sleeves up to her wrists. "I think you're right. This should fit just fine with a belt. I have to say, I'm rather enamored of the style." The corner of her mouth quirked into a grin, and she did a small spin in one of the mirrors. "The bodice gives the illusion that I actually have breasts; I could get used to wearing this."

In the darkness, all was heightened. As Alster slipped into Elespeth, an electricity of its own sizzled up and through him. He half wondered if it was excess discharge from before, but whatever the case, he shivered from the static and the shock. It all seemed to pop from inside, in little bursts of concentrated power. Tingles and tickles erupted from those bubbles. They spidered around him, weaving him into their web.

With the loss of sight, other senses escalated. Skin was tender, raw, and hurting with ecstasy. Even the lightest of touches had threatened to buckle him, bending, towards Elespeth. Everything hummed, low in his ears, vibrating against his jaw, echoing in his collarbone. As they moved against each other, Alster buzzed that sensation against Elespeth's lips until they both created a low frequency tonality. It was out of auditory range, but the resonance deafened. 

The air was thick with heat, still breathable, but as moist and sharp as a summer storm--in part due to the black cloud and the residual smells of lightning: sharp, sweet-smelling, and pungent. Sweat rolled from their backs like falling rain; they were now caught in their own squall. He tasted the sword in her as they danced. Experienced her own fighting techniques against himself. The power of her hips, the steadfast stance of her legs. She parried with his tongue, and his mouth filled with iron. He thrust forward to keep pace, rewarding her ferocity with his own. 

And when they reached the top, together, he never wanted to come down. The bliss washed away all his worries, his fears for the future, the concerns of his present, the iron-grip of his past. He wanted to live in that space, up in the cloud, surrounded by the electricity not from his own hands, but from the sparks her very presence stirred in him. It jostled him, unseated him, but not unkindly. He was out of control, in the midst of that storm and she, an agent nature's fury. She carried only a blade, but oh did it ring with thunder. 

Unfortunately, he crashed, knocked down by a mighty gust of wind, but it was into her arms that he fell. As he drew out of her, his breaths huffing and his stomach pumping in and out like a bellows, he dispersed the smoke cloud. Light streamed into their faces, causing him to close his eyes reflexively as a deterrent against its loudness. He continued to lay beneath her, catching his breath, sighing with a satisfaction while all his limbs sang. Not in pain, but in release. His steel arm slumped from its position around Elespeth, and fell, dead, against the cot cushions. 

"I don't know...what I'll do when...I'm gone," he said, after he felt able to speak. "What--who--I'm walking away from. My want for you will ever grow, Elespeth. But," he closed his eyes again, a chuckle forming on his lips, "imagine once we reunite. What we'll have in store for each other, then."

"Would you stay here?" He opened one eye, and looked at the pendulum above him, swaying, as rhythmically as when he was inside her. "At least for a few hours? I want to savor every moment with you from now until I depart." 

Chara had to remind herself that she lived a very privileged existence, wanting for nothing. Food, shelter, safety--she received all three, in heaps of the finery and luxury. Even though she was of the servant class, growing up, every Rigas was still provided for, ladled with delicacies and silks and esteem from the denizens of Stella D'Mare. She was lucky, and her weight a non-issue compared to those who struggled to find even the smallest of crumbs to eat. She hadn't known too well of Lilica's upbringing; if she had semi-regular access to shelter and food, in her childhood. Safety, of course, was not part of the triad of her needs, having been denied to her during her most essential, formative years. And it could be assumed that her days spent forced out of her own home were frequent, that they did naught to forge healthy habits in the care of her body or soul. While Chara's own food habits were borne out of accessibility, Lilica's was borne out of self-loathing. It was no wonder the dark mage was so skinny. Basic human needs, human rights, phased through her skeletal form, likely thinking her dead. An unnecessary mouth to feed. And Lilica herself necessitated this belief over herself. Not worth it...

"I see," she said, electing a casual, almost indifferent air. "Well, far be it for me to correct you on the control you think I assert over my life, but," she eyed the woman, as if calculating measurements in her head. "Should you see fit to return, I will make it my own personal project to fatten you up. If you are to associate with me and the Rigases, I will not have you tromping about like a waif. You may not think it important, but self-image is vital, for many reasons. It is not only a tool wielded by the elite class, and not a frivolous pursuit in the least. The aim is to wear your outside as idealistically as possible. It is a guideline for your inside to follow. You are providing the example, reflecting to your true self the answer of who you are--who you want to be. The two states of mind are interchangeable. One influences the other."

While Lilica deliberated on the choices of outerwear, Chara browsed through the racks of unused clothes, analyzing the cut and seams as would a tailor scrutinizing her works from a time long past, when she wasn't yet a master at the thread. 

"And since you are poorly equipped to viewing yourself as little more than a pile of soot in a fireplace, I shall endeavor to provide this service to you, Lilica. As much as I 'shine like a star,'" she wrinkled her nose at the dark mage's compliment, even though she smiled from it to herself, "that does not give you the right to dress so slovenly. That is a defeatist attitude, and if you refuse to see me surrender, I, too, shall do my part to ensure that you do not, either. I find that only fair." 

She paused in assaying her wardrobe to observe Lilica in her new dress-coat. It was a vast improvement from the splotchy, rat-skinned abomination that rested on her floor. Clucking with approval, she snatched a belt from one end of the closet, of black leather and nondescript in design. It would not stand out to any possible brigands on the road, though it was made of the highest quality. 

"Of course." She looped the belt around Lilica's thin waist. "I would not own it if I did not see it as flattering in form. Lucky that it is a match for you, as well." She pulled the belt strap and cinched it snug with the buckle. "I've also ear-marked a few more outfits that I shall send for adjustments. Two--three, at most. I realize you must travel light, but Winter is an unpredictable season. It is a rainy one here in Stella D'Mare, but farther North, or inland, whether your journey will take you," she tried to hide her disdain, "it is imperative that you pack layers."

With a hesitant hand, Chara plucked the filthy sweater from the floor, which she held as if it would come to life and bite her. "I shall dispose of this, unless you harbor a certain attachment to this garment." Her free hand rested, gently, upon Lilica's shoulder, and guided her, one last time, to the mirror. "Look at yourself. Stand there and truly look, for a while. Do not ever think you are worth less, Lilica. I would not deign to keep you in my company if I thought you had no inherent value. Beyond your power, or your past, you are," she bit her lip, "something I never want to release."

Clearing her throat, she pirouetted away, and her hand drew from that shoulder. "Come," she said, with an uneasy head waddle. "I suppose we shall enjoy a little more of the food before I pass it along to hungrier mouths."

Cold collected in the air as soon as Alster and Elespeth came crashing down from their high. The blanket of darkness that he had summoned had long since disappeared, leaving them visible and prone in the chilled night air. But the former knight was too exhausted to notice. Every nerve ending in her body continued to buzz and hum, heightened and sensitive up to her fingertips. She could feel the rapid pace of Alster's heartbeat against her chest, and her own heart hammered against his skin. So much for her determination to be resentful...

"I'm still undeniably pissed at you." She murmured, though the fatigue and satisfaction in her voice offset whatever weight the message would have carried. "That you propose to me and... and make insane, wild love to me just before you plan to up and leave for an indeterminate amount of time... that's a sleazy move, Alster Rigas. I should be angrier with you now than I was before. And I should oblige your request for me to stay, when you are going to leave. But..."

Heaving a long sigh, she sat up and grabbed her clothes from their heap on the floor. The air chilled her damp skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface as she pulled her tunic back over her head. "But I don't want to leave... not right now. You win; I'll stay." Shifting her weight onto her lower back, she fluidly pulled on her trousers, and secured them with her belt, lest they were both caught with their pants down... literally and figuratively speaking. "I just hope that every second of every minute that you are gone... you remember how much it hurt me. And I hope you carry that guilt with you until you come back to me."

Sidling next to him, she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder. Tears glistened in her eyes. "I'm not trying to be unhappy without you," she murmured, holding him close. "I just... know that I won't be."

"Well... if it were as simple as just 'eating more', I think my problems might have been solved a long time ago." Lilica mentioned, but she did not press the matter--not when Chara, in so many words, was inviting her to return. When just a few nights ago, she had been very clear that she didn't have any desire to see her again if she chose to leave. She was not about to argue against the other woman's intentions to help her reach a healthier physical state. It was, above all else, an endearing proposition.
And... reassuring.

"I think... as ludicrous as it sounds, I think that I am poison to myself." The words rolled off of her tongue slowly. Like a realization that she had long since believed at her core, but had never had the courage to put to words. "In a number of different ways. There's no one to blame for the way that I am save for myself. I'm... hoping that maybe I'll find answers, at the end of this foray. That is, if I find anything at all." Lilica lifted her small shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. Though the matter was nowhere near one of nonchalance. "If you want the honest truth, I believe that this will be all or nothing. I will either find all of the answers over which I've agonized for years, or it will be for naught, and I'll return here with my head hung in shame. But... could you imagine the alternative? If I could return to you a whole person. Not some shadow or fragment of what I could be." Daring to meet Chara's eyes, she offered a faint smile, despite that the topic of conversation was not one that brought a smile to the Rigas woman's face. "I know you're angry and hurt. But just know that I only desire to me more for you Chara. To be... enough. Let me try to become that person, for you."

Appraising her new coat, with the sash that cinched it at the waist, she wondered if she could live up to the sense of style that Chara commanded. It would take more than fine clothes to raise to up to the caliber that the Rigas woman likely expected. But... it was an improvement. "I... cannot guarantee that this coat will still be in the same condition that it was when you let me borrow it," she warned Chara, thinking about just how long she might be traveling, and the variety of elements to which they would be exposed. If this coat survived the trek, then it truly was worth all the money that it likely cost to make. "Or, if once the winter is finished with it, that there will even be any coat left to bring back. But if by some miracle there are still some scraps sticking to my body... You can bet I'll be wearing it." She smiled, and looked towards the other articles that Chara had set aside to a corner in her closet. "What else have you picked out? Alterations aren't necessary; I won't want to waste anyone's time. I can roll up sleeves and cinch with belts and sashes. Functionality is paramount."

Lilica took a look at the other pieces Chara had selected, knowing that deep down, the Rigas caster took pride and pleasure in making her look slightly more presentable. And, in a way, it was fun. It was not often she had the opportunity to don fine clothes; and Chara seemed to have an eye for what looked good. She looked at herself in the mirror, as Chara instructed, and despite the fancy new attire, little seemed to change. She did not see what the other woman claimed to see; no beauty, no worth... nothing but a void. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin stretched over bones... What in all eternity did Chara see in her, a mere shadow of human existence? But maybe that will change. Let me return to you, more of a person than I have ever been... let me become more for you, Chara.

Of course, such thoughts went unvoiced, and now was not the time to dwell upon them. There was still a good amount of food on the small dining table, and the haughty blonde had already made it clear that she had no intention to eat it by herself. And Lilica, for all she had a tendency to severely lack an appetite, knew that this might be the last time for a long time that they shared a meal together. "I'm not going to tell you how long it too me to put this together," she mentioned, taking a seat across from Chara once again. "So you are damned right it is going to get eaten. Have some more sweets; you have my word, I won't tell anyone about it."

The sun had been streaming through the cracks between the drapes for hours, but Vega had found no difficulty in ignoring the warm rays, shielding them from her closed eyelids by pressing her face into Haraldur's arm. For the sake of being discreet, as they had agreed, the Eyraillian princess had arranged an old attic loft that where she had often found refuge as a child to serve as a makeshift sleeping quarters for the two of them. It took hours of crafty stealth, and various excuses for numerous pillows and blankets to that she folded into piles to make the hard floor worthy of sleeping, but she managed to pull together what they needed. And just under the roof of the palace, in spite of the dust that she had barely managed to clear out, Vega and Haraldur could enjoy one another's company at their leisure, without prying eyes or judgement. 

And that was where they lay, now, after another night of tangled limbs and unbridled passion. Since their escapade to the mountains, Vega had put no harness on her appetite for the mercenary; perhaps it was making up for lost time, all of the moments and days that they had spent apart, thinking one another better off without them. Or, perhaps it was for fear of losing him again. That at any moment, he would revert to seeing her as the incomplete, half-alive shell of a human that rose from the dead, leading her to savor each and every moment that he still looked at her like she was alive and unstoppable. 
Then again... There was just something so enticing and thrilling about breaking the rules. Shirking the etiquette of the blood in her veins by unapologetically giving over her body and heart to someone of which the palace politics likely would not approve.

Unfortunately, today was not one of those mornings that allowed her to bask in the joy of breaking the rules. Not when they had a an appointment that they had been putting off for far too long.

Groaning quietly, Vega peeled away from the mercenary, and fumbled for her clothes, which were somewhere among the pile of blankets and pillows. "Haraldur... we need to get ready." She sighed, fumbling to pull her trousers over her naked legs. "Caris is already on his last nerve. He won't tolerate it if we are late to this summons. I'll go down early, to talk him down before you meet face to face. Whatever steam he has to let out, he can take it out on me, beforehand."

Grabbing her tunic, which had somehow made it across the room in their feverish bout of passion the night before, the Eyraillian princess pulled it over her head and leaned in to steal a kiss from Haraldur. "Give me a half hour. And find Enid when you are ready to join us; she will grant you access to the council chamber. Just remember... you have nothing to apologize for. You're the hero that my brother only heard stories about as a boy; you hold more power over him than you even imagine."

With a reassuring smile, Vega stood, as tall as she could in the confined space, and lifted the latch, before lowering herself down to the servants' laundry quarters. Respected as she was by the serving staff, she was confident that none of them would let word of her tryst with Haraldur get out--at least, she trusted it would not.

Before Alster collapsed into a satisfying heap, he blinked back into awareness, reaching for his discarded clothes. He pressed his bare feet into the ground and prepared for the daunting process of performing a one-armed shuffle into decency. Luckily, Elespeth was there to assist him, and before long, he was fully clothed, and once again sprawled on the cot beside her. Though his eyes were closed, he listened to her concerns, hiding from her view the bite of those words.

"Don't worry," he breathed, taking on a serene tone, though the subject matter was anything but. "I'll feel sufficiently guilty. If there's one thing I'm an accomplished master at, it's how to carry the weight of all my collected sins and misgivings like a beast of burden. But," he sighed, resting his arm across his forehead, "just know I did not do any of this with any nefarious goals in mind, Elespeth. I'm merely here to express my love, to give you hope...to build a beautiful memory, together. I will return, but that's also in the future. You have me now...and there's no use in wasting what we have in exchange for what's to come."

He cradled her close, kissing the top of her head as she buried it into his shoulder. "I don't expect you to be happy. I'm not, either. But," he chanced a gentle smile, "I'm happy, now. No matter how angry you are with me. I'll take that anger, if that's the cost for what we'll have together, soon." And to emphasize, he lifted her ring hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

"You may not be wrong...about your magic." Chara folded each outfit with a meticulousness bordering on mathematical. The angles of the folds were precise, without waver or wrinkle. She stacked each one atop the other, and tied them all up in a neat bundle. "Not that it is poison--that much I disagree with, wholly. But I do believe there is a correlation between strong, inherent magic and body break-down over time--or complications with health. Look at my father. His legs were already weak and problematic before the loss. He is afflicted with the same degenerative disease as Adalfieri. My mother," she swallowed, "went the way of the mind. And Alster--well, we can both agree that magic has not been kind to him. But growing up, he was sickly, with an overactive stomach. There was very little he could eat--so yes, I suppose he looked like you: all bones. However," she crossed her arms and whirled on Lilica, "that does not mean I will blindly accept your propensity towards emulating a willowy, dead tree--nor will I abide by the endless self-pity which continues to eat away at the little that remains of you."

As they exited the closet, Chara, with bundle in hand, placed it on an available empty table, close to the door, chattering about how alterations were a necessity and that she was not going to outfit Lilica poorly, as that would be a poor reflection on her as a hostess and as a Rigas leader. "What will they say?" She scoffed, and seated herself on the couch beside the tray of pastries. "If this...foray is to place you before another kingdom, before royals, or a ruling monarchy, and you are dressed in rags, how, praytell, will they receive you?" It was easier to focus on practical, surface-level discrepancies than to hone in on the departure itself, so far an unchangeble, fixed detail that Lilica, in all her unfaltering desperation, had ascertained. But the more the dark mage waxed poetic about sallying forth into a life-changing experience, the more Chara's brow contorted, both with pity and with annoyance. When she opened her mouth to speak, she had married those two states together, into incredulity.

"My, you are placing plenty of stock on this fateful journey. For your own sake, do not." That mouth twitched at the corners, fighting not to jag and crease into a rictus of bitterness. Why can I not be that person, Lilica? The person who makes you whole? Why must you outsource your self-worth, and place it in the care of strangers? Her eyes began to blur, filling so with the rage and despair that she thought she had snuffed by then. She closed them tight, and when opened, they looked to the pastry plate. A greedy hand moved forward and plucked one off the tray before she could reel in its maudlin desires. She shoved it in her mouth, in want of something to do, and in need to channel her bubbling anger into something she could tear, bite--devour. 

"Keep a realistic sensibility about you, Lilica," she said, once she could find herself able to speak in calm, level tones. With a napkin, she wiped off the smear of cream that had squirted unceremoniously out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. "But you already believe in this far-flung tale and the benefits you feel are your due--so I fear you are already lost. While it is a beautiful sentiment, to hope in some sudden reveal of all the answers that you seek, and that those answers will be illuminating...life is not like that. So, say whatever pretty words you feel will appease me. Say that you are embarking on this fool's errand for me. Say it will be transformative. Say that you will awaken as a fully-realized being. It means nothing to me, Lilica!" Her hand flew up in the air, as if it wanted to make contact with the dark mage's pale face. To slap. To bury nails beneath the skin. Inflict damage. Inflict pain. But instead, it hovered there, uncertain. The rest of her quivered with that same uncertainty.

"You are enough, Lilica," she whispered, in fear that anything above that volume would stream forth in gouts of fire and fury. "But only if you are here. What if we come back to each other, after all this has passed--and I do not like what you have become? And if you, in turn, do not like what I've become?" Her hand, in defeat, wilted, and withered back down from its stalk, to fall upon her lap. "You are turning your back on what exists to chase something that may not. You would rather face the unknown, than face what is known. Here. With me. At a time of my greatest need. And I..." her teeth clenched, but her eyes sparked with defeat and betrayal, "may not ever forgive you for it." 

At the touch of the sun upon his face, Haraldur opened his eyes, squinting into the start of a new day. Dust motes swirled around in the thin, radiating beams, flashing white like snow--as if to remind him that they were now in the depths of winter. In response, he remained in bed, basking in the warmth and in the comfort of the body snuggled close to him. He ran his fingers through the coppery sheen of her hair as he breathed in the comfortable silence. The world fumbled and throbbed beneath them, but in their crawl-space haven, he could forget their location--or at least ignore it. They were in a hut, he imagined. A remote cottage. Somewhere far. Unreachable. They were at the edge of a sun-soaked field, open to the sky, the mountains, made small in the universe, while in their universe, they were far too large. Too large for their makeshift bed, too large for the ceiling, which sloped at a severe angle and from which he bumped his head a dozen times already. And--too large for each other. The throes of their passion had, at times, threatened to penetrate the thin walls, alerting anyone with an ear that lurked beneath their heads. But with practiced discretion, they reined in their noise and erratic movements--and it was a little thrilling, knowing how easily they could be discovered...

And a little disconcerting, knowing how easily he could be punished. Driven from Vega's arms. Imprisoned. Denied proximity or communication. It was for this reason that he was not looking forward to meeting the young Eyraillian king--no matter how much she reassured him of his acceptance among their ranks. 

Therefore, it was with a great burst of willpower that Haraldur rose from the sheets and, following Vega's example, reached for his tunic and trousers. They were plain clothes, of no distinct designation other than as garments meant to keep a man warm and decent. It was decided upon that he not don an Eyrallian uniform, or anything denoting affiliation with their country. He was, after all, claiming sanctuary, and wanted to appear thankful to the king for allowing him that sanctuary. Never did he wish to presume that he was of Eyraille. That was for the king to decide. And from what Vega had informed him about Caris...

"Good luck," he told Vega, returning her kiss. He watched as she disappeared from beneath the latch. As he slipped on his boots and tied them, he wondered if those servants were apt to keep a secret, especially one so juicy and full of scandal. Someone's tongue was bound to slip before long. 

And how, then, would the Eyrallian king regard the former slave-soldier of Mollengard? 

As arranged, Haraldur met with Enid a half an hour later, in a waiting area just outside the council chambers. The massive double doors were locked shut, an impervious block to whatever discussion emanated from inside. How was Vega faring before her brother? What could he expect from the aftermath? 

To prepare for the upcoming encounter, he stood with straight-backed readiness, feet apart, head erect, shoulders back and spine aligned. He plied his features into a dead, austere calm, one that spoke of a willingness to comply--but only if the one to command him was worthy. 

Maintaining this disciplined state of mind, Haraldur was eventually escorted to the council chambers. He did not know how much time had elapsed, but that information was of little importance. He passed the threshold of the doors, which opened to allow him passage. Broken in half at his feet, they were no longer impervious--but he was. A solid block of stone. A boulder, which rolled into the chamber, defiant in his compliance. And when he was guided before the king, who sat at the head of the table, he swept into a bow, arm across the shoulder in salute. "Your Majesty." Cold. Clipped. Respectful. Professional. He was a mercenary at his trade, and the king, a client. That was all. "In what way may I serve you?"

There was no way that she could spin this trip to gain Chara's approval. It was impossible to console someone who was already so deeply in over her head, only to discover her main source of love and support would not be at her side while she rebuilt this city. But there was no possible way to compromise in this decision, because Lilica knew what she had to do, deep in her gut. And there was no way to justify a gut feeling to someone who did not feel it. "Chara... I have no other source of hope. Not to change for the better; not for me." She told her gently. "If not in this possibility for something better... what do I have to hope for? What possible help can I be to you or to anyone else, when I am constantly in conflict with myself?"

Taking a piece of bread from the tray of food, the chthonic caster pulled it apart in small pieces, with the intent to eat some. But her appetite completely eluded her. "I understand your concern, Chara. Anything could happen in the span of time that I am gone. I will change; you will change. We may not be encountering the same person when I return to this city. But... be honest with yourself, Chara: do you really like who you see, right now?" She met her eyes, and spread her arms ever so slightly. "This waif of a person, who is so at odds with herself that she left you on the battlefield alone, only to seek a peaceful death? Is this really a person who you want to hold close to you in your life? Some unstable shadow of human existence?"

Forgiving herself for how deeply she had hurt Chara would be something that would take time, if it was at all possible. Even if it had never been her intent--even if she truly thought that she was helping, and if by some means, she had in fact helped, Lilica would never forget that look in Chara's eyes when she woke up from her near death. The proud Rigas woman had looked broken in the deepest of ways; she did not blame for Lysander for being cross with her. How could she possibly believe Chara when she told her that she was enough? Someone who is enough... they don't hurt you. They don't leave you. I just want to become that person, Chara... 

"I... want to be able to help you, Chara. Especially now, when you need support the most. But, if we are being realistic, as you so desire--then the truth is, I can't help you. Not by staying here." Defeat had crept into the dark mage's voice. Looking down at her plate, she found that she had torn her piece of bread into dozens of small pieces, but had not eaten a single morsel. Look at me, Chara. I cannot even help myself, my own health, or my own body. How in all creation do you believe that my staying here, broken and unchanged as I am, will be of any help you you...? "You might be right--in fact, you are probably right. This is a fool's errand, and it is more likely than not that I will find naught but an illusion of what I want to see, at the end of this journey. But even so... perhaps this foray is all that it will take. Maybe some change will still come of it." Looking up from her plate of barely touched food, she met the fierce, hurt eyes of the Rigas caster. "I will be honest with you, Chara: I love you. More than I can properly articulate, and more than I can comprehend. And you are more than enough for me--more than I frankly deserve. But, I need this; time away, to think, to search for answers. If nothing else, I will return to you a more informed and potentially wiser person than before, regardless of what I happen to find at the end of the path. Allow me this time to think and contemplate how I can be better for you, and for this city. I will not find that insight by dwelling here, among the remnants of this broken city."

Feeling as though she was overstaying her welcome, the dark mage stood from her seat, and smoothed the wrinkles in her plain tunic. "I love you more than you can know. And I understand if you can never forgive me; but, hasn't it already come to that? When I tried to leave you to pursue death?" Her shoulders slumped in a deep sigh that escaped her lungs. "I am exiled. I have to leave this city, regardless. At least allow me the opportunity to try and make the best of it. I am not asking for your forgiveness; but I am asking for your support. Right now, I need you to believe in me. If you truly believe that I am enough, that I am capable of and worth more than I think... then you can believe in me, and you can believe that something positive will come of this. But that is, of course, your decision to make, and I cannot sway you either way."

Gathering her tattered sweater from the floor, she pulled it over her shoulders, preparing to walk back into the cold. Frankly, it was where she belonged. "I... understand why you are angry. Not because I have to leave; it is because I want to." She said softly. "But not to leave you; not because you are not enough. This is something I need to do for myself. And that is something that this city cannot offer." 

There was nothing left to say, and nothing to say that would make this any easier for either of them. Recognizing that any further verbal exchange would likely only end poorly, Lilica nodded her goodbye, and she took her leave of the angry, hurt woman that she was leaving behind 

The good news was, when Haraldur passed through the heavy doors to the council chamber, he was not faced with pew after pew of old, suspicious councilmen: the only other occupants of the room were Vega and, as was expected, her brother.
The bad news was, he was faced with the King of Eyraille. And the first eye contact that the two made was far from welcoming.

Fortunately, Vega was already prepared to step in and bridge the gap, before King Caris Sorde put his foot in his mouth. "Caris: this is the man who gave the refugees a fair chance at a new life, in Eyraille's mountains. His name is Haraldur. Haraldur, I would like to introduce my brother, his Majesty Caris Sorde. Eyraille's leader and monarch." Although she spoke with a smile, it was easily the only smile in the room. Caris bore the fierce features of the Sorde legacy, not unlike his sister. The same determined set of his mouth, the same vibrant, blue eyes that burned with azure fire. Even the same muscle that twitched in his jaw when he clenched it. The embodiment of any Sorde who had ever ruled Eyraille; passionate, fiery, and short-tempered. Not to mention, by no means easy to please. Where copper locks framed Vega's face, Caris's cropped hair shone with a platinum gold. Were it not for the rounded tips of his ears, he had something of the air of a Rigas.

But unlike the glimmer of love in Vega's bright eyes, whenever she looked upon the former mercenary, there was no warmth in Caris's. Just suspicion, and perhaps, even some muted hostility. When the Eyraillian king said nothing, still, his sister gently prompted him. "Do you remember, Caris? A half-decade ago, Haraldur and his... wife, they established the refugee village in the mountains. They gave these people a second chance at life... and gave Eyraille the opportunity to rise from its ashes. To become more than what our father ever allowed it to be."

"You've made your point, Vega. I know who he is." Caris spoke up at last, tired of listening to his sister's reasoning. "I get it. He is a hero; so we should be welcoming him. His presence here is a blessing--am I on the right track?" He did not stand from the tall-backed chair in which he sat, but he did turn back to Haraldur. "You are, of course, welcome to seek refuge here, Haraldur. What you did for Eyraille and the refugees you brought here will not be forgotten. Though... it still eludes me why you seek refuge, here."

"Caris. We've been over this." Vega interjected, afraid for the path that her brother appeared to be taking. "I brought him here. He was injured during the fight at Stella D'Mare. Not... everyone has a home to return to."

"Right. Of course. Though it still eludes me as to how Stella D'Mare became part of this equation... Initially, you had left to aid Tadasun. Which is where you claimed to have re-encountered this legendary hero. So little of what you have told me adds up, Vega, so forgive me if I seem suspicious." The young king crossed one leg over the other and frowned in contemplation. "You are gone from here for months. Just recently, you sent word with your Skyknights that Eyraille should commence preparations against a potential threat, which you claim to be Mollengard. Finally, when you return, you return on a roc that is not your own, and with... this in tow." He wrinkled his nose at Haraldur and leaned forward slightly. "Haraldur, is it? Forgive me my ire, but I've been unsuccessful in extracting the truth of events from my sister. Perhaps, then, I can count on more honesty with you. So, tell me the truth: are you here seeking sanctuary? Or is it merely to share a bed with my sister?"

"Caris."
Vega's hiss echoed, solid and firm, in the vast council chamber. Her careful poise was gone, replaced with fire and zero tolerance for her younger brother's petty nonsense. Moving towards his seat, she dared to stand before him--over him--and slammed her hands on the unoccupied arms of his seat. To her mild satisfaction, Caris flinched. "You want to know why I did not arrive here with Aeriel? It is because she is dead. I watched her die; the roc that I raised and tamed from the time she was a fledgling. Because of me, because of the bloody nonsense of war and the nefarious people involved, she is dead. And I would be, too, were it not for this man standing before you, whom you are so blatantly insulting." Confident that she now had her brother's attention, the Eyraillian princess withdrew her hands and took a step back. "I was in over my head, Caris. And I almost died: not once, or twice, but numerous times. And every time, this man came between me and death. I am not exaggerating by telling you that I would not have returned at all, were it not for him. So," she folded her arms, and let her brother squirm under her gaze. "Are you going to continue to embarrass yourself in your position of authority, or are you ready to be the leader that our kingdom needs, and to listen?"

Caris's mouth had twisted into a sullen, firm "O" shape, though he did not offer any further resistance. The young King wore his youth on his sleeve, it seemed; while he was, indeed, sanctioned King of Eyraille, first and foremost, he was a young man, bitter from the lack of childhood he'd been allowed, and resentful towards the role he'd been forced into. Leaning back in his chair, he averted his gaze to Vega. "What is this news of Mollengard? If it is so urgent, why did you wait until not to clarify?"

"Because... Haraldur needs to hear this, too. And I didn't want to repeat myself twice." Vega sighed, letting the tension drain from her shoulders and neck now that her brother was opting to behave. But when she spoke, it was to Haraldur, and only secondarily to Caris. "Haraldur... when you left Tadasun, Mollengard was quick to arrive. To 'lend aid' to the fallen. I encountered one of its commanders... she knew who I was. And she made no effort to hide her threat behind her words." She kept her voice low and calm, not wanting to alarm the former mercenary, knowing just how sensitive the topic was to him. "Later, a Mollengardian healer clarified for me that Mollengard is aiming to target Eyraille. Maybe not right now, or soon, but eventually. So that is something that we must prepare for."

"And why has Mollengard declared us an enemy? A nation with which he have never had any relation?" Caris demanded. "Are they sore that their refugees are living happily in our mountains? Or does it have something to do with him?"

"Caris, Eyraille has been weak and vulnerable for decades, now. Mollengard is a warmongering and conquering nation. They see us as ample opportunity to expand on their own empire. It has nothing to do with anything we've done; and certainly nothing to do with Haraldur." She shot the mercenary a soft look, knowing that that mere insinuation would cause him to blame himself, and to consider leaving in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. "In fact, Haraldur has had dealings with Mollengard. He knows what to expect from them; hell, he knows more about the nation than any of us do in Eyraille. For that reason alone, his presence is an asset, here. To help us to prepare for the worst."

The young king rubbed his temples, as if the whole ordeal were giving him a headache. "Alright, Vega. You've justified your guest's stay. Not that I was really in any position to suggest otherwise." Caris mumbled. "Be sure to inform our army of Mollengard's potential threat. And see that your cherished guest is familiar with the palace customs and that he stays in line. Not that you have ever done so, yourself..."

"Noted, Caris. We won't waste any more of your time." Vega offered a shallow bow, before leading Haraldur out from the council chamber. She exhaled a breath that she did not realize she was holding, as soon as the doors shut behind them. "Haraldur... I'm sorry. Please forgive my brother's insolence." She begged, placing a hand on his shoulder. "He is still young, and learning. And I'm... sorry that I did not mention Mollengard's threat to you, sooner. I did not want you to worry or to blame yourself. If anything, I am to blame, for speaking my mind to the horrendous commander that I encountered. We will not be safe here, forever. But I will be sure to see you to a safer place before Mollengard decides to try and invade Eyaille. That is my solemn promise to you."

There was so much Chara wanted to say to Lilica. So much to impart, argue, insist, compromise and threaten. But what was the point? The dark mage had made up her mind a while ago. There was nothing new for Chara to reveal, no insights that would alter the course of Lilica's decision. Much as she abhorred it all, the events would still transpire, with or without her input. 

It was with weary acceptance that she stood up, escorted her guest to the door, and muttered a colorless goodbye--devoid of all but concern. That much, she was unable to change. However their lifestyles would shift, likely for the worse, Chara doubted that her regard for the pale-faced woman would dim, or fade altogether. 

"I shall see you off on the day you depart," she said, opening the door, which now had a tendency to jam against the frame. "Your outfits will be ready for you, along with anything else you find necessary. I only hope," she squeezed at her own elbow, tensing with hesitation, "that you find what you are looking for. And that this venture will be worth all the aggravation it has caused me in the process. And that if you should see fit to return, here, your deeds will not go unpunished. I'll make certain you pay for all this lost time." 

And with that, she led Lilica out to the veranda, and watched as her slight frame wandered off into the hazy, dust and smoke-filled morning. 

"Well?" Cyprian glared across his desk at the two Rigas guards, whose expressions betrayed their unsaid news. "Have you found her, yet?" 

"No, sir." The bravest (or most foolish) of the two stepped forward, nodding his head in supplication. "Others have reported seeing her in passing, but none have discovered her whereabouts, or made any successful pursuit." 

"We're sorry, sir," the other guard flicked at his nose, a self-conscious gesture that revealed both his age and inexperience. 

"Then why waste my time?" The quill pen he held wavered dangerously, spattering ink all over his parchment. "I expect you to find her. Do not deign to bother me unless you have substantial information to share. Now leave me." He shooed them away, and the twist of disgust on his face was as if he were dealing with cockroaches, not men. They both saluted, backed out of his chambers, and closed the door with a soft click. 

"Oh, just let her go," a voice stirred up from the corner of the chamber, beyond where the chandelier light from above had reached its pinnacle. The window was open, and a light breeze stirred the parchment in Cyprian's hand. He whirled around in his chair, meeting the lambent golden eyes of a man dressed in a brown leather jerkin and simple trousers. Pipe smoke drifted in the air. A patch of smoldering light burned at the bowl, illumining those eyes, that face, which was framed with two bushy eyebrows angled low in an expression of perpetual anger. His russet-brown hair was in disarray, but not through negligence in appearance. Rather, it was styled to sweep and point in differing directions, accenting the madness that seemed to follow him as prominently as his own shadow. 

"Begone!" Cyprian pointed his quill pen at the intruder. The tip shone with etherea. The man remained unmoved. He puffed on his pipe, sending the fumes in the head councilman's direction. 

"Relax, Cyprian." He leaned against the windowsill. "As you've already established, I'm a figment of your imagination. I can't hurt you. I'm only here to dispense some wisdom."

"And what if I am not of the mind to listen to your wisdom?"

The man chuckled. "Well, it wasn't all bad. You already had your suspicions. Alster, Lilica, Vitali--all three had to go. You said so, yourself. And you were right to exile them. They would have impeded on Stella D'Mare's progress, challenged good sense, disregarded the council's directives in favor of their own agenda. And with them gone, Chara has little power to oppose you. I only dredged your desires to the surface, Cyprian."

"It is not my desire to see Tivia off on her own, when she is not thinking clearly!" He seethed at the man at the windowsill. He slammed the pen on the desk, the etherea dispelling, slapping into nonexistence. 

"She won't listen to you." The man's eyes reflected, like mirrors. In those mirrors, a projection. He saw Tivia, her one eye emblazoned with hatred. She stood with Chara. They both grinned, their teeth pinioned and sharp. Those cutting smiles filled half their faces. They grew taller. As their height increased, Rigases flocked to their side. They all pointed at Cyprian, belittling laughter gurgling out of those grinning mouths of malice. He grew small, mouse-like. Clopping feet aimed to trample him. He heard the stomps, felt the cracking of bone, the gushing of blood. His breaths came out in faltering gasps. Still, they laughed, mocked--destroyed him, in all of his smallness. 

"She's a threat to your rule," the man continued. "We both know that she is plenty coherent. If you apprehend her, you'll only fuel her rage. She'll be the end of you, Cyprian. Let her go." The reflective quality in his eyes faded, and with it, the gruesome visions. "Let her go, and you'll have what you want."

When Cyprian at last recovered his senses, his heart still hammering and his entire body freezing with fear, the man was gone, the window closed, as it was before his arrival. But the pipe smoke, sharp and musty, still permeated through the room. With a difficult intake of breath, Cyprian addressed the darkness. 

"No. You're real. I know you're real. A demon. I'll have you, demon! Next time. Next time..."

So why was it he allowed him passage into his mind, again and again? Why did he listen, and abide, and always look into those damning eyes? 

Simple. He feared that it was all true. No. It was all true. They all opposed him. Everyone. Even his own daughter. Especially his own daughter. 

Shakily, he rose to his feet, and stormed out of the room in search of the guards he'd dismissed. 

Over the next few days, Alster focused on strengthening his constitution, in preparation for departure. Every morning, he joined Elespeth in training, adopting as strict a regimen as his recovering body would allow. He worked on balance, pain tolerance, coordination, while his steel arm remained in its sling. With his newly-designed back brace in place, he felt less likely to teeter forward when standing at rest. However, the pain had diminished little, and movement of the prosthesis, while possible, flashed painful blossoms into his eyes and squeezed his lungs until they spluttered and begged for air. 

"You'll become accustomed to the pain," Atli had informed Alster, during one of his practice sessions with the arm. "It doesn't vanish, so I've been told, but you'll build a tolerance. It's amazing what the human body can handle."

Every other available moment was spent with Elespeth. Each night, they experimented, and "explored" the surfaces of their so-called amazing bodies. And despite the pain, he enjoyed every minute of their union. But as the days spanned, their time grew distressingly short--until at last the morning of their departure had arrived. 

Alster, with Elespeth's help, had packed his horse's saddlebags, one filled with clothes and provisions, the other of medicines and self-maintenance tools for his prosthesis. Beside him, Lilica and Vitali were doing the same, and were overseen by Lysander and Chara, who looked on with crossed arms and blatant disapproval. Tivia, who he later discovered was joining them, had agreed to a rendezvous point at the edge of town, too fearful of revealing her presence to Cyprian and his loyal retinue. 

After all preparations were complete, Alster turned to Elespeth, a sad smile on his face. "I suppose this is farewell for now." He drew her into a hug, which both arms had managed to complete. His lips found hers, locking them into a kiss.

Chara, watching from afar, huffed out an annoyed sigh. With heavy footfalls, she stalked over to Lilica, who was fastening the bridle on her horse. Without any warning, she grabbed the rail-thin woman's arm, pulled her close, and planted a fierce kiss on her mouth. "If you do not return, I will find you, and kill you," she hissed, before releasing the woman and returning to her rightful place beside Lysander. 

As Haraldur rose to his full height, his eyelids lifted, observing the Eyrallian king with a casual glance. He knew of the social graces associated with monarchs, so he kept his eye contact to a minimum, as a sign of reverence and respect. However, his cursory look was enough to inform him of the king's mannerisms and inexperience. That much was evident by speech and cadence alone. But his stiff, uncompromising gestures bespoke of muscle tension and his affected air of authority reminded him of a child playing at king. And the more the young man moved his mouth, the more he transformed into something infantile and small. Haraldur could not help but soften to the overwhelmed boy, even when he spouted diatribes and insulted his and Vega's integrity. His youthful eyes, shallow brow, and sloping jawline downsized his age, to the point where he could not recall his actual years lived. The king, he thought, he's been protected for much of his life. That much I can see in the way he holds himself, in the way he speaks to me. He has much to learn, and soon.

But any solidarity he felt for the boy-king had begun to diminish, when he listened to the banter between the two. It was beyond mere sibling bickering. No, he was prominent a topic of their dissection, a study both in heroism and disgust. It was a fair assessment, one that he could not dispute. In fact, he would have sided with Caris, for he was hardly a hero, but even his pride took a blow in being referred to as, "this."

"With all due respect, your Majesty," he dared to flick his eyes at the petulant boy, "I come to you seeking sanctuary, not to be the subject of ridicule. If I offend you, I'll return to the mountains. Your hospitality so far has been more than what I, as a mercenary, deserve. But if it should put you at ease, I'll pledge my loyalty to you, right here. Then it shouldn't matter whatever rumors might surround me and my associations. I've done well by your nation before, without so much as a boon as recompense. So," he bowed his head, but the very act in itself came off as intimidating, as if lowering his head was in preparation for a horned ram's charge, "in faith, I'll provide you another service." 

It didn't take long for Vega to make use of his service to their cause. As she explained her run-in with Mollengard, his expression changed from passive coolness to widened alarm. It was the first he had heard of the conquering nation's threat to Eyraille. Though unsurprising, it did not lessen the blow of the very real, very imminent possibility of war. And that, if he remained to fight, theywould find him, capture him, bind him, infect his mind anew, retrain his hand to target children, to slice and gouge and desecrate...

He silenced the fear by closing his eyes, giving himself a moment to find any iota of inner serenity. Of black, encompassing silence. When he opened them, he presented the Eyraillian king with a compliant nod.

"Mollengard wants knowledge of the rocs. How to tame, ride, and wield them as weapons. They've wanted it for a long time, now. They've dominated the land and the sea--and now they want the sky. But you have a tactical advantage, here, aside from your rocs. The mountainous terrain makes a full-scale assault difficult--which is why they've delayed their conquest. My information to you might be outdated," he admitted, "but it can at least provide a basis for how to handle their numbers and their mindset." Before he dismissed himself with another formal bow, he added, his voice dark and roiling, "this is a grave matter, your Majesty. The fact that they're even considering Eyraille for an invasion means that they've figured out how to breach your mountain fortress. It won't be long, now. After they're done with Stella D'Mare...you're next."

When he and Vega returned to the corridor outside the council chamber, he remained on full guard, full alert. He glared, but it was not directed at her. Rather, through the closed doors, to Caris. To the situation at large. To Mollengard beyond the mountains, and to the armies at Stella D'Mare. 

"He'll have to learn more quickly if this country stands a chance against invasion," he said, before turning his cold eyes at her. "Is there any other information you're withholding? I need to know, Vega. I," he took a long, decompressing exhale, shook his head to dislodge the claws digging into his temples, and regarded Vega with a gentler disposition. "I'm not running. I made a promise, too. To Thora, and by extension, to you." He wanted to take her hand, squeeze it with reassurance, or scoop her into his arms, but he resisted. They were under watch, their movements monitored. "Perhaps I was always meant to face Mollengard again. That they would finally catch up to me. I knew, even then, that I couldn't keep running. So," with difficulty, he pressed out his next words, "I will fight."

There was no fanfare for their departure, when at last it came. Lilica gathered what she needed, and the horses and provisions that she had asked for were waiting for her at the gates of the city. As she had instructed, Alster and Vitali met her there, a horse for each one of them (Tivia would have to share, as they couldn't not well request a forth horse for a party member who was not supposed to attend). And contrary to what Chara probably thought, it was one of the most difficult things that Lilica had ever done. Leaving this place behind, even if it had never been her home... it had been something, to her. Chara made it something. And now, she was leaving her.

The dark mage couldn't look up when Elespeth accompanied Alster to his horse, could not bear to witness their heartfelt goodbyes. Chara had not said that she would be attending this departure, and Lilica had not asked. It was certainly no grand affair; not a handful of exiled people taking their leave of the once fair city. Surely, she had other matters to which to attend, and the chthonic caster understood... but it did not make it hurt any less. This was your choice, Lilica. Do not expect her to be sympathetic when she so openly opposed this trek... Chara has a right not to be here. But you do not have a right to be sad about it.

Just as she was fastening provisions to her horse's saddle, she heard a heavy and hurried pair of footsteps behind her. No sooner did she turn, that arms pulled her forward, and she felt a familiar pair of lips pressed against her own. Chara... She did not have to open her eyes to know that it was the Rigas woman who had pulled her into her arms--and who was kissing her, passionately, for all of the prying city's eyes to see. The gesture warmed her heart, and made her smile. If Chara couldn't care less for what the city thought of who she loved... Then it meant she was not afraid to hold her close when it mattered. "I will return to you, if it is the last thing I do," she murmured, tears threatening to spill. "If I did not think that I would come back... then I would not leave. Believe in me, Chara."

Watching her return to Lysander's side, her hopeful reverie was interrupted by the most intolerable presence in their party: "I do not mean to put such a touching moment to an end, but it is already late morning." Vitali piped up, already having mounted his horse, and looked rather impatient to leave. "I do not know where you plan to lead us, but darkness will fall in a handful of hours. We should either be thinking about where we are going to camp, or if there is a chance we might find lodging along the way."

"Do not forget that you are not the one calling the shorts, Vitali." Lilica warned, eyes narrowed and voice low. She mounted her horse, and looked over her shoulder at the other two. "I know where I am going--for now. Evidently, the protocol is that I am to be given directions step by step, every night when I dream... We shall see how this pans out."

They exited the city, past the gates, and sure enough, after a short distance, the familiar, masked face of Tivia Rigas came into view. Lilica halted the party to allow her to join. "I am sorry we could not lobby for a 4th horse... that would have come across as suspicious," she apologized, and arched an eyebrow when her brother already deigned to solve the problem.

"You are welcome to ride with me," the necromancer offered, grinning as he extended a hand to Tivia. "After all, aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on me? That is why Lilica agreed for you to accompany us, is it not?"
When she took his hand, he helped her up to settle behind him on his steed. "Lead the way, then, Lilica. We are all investing our blind trust in you, for better or for worse."

"I know. I can't begin to tell you how difficult it is to have someone play a role that does not appeal to them... Caris has been rebelling against it since I placed him there. Because of me." Vega expelled a long and frustrated breath. There was no mistaking that the relationship between her and her brother was rocky, at best. With Vega's guilt and Caris's unyielding resentment, it was no wonder his heart was not in his role. "I think... this was good for him, though. As much as I did not want to admit it, Caris needs a wake-up call. There is little that I can say to incite some degree of responsibility in him, and I am happy that he heard it from you. I... know I should have told you about this before. It was wrong of me to leave it until now and put you on the spot."

Knowing that he was cross with her (and he very well had a right to be), she took him by the hand, momentarily uncaring of who might have seen them. There were officially more pressing matters for Eyraille to ponder; the affairs of it princess were trivial in comparison. "Give him some time. I think we managed to scare him a little; he is going to be sullen, probably for a while. But he is not stupid, and for all of his petulance, he does care about the fate of this kingdom. It is his home, and he knows no other. But... do not think for one moment that I would expect you to stay here and fight Mollengard alongside us, Haraldur. I would never ask that of you; and eve if you feel obligated to do so, I strongly urge you to reconsider." Her hands slid from his hands to his wrists, and she closed the gap between them."I know what happened to you--what they did to you. Haraldur, I will never let you relive that. Not for as long as I am alive. Do what you can to help up; inform our armies, advise us as to how we can use our tactical advantage. Tell me how I can best prepare my Skyknights to withstand this impending attack. But do not set foot on that battlefield with Mollengard if it will destroy you. I'll destroy them, first." Something fierce flashed in her sapphire eyes, not so unlike the ferocity that they had witnessed in the eyes of her brother. Though they expressed it so differently, and with varying levels of emotional maturity, both Sorde siblings were passionate about what they believed in.

"Do you understand, Haraldur? I will protect you... just like you have been protecting me."

Certainly, that was not the last that he had seen of Caris Sorde, but the former mercenary likely had not considered that he would see him again so soon. Vega had insisted for quite a while, now, that he cease taking his meals in his room, and come and join them at the table. Finally, her incessant nagging had prevailed, but just as Haraldur was readying himself to attend a meal with her and her brother (she felt it made sense, now that they had, in fact, been formally introduced), there was a knock on his door. When Haraldur gave permission for the visitor to enter, to his likely surprise, it was none other than Caris Sorde. The young king, though still clad in the the regal silver and blue of Eyraille, had adopted a slightly more casual (though no less dominant) posture. The silver circlet that had adorned his brow earlier was nowhere to be seen, and away from the throne, the young man actually carried himself with more confidence. Of course, Haraldur was, in fact, in his territory; he had every right to carry himself with confidence. "Sorry to intrude," he began, although he sounded less than sorry. "I know you'll be sitting with us in a half hour, but I cannot be real while sitting on an oversized throne, and evidently I cannot be real in front of Vega, because my sister doesn't take well to it. So if it is all right with you, I would like to be real, right now."

Whether or not it truly was all right with the former mercenary, Caris leaned against the closed door, arms folded and brow set in determination. He might have come to talk, but evidently, he did not come to be swayed. "Why is it that you are here, Haraldur? I understand that my sister saw fit to bring you here under sanctuary. You were injured, and, well, you are a hero to those who inhabit Eyraille's mountains. We could not, in good faith as a nation, turn you away. But... why is it that you have chosen to stay? And why, pray tell, is my sister insisting you remain here in the palace?"

He dared to meet Haraldur's eyes. Daring, challenging, and too stubborn to step down. A Sorde, through and through. "I'm being real with you. So I ask that you be real with me: is she the reason that you are here? All of her sneaking around, her lack of explanations and half-truths... I might be young. I am inexperienced, and certainly, I will be the first to admit that I have lived a sheltered life, even moreso than my sister. I don't even remember the cruelty of our father, despite that she does. But I am not an idiot." He arched a pale eyebrow, one that might not have been visible, were it not for the crease in his forehead. "I have seen how she looks at you. How she protects you so fiercely. I wondered why the serving staff has not bothered to make your beds and tidy your rooms in the mornings, and it leads me to believe that you have found alternate sleeping arrangements. For the sake of my own sanity, I am not going to jump to conclusions; but as a precaution, I am going to tell you this."

Shoulders stiff, he leaned forward ever so slightly, and that blue fire blazed in his eyes. That need for order and control; it was the only thing that kept him upright. "Whatever you have going on, or whatever you are considering pursuing with Vega... do us all a favor, and do not proceed. If we are indeed at risk of falling into war with Mollengard, then the last thing I need is the only person I can depend on, and the only one fit to lead our Skyknights, distracted and irrational with matters of the heart--or matters between the sheets. You are a fighting man, are you not? Surely you can understand the need to focus. And I am certain, sir, that you know your place among us."

Having said what he came to say, Caris unfolded his arms and rolled his shoulders. "Be on time for dinner in a half hour. Our kitchen has prepared a rack of lamb; and considering my sister's stomach has mysteriously turned away from the taste of meet, I would not want it to go wasted. Do bring an appetite."

He stepped out, then, leaving Haraldur with the echo of his words--and his thinly veiled threats.

When Chara returned to stand beside Lysander, she saw that he had grown pale, with wide eyes boring straight into the ground. Oh come off it, Lysander, she wanted to bark at him. You've seen us kiss before, I am certain of it.. However, even she had to admit their kisses were never that...public. She took a wide sweep of the faces that had gathered for the send-off: a few council members were present, along with Glaucus, Atli, and other Mollengardian healers. While everyone had elected to carry stoic expressions, she could see that the council looked on at Lilica's retreating form with poorly-masked disgust. Good, she thought with a self-satisfied grin. It's not like I've curried their favor, anyway. Now they know where I stand. And now I know where I stand. It's...oddly freeing.

The small crowd remained by the opened Rigas gates until the horses faded from view. Slowly, all had dispersed, returning to their own obligations and duties, with the exception of Lysander and Elespeth. The warrior still looked on, as if expecting Alster to turn back around, to announce his change of heart and mind. To refute his exile and agree to fight an unjust ruling. She could see those thoughts flicker through her wistful eyes--because she too was trying to reconcile the same dashed hopes. They were alone. Alster and Lilica weren't returning. Not for a while. 

Or ever... Her fingers traced the lips which touched Lilica's in farewell. They tingled with purpose, almost swelled with elation. Her body had reacted in kind, sending currents of warmth in her lower extremities, preparing for an intimation that would not come. Not for a while. Or ever, her mind reiterated. 

Forcing down the doubt and the residual anger forged from abandonment, she approached Elespeth, clasping her hands forward in a sign of civility, calm, and control. "Elespeth. Come with me. Henceforward from now, you'll be staying at my villa." 

Tivia waited in her place beneath the rubble just outside the city gates. It was an old guardhouse that had sundered into ruin, though there was enough structural integrity to allow a small body to huddle into the little burrow its fall had left behind. When she heard the horses, she wriggled herself free, self-consciously wiping away the plaster and dust that clung to her tattered clothes. 

"Tivia," Alster said from atop his horse, padding the saddlebags with his good hand. "Don't worry. I made some room in my saddlebags for your clothes. I also have enough money to purchase you a horse once we reach the next town--if you'd like one."

"No, it's fine." She took a wide, suspicious sweep of her surroundings before sliding off the tower of rubble, and into the cleared, cleaned thoroughfare. "You're going to need me to steer your horse when your arm is out of sorts, Alster."

But before she could climb atop his mare, Vitali had positioned himself beside her and offered his hand and his seat on the saddle. She hesitated, as she looked from the necromancer to Alster, who responded with a frown and a slight narrowing of the eyes. But before she could decline the offer, her hand was already in his, and she found herself positioned on the saddle. She flashed silent apologies to Alster, who sighed, shook his head, and urged his horse into a light canter as they all began to follow Lilica outside the city. Tivia, who in the meantime had lured herself into silence, was careful in how she made contact with the necromancer, for when she had touched his hand, she heard slight, almost imperceptible whispers and saw the flash of a star in her eyes. 

I will not leave you alone on the battlefield. Never again.

Those last words to the Eyrallian princess reverberated in his head. It had been several hours since he was ensconced inside his chambers, scarcely used, as of late. But he still felt the pounding of his heart and the strain of his ardent glare when he gripped Vega's arms in turn and uttered his fierce, uncompromising reply. He could chalk up his loyalties to paranoia; after all, he had found her dead, shot down in a battle where he was a participant. He was so close to her, but she, separated by sky, and he, consigned to the ground...what could he have done? 

He'd no longer put himself in such a position. Side by side, they'd remain, if extenuating circumstances would allow. And he was soon to find out the reach of those circumstances...

Haraldur was checking the status of his sprained ankle, which, thanks to Enid, was nearly healed, all swelling and bruising gone. But when he heard the knock on his door, he slipped on his boots and strolled over to answer. It was too early for his attendance at dinner, an invitation which he'd attempted to decline, citing preferential treatment as a cause for his Majesty's suspicion. It was to no avail: Vega had persisted, and now he was beholden to show for what would no doubt be an awkward dinner. But the footsteps behind his closed door were lighter, purposeful, evenly spaced--it was not Vega, or her servants, who had come to call. 

The boy king, himself, waited for him on the other side of the open door. He furrowed his brow, half in expectation for the unorthodox visit, half in anticipation. "Your Majesty." He offered Caris a customary bow and stood aside, allowing him to enter. "To what do I owe the visit?" He knew well the reason why. It was written all over the boy's face. And it wasn't long before that youthful mouth opened, and spilled out the words that Haraldur had predicted would be uttered: the very concerns he brought to Vega's attention days ago, which she had dismissed. He listened in silence, but he returned Caris's gaze in response to his inquiries. His eyes, in contrast, held no challenge, no show of affected bravado. They also did not show subservience or servility. Instead, they were a pair of stones: apathetic, unmoved, impressed upon the earth but not impressed by mortal lives, however exalted their title. 

"All right, Majesty." he said, conceding with a nod, the casual lean of his leg. "You've earned the truth. Your investigations into my and your sister's relationship aren't unwarranted. Yes. I'm here because of her. Because I swore that I would protect her, and keep her safe--to make up for my shortcomings on the battlefield. I can't do that remotely. It would be an impossible task. She's also responsible for my protection, though she's done a good job of it, and so I continue to trust her. Trust between two people takes on different forms," he said glibly, the closest he'd admit to their lewd relations. 

Again, he responded little to the threatening stare, the posturing of a boy who tried to hard to inflate his shoulders and take up space, to fan out his tail feathers or bare his teeth. He continued leaning on his leg; it twitched a little as he repositioned it more comfortably. "That would also be impossible, your Majesty. Do you really think she'd agree to your 'precautions' so readily?" This time, he stood to his full height and crossed his arms, his muscles displaying prominently through the mid-sleeve cut of his tunic. "I am a fighting man, you're correct. I've fought in battles for longer than you've been alive, so I can say with confidence that there's been nothing to match the brutality of Mollengard. I must reemphasize this, because maybe then you'll understand why I have to protect your sister. Why I must stay at her side. I know the monsters that Mollengard makes out of men, because I was that monster. And, I assure you," those apathetic eyes darkened, "you'll want me on your side, when those monsters come." 

As the king made his departure, he called out after him. "I'm glad we could have this real talk. I'm open to more of these talks in the future. I'll see you at dinner, Majesty." His tone lightened; it was almost buoyant in form as he added, "I always have an appetite." 

As he listened to the footfalls fade down the hallway, Haraldur slumped on his bed, clutching for a pendant that was no longer there. He gripped his shirt collar instead. "Shit," he muttered to himself, as the reality of his words began to sink. "That was too much. ...I'm going to the dungeons."

Either Chara was incredibly intuitive, or the two of them shared an empathy of feelings as they watched their loved ones leave by horse for an indeterminate amount of time, but her appraisal of the thoughts running through Elespeth's mind were entirely correct. It was as if she believed that if she thought hard enough, if she kept her eyes on Alster's back as he retreated through the gates and wished with every ounce of her being for him to return, dismount, and run back into her arms, that it would happen. And she did just that: she stared and she wished, and she wished so, so hard... but he did not turn around. None of them did, and she would have continued to stand there, watching and waiting long after the small party had departed, were in not for the unexpected sound of a familiar voice that she did not expect to hear so soon--let alone the proposal (if it was even that; though it sounded more like a declaration).

"Chara?" Her name was a question on the warrior's tongue. But before she could ask the Rigas woman what she meant, or why, Chara was already heading back towards the Rigas estates--and, with Alster gone, there was nowhere else for her to go where she would not be alone. So, turning away from the gates where she would see Alster for the last time in who knows how long, Elespeth followed Alster's cousin. Neither of them said anything along the way, leaving the former knight wondering the entire way just what the blonde woman's motives could possibly be. She hadn't said a single word to her since the day that the Serpent had ceased is unintended reign of terror throughout the city; and why would she? There was no reason for anything to be on Chara's mind, save for the city itself, and her plans to clean up and reassemble it. And that only made her most recent comment to her all the more confusing. Even Lysander, she had noticed, appeared perplexed; after all, she was not a Rigas. Nor was she of any importance to the city. Alster was her only tie, and although they were engaged, neither of them had been boisterous or forthcoming about it, save for the ring that Elespeth now wore on her finger. Is that the reason? Has she... noticed? Elespeth quietly began to fret, as she entered the fine quarters of Chara's luxurious villa. After all, with Alster gone, there was literally no one left to protect her from the fiery Rigas woman's wrath.

She did not wander far from the doorway, cautious in case it felt safer to leave, but with nowhere else to turn, she decided to give Chara the benefit of the doubt. "All right. Chara, I appreciate... this. Whatever it is you want to call it. But, I need to ask you... why?" The last time she has spent any amount of hours and minutes in a villa like this, it had been with Alster. Certainly, the luxury had felt off to her, then, despite that she had grown up among similar luxuries. But... standing in the presence of a woman who lived and breathed that luxury, and who she had always known for looking down at those who did not, it felt odd. Uncomfortable. Dressed in a plain tunic, stained with sweat and dirt from her seemingly endless training, compared to the crisp and pristine way the Rigas woman was clad and carried herself... Elespeth had never felt more out of her element. Particularly without Alster to offset the atmosphere that made her feel as though she did not belong. "Did... Is it something that Alster said to you? Did he ask you to offer that I stay here?" She wouldn't put it past him, not after their conversation. Not after she told him how low were her expectations of ever kindling some semblance of a relationship with Chara. Of course he said something... someone must have. I know Chara well enough to know when she is acting entirely out of character.

Of course, even if that was the case, perhaps calling her out on it was not the best plan of action. 

"Listen... if it's what you really want, then I'll stay here. You don't have to tell me what spurred this decision." She sighed, clasping her hands in front of her. "But if this is going to happen, then... I want to start over, completely. From the beginning. No grudges, no baggage. Can we do that?" Taking a breath, she did her best to smile. And she offered Chara her hand. "My name is Elespeth Tameris."

Who knew? Maybe, in the absence of those whom they held dear, a more positive and mutually beneficial working relationship would be possible between them.

The meal set up on the long table was as magnificent as one would expect for a king, and Vega was ashamed to find that the sight and smell of the rack of lamb nauseated her. For that reason, the Eyraillian princess waited until the last possible minute to attend, hoping that Haraldur had not beaten her to it. She could only imagine the discomfort that her brother would seek to put him through, had he the opportunity to speak to him alone...

After dressing in attire that was fit for dinner with her monarch brother, Vega made her way to the dining room, and approached the long table just as Haraldur turned the corner to do the same. Her face lit up with relief at the sight of him. "So you kept your word. I was afraid that you would get cold feet and decide not to come, after all," she commented, but the corners of her smile faded when she noted the tension in his eyes. "Is everything all right...? You're not still hanging on my brother's insolence from earlier, are you? Try to relax. You are in no danger of being expelled from this kingdom, and he knows that he owes you more respect than he is willing to let on. Of that, I can assure you. Come on."

Rounding the table, she took her seat at the opposite end lengthwise, and motioned for Haraldur to sit next to her. Caris was already there, hands folded on his lap, looking less than pleased--but that was nothing different from his usual expression. Vega couldn't remember the last time she had seen her brother smile. "Good. You're finally here." He said, although it did not sound as though he meant the sentiment. "Vega, you should have invited Haraldur to eat with us weeks ago. It's about time someone else who can stomach meat sat at this table; I am ashamed at all of the food that has been going to waste. Speaking of... You haven't told me what spurred your decision to shy away from animal flesh. Before you left Eyraille, I'd always known you to be a notorious carnivore."

Immediately, Vega could tell that this entire meal was about to be cast in a dark light. Ever since their chat that morning, Caris walked with defiance in his eyes. There was something amidst that he could not control; and he did not like it. "It really isn't a big deal, Caris." She tried to brush it off, filling her plate instead with potatoes and vegetables. "My diet is hardly a noteworthy subject."

"It is when you are leading my Skyknights. You just told me this morning that you almost died, countless times, in your time away from your home--am I right? Well, was that before or after you shirked protein from your diet? And was this before or after you encountered our heoric guest?" The young king would not let it drop; not when he had an agenda. Eyes harrowing in on his sister, he took a bite of lamb from his plate. "You looked absolutely haggard when you returned, Vega. Depriving yourself of nutrients to keep you strong--that will kill you. If not over time, then in an instant, on the battlefield. Put some flesh back on your bones; you know your Skynights need a strong commander, now more than ever."

"All right, Caris--enough." It was everything Vega could do not to raise her voice. That was what he wanted; a rise. Taking a breath through her nose, she busied her hands with cutting the food on her plate. "I have no idea exactly how you can reason blaming Haraldur for my choices. You want to know the truth? I was gravely injured in battle, bleeding from an artery. My comrades saved my life, but only by taking the drastic means of cauterizing the laceration, as there was no other option at that point. And, when you realize that the smell of your own, burnt flesh does not smell so different than that of a succulent pig on a spit," she narrowed her eyes, then, meeting her brother's, "it tends to influence the way you look at and feel about meat, henceforth. Give me time, and maybe I'll have the stomach for it again. Now, can we please have a pleasant meal?"

The brutality of her truth quieted the young king, for a mere moment. "Well, then that is a small price to pay, I suppose. I would much rather have a sister alive who will not eat meat, than no sister at all." His smile was tight, as he turned to Haraldur again. "Can I assume that I have you to thank for this, Haraldur? For the reason that Vega is sitting with us, today? And for the reason that she is more changed, and more of a stranger than I have ever known her to be?"

Though she had arrived composed, and it was only moments into the meal, Vega's last nerve finally snapped. Her fork and knife clattered to her plate, and she stood in a single, swift motion. "You know, I can't seem to find an appetite, tonight. Perhaps I'll work one up on the training field and snack later. Haraldur?" She placed a hand on his shoulder, though her anger seeped through to the tightness of her grip. "Do not feel obligated to stay, Haraldur. I can have the help bring your plate to your chambers."

"Vega--let a grown man speak for himself. If you are going to up and leave, then I would appreciate Haraldur's company." Caris said, his tone simple and glib, as though they were talking about the weather. "I was hoping to find the opportunity to speak with him about his training. In hopes that he could perhaps mentor some of our own troops, in tactics against Mollengard. That is, if you are willing to speak on that, Haraldur?" It was neither a question nor a courtesy: it was a thinly veiled order. And even Vega could not defy a king's order.

Leaning down, she whispered close to Haraldur's ear, "Let him let off his steam--don't take it to heart. Come see me, afterwards."

Vega quietly took her leave, and somehow, Caris's oddly relaxed demeanor remained. He did not look up from his plate to address Haraldur. "I know of Mollengard and their Forbanne. How they train them, what they do." He wasted no time skirting around the issue. "Like I said earlier, Haraldur, I am not an idiot. And you yourself alluded to being a monster, when we spoke earlier. So my question to you is this: why in all creation should I approve of a monster having access to the most vulnerable part of my sister's life? I, for one, am no monster; and I would never order Vega to keep her distance from you, however much I wish I could. Nor can I order you to steer clear of her, as I am not really your king. But I can promise you that your stay with us will not be pleasant if you do not have me on your side." Chewing thoughtfully, he leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders. "It is in your best interest to earn my respect--and even if you do, do not think for a moment that you would ever amount to being worthy of romantic relations with my sister. But, that aside..."

Finishing was was on his plate, the young king took the goblet of red wine before him and sipped. "You say you can help us? Then you'll prove it. You can earn your stay, and, maybe, even my respect, simultaneously. Tomorrow morning at dawn, and not a moment later, I will see you on the training field. I'm interested in seeing the way you fight. So, what do you say?" The young man raised his pale eyebrows. "I mean it--not a moment later than dawn. You should be grateful I am giving you this opportunity: you're welcome."

It did not take even an idle glance at Elespeth to know that Chara baffled her with her act of charity. Her faltering footsteps and uncertain voice revealed these truths, but Chara carried on as normal, holding herself with straight-backed, head-tilted pride--even when passersby gave them the side-eye. When they reached the steps of her villa, and she swung the door open to lead them inside, she turned to watch the warrior, who did not proceed, and rather seemed stuck, or trapped by some enchantment on her legs. It would have been amusing, were she not still reeling from Lilica and Alster's departure. 

"Are you glued to the door, Elespeth?" She waved her hand forward, impatiently. As the warrior, with hesitation, approached, she took a carafe of wine off the dining table and poured the dark liquid in a crystal goblet, which she offered to her "guest." 

"We are both going to need this." She poured a half-glass for herself and sipped at the thick, tangy liquid. "Only a bit, though. For now. We have work to do." She pointed to a chair at the dining room table, directing her to sit. "You can wipe the bewilderment off your face. I am not inviting you into my home as some favor to Alster, I assure you." Pulling up a chair, she positioned it across from Elespeth, on the same side of the table. "Like it or not, we are allies to the cause, and I will need your cooperation--as you will need mine. This is better accomplished if we are living under the same roof. And it is my idea. Though," she swished the wine in her glass, biting ever so slightly on her bottom lip, "it was Lilica who vouched for you, warrior. She suggested your use to me, so I plan to see what you are capable of, myself." 

Crossing her legs, which exposed the white of her ankles, she leaned back in the chair. "We are surrounded on all sides by enemies. The Rigases cannot be trusted. Mollengard cannot be trusted. I shall deal with my brethren, but it is in you that I see the potential for scouting and gathering intelligence on our Northern 'allies.' Go out there and help them rebuild the city. They will not question your presence, as they know you are with Stella D'Mare, and they, too, will be curious in learning of your loyalties. But if you come off as unassuming and genuinely helpful, they may overlook any ulterior motives they'll first suspect you of having. Befriend those of weak will or lose tongues. The talkative sorts. They're easiest to break. Ones with much to say are often desperate to reveal their secrets." 

Sniffing as if she took in a malodorous smell, she looked at Elespeth's outstretched hand--which shone with a ring that was not there before--and rolled her eyes at the re-introduction. "Cease this play, Elespeth. We are no longer children." Uncrossing her legs, she leaned forward, and clinked their glasses together in a toast, her own version of their mutual agreements. "We are not starting over. Merely picking up from where we left off. Be fortunate enough that I grant you that, considering the ring you now sport...which is unmistakably Debine's." She snorted, but contained her frustratations, imagining them floating away into the ocean currents, adrift and fading into the horizon. 

"Alster proposed to you...did he not?" She tilted her head, her mouth drawing into an almost gleeful smile. "Then you will do well to cooperate with me. See me into power as the rightful head of this family, and I will grant you that marriage. I will even perform the ceremony, myself. Of course, Alster's marriage to an outsider will present its own problems, but," she yawned, feigning boredom, "Stella D'Mare is nothing but not laden with problems. What's one more?" 

After draining her goblet of wine, she rose from her chair and nodded for Elespeth to follow. "Now let me show you to your room. Lysander will also be staying with us, and may need assistance with his wheeled contraption from time to time, when I am not present. Do not stress him out too much." 

She opened the door to Elespeth's bedroom, a replica of the one at Alster's villa, with the same enormous bed and fluffy, eiderdown sheets, mosaic floors, wooden friezes on the wall, and an entrance to the outside terrace, which now overlooked a dead and crumbled city by the sea. "Well," she said with the flat click of her tongue, "rest up. We shall start our work tomorrow." 

Haraldur was almost compelled to stay behind in his chambers that evening. The prospect of sharing a table with the wrathful boy-king sounded no less appealing than having his eyes pecked out by vultures. But it was with a very laborious rise to his feet that he washed up and dressed in his plan, yet suitable clothes, and was escorted to the hall where dinner was to be served. 

He offered Vega a shaky smile when he almost collided with her near the long table, but said nothing as he presented himself to the king and sat where she instructed him to sit. When the servers walked into the room with trays of lamb at hand, he stared with longing at the succulent roast placed before him, not only because it was a fine cut of meat dashed with aromatic seasonings and spiced potatoes, but because it provided a ready distraction to the storm brewing between the heads of the two siblings. He didn't know the proper etiquette when it came to dining with royalty, so he sat, staring helplessly at the utensils afforded to him and without an idea on how to proceed. 

However, when the siblings began what sounded like their routine bickering, of which he was the focus, he picked up a fork and knife and jabbed into the meat, eating with gusto as a way to keep himself out of the argument. Since his talk with Caris not long ago, he resolved to act with more civility and poise, knowing full well that the king, with his power coupled with his disagreeable moods, could make the coming days very difficult for him simply out of spite. It was best not to incite the one who wore the crown, so he kept silent, much as wanted to defend Vega against her unfair accusations. 

He was half finished with his lamb when the Skyknight shot out of her seat and suggested he leave with her, an out which he would have taken, if not for the commanding glint that shone in Caris's eyes, which forced him to stay in place.

"Of course, your Majesty," he said, sounding more than happy to comply with his wishes. With Vega's whispered reassurances, he took a few refreshing breaths, schooling his expression into calm, and convincing himself not to say regretful things. Instead, he treated the king with the respect he so requested of him, keeping his head bowed and his voice neutral. 

"I am no longer a monster, your Majesty. That's in the past. But I offer that part of my past to you in good faith. You'll learn of my history sooner or later, and if we're going to face Mollengard, I won't deceive you by withholding this information. If you need me to prove my loyalty to you," he lifted his head to Caris, "then I will. At dawn."

When he left the room, his food only half-eaten, he met with Vega in the hallway. He betrayed no emotions, indicating nothing of what they discussed. But when she inquired, he sighed, and tugged idly on his belt. "I'm giving a demonstration, apparently. Tomorrow, at dawn. Is there anything I should expect or prepare for? I'll give him what he wants." Even if he sees this as an opportunity to shame or exploit me, he thought. But then a darker thought crept into his mind. If I spar with another...

The last time he sparred, he was about to plunge a sword into Elespeth's stomach, spurred into violence by his killing hand. But he couldn't tell the king outright of his proclivities to kill on sight. It would only solidify his position as a monster, the very title he needed to disprove--and yearned to disprove. 

"I'm going to my own chambers tonight," he told Vega, too strung up to spend the night with her in their attic crawlspace. "I'll need to rest up for the morning."

He did not achieve the restful night he wanted, however. When he did dream, he saw flashes of fire-ravaged battlefields, overturned horses that screamed the pain of their broken legs, a litter of bodies that tried, in vain, to escape the site of massacre. Children with sightless eyes, blood flies feasting on their corpses. And him, standing at the center, his sword shivering in that white-knuckled hand, standing above the desecrated corpse...of Caris. 

It was just before dawn when servants knocked and attended to him. They provided him breakfast, which he skipped, taking only a swig of water, imagining it as a bottle of the most potent whiskey. Once dressed, they delivered him to the barracks and the armory, where he fitted himself with a leather cuirass, bracers, and shoulder pauldrons. As he tested the weights of several swords and observed the collections of hand-axes and throwing daggers, he wondered what, exactly, he was meant to demonstrate that morning. Who was his opponent? For surely he was meant to fight against a man. Or an army. All he could do was prepare accordingly...and wait for the king to show.

Elespeth looked skeptically at the wine that was poured for her, and hesitated to step away from the door. As paranoid a thought as it might have been, she could not help but feel as though this entire situation was some kind of setup. Chara Rigas was not known for her charity, anymore than she was known for tolerating the woman who had become the object of her former fiance's heart. It was as if she wanted something from her; and she was not far off the mark from that truth.

Taking a seat across from Chara at the table, she took the goblet of wine, but made no move to bring it to her lips. "I have always been your ally, Chara. Since the beginning." The former knight sighed, and gently shook her head, swirling the wine around in the goblet. "Much though you have not wanted to see it that way. I have no qualms about cooperating with you. And I... I know about Mollengard. Alster was saying the same thing. They are not a nation known for their charity... meaning that there is something they want from Stella D'Mare. Perhaps it is the city itself." Odd, how she and Alster--and Lilica, for that matter, had apparently been on the same wavelength in terms of what Stella D'Mare needed to be warded against. Why the dark mage of all people would vouch for her, for that matter, might forever remain a mystery.

Unless... she did not want Chara to be left alone. Perhaps this conspiracy had less to do with Chara and Alster, and more to do with Alster and Lilica. Plotting and planning to ensure that their loved ones had something to hold onto, and something to occupy them, in their absence. Alster... you're craftier than you let on. "You want me to befriend the suspicious. Be a fly on the wall and see what I find out." She couldn't help but chuckle, though it was without any humor. "You know, I did wonder, long and hard, why the hell Cyprian would exile Vitali, Lilica, and even Alster, of all people, but not me. Evidently, I am not threatening... which makes me ideal for what you need me to do. I never thought my worth would be weighed in my ability to spy and deceive, but if it is what is needed, and if you need me to help... of course I'll do it. I would have anyway, for what it is worth, without offering to let me stay here."

And... without the leverage that the Rigas woman suddenly claimed. It hadn't occurred to her to hide the ring or to wear it elsewhere but on her hand; not when neither she nor Alster was ashamed or wished to conceal the promise that they had made to one another. And with Chara's affections having been effectively transferred to Lilica, she did not think the blonde woman would really care. But Elespeth did not miss the flicker in Chara's blue eyes, or the set of her jaw when her gaze fell upon the ring that had once belong to Alster's mother. Perhaps this was an alternative to her explosive anger: finding a means to work it to her favor. And Chara was nothing, if not an opportunist.

Nonetheless, it was off-putting. Knowing she hadn't much of a choice, Lilica followed the Rigas woman to the room where she would be staying: it was small, but did not lack the luxury that Chara was used to. Elespeth figured it would be a miracle if she could ever fall asleep there. "Chara, I already told you... I want nothing more than to cooperate. If for no other reason than for the sake of my own sanity." She began, carefully, but with the steadfast permanence to her tone that suggested she was not open to being manipulated. "Alster did propose to me--before he left. He promised to wed me when he returns. We plan to be together, regardless of the legality of it, though I can tell you right now, it would mean more than the world to both of us if you would grant us this marriage. But you will not use our engagement as leverage to have me do your bidding." She could have been firm and forceful, but she did not have the energy, and she really did not want to compromise her allyship with the Chara. "You have nothing to prove--already, you hold more power over me and this city than you realize. I have no sway, here; my one and only tie to this city is gone, and I don't know when I am going to see him again. And all of this makes me more vulnerable than I care to admit, so I must make myself clear: I am fine with what you have proposed. But only if you do not hang this engagement over my head like a carrot out of reach. So, I ask again: can we please just start over?"

And, once again, she offered her hand.

Later that night--much later--Elespeth discovered her suspicions to be true. She couldn't sleep, and for fear that she would begin to ruminate if she remained inactive, it was in the very wee hours of the morning that she finally rose, dressed, and left the villa to walk around the estate. Perhaps some exercise would do her good, or tire her out enough to find some rest. Strapping her blade to her back (there was no telling where danger lurked, with Mollengard present in the city), she quietly left Chara's villa, hopefully without disturbing the Rigas woman, or her father, who was also staying with them.

The cool night air felt good on her face, and even better did it feel to leave the confines of a place where--when all was said and done--she was not really welcome. Chara wanted her for her cooperation, not her company, after all. In fact, she did not seem at all interested in company, aside from that of her father, in Lilica's absence...
But that did not mean that company did not find her, anyway.

She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye; quick and nimble, but it was there. A shadow in the villa's gardens. Immediately, Elespeth's mind jumped to the worst case scenario, and she held her breath, quietly drawing her sword as she pursued on featherlight feet. Chara had more enemies than friends; what if this person aimed to do her harm?

Waiting for the right opportunity, her heart pounding in her chest, the Atvanian warrior took a breath, and she leaped at the figure from behind, drawing her blade near his throat. "Who are you?" She demanded in a hiss, grateful for the way the adrenaline in her veins ate away at her anxiety. "What business do you have at the Rigas estates at this hour?"

Caris was waiting for Haraldur the next morning, because he knew he would come. Following their conversation from the previous evening, it occurred to him that Haraldur may just have some remorse for his previous disrespect, and in an attempt to make his own life easier and win the respect of the monarch who could make his stay very pleasant, or downright wretched, he would comply. So after giving very specific instructions to his soldiers on the training ground (despite the concern that they felt for his decision), he waited, eager and prepared, for the former Mollengardian to arrive--and arrive he did, clearly not knowing what to expect.

"Good. I was hoping you'd come." Was all he said in greeting. Curiously, Caris, aside from Haraldur himself, was the only one dressed in armor, and armed with a sword--a real sword. Not something used for sparring. The look on the outsider's face when he realized precisely who his opponent was, was almost comical. "Well, what did you expect, warrior? Do not look down on me--I have been training with the sword for longer than Vega has been established as a Skyknight. I am not an incapable fighter; and I would like to see how you measure up. Fear not, I have cleared this with my men. You won't be penalized or held accountable for injuries of any sort. This is my decision... and I do not want you to hold back. So." Drawing his sword from the sheath at his back, Caris stood, with determination in his eyes, and an eagerness to his stance. "Show me what you're capable of. Here and now is where you can sway me to find you useful. Impress me today, and maybe I'll even consider more lenience towards your overstepping bounds with my sister. I only have one rule."

Those sapphire eyes, pure, cobalt fire, shone with that telltale Sorde flame. This was not just a game or a show of skill for the young king; this was business. "Do not hold back. Fight me like you want to kill me--and don't lie, I am certain that a part of you does. Now is your chance to expel your frustration. I can hold my own. But mark my words, if you go easy, or if you pull some juvenile tactic of letting me win... I will ensure that your stay here, with us, is miserable. So." The corner of his mouth twitched into a grin. "Are you ready, warrior?"

Before Chara took her leave, the stubborn warrior once again made her silly appeals, and were she feeling more wrathful, she would have slammed the door in Elespeth's face and warned her never to speak unless it was of importance. But she remained at the threshold, clutching at the latch, eyebrows furrowing at the extended hand with its offensive ring sparkling with a fury all its own. It looked more likely to zap her than to accept her touch.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "I am not starting over. But if it will satisfy you and facilitate your cooperation," she grabbed the warrior's hand, and pumped it in forceful oscillations. "Our proposal is settled. We work together, to save this city from tyranny, and to bring our loved ones home. Now is that all, Elespeth?" She tore away from her hand as if it would infect her. "We'll begin our assault tomorrow. Until then." She closed the door and left Elespeth to her own devices. 

Spying, when done well, without any errs or missteps, was a bore. 

Hadwin hunkered into the bushes beside the villa of Chara Rigas, a woman, who, like the fear-spooked Cyprian, shared in his delusions of grandeur. Now that her lover, who looked like bleached driftwood and sea-kelp washed to the shore, had disembarked, she was left vulnerable to his influences. Yet, despite the orders of his "superiors" (who he'd rather call "clients"), he doubted that she would take to his presence very well. Even if he could sidle close to the volatile Chara Rigas, there was no guarantee that she would listen to him, or to his revelatory explorations of her mind. She'd sooner cut out his tongue, which, he admitted, sounded like a more exciting prospect than remaining clandestine, and only emerging when he saw fit to act.

Tonight was not one of those nights. Or ever, if he surmised Chara's character correctly. It was fruitless, and dull, to remain. He shook off his wolf-skin, slipped on the clothes that he kept inside the small bag clipped around his animal counterpart, and darted out of the bushes, en route to Mollengard's base. 

Little did he know, that during his transition and subsequent flight, someone had left the villa of Chara Rigas, had made chase, and apprehended him from behind, tackling him to the ground. He felt the cool, sharp metal against his throat, and the threatening hiss drawing into his perked-up ear. 

Shit, he thought. I've been spotted.

Yes, he thought again, I've been spotted! 

"I would ask you the same, but you're ready to take a swipe at me, so I'm in no position to provoke you. I'm also in no position to answer your pressing questions, pressed as I am," he groaned, trying to free his head from the blade so he'd have an easier time speaking. "I live here. I'm a D'Marian. I'm one of the few the Rigases allowed into their home after mine was destroyed. And I expect I'm out here, same as you. I can't sleep." He elected for a disarming chuckle. "Have I committed a crime?" 

When Haraldur discovered who his opponent was, he began to pale. His stomach, still tumbling from the last dream he had before waking, reacted all the more when his mind could not help but superimpose the two images together. Haraldur was looking at a composite of the living man and of the dead, bloodied, ruined man at his feet. Broken. Defeated. Equal, as all things were in death. 

"I beg you reconsider, Majesty," he said, all in vain, he knew. "I don't doubt you're capable with a sword, but," he bit his tongue, and again grasped for a necklace that wasn't there. He couldn't admit that he fought to kill, not if he wanted to disassociate from the "monster" he claimed to have slayed. But there was a high chance that the boy-king was already aware of his proclivities towards violence if he was so well-versed in the history of the Forbanne. It didn't matter; there was no way of winning against Caris, a fact that the boy was all too aware. If he defeated him, the king would sustain injuries, and possibly fall victim to his sword if the guards surrounding them weren't fast enough. If his wounds were grievous, Haraldur have to come to terms with the monstrous tendencies still running in his blood. The compulsions to target and destroy, compulsions stronger than his own will. And that was if he'd live past his treacherous act of regicide. If he held back his sword, or refused to fight, he'd be disobeying Caris's order, and lose his respect, both of which would dash all chances of warming the king's icy exterior. And his relationship with Vega, his new purpose...that would surely end. 

"Let me fight one of your champions, first. Depending on the outcome, you can--" But the boy-king was already stalking towards him, and his retinue made no attempts to stop him or step forward in his place. They were letting it happen. And he...had no choice but to comply. 

"...Fine," he said, with cold resignation. "We're doing this, then." He pulled a sword from its sheath in the wooden holding carriage behind him: as real and sharp as the blade the king wielded. "You want to experience how I dispatch my enemies on the battlefield? Let's go." When he faced the boy-king anew, sword in hand, the carapace that represented his restraint had cracked and fallen from him. The shields fell to the ground, discarded and hollow. Standing before Caris was Forbanne, the cursed one, a face of rock but a body like flame.

And like, wildfire, it spread. 

It gained on the king, sword aimed to harm. To dole damage. But it feinted when it neared Caris, adjusting for the boy's response, which was quick and reflexive. Their swords clashed. And continued to clash together, with every stroke aimed to maim this insolent king. Caris was skilled at the sword. Nonetheless, his sword never tasted blood, was never tasked to destroy. It knew not of hardship, or the indifference of the world. Not so intimately as he, anyway. And it was the song that his weapon sang, as it swung and parried, thrust and arced though the air. Despair. Hopelessness. Oblivion. Leave none alive on this plane of existence. Let all return to the earth. Let nothing survive...but me.

His blows increased in power and finesse. His killing hand throbbed painfully as his grip tightened. His intent was to knock the man off balance, to find an opening, to disarm. And before long, the opportunity arrived. As a result of his last attack, Caris lost his footing. It was a minor stumble, almost inconsequential, but he honed in on that little hiccup, further threw him off balance with a rush, which brought his sword dangerously close to the king... And he bit. He slotted the sword through the openings of his armor, between the shoulder plate and the breastplate. He slashed that soft flesh of the underarm while continuing to press forward with his will, his strength. He landed heavily on the king's foot, crushing it, and sent him reeling to the ground. His dead eyes glinted with no mercy, as he knocked the sword out of Caris's hands, and came in for the kill...

There was nothing that did not scream 'suspicious' about the man before her. Whatever his name, and whoever he was, it did not ring familiar to her, as she was clearly not a native resident of this city, but that was irrelevant. The way he prowled, so quiet and careful... it was almost as if he had not wanted to be seen or found. Of course, that was all speculation, and she had no way of proving any of it. Perhaps, then, that made her more of the assailant...

Hesitantly, Elespeth withdrew her sword from where it hovered near the stranger's throat and slipped it into the sheath on her back. She retreated a couple of steps to allow him room to stand. "I am a friend of the Rigas whose home you are prowling around." Friend might have been too strong a word, but if this man truly did mean her harm, then Chara would be damned lucky to be able to call Elespeth her friend. "I couldn't sleep, and thought I might take it upon myself to ensure that all was well. With all due respect, I do not think that she would appreciate someone prowling the gardens of her estate in the wee hours of the morning, uninvited... though, I apologize for acting too brashly. If, indeed, you mean no harm."

Something was unmistakably off-putting about this man, but she couldn't determine what it was. Perhaps it was that smug lilt to his voice, as though the entire situation were humorous to him. Not so different from the way that damned necromancer spoke: all talk, and no back-up plan. It annoyed her; of course, it wasn't difficult to be annoyed when Alster hadn't even been gone twenty-four hours, and already she was lacking sleep. "I suggest you find somewhere else to wander." She said at last, no longer threatening, but not friendly, either. She wasn't in the mood to be nice. "You are lucky that it was me who found you, out here, and not the resident of this villa. Or else that sword might have well met its mark."

"Haraldur; I am the champion," Caris enunciated every word, hoping it would hit home with the for former Mollengardian brute. "Fight me now, and have a chance at earning the respect that you need for your own benefit, or walk away, and lose any chance that you have of earning what little favor you might glean. I cannot and will not force you to fight; the choice is yours."

And the choice that the warrior made fueled the young king with adrenaline, when he saw him draw his sword and pick up a stance. Finally: a real fight with plausible stakes. After years of careful and devoted training, this was nothing less than what he deserved.

Still young as he was, Caris's frame was not bulky with muscle's like Haraldur's it was tall and lean, agile and flexible, which lent a good deal to his skill and technique. He had always learned to win by form and not by force, stepping out of dangerous formations with ease and grace, and into ones that lent him an advantage. The trouble was, not everyone fought that way: and on the battlefield, no one played by the rules. So while he had mastered swordsmanship that bespoke honor and good form, it was true that his own sword had never drawn blood--but Haraldur's had. And that was where the differences lay.

Keeping up was not the challenge. It was the small, almost imperceptible slip-ups of his feet and posture that caused him to begin to lose ground. And, sure enough, Haraldur jumped on each and every one of those small weaknesses. Misjudging a turn by a mere split second was enough of an opportunity for the warrior's blade to find the gap in his armor, between shoulder and breastplate, where it cut into the vulnerable flesh beneath his arm. The young king heard his own voice cry out and ring agony in his ears, which only amplified when the former Mollengardian's foot came down so hard upon his own that he swore he heard a crack. Caris fell hard onto his back, his head hitting the ground with such force that blackness temporarily overtook his vision, and when at last it cleared, Haraldur's cold expression dominated his vision, his body poised and determined to finish the job.

"Haraldur... stop! I yield!" Rolling onto his side just in time for Haraldur's blade to bury itself in the dirt, Caris's hand shot up, and he met the warrior's cold eyes. His own eyes, blue and fierce, were not without a shock of cobalt fear: the realization that he could die right here, right now, and very easily. They were the very same eyes that had met Haraldur's, when he had nearly run Vega through with his sword. And perhaps it was those eyes that ultimately urged the warrior, the hero of Eyraille's mountains, to stay his hand. "I yield," he repeated, his voice breathless and weak. "You have won." He only lowered his arm when Haraldur lowered his sword, and his lungs expelled a sigh of relief. What a rush! So different from the battles that he was used to; in fact, it gave him a more heightened sense of pride feeling loss to a superior opponent, than winning against one who posed no challenge!

But that moment of bliss was short-lived, when he realized the reason for his rapidly-descending exhaustion. Caris was bleeding; heavily and quickly from the deep laceration beneath his arm. Half of his armor and tunic were stained with the warm, sticky substance, which had begun to pool beneath him, and in his onset of delirium, his sluggish mind could only wonder, Is this normal? Should I be bleeding so much, as so far?

Before he could fathom and answer, he noticed the mercenary was pulling him to his feet, as if he were a ragdoll, made of nothing more than cloth and stuffing. "I'll be fine." He protested, wrinkling his nose, as if he thought that the former mercenary was overreacting. Whatever happened after that, however, was a blurry mystery, as the next thing the young king could remember was waking up in the infirmary. His side and arm were heavily bandaged, and his arm had been placed in a sling. The physician who tended him, an older man who had served his won father before him, was perspiring with worry. "Your Majesty." He hissed, his old, frail shoulders relaxing when the young man opened his eyes. "What were you thinking?"

"...bring me the... our hero. Our guest." Groggy with heavy pain medication weighing down his body, he struggled to recall the name of the man who landed him here. "Haraldur! That man... he is the reason I am here. Bring him to me, now." Though tired, those sapphire eyes flashed with determination, and no room for arguing. "I would like to have words with him."

Against his better judgement, the physician sent for Haraldur, knowing better to invoke the king's wrath, even in his currently incapacitated state. Moments later, the young king faced the mercenary yet again, and asked that they be left alone for a moment. "Relax. Like I said, I had cleared this fight with my men before it even happened. No one holds you accountable; I knew the risks." He had known the risks, but evidently, he had not calculated just how heavily they weighed. Though the physician appeared to have sealed the nic in his artery, and had stitched the skin beneath his arm, the young king was positively colorless from bloodloss, his skin as pale as his hair, with only his blue eyes to stand out against the fair backdrop. Had they not acted fast, the result of that battle could have ended very poorly. But none of that seemed to register in the young king's visage.

"I have trained with my sword for years. The trouble is, I have never put my skills to the test--not on grounds where people do not uphold honor. To incapacitate, not to annihilate. I was not taught to fight "dirty" and to kick my opponent when they are down, and to go for the kill when the timing is right; in short, I suppose I was not trained to fight like a monster." He looked Haraldur dead in the eyes, almost as if he were making an accusation, before he followed up: "But you were. And because of that, if you are to remain here for any length of time, I want you to train me."

Expecting Haraldur to protest, he held up a hand before he could do so. "I will not take no for an answer. Let me explain. If it really is a matter of time before Mollengard attacks, then I cannot sit idly and hope that my men and soldiers will protect me throughout the assault. I have not trained with the sword for as long as I have to never be involved in battle. Perhaps it is the same stir-craziness that drove Vega to seek out the Skyknights... but just because she abandoned the throne to be an active soldier does not mean that I will sit back and remain inactive. I plan to be on that battlefield, Haraldur. And I want to personally cut the throats of those who would dare pose a threat to my home." And he was not exaggerating. Eyraille had fought too long and too hard to rise from the ashes that his father had left it in. And reluctant though he was to stand as king, he would not let tragedy befall it again. "But, as is... that would be a deathwish. So, I am asking for your help, to make that change. And in exchange for your help..." Caris paused and took a breath, as though this were difficult for him to say. "I'll turn a blind eye to your relationship with my sister. At least, I'll tolerate it... to the best of my abilities. Don't talk about where you are spending the night and what you are doing, and I won't ask. So."

Caris extended his uninjured arm, which was easier said than done. He had to lean forward, taking care not to tear the fresh stitches beneath his other arm. "Do we have a deal, mercenary?"

Once the woman removed the blade from his throat and retreated, he bounced to his feet with all the finesse of a cat, rather than that of a canine, whose skin he'd been wearing only moments ago. I knew I should have remained a wolf, the cautious side of himself complained. But the reckless side, which dominated most of his actions, shrugged away the apprehension and instead turned to observe the woman who had handily seized him. He wasn't surprised to see the mien of Elespeth Tameris, beloved of the now-absent Alster Rigas. Perhaps their run-in was fortuitous. 

As she spoke her suspicions aloud, he used the opportunity to lock eyes with her. The cover of darkness did not pose a problem for his sight, which did not possess the same restrictions of a human's. He saw her with clarity--and he saw that which plagued her, like little ghost wisps flashing across her stern, unyielding countenance.

...Change of plans. 

"Oh, Chara Rigas, you mean. Yeah, I know she lives here, Elespeth. And you, with her," he said, as casually as if they were already acquainted. "Though," he tsked, "it's not fair that you don't know my name, while I know yours, so I'll amend this egregious oversight of mine. I'm Hadwin Kavanagh." He smiled, showing off his prominent canines. "And you're right not to trust me. But now that I've addressed the obvious, we can move on to juicier bits of information. I know you're planning to spy on Mollengard," he leveled that unsettling golden gaze on her, eyes that knew more than the mouth revealed. "So does Mollengard, I expect. You're not going to get far with your investigation. They're tight-lipped folks. Just giving you a head's up for what you're really in for. But I'm rooting for you, my little Atvanian fugitive."

At seeing the probable alarm on the warrior's face, he laughed. "Relax. I don't care. I'm wanted--or was wanted--across several counties during my illustrious reign of terror. Exonerated now, as far as I know. Anyway, if you want to get in good with Mollengard, just keep me in mind, okay?" He winked. "It's simple to break them if you know what to look for--which I do. And the fun part is you don't have to trust me at all. Anyway," he feigned a yawn, "it's late. Even if you don't take me up on my offer, you can always come to me if nightmares of your dead brother or absent lover keep you up at night. I've a few remedies that are perfect for killing haunts where they stand. Well," he spun in the opposite direction and sauntered off, as if he were enjoying a care-free midday stroll, "good night, Friendless." 

While he, as Forbanne, was not as swift as the boy-king, it was easy to overpower and dominate that lithe, dancing form, once caught by the blade, and thrown off his feet. His detached gaze bore into that of the boy who lay prone, bleeding profusely from his injury. But he would not accept the king's defeat until he was dead. Only then would he have truly capitalized on defeat. 

Ignoring the boy's words, he rammed his sword downwards, but it met with the ground as Caris used the last reserves of his strength to deflect it in time. And that was when those blue eyes found the mires of his dull green ones. They sparked with life, with the desire of life, fearsome of what was waiting on the other side, when all would fade to black. 

Death... Vega had been there. He had almost sent her there a second time. That much, he could recall when looking into the swimming blue of this youth's eyes. He saw in them...her. 

"Vega," he whispered under his breath. His grip loosened, and the sword fell from his hand, clattering to the ground beside the king. That image from his dream...it had almost come to pass. Caris, dead, victim of Forbanne. Victim of the man without a name...

But he had a name. The young man had uttered it. Haraldur. 

His hands closed into fists, the stubs of his nails digging, without success, into his callused flesh. When they relaxed, he knelt beside Caris and scooped him into his arms. "One of you, fetch a medic!" He ordered, not caring if he was overstepping any boundaries of rank. "He's bleeding out. We need to staunch the wound before it's too late."

Luckily, a medic was at hand, and took the king from Haraldur's grip. He was rapidly fading, the loss of consciousness evident in his drooping eyes. The medic and a few other guards carted Caris to safety, leaving Haraldur behind with the remaining guards, who all looked to him with a mix of hostility and fear.

"Arrest me if you'd like," he told them. "Send me to the dungeons. I take full responsibility for what's happened."

But they didn't, and he found himself back in his chambers. They'd even tended to a wound he didn't realize he had, a small but exact slash on his forearm, past the leather protection of his bracers. 

When his attendants were done dressing the wound, he asked not to be disturbed. Even if Vega came calling for him, he was in no condition to see her. And so, his request was honored, and he spent time, the hours of which he quit tracking, sprawled out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering: what do I do now? I'm no better than I was before. I'm still just a killer... 

But he wasn't left wondering for long. Though the servant knocking at his door apologized for the interruption, he announced that the king wanted an audience. At that news, Haraldur sighed heavily with relief. So they managed to treat him in time. He was alive, and well enough, it seemed, to sling orders about, even when bedridden. But surely now, he thought, was where he'd receive his just punishment. Death by hanging. Exile. An offering to Mollengard in return for peaceful relations. At least the latter would serve a purpose, though it was naive to think that the conquering nation would uphold the terms of such a trade. 

When he was dressed and decent, the servant escorted him to the infirmary, where the king awaited him, propped up on cushions, very much alive, and coherent--as evidenced by the still vibrant glint in his clear-blue eyes. 

Without hesitation, Haraldur drew himself into a deep bow, resting one knee on the floor and hanging his head like a penitent beseeching mercy. "Your Majesty. I'm--" 

The king interrupted him, spouting reassurances that impelled Haraldur to lift his head in confusion. As he continued to listen, the confusion transitioned into skepticism, then doubt. Perhaps Caris wasn't in his right mind; after all, his head had slammed into the ground rather hard. 

"Your Majesty," he retained his one-kneed stance as he spoke, "I almost killed you. If you were not tended to with such immediacy, you would have. The monster that they bred in me," he placed a hand to his chest, "it's still there, as I knew it to be true. I've lied to you. By your admission before...why do you want a monster anywhere near you? Much less, with access to weapons, and your proximity?"

But his words were, as expected, not heeded. Still, he tried to break through the barriers of obstinacy that the king wielded with skill, allowing no cracks of persuasion to penetrate. "Your men need you alive to lead this kingdom, not on the battlefield. Leave matters to fodder such as myself. I'll fight for you, Your Majesty. You don't need to become even an iota of what I am in order to maintain your integrity. Besides," he looked to the young man's injured arm, bandaged and kept in a sling, "do you trust me to train you? After...all this?" 

His uninjured arm extended itself in Haraldur's direction, palm open, receptive. Willing to grant him what he wanted if he agreed to their terms. He stared for a long time at that hand, considering. Was it even a real choice, or a casual order? Would he risk potentially endangering Caris on a regular basis, all to keep at Vega's side? His hand fluttered from his chest, but still did not make contact with the king's outstretched arm.

"I have a condition," he said, looking Caris in his clear blue eyes. "If ever I...if I revert, or regress...if I show any sign that I mean to hurt you, we cease training immediately. Always have a medic on duty, and several of your soldiers on hand. I can't be held responsible for any more damage." I've done enough of that, already, he almost added. 

Then, in a decision he hoped he wouldn't regret, he took Caris's palm, and closed it in a handshake.

...what in the hell just happened?

Elespeth froze in terror and astonishment--but not when he said her name. Her name had circulated throughout Stella D'Mare long ago, as a result of being so close to Alster. Nor did it strike her as particularly terrifying that he knew she was from Atvany; that was not public knowledge, but people talked, and for all she knew, Char, Lilica, Vitali... anyone could have tripped over their own loose tongue and let that information slip. Or maybe he simply had been spying on them, which would explain how he was aware of her part in spying on Mollengard, even while that plan had just been formulated and established hours ago, between herself and Chara--no one else. That was feasible, and frankly, it was plausible, given the way she had caught him prowling around her estate. It was when he mentioned her nightmares: specifically, that of her brother. Nobody knew what she suffered in her dreams when her stress levels rose to a certain point; no one but Alster, who she knew with all her heart would never be so cavalier with such information. How was it that he seemed to know everything, especially those things which she wished not to discuss, those things that she would sooner forget, if it was up to her.

She did not wait for him to retreat before turning on her heel and making her way back to the villa, where she sat at Chara's tiny dining table until morning, pondering and fretting. She did not look up until dawn broke, and with it rose the haughty Rigas caster, who had yet to dress in any finery or paint her face for the day. Unfortunately, Elespeth did not have the time to let her prepare before she spoke up.

"We need to be careful, Chara. Very, very careful. Does the name Hadwin Kavanagh ring familiar to you?" When she looked up, it was clear by the darkness beneath her stone-green eyes that she had not slept. "I took a walk last night because I couldn't sleep. Caught a man by that name prowling near the villa... I've never met or seen him before, but he knew everything about me. My name, Atvany, and the fact that I am looking to spy on Mollengard. He even knew about my nightmares, Chara... about my brother."

Standing from the table, her legs stiff and her head aching, she pressed a hand to her temples. "Who knows if this game is over before it has even started. I am going to help Mollengard with repairs to the city, today, but I suggest you keep tighter security around the premises of this villa. Who knows who else can be listening in. Evidently, nothing is sacred."

With her sword still strapped to her back, Elespeth nodded her goodbye for the day, and left for Mollengard's ranks, which were busying themselves repairing some of the mainstay buildings. Just being among them, a nation known for its conquering and nefarious means of gaining what they desired, made her stomach turn; and if they were already aware of her intentions, then it would do her no good to immediately start to pry. I guess I will just have to take this slowly, she decided, and did not say a word to anyone before setting to work. She would keep to herself and be a fly on the wall, for now; surely, it would only be a matter of time before any of them began to open up.
Because she would be damned if she ever came within 10 feet of that man from the night before. Whether or not he had tricks up his sleeve when it came to getting to Mollengard in ways that she could not, he himself had admitted that he was not trustworthy. And it was simply not worth the danger.

How did he know? How could he know? The Atvanian warrior agonized over the question for hours, such that she wasn't even really paying attention to the Mollengardians around her. That encounter had left her shaken and uncertain, such that she could not think how to more forward, when there were no logical answers. And what else could he possibly know, that he did not let on? I should have apprehended him... perhaps next time, I will.

By nightfall, they had not traveled far enough to reach an inn, and so Lilica and her small company had opted to sleep in the shelter of the trees. Unlike the mild weather of Stella D'Mare, the further they traveled, the colder it became, and she never thought that she would be so grateful for the clothing that Chara had given her. To keep in the warmth, they set up a small tent, barely big enough for the four of them to fit, but it was late, and dark, and the horses needed to rest. It hadn't even been a full day of travel, and already, Lilica was beginning to have doubts. They had no direction, not yet; her father, for her 'safety', he'd proposed, would only allow foresight into step-by-step directions along the way, meaning the whereabouts of their ultimate destination was still a mystery to them. Many of them were only vaguely familiar with that surrounding area, especially since everything tended to look the same when it was plagued by the dead of winter. And there was only one of them capable of reading anything into the 'dead'.

The three of them had just finished pitching the tent and starting a fire for warmth, when Vitali, who had been scouting the area, emerged from the darkness of the trees. Lilica frowned at his approach. "Well, was that a useful venture?" She asked, her tone flat. "Or were you just devising a way to remove yourself from helping us set up camp?"

"In fact, it was very insightful." The necromancer countered, pulling the collar of his coat closer to his neck, his breath misting on the air in front of him. "This is the perfect time of year to glean information. Everything is dying or dead; everything is begging to have my ear. Even the trees themselves have something to say, if you know the right way to listen."

Approaching the fire, he took a seat in front of Alster and Tivia, and leaned in to warm his hands. "If what I know is correct, then we should come across an inn towards the east by nightfall, tomorrow. That is, however, entirely contingent on whether our dear father sends us in that direction. So, until we know for sure, then it is rather a moot point. You haven't had word from his elusive self, have you?"

Lilica sighed, and shook her head. "I haven't slept yet. So no, there have not been any more directives."

"Well, why don't you get on that, then. Leave the fire tending to us."

Exhausted from travel and everything weighing on her mind, Lilica, saw did not see a reason not to comply. So, trusting that Alster and Tivia were well on their own to keep an eye on Vitali, she retired to the tent to sleep. It was not long before sleep found her--and so did her father.

[i]"You came through." Theomyr Tenebris, standing in his Night Garden, appeared to practically be glowing with the depth of his smile. "Lilica. I cannot begin to tell you what this means to me. And what it will mean to the people of Galeyn, when you find it. You are already a hero."

"I am not interested in heroics." The dark mage made herself very clear, and cut right to the chase. "It is exhausting to have you in my head--in my dreams, like this. So just tell me what I need to know, so that I might rest. Where are we going when we set out, tomorrow? Show me the way now."

The king nodded, the dark, silken tresses of his ponytail falling over his shoulder. "I will show you what you need to know. Please understand why I cannot divulge the path in its entirety to you right now. It is dangerous--"

"But not for us. You don't care about the danger that we are in, 'father'. You care that we might be followed or tracked." Lilica pressed her lips together, her dark eyes hard and cold and knowing. "Your concern is not for us--not for your own blood, if that is what I am. It is for your kingdom. So spare me your rationalizing, and show me what I need to see."

Theomyr was silent for a moment, and very still. The chthonic caster briefly wondered if she was perhaps waking up prematurely, and would not get the answers that she sought. But then he advanced, like a tall shadow, and placed a hand on her shoulder; so firm that it almost hurt. "For your company? For that wayward brother of yours? Perhaps not. I cannot care for those I do not know and cannot trust. But you, Lilica... your blood is what will revive Galeyn--your home. And if it requires a trio of lackeys to get you there safely, then I suppose they are of some importance. Please." The depths of his dark eyes were cold, but also, desperate. "Stop questioning my intentions."

Before she had a chance to respond, her mind was flooded with scenery, as if she were traveling at 10 times the speed of a horse. She took note of landmarks, of twists and turns, and sure enough, at the end of it all, stood a small inn. So Vitali had not been lying, after all. "It is out of the way by a couple of hours. But you will not make due by sleeping in the cold every night."

"And how close will we be, then?" Lilica asked, still reeling from the images in her head, that played over and over like a memory that couldn't be broken. "How much further until we are where we need to be?" How much longer before she could return to Chara?

But that was an answer that she did not receive. No sooner did she voice her question, that the dark mage found herself opening her eyes in the tent. She sat up, to find that everyone else had taken to sleep--except for Alster. Her lungs deflated in a small sigh. "Well... at least I know where we are headed. For now." Pulling her knees to her chest, she rubbed life back into her hands. They were aching from the cold. "Alster... if at any point in time, you want to turn back and return to Stella D'Mare, I will not hold it against you. Because I cannot tell you exactly where any of us are going to end up... nor can I divine how long it is going to take us to get there." In the darkness, she offered a sad, soft smile. "It is better to leave now, while you're still close to home. You have nothing to lose by going back... and I am not sure that you have anything to gain by seeing this journey through."

When Chara, half-asleep, trudged into the dining area that morning, she was surprised to see Elespeth sitting there, fully dressed and alert. She was not expecting the warrior for another hour, at least. It was still dark outside, and she hadn't yet begun her morning routine. But she saw the intensity locked in the warrior's gaze, and sat on the chair beside her to listen to her recounting of events that had occurred scant yards outside her villa. 

"No," she said, churning the information around in her head, "I have not heard that name before. But," she frowned, the true severity of the situation sinking into her, blade first. "I already despise him. If he can so easily gather this information...do you think he has made entry into my home?!" She stiffened in her chair, both incensed and tense. "You could have been talking in your sleep. He could have hovered over your bed, listening. If he was so near when you located him outside..."

She shook her head, her pale cheeks turning livid with the thought of a voyeur creeping in their bedchambers, gleaning information with ease, and with ready access to their unconscious, vulnerable forms... "If he knows this much about you--I wonder what he knows of me. We must return the favor, and investigate him. I've no doubt he is working for Mollengard. We cannot allow him to move freely. At least, not without surveillance of our own." She stood up in tandem with Elespeth. "At once, I shall establish a guard around the perimeter of my estate. And though I haven't wanted to bother him so soon into his recovery," she looked over her shoulder, at the door closest to the hallway, "I will have to involve Lysander. He might have some insights to share, as a former spy." 

All the while, her fingers were spread, etherea tingling in her upturned palm. A spell was in activation. one that had proved useful to her in the past, when she, Alster, Lilica, and Lysander resolved to keep their affairs clandestine, away from the all-knowing Adalfieri. The spell muffled and garbled their speech, so if any were to listen in on their conversation, they would hear nothing but nonsense words and gutteral sounds. "I have us enclosed in a cicle of protected speech. Keep this in mind for future conversations, Elespeth. Before you speak to me, wait until I cast this spell. I will make this hand signal once I do." She nodded towards her spread-eagled fingers and pinched the thumb and little finger together. The middle three digits formed a fork. "And that will mean we are free to talk." But even with the spell in activation, she said not another word, and merely nodded when Elespeth announced her leave for Mollengard's building projects. Once the Atvanian warrior slipped out of the villa, however, Chara seethed, cursed under her breath, and stamped her feet. Everything was spiraling, escalating, so far out of her control that she half-wished they hadn't gotten rid of the Serpent so soon. It would have destroyed more of the city, but at least it would have dismantled and decimated Mollengard's armies. Their timing couldn't have been more wrong. 

I understand what you were trying to do, Adalfieri, she thought, in a moment of clarity. Pity it didn't work. And pity you were mad. 

Someone was calling out to Elespeth. Not by name, but the words were addressed to her. It was a simple question, an innocent inquiry, but it was powered by a deep, resonant voice, husky, but still undeniably feminine. "Are you using that hammer?" 

Solveig sidled up beside the Atvanian warrior, thin lips turned in a half-smirk of amusement. "I ask because you've been standing there for some time, clutching it like you want to drive nails into all our heads. Look," she sighed, and the smirk faded, "I'm appreciative of all the help. I for one am just relieved that the Rigas family can spare at least some muscle for rebuilding their own city. But if you're feeling unwell, we won't feel affronted if you want to return to the estate. In fact," she clapped a hand to the woman's shoulder and led her away from the frame of a house that she and four others were propping upright and nailing into place, "I think you've done enough. You've been here what, half a day? It's admirable, really, but we've got it covered on this end. Have you considered joining the clean-up crew? That operation is helmed by the Rigases. I think you'll find a much better fit, there."

As they broadened the distance between the building projects, Solveig removed her hand from Elespeth, and nodded towards the hammer. "I am going to need that back, though." She took it without consent. Whether from Elespeth loosening her grip or the measure of the other woman's strength, it slipped with ease into her enormous hands. "We're more than managed, here. But what is your name, soldier? Perhaps we'll use you for future projects, since you're so eager to work with us." 

And as the statuesque woman turned Elespeth away, sending her en route up the hill towards the Rigas gate, a shadowy figure stalked in the ruins of a building. It watched their progression with yellow eyes, then darted away on all fours. 

"Also," the woman cautioned, after catching the movement out of her periphery, "do watch for wild coyotes, when you're out here. They're going after the dead that are buried in the rubble. It's leaving a real mess." She shook her head in an exaggerated show of disgust. "There's so many more bodies for us to collect before their rot becomes too unbearable and overpowers this city with disease. If you'd like," she suggested, "come back here tomorrow and we'll set you up with a wheelbarrow, some gloves, and a mask." 

Ever since their departure from Stella D'Mare, Alster had lapsed into thoughtful silence. A wave of contradictory sensations had assailed him all at once, the moment they left the once-sprawling peninsula and trekked into the arid stretch of landscape beyond. He felt both relief and dread. Relief for having left such an accursed place, of death and madness and the ever-lingering energy of the Serpent, which buzzed in his ears and in his soul. The infection waned for every hoof-beat of his horse. Breathing felt easier, more unencumbered, and his eyes were able to discern colors, though muted in the dead, winter brush. All the same, every hoof-beat also took him further away from color manifest. Elespeth was all the color that he needed, more than the tall, sweeping cypress trees could provide, or the dark azure of sky, or the gray-purple glimpses of ocean that drifted from their inland-veering path. But he had left her, all in search of...what? A purpose? Had he needed another? A promise? Lilica did not need his aid, nor did she seem comfortable with it, in light of who he was leaving behind. 

As the hours spanned, his requisite guilt set in. And the only thing that spared him from dwelling on it was the near-constant pain of his arm, which jostled up and down in the roughness of his saddle. 

That evening, he hiked his legs up against his chest, tightening into a ball he hoped would abate the chill that seemed to fuse in his bones. He closed his eyes, and willed himself to find Elespeth in dream, but the way was barred for him. She was not present, and he could only conclude that she was unable to sleep--or that her subconsciousness was walling him from entry. 

With no other reason to sleep (as he didn't want to encounter the Serpent in case It awaited him in the rifts of his mind), he remained awake, eyes staring into a point in space.

Lilica's voice startled him into awareness. Clutching his chest from the fright, he nodded along to her words, to acknowledge that he heard them, despite the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. 

"I used to be familiar with this area," he said, smiling apologetically, "during the forty or so years of my exile from Stella D'Mare. Most of the details have slipped my mind, though. I thought that by retreading this land, some fleeting memory would come to me. Nothing yet." He ran a hand over the grooves of his metal arm, which had been partially disassembled, to allow the skin to breathe. 

"I would take you up on that offer, Lilica," he admitted, with some shame. "But I can't. And not just because I'm an exile, or that I promised I'd help you. I told you I had selfish reasons for leaving. And maybe you might understand them. Stella D'Mare...I couldn't be there another moment. I felt my mind slipping away--and it's unfair to Elespeth to stand as constant sentinel against my continued deterioration. I need this more than you think. To be away. A new perspective. Something fresh, something far. I'm running," he sighed, "and I hate it, hate what it's doing to Elespeth... but I'm with you, Lilica. To Galeyn and back. And," he added, "someone needs to watch you in Chara's stead. She won't forgive me if I left you behind, at the mercy of your brother and with only Tivia to mind him. That's not fair to her, either. So," he pressed at his metal fingers, hearing the satisfying clicks they made, "I'm here to stay. I'll see this through with you, okay?" 

That morning, while Alster and Lilica were breaking down camp and packing away the tent and sleeping rolls, Tivia wandered over to Vitali, who was saddling the horses. She grabbed an available saddle off the ground, a weight that she'd underestimated, but she managed to sling it over the dappled gray mount that both she and the necromancer currently shared. As she worked, she struggled with the words she practiced saying to him, when she had awoke in a sweat the other night after experiencing...a vision of some sort. Only, it wasn't the typical scene: no screaming of stars, or brilliant, overtaking orbs of light. What she experienced was dim, and cold. The disc before her emitted little heat. It radiated a miasmic black. Spider-like tendrils shot from the disc, rubbing together as if to scratch an itch. Within those rubbings, she could make out the silvery threading of a fine web. And as those legs weaved and pulled and constructed, smaller lights fluttered toward the now completed masterpiece. They hummed and congregated, attracted to the thing of beauty, which enticed and beckoned. They didn't see the black, hairy thing as they flung themselves upon the web. And the miasma, certain of its victory, squeezed the light out of each and every one.

Nothing remained but that cold darkness, hissing and smoking like a snuffed candle.

"Vitali," she said, hesitation in her voice. She did not turn to face him, instead pretending to be fully invested in the bulky saddle and its many buckles. "I had a...a dream last night. And I think it was about you." Realizing how forward that sounded, a blush spread, unbidden, across her cheeks. "I mean...more of a vision. I saw a star. Yours, I presume. But it was black, and cold, and preying on the lifeblood of others. Like a spider. And..." a shiver crept up her arms. She abandoned her task to rub and hold them together. Finally, she whirled in his direction. "Your age... you've lived many years. But those years were never yours to take...were they?"

So engrossed in her thoughts, Elespeth did not realize that someone was addressing her until the hulking shadow of a man interrupted her trance. Turning to face the intruder in her space, she was shocked to find it was not a man, but in fact, a giant of a woman. Immediately, alarms began to go off inside of her head. This woman--she had seen her, before. A Mollengardian commander, by the looks of it. 

On any other occasion, Elespeth would have risen to the challenge of being taunted and patronized to the extent that this woman was doing. Though her pride did not extend to that of a Rigas, she had not been raised to allow herself to be kicked repeatedly. However, this situation called for tact. And if she let this Mollengardian get on her nerve so easily, when she had just hardly begun, then she'd already be failing. Exhaling through her nose, she surrendered the hammer to the massive woman and offered a tight-lipped smile. "Apologies. I did have good intentions, but I suppose I did not sleep much last night. I don't have the focus to be as much of a help as I'd like to be." But I will be damned if I am hauling dead bodies in wheelbarrows...

Turning on her heel, she stopped short when the woman asked her name. She briefly considered giving her an alias; some people still knew her as Tam. But... there really was no point. And the less that she had to hide, the more organically this could unfold.

"I'm Elespeth. I've been friends with the Rigases for some time, now. I'd love to be of help, if you'd have me. Anything to keep my busy after all of this chaos. But..." She arched an eyebrow, ever so slightly. She might be civil, though she was not about to be a pushover. "I think I'll pass on the body clean up. Maybe you'll come to find my skills and talents might serve you better in other areas."

With a nod, she set off from the premises, wondering about the comment regarding coyotes. She had never seen coyotes in Stella D'Mare, even with the bodies and the death... What had she meant, by that?
Making her way back to the Rigas estates, she got as far as the gardens, before she noticed the eyes. Yellow and striking, the centerpiece of a greyish-brown body. Immediately, the Atvanain warrior went on the defense and drew her sword. "What in all hell..." A coyote? What were the chances that she would come across one so soon after that hulk of a woman had mentioned them? There was something... something odd. Beyond odd, especially about the canine's behaviour. It didn't approach, did not seem aggressive, it just... sat there. Observing. Elespeth lowered her sword. There was something strangely familiar about those yellow eyes...

Sure enough, Lilica had come through, and his procured the way to the inn that Vitali had suspected they might find, should they be traveling in that direction. The necromancer felt smug with confirmation of his findings; proof that he had not merely been evading work, after all. He expected that that he would be forced to prove himself over and over, however, and that no matter the help he lent to this little party, he would never truly be accepted as an ally and a equal--not that he could blame his comrades, but it was continual annoyance that he would have to learn to live with. And if his small contributions would keep in in the good graces of his sister and her comrades, then that was really the only affirmation that he needed. They wouldn't leave him abandoned on this journey if he could continue to be useful in even minuscule ways; although, if they did, then he had no doubt that he would find them.

After all, blood bonds could work both ways.

And, perhaps, there was more to the oath he had taken with Lilica and Tivia than what he had realized outright. Nothing which he would have considered pause for concern, until the Rigas woman approached him the next day, while they were saddling the horses. "Ah, good morning, Tivia." He greeted her with a jovial smile. "I trust you slept just as wretchedly as I did, with the cold eating at your bones. Here's hoping that Lilica can make good on her promise to find us somewhere warmer to rest our heads, tonight." But on the confession that she had, in fact, had a dream--and of him, of all people--he raised his eyebrows. Evidently, she had slept well. And comically so.

"Is that so?" The telling grin that spread across the necromancer's face only served to deepen the flush that had crept into Tivia's cheeks. Her discomfort was amusing. "You dreamed of me? Well, I do hope it was a good one. Memorable, even." Vitali chuckled, his shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. "To be honest, it is not every day that I am the object of someone's dreams. Particularly when I do not have the means to go prowling about in someone else's head; unlike Alster, and my dear father, that is."

Slowly, that smile began to fade, as Tivia went into detail about the specifics of her dream. He seemed to forget what he was doing, entirely, and the saddle remained only half secured upon the horse, with his hands still holding it up, frozen like a statue. He didn't react, at first, simply because he did not know how to react what she had told him. And, perhaps, that was for the better. Alster and Lilica were nearby, finishing up around the campsite and readying their own horses. Too many ears; too much suspicion. This was neither the time to defend himself against the Rigas woman's visions, nor to... confess. "Dreams do tend to be strange manifestations of what we believe, deep inside." The necromancer ultimately opted to shrug off Tivia's concerns, and her thinly-veiled accusations. "You don't trust me: it's fine, I know, and I understand. You have perfectly legit reasons not to. So why would it seem so far-fetched that your subconscious mind conjures me as a spider, sucking the life from the living? I don't doubt your abilities as a seer for even a single moment, Tivia. You have insight into the world and the lives of others, in ways that some could only deign to imagine. But do not start looking for clues where they do not exist. Given our circumstances, it seems clear to me that your mind is simply conjuring suspicions that you have not yet laid to rest. Fear not--I do not take offense to it." Offering a wink, Vitali resumed the preparation of his horse. He was the last to finish, and as soon as he was prepared, the quartet set off, with Lilica in the lead.

It really was a full day, and then some, before they reached this promised inn, with the comforting smell of wood smoke and the orange glow of life behind the windows of the two-story building. There was no guarantee that there would be room for four wayward travelers, but their fingers and noses were numb, their stomachs were turning and twisting with hunger, and even if they could secure a night out of the cold, then Lilica would have happily slept upon a bar stool. After tying their horses up in nearby stables, the small party pushed through the doors of the inn. Warmth and the delicious smell of food immediately assaulted their senses, and it was all that Lilica could do not to sigh openly in relief.

"Well... you are quite a group for travel, at this time of night." An older woman with an apron and bonnet, her wiry, grey hair tied back from her face, looking up from scrubbing tables for a fraction of a second. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, dears, but if you were looking for a meal, we just closed out kitchens for the night. But, on the bright side, if it is beds you're looking for, we've got one room left. So long as not each one of you is hoping for their own bed."

"We have been traveling since sun-up, ma'am. A warm place to spend the night is truly all that we desire." Lilica informed the woman, who looked to either be the inkeep, or their wife. "But if, my some miracle, there is anything left in the kitchen that might stave off our hunger... We will more than happily compensate you for your trouble." Happy that she had not shirked Chara's offer to give her a hefty pouch of coins and gold to use for currency, Lilica showed a small handful of the goods to the old woman, whose eyes lit up with surprise.

"I don't suppose there is any reason why I can't at least check for you." She said immediately, much more accommodating. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll set up your room and see what I can find to fill your bellies."

An hour later, the small party were established in a room with a single bed, and two cots which the woman had provided. Their stomachs were full with stew that the inkeep had graciously warmed over the fire, along with some bread and cheese that had been left over from that day's meal preparations. Having decided it was best for the two women to take the bed, Vitali and Alster each secured their own cots, and with warmth flowing through their veins and their stomachs pleasantly full, many of them were mercifully not long for sleep, that night. 
Except for Vitali, who, as soon as he was certain that the slow, even breathing of his comrades indicated they had fallen asleep, rose from his cot, and left the room.

He had a feeling that Tivia would come and find him, later that night, given that she was not satisfied with his response to her suspicions from earlier. So he took a seat at a table downstairs, where only a handful of men were drinking alone, likely staving off the cold until morning, and he waited. Sure enough, the Rigas woman found him, and took a seat across from him. He did not hesitate to explain. "I was not born, knowing death as intimately as I do now," he began, foregoing the preamble. "When I was young, in fact, I nearly succumbed to it, wracked with a deadly fever. My mother... Well, I cannot say what it was that she did, because I do not truly know. But I know that the reason I slipped out of death's hands when I should not have been able to was not due to a natural recovery. As you pointed out--those subsequent years... they were not really mine.

"I believe that is why I am so close to the dead, now. When I was young and dying, a door was opened. I did not step through, but it is still there--as is death. Waiting. Wanting me back. When I feel that its icy fingers are drawing too near--every decade, or so... that is when I must take action. And, let me tell you, there are many people who walk this earth, indebted to me. When they refuse to pay in other ways... well, then I can only take what I need."

Folding his arms across his chest, Vitali sighed. He did not sound proud, the way he spoke; just very frank. Almost... trapped. "That is how I had the Eyraillian princess pay the mercenary's debt. She was resurrected; the door of death is still wide open for her, as well, and whether it ever closes, I cannot predict. She accompanied to see a man who had accumulated a good deal of debt from me, over the years. He was on the run, hoping never to pay it. So... I apprehended him. And when he tried to take his own life so I could not absorb the remainder of his miserable years, I enlisted Vega to make that brief foray into limbo, again, and drag him back so that I could collect. Somehow, sadly, her roc got tangled in the crossfire, seeking to protect her. The rest, as you know is history.

"So... now you know." Vitali spread his hands, indicating that he had nothing left to offer. "Lilica does not know that am, in fact, her elder brother. I am sure that she suspect something, but I have not divulged this to anyone--just you. And only because I imagine you would have come to figure it out on your own, anyway." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "It is up to you what you want to do, now. Inform the others, excommunicate me from this little party of yours... but do take into consideration what I can offer because I am alive." The necromancer met her eyes, then. "You might be able to find Galeyn without my help. But it will be much easier for all of us with the addition of my skills. Because I am not yet ready to succumb to death, Tivia. Not until I have lived a life that is worth dying for. And that is what I hope to find in Galeyn."

The coyote that wasn't a coyote (in more ways than one), shook its mane of russet and gray fur, but remained sitting on its haunches as Elespeth approached. Even when the warrior drew her sword, the animal was unfazed. In fact, it seemed emboldened by this declaration of hers and rose up on all fours, padding over to investigate the shiny stick which she brandished. Nearing her, it barked in a high whine that sounded oddly like human laughter. Then, standing on its back two legs, it raised its front paws into the air and tapped her sword, as if it were some fascinating toy that demanded discovery. Swishing its tail, it leaped away from Elespeth and bounded around the garden until it seemed to exhaust itself, and then proceeded to roll around on the ground, stomach exposed and long, thin legs kicking.

A loud tongue click sounded from behind Elespeth. The coyote pricked its ears as it regarded the new figure in the garden, and shot again to its feet. 

"You can sheathe your sword, Elespeth." It was Atli, who wore simple brown robes and carried a basket with him. "He's pretty tame. No thanks to me." The coyote dashed over to the healer, jumping up and down at the sight of the basket. "All right, all right," he said, rifling through its contents all while holding it above the excitable animal's reach. "By Tunglara, give me a moment!" At last, he fished out an impressive bone, coated with lamb fat and tufts of sinewy meat. The coyote greedily snatched it out of Atli's outstretched hands and ran off with its prize, but not before swiping Elespeth with its tail. It continued on its way, fleeing the gardens and galloping towards the darkening city below.

"I know what you're probably thinking." The bleary-eyed healer heaved a sigh. "Why feed a wild animal when it has plenty to chew out there on the streets? Who knows?" He shrugged. "Or...well, I used to have a dog. A waggish thing, with no regard for boundaries. He'd jump on you and lick your face until you were sopping wet. His energy was fathomless--but it caught up to him one day. Time does that. When you least expect, it just...takes what you owe it. My apologies," he gave her a contrite smile. "I'm here for a reason, I assure you." 

To capitalize on that reason, he took his basket and knelt down before a strand of mint leaves, plucking the fullest specimens from their stems. "I've some of Alster's personal effects still in my tent. After I'm done here, if you'd like to claim them...you're more than welcome to join me." 

Vitali was correct in assuming that his offhanded reply that morning would not satisfy her at all. In fact, it was with some frustration that she left him to tend the horses, having tired of dealing with those who did not believe her visions, who thought her mad, or unwell, or simply dreaming. In her youth, she was always teased for her overactive imagination, her tendency to spin tall tales and fanciful lies. What black irony, then, that the universe above should see fit to bestow her with a gift that others, including herself, viewed as a promulgation of those very fables she used to tell. Divination of any sort was an inexact magic, even laughable and often unacknowledged in higher studies. And with all that happened recently with her own father, who thought her visions were the result of an frail mind, she was not receptive to Vitali's suggestion that she was but recalling a mere frivolity, subconscious nonsense with no basis in truth. He was deflecting, she knew. She had hit a nerve, and he was attempting to smooth over her perceptions with that honeyed tongue he controlled so well. Still, she was in no mood to receive accusations of her disingenuousness, however politely worded, and so she traveled that day with Alster upon his horse, until they reached the inn.

After some monetary persuasion was offered to the innkeep's wife, they supped that evening: a stew flavored with beans, potatoes, and leftover lamb from the more substantial meal that their late entry had missed. She ate as much as she could, but the flavor did not agree with her palate, and she would have offered the rest to Alster, but he did not eat meat, and seemed wholly uninterested in the potato he was eating.

With the conclusion of the meal, they retired to their bedchambers upstairs. She didn't mind sharing a bed with Lilica, but the dark mage's body heat was nonexistent, and she, who had a tendency to cuddle against a surface or a someone for warmth, instead hung off the edge of the bed, curled into blankets, but made none the sleepier, or even comfortable. And it was then that she heard someone shuffle out of bed and gently patter out of the room. Vitali. It took her only moments to decide to follow, as she slipped out of her sheets, threw on an extra layer of clothes, reattached her mask, and took the stairs down to the main bar area. 

He was waiting for her; at least, it looked that way. For, when she sat down next to him, he opened his mouth and, unsolicited, confirmed the truths that she had seen in her dream. She listened, saying nothing in the interim, only twiddling her fingers together, which were folded upon the table. At his conclusion, she nodded, but revealed neither repulsion nor judgment. She was calm. Understanding. 

"Did you think I asked you this question because I wanted to oust you from our party? Or endanger your standing with Lilica?" She shook her head, staring at her fingers. "I know you're a less than upstanding person, but I also know that one doesn't become that way without just reason. I had the what, revealed to me in a vision. Your star, almost black in the night, dependent on others to survive. But it did not tell me the why. Only you can answer that. Which you did. Thank you for your candor." She shuffled her shoulders together, pressing her hands tighter into their knot of fingers. "When we participated in the ceremony--the blood-oath ritual--I gained access to your star. To your secrets. I suspect I may become privy to Lilica's, as well. But if I do," she looked him in her clear gray eye, "nothing revealed will pass my lips. Nothing that will help you gain the upper-hand. We're finding Galeyn as honestly as we can. But," she undid the knot of fingers and leaned back in her chair, "I thought it would be only fair...that I let you know that I, well, know...about you, Vitali. ...That's all."

"What in hell..." Elespeth breathed, stiffening as the bold canine approached and pawed at her sword. Coyotes were known for being brazen in the face of humans, but not to this extent. Did it have something to do with Mollengard's arrival? Did those scoundrels manage to tame the wild beasts to do their bidding, to fear not even the sword?

That suspicion stirred deeper into her mind as she witnessed the approach of the Mollengardian healer. "Atli?" sheathing her sword, the former knight furrowed her eyebrows. This was beyond strange, even for conquerers such as Mollengard. And that the healer, of all people, could treat a wild canine like a domesticated dog... Something wasn't adding up. "Atli... you've tamed this thing? A wild beast?" She breathed, and her disapproval of the idea was written on her face. "Your Mollengardian friends just informed me that Stella D'Mare is seeing an issue with coyotes. I didn't think anything of it and figured they were just trying to scare me... you really shouldn't be offering wild animals food, with all due respect. Not with all of the bodies and dead flesh that are attracting them, evidently..."

She watched as the coyote traipsed off with its coveted bone, having acquired its heart's desire. With her day cut short, she did not want to chance returning to the Rigas villa so soon, for fear of incurring Chara's wrath. Finding another way to occupy her time was a wiser option. "Do you need any help?" She asked Atli, as he stooped to pluck some herbs. She offered a half-smile. "I know a thing or two about identifying plants. Let me know what you're looking for, and I can help you get the job done faster. Then I will go and collect Alster's things from your tent, if that is fine with you."

The two of them spent some time harvesting precious herbs from the Rigas gardens, and when Atli's basket was sufficiently full, they made their way back to his medical tent. The thought of gathering some of Alster's possessions twisted her heart into a bittersweet knot; it was inevitable that she would continue to think of him until at last he returned to her, but the pieces of him left behind in the city would only aggravate that gaping hole in her heart that he had left in his wake. Nonetheless, she accepted them, all of the things carefully sequestered away in a pile. Mostly old clothes, a pair of boots, and a small pile of books that he had read to occupy himself. One such book caught her attention, by the nature of its title, and she found herself raising her eyebrows as a flush crept into her face. "You weren't kidding about that dark parts of the library, Alster..." She murmured, and quickly tucked the book underneath the others, unsure as to how open her fiance desired to be about his research into certain sexual escapades. If Atli had taken note of any of the books, at least he had the grace not to comment.

"Sorry I did not come and collect these sooner. I know you require space for your patients, here," Elespeth apologized, her eyes temporarily locked on the cot where Alster had slept. It was a good thing that she was staying with Chara; a change of scenery, and something unfamiliar. She couldn't latch onto memories that did not exist in an unfamiliar place. "Let me know if anything else turns up. I'll... I'll hold onto his possessions, for now. Since he's surrendered his own villa in order to lodge others, Chara will just have to put up with storing them at her own abode. Anyway... how are you holding up, here? If there is anything else you require, then I can ask Chara to ensure you have what you need... You kindness and your help has not gone unnoticed." She smiled, small and sad. "Especially after what you did for Alster. Thank you."

The corner of Vitali's mouth curled into ghost of a smile, and his shoulders seems to relax. So this was not an accusation or an interrogation; contrary to his concerns, Tivia Rigas seemed to have no interest in condemning him for the parasitic entity that he was. This might have been a gracious gesture, allowing him insight into the extent of what he could now see; how deep she could pry into the tapestry of his life that he kept hidden from so many others. Or, on the other hand, perhaps it was a warning: that he could hide nothing from her, henceforth. Realistically, it was probably a bit of both.

A reality to keep in mind, and one that might force him to change his strategy. Nonetheless, it was appreciated. "If that is the case; then I suppose I really have nothing to hide," he declared, folding his hands in front of him. " I am not sure I can say the same for Lilica. But I suppose that is none of my business--though it might well become yours. Anyway."

Leaning back in his seat, he peered out the window, and noted that snow had begun to fall. It would make for an interesting trek, in the morning. "Unless there is anything else you would like to know, I suggest you get what little rest you can. Otherwise... could I buy you a drink?"

Meanwhile, far from Stella D'Mare and Lilica's party, Daphni and Elias were well invested in their own journey, one with far more dire consequences should failure occur. They had found their own inn, seeking shelter from winter's wrath; and as they were situation further north, that wrath was tenfold. Already, they had endured three separate blizzards, and at one point, had been forced to pause their journey and seek shelter overnight beneath a canopy of trees in the forest. Their provisions were holding up, but barely; however, the good news was, they were nearing their destination, and the worst of the trek was over, if Daphni's directions and orientations were correct. 

After warming their bones with a hot meal, the Sybaian healer consulted a map and a compass in the privacy of their room. Although she had held out strong and enduring for the majority of the trip, the cold paired with the labor of their trek was catching up to her, and had finally struck her with a minor chest cold. It was odd, to find herself suddenly stricken with coughing incessantly, while Elias remained completely well (insofar as he wore the moondial around his neck). Evidently, he appeared to be immune to illness, until the safety of that trinket he wore came to an end, at which point he would succumb to death. Daphni wasn't used to seeing him so up and about and healthy; it almost made her forget why they were making the trek in the first place. 

"I think we're still on track. The storms only put us back by a couple of days... we can still make it." She informed the clematis healer, shaky hands reaching for the mug of hot tea to sooth her sore throat. The tip of her nose and her cheeks were permanently rosy from the cold and her illness, and no matter how high the fire climbed, she could not seem to grow warm. Elias had suggested they rest an additional day at the inn, but of course, she had refused, since time was of the essence. "Unless we are delayed by another storm, then we are still on schedule. This is not impossible." Leaning back in her chair, she turned her head and offered a small smile. "You can stop pacing so worryingly. It's a winter chill; given what we've endured, I was bound to succumb to it at some point. Your anxiousness is beginning to make me paranoid."

The Mollengardian healer nodded his appreciation for the help, and directed Elespeth to a few nearby patches of rosemary and lavender, all plants that should've been as dead as the winter, but the Rigas gardeners had their methods of coaxing the living into full-year bloom--and the balmy climate did not hurt, either. Though Atli had set foot upon a damaged, crumbling city, he appreciated the patches of greenery that still subsisted despite the scope of destruction, reveled at the sun on his skin, and rejoiced in the fact that he only needed one layer of clothes, as opposed to three or more, as was common during the harsh Mollengardian winters. 

When they gathered all the ingredients he needed, he thanked Elespeth and placed the small bushels into his basket. "These will make a satisfying tea for my patients," he said, as they walked the short way to his tent, pushing aside the flaps and entering the small but tidy space. He pointed to the corner where he stacked Alster's belongings: a few books (of questionable note), and various accoutrements. While she collected his things, he set his basket on the small work table and spread the herbs upon a cloth, separating them accordingly. But it was all a method by which to distract his mind. A simple, menial task would stay his mouth, prevent it from flapping, from twisting and puckering with guilt as the warrior praised him for kindness...when he felt anything but. Finally, he abandoned his herbs, and turned towards her, unable to hide his discontent any longer. 

"Alster," he began, clearing his throat before trying again, "he suspected...that this city would be his undoing. In a sense, he was correct. They...Mollengard--we saw what happened with the giant beast you call the Serpent. We all saw from the decks of our ships. A flash of brilliant light and a massive, slinking shadow vanishing into it in spectacular fashion. We came to understand this deed was performed by him. And that you helped." He waited for her confirmation, then continued. 

"They initially wanted me to botch his operation. It would have been an easy explanation. It was the surgery that killed him, we'd say. The strain of his body, unable to handle its new appliance. But I was surrounded by Rigases, who acted as my assistants. And that man--Glaucus--it was as if he knew. He watched me, so intent on any mistake I made with the scalpel. It would have been suspicious, I realized, if he died by my hand. Fortunately, it was around when the Rigas council motioned for his exile, and so we allowed events to unfold naturally, without our intrusion."

Feeling suddenly heavy, he sat on the cot that once occupied Alster, and held himself upright by lashing his arms against his stomach. "I tell you this as a reassurance, because he's safest outside of the city. But also, as a warning. You stand no chance against Mollengard. They are on to you, Elespeth. They know your associations with Alster--and it's possible that they...that we...will silence you for it." With an embittered sigh, he rose to his feet and accompanied the warrior to the exit flaps. "I can tell you no more. Already, what I've said can cost me my life. Go, Elespeth, and reconsider what you are doing." 

When Elespeth returned to Chara's villa later that evening, she and Lysander were sitting in the living area, caught in the middle of an involved discussion. They both shot their heads towards the door as it opened, silencing themselves immediately. 

Without even waiting for the warrior to clear herself of the door-frame, Chara flew out of her seat, pulled her into the foyer by the arm (minding the bundle that she was carrying), and shut the door with her foot. She performed her hand signal, pinching the thumb and little finger together, and cast the sound garbling spell on her. Nodding to confirm the deed, she beckoned for Elespeth to join her on the couch. Lysander was parked beside it, his wheeled contraption anchored in place with wooden wedges. 

"You've arrived in good time," she said, at last. "Lysander was just recounting a brief reconnaissance mission he took today." She pursed my lips. "Without my consent."

"Rest assured, Chara, my sweet," his lips rounded with exaggeration on the word, "I never left my chair. Only parked myself where I'd be scarce, and vanished. I not only disappear, but my presence diminishes," he said, as an explanation to Elespeth. "A technique that makes me well and truly nonexistent. Like the wind. A void. I hover between two worlds. You see, I lower my heart-rate, and--"

"Lysander," Chara snapped, "I am certain Elespeth does not care about the intricacies of your singular talent. Now please, what did you discover?"

"The strangest thing," he frowned. "And I've been doing this a while. On the pathway between here and Cyprian's villa, I saw," he scrunched his face. "A wild dog, of some sort. Loping around. But this is not the strange part. What is strange...was that it walked right up to me...as if it could see me, unconcealed. And I knew myself to be properly enshrouded. It was not a lapse in my abilities. I've been known to hide from animals with the same rate of success as people. No, the dog could just...see. And then it, ah," he scratched the side of his nose, "lifted up its...his...leg...and passed great waters. Some of it splashed on my shoe. When it was done...relieving itself...it ran away, just like that."

"I would like to note that these sound like the ravings of a madman, Lysander," Chara said, rubbing her temples to stave off her eternal headache. "Stella D'Mare has always been besieged by wild dogs, even during its former glory. It is not unheard of to see a few traipsing about--though never on our own grounds. They know better--or knew," she muttered. "Our gates are wide open, now. Anything can wander inside. I think," she gave him a hard-lined smile, "that you are in denial over your aging magic, and are using our gathering as a platform to vent your frustrations, which are not constructive or amusing in the least." She roved her eyes over to the Atvanian woman, looking no more confident to hear her contributions, if any. "I do hope you've had better luck on your end, Elespeth. Or have you also had a fateful encounter with a urinating dog? A defecating one, even? My, that would be newsworthy, indeed." 

Ever since they departed Stella D'Mare, Elias noticed a...change in how he regarded time. At first, he was unaware of anything amiss. He would situate himself in their tent, or at whatever inn their sojourns had led them, intending to sleep for a few hours, only to awaken from Daphni's insistent hand, almost frantic in fear that he succumbed to death--for how invested he was in not waking. Soon after, he began to confuse the days, adamant in his belief that they left Stella D'Mare hours ago, and that the weather shouldn't have taken a turn so quickly if they were still so close to the coast. Any task, whether it was dressing, eating, or bathing, was performed on its own schedule, which was no schedule at all--because he had none. So expressly unconcerned was he about time that the lack of concern began to concern him. But even he had to admit that his concern was only because of Daphni.

He saw her frustrations, which she tried not to aim at him. Though sometimes--oftentimes--it was unavoidable. It was his disinterest in their sense of urgency that caused the crux of her vexations, he was certain. And all he could do in the interim was try to understand his condition--and to improve her own. 

His condition was, from a health standpoint, normal. Lungs were working at full capacity, no breathing obstructions, rattling coughs, blood in his phlegm, fatigue, vertigo, or fevered delirium. When he spoke, his voice was not burdened with rasps or harsh whispers. Clear and sharp, it rang like a bell, a power to which he was unaccustomed. But his improved health came at a risk, and not only from the limited days of his mortality. If the moondial suspended his body in time, it stood to reason that his mind was also suspended by the same dictates of time. Though he could still form memories, and recall events as they happened during their journey.

As for Daphni's condition...

"Finish that tea," he said, nay, demanded, as he fell into his role as a healer. "So I can brew you another. If you will not rest for longer, then you will allow me the undue 'honor,' of maintaining the deterioration of your body." Kneeling behind her chair, he placed his hands, which tingled with white energy, against her forehead, sending a low vibration of magic that would encourage a quick recovery. 

"Excuse my paranoia," he huffed. "And here I thought I was providing you with exemplary preventative care. Instead, I'm only pumping more worries into your veins, as I've been wont to do, lately." Once he finished his work on soothing her fever, he scooted his position so that he knelt in front of her, and pressed a hand over her chest. The same vibration flowed from his fingers. 

"We'll get there," he said, electing to inject her with some optimism--though it was never his strong suit. "We have plenty of time. We only just started this venture. Or," he caught himself, corrected himself, "...have we?"

Atli's sudden shift in tone drew concern on Elespeth's face. Clutching Alster's belongings, she nodded solemnly. "Yes. The Serpent. Alster was the only one able to defeat it... well, insomuch as he sent it back to its own dimension. I... to be honest, I did not do much. I merely absorbed the excess magic that Alster summoned to send the thing home. It almost killed me in the process. I am hardly a hero; but I am glad that I was able to keep him alive, if nothing else."

Evidently, the time for niceties and pretense was over. The Atvanian warrior's heart twisted further with conflict as Atli confessed the real intentions behind Mollengard's presence in Stella D'Mare. Her grip tightened on Alster's belongings when he ventured to explain that the operation was supposed to have been a failure, and she could hardly fathom it. The idea that she might not have had the chance to say goodbye, that his death might have been orchestrated right under her nose... Anger and panic surged through her veins, twisting her stomach into so many knots, she might be sick. Atli was of Mollengard, yes, but he had been so helpful and kind; easily, he was the closest thing to a friend that she thought she had, here in this ruined city. Evidently, that was not the case; at least, it was impossible, insofar as true friendship could not exist between them if Mollengard continued to pull the healer's strings.

Her throat was so tight she almost couldn't push the words past her tongue. "I know. Mollengard is not here on charitable terms; we all suspect that, Chara included. Which is why I must step in to ensure that we remain safe, until Alster's return. Cyprian did not deem me a great enough threat to exile, which has worked to my advantage, in some ways. I might not be threatening, but Atli... you must realize that I cannot step down. Stella D'Mare is at the most vulnerable that it has likely ever been... and I must ensure that it is still standing, and still under Rigas rule, for when Alster returns." Swallowing her fear and disappointment, she offered him a nod. "I... appreciate your honesty and sincerity. Thank you for the warning. But I cannot step down, and Mollengard will come to find that I am not so easily silenced."

Elespeth turned to leave, but before her departure, she looked to the healer one last time, her eyes pleading for an answer that she was not sure she would get. "Atli. If... if the Rigases had not been present during Alster's surgery... would you have gone through with the plan? Would you have... killed him?" Of course, the Mollengardian healer could not answer that, and she really did not expect him to give her the truth, if it would compromise his life. He might not have been a friend, but for his honesty, at the very least... he was an ally. Perhaps a ghost of an ally, but an ally, nonetheless. Mollengard might have had power over him, but she liked to think that she was decent judge of character. Call it desperation, but something in her gut led her to believe that he would not have gone through with his kingdom's plan to annihilate Alster. And that was what she would continue to believe, for the sake of her own sanity.

Arriving perhaps a little earlier than when Chara expected her, Elespeth found herself being pulled into Chara's villa by the arm, and silenced with a look, until the Rigas woman deemed it safe to speak. When her spell was securely in place, the former knight settled down on the sofa to hear what Chara and Lysander had to divulge. Ultimately, it was not as mundane as the Rigas caster suspected. "No... I don't think it is as insignificant as it might appear, Chara. I... Lysander, I believe we might have seen the same 'dog'. A coyote, of sorts." She furrowed her eyebrows. "One approached me, and when I drew my sword, it... it got closer. It had no fear whatsoever. I'd never seen anything like it." Lifting her sword from where it was strapped at her back, she lowered it onto the floor. "Atli, the Mollengardian healer, was feeding it. So I suspect it must be one of Mollengard's many tactics to try and intimidate us. Speaking of... they did not take so well to my presence today. I will try again, tomorrow. Though, Chara..." Biting her lower lip, she prepared to divulge what Atli had told her. A warning; but hopefully Chara would not take out her subsequent wrath on the Mollengardian healer. He might have been ordered to harm Alster, but ultimately, it had not come to pass. 
Nonetheless... it was still information that Chara was better off knowing. "I was speaking with Atli, earlier. I think that you should know--"

Her voice was interrupted by firm knocking on the door. It did not let up until Chara reluctantly turned away from their conversation to answer the door. "I beg your pardon, Chara. But something has occurred that immediately requires your attention. Will you please come with me?" The sentry requested, looking weary, as if he wanted her word on he issue simply so it could be closed.

What could possibly be so urgent that they would hardly allow 'no' for an answer? Suspicious, Elespeth furrowed her brow and stood. "I'll go with her." She announced, and when Chara turned to protest, Elespeth's eyes brimmed with warning. Nothing was predictable, right now; and the only way to survive was by sticking together. It was a look that Chara seemed to understand, as she offered a nod, before the two of them departed.

The chill in the evening air surrounded them as they made their way down the hill, and toward Stella D'Mare's gates. "Someone has requested entry into the city. Naturally, we have not allowed them. But... they are demanding to appeal to you." The sentry sighed, and motioned for the handful of his peers to make way when they reached the gates.

Barricaded from entry was the peculiar sight of a young woman--one probably not much older than Tivia, or perhaps a bit younger. Straight, dark hair fell to her shoulders, and she was clad in a worn and tattered-looking winter coat. Her frame, very small and concerning slim, was not unlike that of Lilica's. In fact, she bore something of a resemblance to the exiled dark mage. But her eyes bore even more resemblance to someone else entirely...
"Hello--I'm so sorry to bother you. I am Teselin." The stranger offered a friendly hand to Chara, oddly cheerful, given that it looked as though she had been treading through winter terrain for quite some time. There was a bruise and a cut on her cheek that looked to be healing, and her hands were red and chapped from exposure. Whatever she had gone through to get here, she had not simply traipsed in. "I know this may sound odd, but I have reason to believe that my brother is here, in your city--or, was. Vitali Kristeva... does that sound familiar?"

"We have been telling her that he was exiled and left days ago." One of the sentries exhaled audibly. "But that does not seem to matter."

"Even if that is true--I have reason to believe that he will return here. I know it all sounds positively mad, but I'm sure enough that I've invested the past two weeks traveling by foot to reach your city." The young woman pleaded, seeming oddly sincere, even if she was not making any sense. "I need to find him; and he is useless to track down if he is on the run. But I... I have a dire confidence that he will return, here. And I would like to be here when he does. Please, I know you clearly owe me nothing, and I understand that your city looks to be in a state of crisis, but... what if I were to be of help? I can earn my keep--you will not even know that I am here! Just let me stay long enough to see my brother return. That is all I am asking: I don't mean to be trouble..."

Elespeth was as baffled by the situation as Chara, but it was not her place to say anything, so she left it to the Rigas Caster. This girl did not seem threatening, in any way, even with her affiliation to the hated necromancer. And it seemed cruel to turn someone away who had obviously been trekking through poor weather just to arrive at this destination, full of hope... But was Chara really in any position to want to extend help, when there was already so much on her plate?

There was no persuading Elias to cease and desist with his constant monitoring of her health. And while the alleviation of her fever and the congestion in her chest for a handful of hours was appreciated, all that she could see when she looked at him was that he was on borrowed time. Time that he did not seem to realize was passing...

"No. Elias... we have been on the move for over two weeks." She told him gently, concern swimming in her pale blue eyes. "We have approximately a week and a half before you... before the moondial ceases to function. Before everything catches up to you and you..." Her voice choked off, and she stood from her chair, shaking her head. "I don't know how, but that device around your neck seems to have you... almost literally frozen in time. Sometimes, you cannot tell one day from the next. Can you recall all of the arduous hours we have spent on horseback? Do you remember last week, when we were forced to stop amid a blizzard and huddle close to our horse for warmth? I did not just come down with this aggravating chill overnight. Time has passed, and we are running out of it. And I will see this quest through for you if it is the last damned thing I ever do."

Turning her face away, she coughed into the crook of her elbow. When the mild fit subsided, her shoulders sank. "I'm sorry. It is not my intention to take out my frustrations on you. But you... you are still not well, Elias. This health of yours is all an illusion that will be lifted in a little over a week. It makes me paranoid that you are using your healing abilities at all, beyond simply brewing some tea. Don't waste precious energy on me. This is not atypical; I come down with a chill of some sort every winter. This trek has merely exacerbated it."

Taking a seat at the desk once again, she rested her forehead in her hands. "Please take the bed, tonight. I am going to try and plan the most time-efficient route for us to take; I'm not sure if or when I'm going to sleep. But I'm fine--all right?" She offered a reassuring smile. "We will depart tomorrow morning. And if you really deem that I am in bad shape to travel... we will wait until later in the morning. Is that a good compromise?"

Chara stifled a bark of a laugh--ironic, considering their topic at hand. "You, too, Elespeth? So he is a trained dog. A circus animal causing little havoc across our estate as per Mollengard's commands. The two of you are mad to believe this bears any significance. But," she conceded with the weary tilt of her head, "I would be remiss not to listen to the counsel that you and Lysander have provided, especially as you have made the same observations over the course of this day. Very well." She uncrossed her legs, which now drummed on the tile floor with an unmeasured restlessness. "If you should see this coyote again, capture it if you can. If not, follow it, but be careful, as it might lead you astray, or into a trap--if we are to believe it is a Mollengardian tactic, as you say." 

Before Elespeth could contribute much more to her report, a sharp, urgent knock sounded on the door. With a rather vocal groan, she propelled herself from the couch, deactivated her spell of garbling speech, and answered the door to the sentry and his message. 

"Now who would be insisting entry into this dung heap?" she said, her manicured eyebrow shooting up with incredulity. "This smells of a trap." And although she never ventured to say it out loud (in fact, quite the opposite), she was relieved that Elespeth volunteered to join their party, even though she had yet to find any practical use for the sword-wielder. Not when Mollengard wanted nothing to do with her. 

Once they reached the gates of the Rigas estate, still open to allow traffic between the operational hub of Stella D'Mare and all that remained down below, she regarded a slight frame on a girlish body. Surrounded as she was by Rigas guards, who were built to intimidate, the juxtaposition stood out more harshly. And when she neared this girl, the cause of her rudely interrupted evening, she noted a resemblance. The waifish body, the moss curtain of dark hair, her deep, soulful eyes... Lilica! Her heart wanted to shout the name. But something else lingered in those eyes as well, which gave her pause. Something that churned her stomach with the not-as-yet-departed memory of a most-reviled figure of which she was gladdened to see gone. 

Chara stared at the extended hand of the oddly exuberant girl, but made no motion to interact. On the contrary, she responded by crossing her arms over her chest. And as the stranger offered reasons for her arrival, the resemblance became clear; it the only thing that had been clarified. Everything else was lost in the mud of incongruity. There was little sense to be found in her words, which did nothing but lend an air of deep suspicion--especially considering her associations.

"Do you honestly believe we are of an accommodating nature right now?" She swept an arm around them, to belabor the point. "And even if I should provide for you while you wait for your," her lips curled, "brother, your waiting will be in vain. He will not be returning here, mark my words. He has caused much damage to my family, and while he has done a measure of good, it was under threat of death, and duress does not acquit the miser of their previous sins, however redeemable their current contributions might seem." She was referring, of course, to his help in dismantling the Andalarian army of reanimated corpses, a problem that would not have existed were it not for his former alliance with the mad prince, Messino. 

It baffled her, why this young girl was actively in search of a man who caused nothing but trouble and debts; unless she wanted to address him for a grievance inflicted on her, the man was too rotten, too self-interested, to attract the desperation of this seemingly innocent girl. ...His sister. She wondered if Teselin shared any relation with Lilica, or if they were aware of each other at all. 

"He did not travel far. If I had to guess, his party is heading North, and inland. That is the direction they took upon departure. There is no reason for you to stay here. For, as I reiterate, he will not be returning. But," she added, as an addendum, "should you insist on your obstinacy, I will make concessions if you can answer my questions and agree to my terms. First, my questions: do you bear any relation to, or have any knowledge of, a woman named Lilica D'Or? Second, what can you contribute to my home and its reconstruction? As you can see, we cannot afford to be charitable, when we ourselves are struggling to provide for ourselves. Next, are my terms. Will you surrender yourself as my prisoner until your trustworthiness can be proven?" 

"Oh," Elias said, but it was without any inflection of worry or comprehension. "And when that time comes, I will be dead." It was flippant, the way he enunciated the final word, a concept that did not mean much to him. Gone was his fervor, his dogged determination to remain alive. Now, it had been replaced with calm serenity and acceptance, but whether this predilection was as a result of the moondial's influences remained unclear. "But of course I can recall the blizzard, Daphni. Do you think me so ill of mind that I can't remember how the cold drove icicles into my lungs? I thought I had contracted my condition all over again, in that moment." Once he completed his routine healing session for Daphni, he climbed to his feet and took a sip of his own tea that waited for him on the table counter. "I remember everything...but that's not hard. It only happened today." However, when he saw the crease of frustration appear between her brow, and the accompanying ire that colored her words, he admitted the faults of his inaccurate time-keeping, but it was only with an apathetic shrug. "Or not."

At the passing of her coughing fit, and her refusal to rest in bed, he shook his head, and as if to protest, sat in the chair farthest from it. "You're right; I am not well. But I am also unaffected. Immune to disease, as far as we know. Sleep will do me no favors, but it will aid in your recovery. And if you're recovered, then, weather permitting, we can travel faster. Take the bed when you're ready for it. It would be pointless to tell you when to sleep, since I apparently don't know what when means anymore," he snorted in that half amused, half sardonic way he favored, and took another sip of tea. 

Eventually, Elias had convinced Daphni to take the bed, and to sleep, after she mapped out their route for the next day. It was deep into the evening when Elias, head resting on the desk, heard a knock on their door. One, two, three times. Four, five, six, seven. Shaking away the little sleep that he retained, he stood up and strode over to the door, opening it a crack so that the light wouldn't disturb Daphni's sleeping form in the corner. 

The innkeeper stood in the hallway, his face grim, and pale. "Sorry to disturb you at this late hour," he whispered, "but I saw that you carried the broach of Clematis on your cloak. Are you a healer?" 

Elias nodded. 

The innkeeper brightened in a shade of hope. "Then you must come with me. Please. My sister--I've just received word from her husband. She's having birthing complications, and the doctor, who lives in the next village over, can't make the trek in this weather. She doesn't live far from here. Please," he begged, again, "I'll compensate you for your stay. Anything that you and your companion want. Just...save her. And the baby." 

Dammit, Elias thought, as he glanced over at Daphni's sleeping form. She won't like this one bit, but I can't refuse this man.

"Very well," he said. He grabbed his medical supplies from the room, and his traveling clothes: his cloak, his long coat, gloves and hat. "Inform my companion of my whereabouts when she awakens. Let's go." 

They closed the door, and departed for the house of the innkeeper's sister. When Daphni awakened that morning, Elias was gone. And the innkeeper, who in his panic had failed to deliver the message, was nowhere to be found.

For a moment, the weeks of travel seemed entirely futile, when it appeared that this woman--evidently the one in charge of this struggling city--would not see her through the gates. She did not know what sort of havoc her brother had wreaked upon this city, but familiar as she was with his capabilities and how he used his 'gifts', it did not surprise her in the least. Often, Teselin wondered how and why Vitali had always showed her kindness, when the rest of her family had hardly given her the time of day. Was he really as awful as everyone claimed, and he simply chose to present her with a favorable facade so as not to be hated by his own family? Or was there simply more to the nefarious necromancer than meets the eye? 

He had never hurt her in the past. And regardless of how he might have hurt others, she needed him, now. But the chances of finding him, even if she were to head north, seemed so slim. Not only because she did not know where he was, but for the fact that she was ill-prepared for the winter. Having left her prior dwelling in something of a hurry, the young woman was not holding up to the weather particularly well. The high points of her cheeks and the tip of her nose were raw from frost, and it had been a while since she had eaten a meal sufficient enough to sustain her constant travel. For all she carried hope on her sleeve, contingency plans were not Teselin Kristeva's forte.

Fortunately, fortune appeared to be on her side. Teselin smiled so wide it hurt her face and her chapped lips; it didn't matter what she asked her or what her conditions. That this woman appeared to agree to her stay at all was as much as she could hope for. "Yes! Of course, I'll do my best to answer anything that you want to know." Unfortunately, the first question threw her for a loop. She furrowed her brows in confusion. "Lilica D'Or? I cannot say that that name rings familiar to me, I'm sorry. It is entirely possible that I have met this person, but my run-ins with people tend to be short, and names allude me... For reference, I've never had a permanent place of residence. I've traveled; much like my brother. But, as for your second question..." She rolled her shoulders back, standing confidently. "Tell me what you need, and I can do it. I've rather dabbled in being a jack of all trades to get by... If you need any help in cleaning or repairing your city, then I have assisted in construction and I've cleaned streets and houses. I've assisted healers when they need another pair of hands, and book-keepers, and I have undertaken the job of chef and baker when required. Or if there is something else more specific, or... less conventional... I have other skills that I would be more than happy to share with you. If you'd like discuss them in private."

She didn't even flinch at the condition that she was to be a prisoner. It was not a strange situation to her; and knowing that she was in the place where she would find her brother when at last he returned brought her a greater sense of relief than she had felt in a very long time. "Of course--yes, of course, I agree to everything. I am by no means high maintenance; the weather here is so balmy, I'd happily sleep outside. Thank you, so much, for agreeing to help me. Whatever I must do to prove I am trustworthy, I will do it. What is your name, by the way?"

She couldn't remember going to bed and falling asleep; Daphni had determined to sketch out an infallible course to their destination, along with a number of contingency plans in case the weather threw more hurdles in their path. But between her fits of coughing and the gradual return of her fever, she honestly could not remember much of what she had mulled over from the night before. At some point, either she had given up and gone to bed, or Elias had convinced her to do so. But when she awoke... the sun was shining, bright and strong, through the windows. Not only was it day, but it was well past dawn--perhaps past morning, in fact. They should have been gone hours ago... And Elias never slept, anymore. Why didn't he wake her up?

"Elias? We need to leave, immediately." Pushing he covers off of her feet, the Sybaian healer sprang up from the bed and hurried to lace up her boots. "Why didn't you wake me up? I told you how imperative it was that we remain on schedule. Just because your concept of time has gone to the wind..."

He wasn't there. It took a moment for her to register, as her eyes surveyed the small room, just to make sure she was not mistaken. But she wasn't; Elias was not in the room with her. What in all creation was that fool thinking, wandering around this place when the only place they should have been wandering was the terrain beyond, with a destination in mind?
Massaging her temples, she left the room, and set out to search the inn for the wayward Clematis healer--but to no avail. He was not in the bar or restaurant of the inn, and upon discussion with waiters and even the inkeeper's wife, herself, no one had seen the Clematis healer since they had checked in. While the sentiment was slow coming, Daphni was beginning to panic. 

"I'm sorry, Ma'am." The old woman at the counter sighed, as he scrubbed away at stains that would never lift from the wood. "I haven't seen your friend. If he happens to show up, then I'll let him know you're looking for him. Though he'd better not be trying to shirk paying for your stay..." She looked up and arched an eyebrow. "Will you be keeping that room, tonight? You seem like a nice young couple and all, but I'll have to talk to my husband if you're looking to get out of paying for another night..."

"No--we're not. A couple, that is." The Sybaian healer sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead, that had begun to grow warm again. "We'll pay you for two nights. I... I can't leave without him. I'll just wait here until he comes back."

Defeated, Daphni returned to her room and collapsed on the bed, covering her face with her hands. Where had Elias gone? Was it worth it to take the horse in search of him, when she might only end up getting lost, and though she would not make much ground with the coming of night? "Why would you do this, Elias?" She murmured, her chest heavy with worry, despondency, and the cold that wracked her lungs. "What is more important than the whole reason we set off, in the first place...?"

Too exhausted and under the weather to search for him beyond the inn, Daphni fell asleep as she awaited Elias's return--provided he did return, at all. How long do I wait? Her mind mulled over her options. How long before he realizes he might not have any time left...?
When she opened her eyes again, night had fallen, and the room was suffocated in darkness. And that was when the door opened, and Elias stepped in. Or, maybe it was just her fever delirium, taunting her with dreams and hallucinations. Regardless, someone was going to hear the brunt of her ire, whether or not it was only an illusion.

"Are you... entirely daft?" Sitting upright, Daphni shook off the headache pounding in her temples, and the heaviness in her chest. She felt terrible; though how much was contributed by Elias's disappearance, versus her ill health, was unclear. "We should have been miles away by now, Elias! We were supposed to leave at dawn... and you did. But not with me. And not where you should have been going. Where in all creation were you, and... why? Why, after everything that we have done to save your damned life?"

The reaction Chara received in regards to the girl's imprisonment was so unexpected, so unprecedented, that she took a small step away from her, half-convinced that her madness was contagious. How could this girl, who was travel-weary, surrounded by enemies and by ruins, look so delirious in her contentment? What joy was to be had from this arrangement, aside from shelter? And even that shelter would be inside a prison cell--for Chara was not about to allow her charity to translate into decent lodging for a suspicious figure who all but boasted her relations with a man of ill repute. However fresh-faced, desperate, cheerful, helpful, or placating, Teselin would not, by default, receive guest rites or any other hospitable measure. They were at war--still--and Rigases were seldom generous. 

"So in short, you are offering me services that are expendable. That anyone with two arms and legs can perform with ease." She made mental apologies to both Alster and Lysander, knowing they wouldn't be looked upon to do such menial, but necessary, work, by nature of their missing and faulty appendages. "But," her eyebrow quirked, "please, regale me with the details of your additional services. Come with me, and we shall discuss this." 

Nodding towards Elespeth and the sentry in a gesture to follow, she led them and the strange girl towards Main House, where, at the back of the establishment, denoted the entrance to the dungeons: a small gate wedged into a rock-face, with stone stairs leading down into darkness. By Chara's instruction, the sentry opened the gate with keys he wore on a ring around his belt. As they descended the steep stairs, both Rigases upturned their hands and illuminated the narrow hallway with blue-white etherea. When they reached level ground, Chara turned the corner and pointed to a cell at the far end. The stones surrounding the iron bars were porous, an agglomerate of shells and sediment, through which one could hear the lapping of ocean-water. 

"Give me the keys and wait upstairs," she told the sentry, who dutifully obeyed, taking half of their light source as he returned to the top of the stairs. 

"This," she rammed one of the keys inside the locking mechanism, "is the cell your brother stayed in, once. As did Lilica. The reason I ask about her is because she also shares blood with this brother of yours--and he has wronged her greatly, in the past. And now," she grunted, "they are traveling together, and for her sake, I do hope she bests him in every way. That man is a menace."

Now, it was Chara's turn to smile, as she pulled open the heavy doors of the cell and bade the girl enter. "This is the closest reunion to your dear brother that I can afford you. Also, it is the best room I can offer. As I've said before, we do not have many accommodations, especially for those we cannot trust to roam freely." Once the girl passed the threshold, feet scuffing into the cell-space, she slammed the door closed and locked her inside. 

"Elespeth," she looked askance at the warrior. "You may leave. I've a handle on it, from here." When she turned and her footfalls faded, Chara leered through the bars at her new quarry. "Now, Teselin," she tried the name on her tongue, "we are alone, so tell me what it is that required you a private audience with me, Chara Rigas, head of the family, head of this estate--appointed ruler of Stella D'Mare." It was the first that she spoke those titles out loud. While they may not have rung true, her spin was a variation of what she would soon make true. Ceremonial title or not, there was nothing ceremonial about Chara's intentions to lead, Cyprian be damned. 

Elespeth didn't travel far past the entrance to the dungeons before the coyote found her again. It barked in a friendly manner as it weaved past her legs and positioned itself ahead of her, guiding the way to something. Every few seconds, it would turn its head, looking to see if the warrior was following. After a few minutes of this, they arrived at a small garden, designed to resemble a forest. A narrow path cut in between stands of cypress trees, and colorful bushes beset with pink flowers completed the look. The coyote raced down the path, disappearing into one of the bushes. It failed to reemerge...but in its place, a naked man stepped out, bearing the same tousled hair and intense stare as Elespeth's catch from last night. 

"Couldn't come to you more vulnerable than I am now," he said in his low, deep voice, referring not only to his state of undress, but to other...assets on full display. Even in the darkness, she could make out that he was well-toned, with lean musculature, built for speed and stealth. The way he held himself, with head erect (the only thing presently erect), and arms folded behind it, he wasn't the least modest about the exposure. 

"Have you considered my offer? I'll listen to any questions you have--not like I'll answer 'em all," he chuckled. "No one's here. Except maybe a rabbit or two," he sniffed. "And I assure you, they aren't actually people wearing skins. Though--who knows? They're pretty crafty sorts. I suppose that's what makes 'em so delicious." 

If Elias had been uncertain of time passing before, he certainly lost any hold on it the moment he stepped inside the house of the innkeeper's sister. Upon entering, another woman grappled his arm with desperate, clenching fingers, and though he wanted to protest, to demand they respect his space and allow him to work without aggressive skin contact or proximity, he had so little care...for much of anything. It was as if he were already dead, and his body was puppeting itself through the motions. Unseen strings commanded his hands to shed his winter clothes, commanded his feet to walk into the pregnant woman's chambers, commanded his mouth to inquire on the particulars of her condition. The baby was stuck, they said. She needed surgery, an expert knife to slice her open. He nodded, understanding, and set off to work. He washed his hands in the wash basin, pulled on a pair of gloves, arranged the appropriate tools on the end table...

And everything blurred together in one messy collage. Visions, splotches of color, agonizing screams, the smell of iron and other fluids, the snip of a cord, high-pitched keening, a chorus of mutters all around him, spinning, spinning...spinning. 

Then, whoops of delight. A grateful slap to his shoulder. A healthy babe wrapped in the husband's arms. The wife, pale, but breathing. Conscious. Stitched up. Harried in face, but smiling. 

"Thank you," they all seemed to say in unison. "We'll name him after you, our savior."

"No need." His voice seemed to travel so far ahead of himself. Where did it go? It was difficult to reel it back. But they heard him. Understood him. So he continued. "I'm a healer of the Clematis Order. You owe me no debts." 

But they insisted, and seemed to settle on the name Clement, which he accepted with a weary bob of his head. It was then that he noticed the innkeeper, who, standing in the doorway of the adjoining room, had never left--had never even delivered his message to Daphni. 

Daphni...Shit. 

It was full dark by the time he returned, his entire trip peppered with apologies from the innkeeper, who assured him and his companion free room and board for the duration of their stay. When they entered the inn, he climbed the stairs and slowly opened the door to his and Daphni's room, half-expecting a wind-storm of activity on the other side.

As expected, he received the brunt of her anger, but it was suffused with panic. It, and she, flitted about like a sparrow locked inside a cage, frantic to find an escape. He stood by and listened with calm countenance. Unruffled. Indifferent to her concerns. Striding the room, he hunkered down on a chair, setting his medic bag on the floor beside him. 

"I answered a call, Daphni," he said, matter-of-fact. "They sought me out, to save the lives of a baby and his mother--which I did. To say no to this request would have been unthinkable. I take it you never received note of my whereabouts?" 

He sighed, and rested his elbows on the table, looking to want to sink into his arms. "As I take it...I am on borrowed time as it is, Daphni," he said, a familiar snip returning to his speech. "At this rate, we're not saving a life. We're only prolonging one. And there is a difference between the two conditions; for, this life is already lost. So," he drifted into a mutter, "would it be so bad...to sleep? To welcome my god as I walk His path? A life was born today. I welcomed it into this world. Perhaps that is a sign that one must die. One whose life has already been forfeit for so long."

Without a word of protest, Teselin happily followed the blonde woman, accompanied by a woman with a sword strapped to her back, and a couple of sentries. Either she must have come across as particularly menacing, or this city truly was in such a poor state that they could not afford luxuries such as trust. Evidently, they also could not afford hospitality, as her place of refuge ended up the pit of their very own dungeons--but she was not one to complain. It was warm, there, and dry. Already, she could feel the chill in her bones abating, and even the thought of sleeping on that filthy floor brought her a modicum of comfort. In the last dungeon into which she had been thrown, the temperature had been chilled below what it felt like outside--and the sentries, much less kind. 

"Ah... I understand." Teselin said, listening as Chara explained her own experience with the necromancer, along with this woman named Lilica, whom the young woman had never met. "That really does not surprise me--that Vitali has other relations, that is. I have no real knowledge of how far or wide our family spans, to be honest. Our mother was... not one for commitment. To my knowledge, at least of the three siblings that I know of, none of us have the same father. I am related to Vitali through our mother, whom I have not seen since I was 8 years old. I can only assume that Vitali and this Lilica must be related through Vitali's father. He has never spoken of another sister... though that is likely due to the fact that he did not think it to be important." She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. What Vitali decided to divulge was entirely his own business, after all. "Of my three older siblings, Vitali was the only one I ever truly grew to get to know, to some degree. My eldest brother, Lias, left to travel with his musical talents before I was old enough to become acquainted with him. And my second eldest, Isidor, never had the time of day for me--or anyone, for that matter. He is an alchemist, and I would be surprised if he ever sees the light of day beyond the tower where he studies his art." She shook her head in mild disapproval of the whole situation, but it was not one worth dwelling on. "I traveled with Vitali for a short time, when I was young; maybe a year or so. But then he told me that where he tread was too dangerous, and we parted ways. I've seen him here and there ever since, but never for long."

Stepping over the threshold into the cell, an odd feeling came over Teselin. One of comfort and... relief. She sighed softly and reached out to touch one of the walls. "You're telling the truth; he was here. His presence still lingers, but only faintly. Whatever he did to deserve being locked here... well, that judgement isn't for me to pass. I know that he can hurt people. He's simply never chosen to hurt me." Turning back to Chara, she offered a faint smile. "But I digress. To put it simply, I... can make things happen. To some degree. I don't fully understand it, myself, which is why I was hoping to find my brother." The young woman scratched the back of her neck. "In my presence, weather patterns have adapted to peoples' best needs. Water has flowed more freely; crops have grown plentiful, and livestock have bred successfully. It could be that I have some strange air of good luck, surrounding me, but... I believe that it is more than that." Because destruction has also followed in my wake... she thought, but did not add. Absently, she rubbed at her wrists, which were raw and chapped and scabbed, as if her hands had been bound for some time. 

"In short, I don't know what to call it. But I know that it is consistent, and I know that I can help you. I may not be special in my more mundane skills, but I can help those who are already putting their skills to work. I can help the food grow, or draw in even warmer weather. If you need rainfall for crops, then that is also not beyond my abilities. I apologize that I cannot be clearer with you, but once again, it is not something that I fully understand. It just... is. I feel as though I am connected to something bigger than myself. I want to find Vitali so that he can help me navigate it; because I know he will help." That small smile grew. "I understand that he has done terrible things. And yet he is still capable of doing good. When he returns... perhaps, Chara, you will get to see that."

There was nothing more that Elespeth could offer to assist Chara in her odd situation, but she was not under the impression that the young girl seeking refuge was particularly dangerous--even if she was related to Vitali. Alster was not like other Rigases, Vega had not followed in the footsteps of her father, and she herself had left Atvany for a good reason. Were they not all exceptions to their own blood? Perhaps this young woman, Teselin, was no different.

But the Atvanian warrior did not make it far before that wolf from before--no, not a wolf, a coyote--approached her and barked. She prepared to draw her sword, but the creature did not appear menacing in any way. Instead, it turned and trotted off, glancing over its shoulder as if it expected her to follow. "What in the world..." She heard herself murmur. Could this be a trap, of sorts? Had Mollengard really trained and tamed a wild coyote for some nefarious purpose unbeknownst to her?
Well, if that was the case, then she wanted to find out what they were up to.

Elespeth did not take her hand off of her sword as she followed the beast into a wooded area, but it was quick to disappear into nearby bushes. Her heart beating in her throat, the former knight gripped the hilt of her sword, expecting an ambush. Well, it wasn't exactly an ambush she was met with, but something a little more... unexpected.

"What in the..." Elespeth was quick to avert her gaze from the man in his state of undress. Clearly--very clearly--he was not armed. But this was quite possibly more alarming. "You? That beast was you, all along?" She felt heat rise in her face, not only from being embarrassed for him in his undressed state, but because he had had the audacity to present himself in another skin, entirely. "So is that how you managed to spy on us? Is that how you know my stance on Mollengard?" Though it did not explain how he knew about her brother, or her dreams. Part of her wanted to ask; but a much larger part was afraid to know. "Why should I trust you to help, at all? I don't believe in altruism and kindness without condition; so what is in it for you, if you were to help me?" She raised an eyebrow, notably keeping her eyes on his face, and not on other parts. "How exactly do you benefit? Unless... Mollengard has a hold on you that you are hoping to break."

"A call... you answered a call." She parroted, raking a hand through her hair, her blue eyes feverbright with worry. "And you did not think to leave a note? I was half-tempted to leave this place and set out in search of you--I might not have returned. We might have separated, and all of this would have been for naught. Elias, where is your damned sense of time and urgency in all of this!"

Evidently... he had none. Neither a sense of time, nor of urgency. The wind faded from her sails as quickly as it had filled them, and Daphni had to take a seat, lest her knees give out. "Are you saying... you just want to give up? When we have already come so far, and when we are so close--so close to our chance to save your life?" She was hurt; and she could not filter the hurt from her voice. Not after all of her determination to help him. But... was she really doing this for the right reasons, in any case? Was this really for him, and his own well-being, or was this for her, to feel some sense of accomplishment?
Of course... hadn't he done the very same, for her?

"I was ready to die, once. After the fight with Mollengard, that had wiped out the remainder of my sect." She reminded the Clematis healer, her voice quiet and flat. "I was so tired. There was no fight left in me, and no will to want to find meaning again, without my Sybaian sect. But you would not allow me that; you couldn't, for your vows as a healer. Because you are under oath to preserve the lives of those in your care. And you have been in my care for a while, now. I'm sure, then, you can understand why I am reluctant to let you give up so easily."

It was true; he was on borrowed time. He should have been dead, by now, but the fact remained that he was not. This was a rare and merciful opportunity that made no sense to waste. Reaching out, she took one of his hands. "I believe that we were granted this time for a reason. And I don't think that our efforts are in vain... give it a chance, Elias. We have an opportunity. And it can only end in two ways: either you will live, better and healthier than you ever have, or... you will die. And nothing will change." Sighing, she met his tired gaze with her own weary eyes. "My belief is that you would not have been given this chance, if this world no longer had a use for you."

Leaning her shoulder against the bars of her new prisoner's cell, Chara listened to the lengthy family history that belonged to the disproportionately cheerful girl. She had little interest for the complexities of Teselin's life; only in where Lilica fit in amidst the chaos. It was unsurprising, then, that her siblings shared just as storied a history as she. But were they also troubled with cruel and abusive parentage, or saddled with the weight of a magic they could scarcely control? Were they haunted by their gifts, deeming them curses? Had Lilica ever stood a chance of growing up in a normal family, not in this hodgepodge of half-formed relations? It was all so far removed from the pure-blooded Rigases, whose every soul could trace their lineage, from parent to grandparent, to great-grandparent, and so on. 

"What a mess," she muttered, and it was unclear, even to her, to which family she was referring: the Rigases, who, while pure, were bred to suffer similar complications in magic and mind, or Teselin's little parade of beasts of varying size. Whatever the case, their broken line of descendants sure inherited a generous sum of magical proficiency--if Teselin's assessment of her own prowess was to be believed. 

"You will have to be more specific than that. I do think we've had our share of 'things happening' here in Stella D'Mare. In fact, I would love it if things ceased happening, altogether!" But she clamped her mouth shut and allowed the girl to finish. "Well, well," she pushed herself off her perch of iron bars, "perhaps you can simply grow this city back to its former splendor, buildings and all," she said, dryly. 

"I shall not discount your claims, but if you are telling the truth, evidence is required. Our food stores are limited, and we have not seen rain in months. All of our resources are finite. If you can somehow conjure up this miracle out of thin air, I shall reconsider your sleeping arrangements. But for now...you will rest here, tonight. I'll have a guard bring you fresh blankets, clothes, and a meal. Then, come morning, we shall put your abilities to the test. That will be all." And as she turned to leave, she added, "To my family alone, your dear brother had placed my cousin and former betrothed under a sleeping curse, exhumed our venerable founder out of his tomb, and poisoned our water supply. The little good that he did was all incidental, as I've said before. So, if you think I will ever see him as 'good,' you are sorely mistaken."

"Guilty," Hadwin said, snorting at her almost comical reaction to his naked state. "Am I making your eyes bleed? C'mon, I can't bethat abhorrent to look at. Don't worry; your precious fiance will forgive you when he returns. He's more afraid of that Serpent stuck in his head than he is about any infidelity from you. But," he gave an exaggerated wink, "I misplaced my clothes. It's not like I did this on purpose, just to rile you up or anything. That would be unproductive of me." But he said those words so flippantly, that it was hard to tell if he told the truth, or if he saw the whole situation as one amusing game. 

"Like I said, Elespeth, you don't have to trust me. Hells, I don't trust you, either. But I'm taking a gamble, right here. You could kill me with that sword, or subdue me before I ever turn back into a wolf. And yes...I'm a wolf, not a coyote," he grinned, "but I make a convincing facsimile." He lowered his hands from his head and spread them open, palms out, in a sign of good faith. 

"I'm a spy for Mollengard." He nodded. "That's true. They have a hold on me--that's also true. So let's just say I'm playing the field. A double agent, if you will. But working in such close quarters with them has allowed me a pretty invaluable...look into their lifestyle," he smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. "Mollengard won't just let you infiltrate their ranks. Frankly, I don't know what you were trying to accomplish today, because it sure as shit didn't work, did it? They'll just feed you misinformation to get you out of their hair. No...you need to get them where they're vulnerable. And...to target the right people. Because honey, you were cavorting with Forbanne all day. Don't waste your time with them." He pointed to his temple. "Impenetrable. Even boulders have more permeability than they do."

He took a few bold steps forward, until he was almost pressed up against her sword. "You lose nothing out of this arrangement. For one, Mollengard doesn't trust you, and two, they're already allied with Atvany, and they know your name, so they could always turn you in if you get a little too rowdy for their tastes. And yeah, I know there was that whole faked your own death thing, but pffft," he batted his hand in the air like a paw, "that's no guarantee of your safety. As for what I gain," he sighed, and it almost sounded thoughtful, "well, freedom, for starters. Not that it'll last, because they'll skewer me whole if they find out I'm helping you. But, you know...maybe there'll be a few days' peace in between. So," he extended his hand out to shake, "what do you say? Is it a deal? If not...well," he grabbed hold of her blade with his free hand, and held it up to his chest, "it's not like I haven't given you plenty of opportunities to kill me. And since you're so afraid of knowing what I know," his yellow-gold eyes bore into hers, "I couldn't blame you for doing me in." 

"The innkeeper was practically shoving me out the door. He promised to let you know, but," he threw his hands in the air in surrender, "obviously that didn't happen." 

With a plop, his hands fell uselessly to the table again, looking as dead, feeling as dead, as they would have been had Daphni not fastened the moondial around his neck, and extended his life. It glinted in the corner of his eye, and he gave it an idle flick with his nail. It skittered against the wood finish, its pointed wedge spinning, its angle directly overhead. Somehow...he knew the moon phase was in its first quarter. Half-full. A full moon would spell his end.

He looked up at Daphni, seeing the furious worry in her eyes, the heated tone of her words, the gentle press of her hand, fever-warm against his knuckles. He listened to her pulse, which was at a rapid, flustered tap tap tap beneath her skin. And when he closed his eyes, he remembered his rancor when he attacked the Sybaian healer with such biting insults. He belittled her practice, her willpower, called her selfish, and a dolt, and renounced any respect he'd developed for her. Even when he admitted her defeat, and gave her the means to expedite her own death, she had surprised him with her renewed resolve to live. 

To live...

He clutched the moondial and opened his eyes, seeing in hers a shine; whether from her ailment or from her outpouring of emotion, he wasn't certain. "Forgive me. I don't know what's come over me," he said, his voice small, raspy--as it had once sounded, when he was ill. "There is no reason to give up now, you're right. Especially when surrendering to...to fate, or to God...is to let things be. I should trust that all will play out as He dictates. One end is certain for me, after all--but my other end, which is not an end, but a continuation...that's still possible. And," a sideways smirk appeared on his pale lips, "I'm sorry for being an ignoramus. I've allowed useless sentimentalities to overcloud my judgment." He freed his hand from the tingling sensation of the moondial and relocated it to his forehead. He swept some curls away from his brow. "And should I ever slip into that way of thinking again, you are free to chain me up with the horses in the stables. ...That is not such a bad idea," he mused, as he stared at his wrist. "Shackle ourselves together. Maybe then I won't dodder off all the time."

As much as she hated to admit it, he might have been right. With Mollengard already suspecting her, with her name in their repertoire and her intentions somehow clearer than she'd hoped they'd be, it was likely that Elespeth had nothing to lose by opting to cooperate and commiserate with this strange man. She had been long aware of their alliance with Atvany, but following her near-death (which turned out to be a fake death), and now that her home believed her dead, that dread of being found by her kingdom had long since dissipated. Though... what if he was right? What if Atvany opted to believe Mollengard's ludicrous claims that the treacherous noble daughter-turned-night had actually survived... and that her brother, someone far more worthy of life than she was, had died in her place?

She felt sick to her stomach even considering it. Sicker than the idea of taking this potential charlatan up on his offer. It could still all be a trap. But she was already putting herself a risk by involving herself with Mollengard... what was one more risk? "Stop that." She hissed, and wiggled her sword from his grip, placing it back in its sheath. "You are a real piece of work. And how the hell do you... know about me? What the hell kind of spy are you that you have insight into things that I don't even talk about?" 

There was a desperate sort of paranoia swimming in her eyes. Knowing what he did was unsettling enough... but what struck her with fear and hesitation to accept his help was the implication of what more he knew--or what more he could find out. "As it stands, I have far fewer reasons to trust you than you do to trust me. And if I am such an open book, then you should already know that I stand true to my alliances and truces. So if you are true to your word that you can indeed make a difference, then you should have nothing to fear from me." The Atvanian warrior added. "And... as it stands, I would much rather that the two of us play at the same side than to work against one another. And you seem to agree. So... you can count me in. Help me take Mollengard down from the inside out, before they destroy what is left of this city. I've also heard rumors that they plan to target the kingdom of Eyraille... where I happen to have close friends. I cannot let that happen."

Taking a step back, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Go put some damned clothes on. You know where to find me when you want to; and next time, at least try to have a little bit of decency, will you?" Even for someone who had been on the run from her own home for years, Elespeth had been brought up with far too strict a sense of decency to carry on for long when a man was so unapologetically in a state of undress...

"Of course! I'm happy to show you the proof that you want." Teselin agreed to Chara's terms without hesitation. "I am certainly not a liar, and although I cannot always predict the extent of what benefits I can reap from what I am able to do... well, how about this: if it turns out that for whatever reason I cannot encourage rainfall in your city by the end of tomorrow, then feel free to expel me from this place. I'll take my chances and I will look for my brother elsewhere. But I think... by giving me this chance, you will not be disappointed." It didn't appear to bother her that she was behind the iron bars of a cell, or that there was a distinctly stifling atmosphere about the place. One that surely suppressed magic to keep its more dangerous residents in check. "Oh, and... Chara? I know it is not my place to say, because I do not know specifically how Vitali hurt you. But... it has been my experience that when you give people the chance to truly do good, then more often or not, they come through." That smile didn't fade. "I am not saying that my brother isn't questionable in his motives... but I also believe that he is not an exception to that rule."

Teselin slept on the cold floor without complaint that evening. It was damp and uncomfortable, but it was still warmer than the walls beyond the city, and for that, she was grateful. Unfortunately, her exhaustion did not equate to all the necessary sleep she'd hoped she would find, for as the night progressed, she began to feel curiously more and more unwell. It struck her as odd; she honestly couldn't remember a time where she had ever been sick, not even as a child. Not with a fever, nor with a chill. It was as if illness had eluded her for her entire life, yet suddenly, upon being thrown into this dungeon, it was as if her years and years of good fortune were turning on her. She developed a cough that only grew in intensity throughout the night, along with a fever and chills, and an aching sense of weakness that spread through the entirety of her limbs. Weeks of travel and exposure to cold had set root and finally bloomed, and suddenly, the young girl hardly felt herself able to stand, when at last the lock on the door turned. Someone had come to retrieve her.

"She hasn't been well most of the night." One of the sentries explained, to a very annoyed-looking Chara Rigas. Not that Teselin had ever seen her look anything but annoyed. "It's possible it's all an act. Though... it doesn't look like one."

"Chara." Teselin forced a smile, and with even greater effort, forced herself to her feet. Every limb felt exponentially heavier than it should. "I'm all right. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it..."

Though it seemed that their mind was already made up that she would not be coming through on any promises until she saw a healer. One of the sentries took her by the arm and escorted her out of the cell. "I mean it--I'm fine," she tried to insist, but to no avail. "I just... need a short break from this place. It's veiled to suppress magic... am I correct?"

Evidently, being afflicted also meant that nothing she said would be considered credible. The cool air and sun felt good on her skin as they escorted her to a tent that was being attended by what appeared to be a Mollengardian healer. "Wait--Chara, I still want an opportunity to prove myself!" Teselin begged, but her voice was too weak, and she was too visibly ill to be taken seriously. Turning to the healer, she nodded in apology. "I'm sorry to waste your time. Really, it was just the dungeon affecting me, I think. They've veiled it to suppress magic... which was probably the only thing keeping me from actually suffering pneumonia, after spending two weeks traveling alone in the snow. I should be on the mend quickly, now that I am out of there." Smiling, she lifted a heavy arm and offered a hand. The raised, scabbed imprint of shackles from a previous imprisonment stood out against her pale skin. They seemed to have worsened overnight, along with the rest of her general health. "My name is Teselin. And, really, I assure you I'll be fine. Some rest should do it..." But, what if I am not well enough by evening, like I'd promised? I am going to lose my opportunity to see Vitali again... That reality hovered over her. Rain: this city needed rain. And she needed to be well enough to make it happen.

"...of course, I will also gladly accept any help in hastening my recovery. Preferably, before this evening," she added weakly. "I made your esteemed leader a promise that I intend to keep. And it needs to be kept by the end of the day..."

Hadwin flew back his hands as if they'd been bitten. But when Elespeth retreated her sword, removing the obstacle of desire between him and her, his hands, in their haste, had been bitten. He sucked in a breath and made a rather loud noise in between his teeth as he showed her a bloody welt on his palm. "Ouch, Elespeth. Look at you, already getting your digs in. Well," he shrugged, "can't say I didn't deserve it, huh?" He made a grand show of sucking at his small injury. But when he pulled his mouth away to continue speaking, the wound had clotted, and looked as innocuous as a three-year old scar. 

"What the hell kind of spy am I, you say?" He gave her a toothy grin, all sharp canines and derangement. "A damn good one. You know, for someone who doesn't do this as my 'true' vocation. I'm one that knows more than surface level. One that can delve far...and can see right into the soul of your fear." He jabbed a finger to his temple, close to his eye, which seemed to glow with a preternatural light under his hooded brow. "The Moon bestows Her gifts...and her curses. She is illusion, but She is also clarity. She sees into the true face of all, no matter how hidden."

After his bout of stare-down intensity, he simply laughed, a goodhearted chuckle that broke eye contact and teetered him away from the easily-spooked Atvanian warrior. "You're a real treat, you know that?! You're like a doe in the woods, frozen on the spot--but that's good, Elespeth. That fear's healthy, as long as you use it to your advantage. But," he backed up a few more steps to present her with a clumsy bow, "pleasure doing business with you, Friendless. Maybe you won't be, for long. As a sign of my loyalty, I'll enclose this information to you, though it might not be all that heartening for you to hear." He lowered his voice into a whisper, even though he knew, with his superior (even in human skin) hearing, sense of smell, and sight, that no one was nearby. It made for a much more dramatic reveal, though unsurprising in nature, considering the conquest-happy Mollengard, pissing on and claiming every tree in the woods as its own. "They are going to invade Eyraille. Soon. They better grab some allies while they can. And no, I don't count your little rag-tag number here in Stella D'Mare. But," he scrunched his nose, "I like your odds. You can say I enjoy hopeless causes."

With a self-satisfied smile, he turned his back on Elespeth, revealing his rear end as he began his retreat to the bushes. "I'm a wild animal, Friendless. What need do I have of clothes? But for your poor, scandalized eyes, I'll make the effort. Meet me here tomorrow, when it gets dark. I know exactly where to take you." 

And with one more white flash of a grin, he disappeared into the bushes and shook into his wolf skin. After his transformation, he trotted over, stood on his hind legs, licked Elespeth's face, and ran off before she could chastise him--or spear him with her sword.

That morning, Chara was greeted at the entrance to the dungeons by a sentry, who explained to her the worsening condition of their new prisoner. But she, in no mood to allow any more concessions to this young woman, wandered down to the cell blocks, only to see that the girl looked well and truly out-of-sorts. With a moan mixed with a sigh, she instructed the sentry to open the doors to the cell and help the ailing girl to her feet. 

"She will be of no use to us if she cannot even stand upright on her own." But to her surprise, the girl seemed determined to prove her worth, talking with that same bright warmth that exuded from even the dampest of spaces--like inside an underground prison cell. It was supremely annoying, but even she had to admire Teselin's tenacity and determination. It was a familiar sight to her. Almost comforting. She reminded her of...Alster.

...Which also reminded her of his boundless idiocy. And by default, that made Teselin cut from the same caliber of eager-to-please idolaters with a penchant for overzealous self-sacrifice. In other words...this girl was going to be a headache. 

"I understand," she told the girl. "And that promise, you shall keep. But you will be no use to me if you are dead, so first, let's send you to a healer." 

While she did not trust Mollengard in the least, she felt like she owed a debt of gratitude to Atli, who was the cause of Lilica's revival (though it fundamentally shook the dark mage to her core). Though she'd rather have another Rigas look at Teselin, it was the Mollengardian healer's tent they passed, and the healer who caught the sickly girl's eye, and by then it was too late to course correct. Atli walked over to the small retinue of guards and observed the wilting flower of a girl, nodding along to the sentry's list of her symptoms. 

"You're correct, ah," he paused to wait for her name, "Teselin. You'll feel better with rest." He reached a gloved hand towards her. "May I?" Crouching before her, he felt her forehead, looped a finger around the insides of her ears, pulled down her eyelids, opened her mouth, and checked inside her nostrils. "It is as you claim. A touch of pneumonia--but if this is something that'll fade the longer you stay outside the dungeon, then I implore you to take some bed rest out here. And," he frowned at the pink rash around her wrists, flaky, raw skin that appeared infected, "I'll soothe some of your other ails." He drew to his feet and looked at Chara. "But that, of course, is up to you."

"I'll allow it," she said, resting one hand over her hip. "For I must reiterate, Teselin--you're nothing to me if you're dead, or otherwise indisposed. In the meantime, I'll find a more suitable prison for your needs." And after directing the sentries to stand watch outside the tent, she turned on her heels and marched off toward Main House. 

After inviting the ailing girl inside, Atli directed her to sit on the cot while he gathered some supplies and washed his hands in the basin. As she settled on the cushions, she could see a distinct canine form on the ground beside her feet. Its gray and russet-mottled body lay supine, chin resting on its paws, eyes half-closed and ears pulled back. Turning its head to look at her, it swished its tail once in greeting, then returned to its half-sleeping state. 

"Don't mind him," Atli said, as he approached the girl with a damp cloth and some salve. "He's just a free-loader. Here, put this to your forehead." He offered her the cloth. With a second cloth, he ran it gently against her raised flesh, then applied a green, sticky substance across both rashes. "Did Chara Rigas shackle you too hard in the dungeons?"

Relief relaxed Teselin's shoulders when Chara agreed not only to keep her out of those dungeons for a time, but that she still expected her to fulfill her promise. She had not given up on her--better yet, she wouldn't be giving her this chance if she did not believe that there was a chance she might be useful. And the young woman was not about to pass up on this opportunity. "Thank you--thank you so much." She told Chara, clasping her hands together in gratitude. "I won't let you down. You'll see rain, before tonight, I promise."

Although Chara did not seem entirely convinced that she could do what she promised, Teselin sensed that at least she had come to a decision (however unconscious) that not only was she not a threat, but that she might serve a purpose here, in this wrecked city. Her smile widened. So trusting her gut and intuition had paid off this time. At least, it was preferable to wandering the cold winter weather alone. There was only so far her magic could extend to completely reverse the seasons, even if she had been able to influence the weather, in the past. "Of course--I'll rest until I feel well again." She agreed with Atli, and gratefully accepted the cold cloth. It felt wonderful against the warmth emanating from her feverish face. "It shouldn't be long, now that my magic isn't being suppressed. At least, that's my gut feeling. I've never actually been sick before..."

She had all but entirely forgotten about the sore irritation around the thin skin of her wrists, until the healer applied an odorous ointment to them. It smelled pungent and bitter and it stung, yet simultaneously soothed the sore, tortured flesh. She'd always felt lucky for her peak health, but unfortunately, whatever bizarre breed of magic her genetics had awarded her did nothing for physical bodily harm. She still bled and hurt, still hurt. Just like any other mortal being, she wasn't immune to the effects of being in shackles for weeks at a time--though, on the bright side, she did tend to heal faster. "Oh--no, not at all!" She responded in haste to Atli's question, as he carefully wrapped her wrists with light bandages. "On the contrary, Chara has been very fair with me. I was a stranger who showed up at the city gates, yesterday; why would't she commit me to the dungeon? The only assurance that I am not a threat and mean no harm is by my word, alone. Honestly, I wouldn't have asked for my freedom from that place, otherwise." Because you really don't know that you're not a threat, chimed a nagging voice at the back of her mind. A voice that was always there, and that had chided her for weeks with I told you so, when she had last been committed as a prisoner for appearing threatening. Except, that last time... well, her confinement was legit. However much she had not meant the people of that village any harm...

"This... is from my last confinement." She indicated her wrists, and shrugged her shoulders. "The village where I stayed last... something terrible happened. I was blamed. I cannot vouch for my innocence, because honestly, I do not know whether or not I was truly the cause of what occurred, but... well, its within the realm of possibility. I deserved it. But when I had a vision of my brother, I knew I needed to leave. So I managed to escape." She looked at the healer, then, with hope in her wide-eyed expression. "Do you know of him? His name is Vitali Kristeva... I understand he isn't here now. But I have a good feeling that he will return."

She smiled at the mangy looking canine who sat in the corner of the tent, head resting on his paws. He looked wild--like a coyote of some sort, and yet, he behaved like a domestic pet. It intrigued her to see an animal behave in such a way. "Is he your pet?" She asked Atli, indicating the sleeping dog. "He is certainly well-behaved, especially for... what is he? A coyote? ...can I pet him?"

However much she pried and demanded an answer, Vega had tapped every resource possible into getting her brother to confide how he had ended up in the infirmary with a life-threatening injury. Despite that the young king had ordered his physicians and anyone who had witnessed his duel with the mercenary, it was impossible to keep his injury under wraps when he was still expected to be active and to make appearances. Over and over, Vega had pried and prodded for information, but the answer that he offered was always the same: "A training accident," he would tell her, shrug his shoulder, and change the subject.

Of course, the princess's first thought was that there must be something nefarious stirring within the castle. Perhaps someone who Caris had trusted was now seeing fit to retaliate--perhaps someone with relations to Mollengard? No. That can't be possible... now I'm just being paranoid. And even if that were the case, Caris would have known--and he certainly wouldn't be defending them. He might be young and sheltered, but her brother was not stupid; not someone with as suspicious a nature as his own. Always on his toes, ever aware that the people around him, the people who served him, doubted his abilities, there really wasn't a moment when he let his guard down. So what, exactly, could have transpired that Caris did not want her to know?

And... why was it that Haraldur had become so mysteriously distant from her these past few days? Had her brother said something to threaten him? What exactly was going on that was causing everyone to act so strange around her?

On her way to tend to the rocs early one morning, she happened to catch sight of the mercenary, training alone in the courtyard. It had only been a few nights that she'd found herself sleeping alone in their attic space; she'd allowed him his time and space, figuring that Caris had said something to spook him out of wanting to be near her. However, enough was enough; she would not have her brother's will overshadow that of her and Haraldur's, nevermind what secrets he felt like keeping from her. She had not returned home to be subject to his oppression. "Haraldur." She called, approaching the warrior. By the sheen on sweat on his skin, he looked as though he'd been exerting himself for quite a while, now. "I wondered when I'd see you, again. You've been a ghost for a few days now."

Vega offered a smile, tucking a stray tress of copper hair behind her ears. But her lips were tight and cautious, as was Haraldur's expression. As though he had no desire to have a conversation, then and there.
Well... that was just too bad. Because patience was trying, for the Eyraillian princess. And she had been patient enough. "That attic is cold without you, you know. I've missed you... I wish you'd tell me why you've been so invisible."

Taking a chance, she covered the distance between them, arms folded across her chest to ward off the mountain chill. Her breath misted in front of her, the tip of her nose and her cheeks already rosy. "Did Caris say something to you? Did he threaten you, in some way, should he find you near me? If my brother is playing mind games, Haraldur, then you need to tell me. This is not what I wanted to come home to, and I did not bring you here to be mentally tormented by an immature king." Placing a gloved hand on his arm, she searched his face for answers. Some traces of truth. Oddly, all that she found was... traces of guilt. That struck even more deeply than his avoidance behaviors. "This does have to do with my brother, doesn't it?" She already knew the answer. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know the details. "Please, Haraldur... talk to me."

As the Mollengardian healer sat beside her on the cot, binding her wrists with gauze, he watched as her loose mouth waddled up and down, her eyes alighting with trust, her posture relaxing. What was it about people outside of Mollengard who flocked to him, not only to ease their injuries, but to lend an ear to their troubles? It was bizarre; why would they not safeguard their emotions, especially before a man allied with a nation known for its exploitative nature? But as it stood, he had developed a rapport with the princess of Eyraille, the two saviors of Stella D'Mare, a Sybian healer, a wild dog (after a fashion), and now, a young girl with obvious hang-ups of her own, who seemed to possess powerful, dangerous magic. It could be his gentle demeanor, his profession as a healer, his tendency to fall into his trite sensitivities, or a combination of the three, but he suddenly understood why Captain Solveig insisted he stay tented up within the gates of the Rigas estate. They trusted him. She needed them to trust him. He was a weapon of compassion, but, try as he might to fight against the manipulation, he could not bring himself to deny healing, listening, guiding, and providing. His greatest strength was also his greatest weakness. How apt, he thought, the corner of his lip twitching into a bitter smile. 

"You've never been sick before?" He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the information. "All due to your magic?" You shouldn't have told me that, he wanted to yell, to warn. Mollengard wouldreceive that information. Would find it equally intriguing--enough to want the girl as their own, to capture her, to study her. Experiment. He turned his face away to hide the paling of his cheeks. No, he'd refuse to ask for clarification. Wave off the whole exchange as the fantasies of a delirious youth who didn't know any better. 

Forbanne didn't know better, either, and there were girls her age and younger fighting, killing, destroying their opposition, and themselves. And this girl...even their names were similar. Teselin. Iselin. No! he commanded himself. The wolf's tail twitched, as if sensing the fears roosting in his head, taking ghostly form. Control it! It's too early for this!

"Well," he cleared his throat, somehow composing himself to face Teselin with an open stance and expression, "I'm glad the Rigases are treating you with civility, but I'm sorry to hear the rough go you had prior to your arrival--and during your incarceration. But despite the rigors of your travels, you keep such a positive attitude. With that sunny mindset, you'll recover in no time at all," he managed a smile and patted her arm. "The right disposition can often quell the fires of adversity." As he stood up, he frowned at mention of the necromancer. "I've never met the man, but I know him by reputation. He caused quite a stir here, so I've heard. But he also helped our men and women eliminate the reanimated corpses that once swarmed this city, a feat that would have taken us far longer, without his aid."

At mention of 'pet' and 'coyote,' the wild dog in question pricked up his ears and raised his head, looking across the tent at the girl who expressed interest in him. 

"To be honest," Atli snorted, "I don't really know what he is." In human form or wolf form, he wanted to add. "Don't let his behavior fool you, though. He's trouble." As if on cue, the wolf scrambled to his feet and bounded over to the girl. He jumped at her, placing his paws against her shoulders and vigorously licking her neck and jaw. 

"Now you've done it," Atli groaned. "Come on," he said firmly to the wolf. "Down!" The canine, not obeying, had at least ceased his licking and instead thrust his lowered head forward, demanding to be scratched behind the ears. 

Although he had agreed to the young king's proposal, Haraldur was not any less mollified by what transpired a few short days ago. He asked the infirmary staff to keep him abreast of Caris's condition, obsessed with any sudden changes to his health. Fortunately, he remained stable. Weak, but recovering. But since the day he was called to see him, he had avoided the boy-king. In fact, he avoided everyone, and punished himself in isolation. While the arrangement made between him and Caris would allow him to pursue his relationship with Vega (insofar as it would be tolerated), Haraldur didn't feel it was right to "claim" her, like she was a prize to be won. And when proving his worth to the king meant nearly sacrificing him to the Other Side, like his sister before him, it was even more bittersweet to acknowledge any victory. It was more loss than gain, in the end. Caris, somehow, defeated him, with a sword of a different sort plunged straight through his heart. 

He passed the days with drink and relentless pacing, until neither could sate the unending track of thoughts that assailed his mind. The wine wasn't potent enough of a remedy, only enough to induce sleep, which was uneasy, and brimming with horrors. Every morning, he would awake in a cold sweat, and begin the process anew. 

On the third day, he could no longer stand his self-imposed prison, and finally resolved to make a public appearance, however nerve-wracking the prospect. And for the first time since that fateful day, he returned to the training grounds in the castle's courtyard. He decked himself with armor, pulled a sword with the bluntest of edges from the rack, and pushed his body until all thoughts dissipated, until the only things he could feel were his sweat pouring off his back, his limbs tightening with exertion, his chest pounding, his breath seizing, and his wrist searing with a pain so great, he almost dropped the sword from the shock. 

Throughout the long, untraceable hours of his practice, he ignored the eyes that targeted him from afar, judgments of mistrust and fear on the faces of Skyknights, of soldiers and attendants. He ignored the whispers of rumors. No doubt they were all talking. It would only be a matter of time, a matter of time when...

He heard his name. It called through the din and the darkness, impelling him to look up, to cease his movements, to turn around. There was Vega, trotting over to meet him, rosy-cheeked as usual in the brisk, wintry air. Alive. He could touch her, ascertain her heart-beat, ensure her survival, and...

No, keep the blade away!

He tossed the sword from him, from her, not trusting it, or himself--not when it came to the Sorde bloodline. With a shallow but courteous bow, he greeted Vega's arrival.

"Your Highness," he said, cordial and detached. He listened to her concerns, expected them, feared them. If only he hadn't left his chambers... His self-discipline was weak. "No," he muttered, massaging the splintering of his wrist; it felt ready to fall off his arm. "His Majesty...he's been generous enough to grant me the opportunity to spend time with you. But," he glanced at her hand, its caressing touch like a balm. He ached to close their distance, to respond to her in kind. "But...I belong in the dungeons, for what I've done." It took all of his willpower to retreat from her, and he watched as her inviting hand slid away, as if repulsed by him. "You've forgiven me far too many times, Vega. You can't forgive me for this." He turned around, and began his walk of shame, bridging yet more distance between her and him.

"No, not really. At least, I can't remember ever being sick." The young woman confirmed, shrugging her shoulders. "I never understood why, honestly. I always hypothesized that it had something to do with my music, but I had no real way of knowing how. Now, I think I have the confirmation I need... and, honestly, I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing." She groaned low in her throat and took a seat on a cot. "Is this how people feel when they are ill? Because it is downright miserable... I never realized how fortunate I am!"

She couldn't help but smile at the healer's encouragement, however, for it mirrored precisely what she had always believed. "Of course I keep an optimistic disposition. Life is only as optimistic as you make it. And, good has always managed to find me. After all, prior to finding this place, I was wandering the winter cold all by myself. Now, I'm warm and certainly safer than I was--even if this poor city looks as though it has seen better days." And about that... She hadn't dared to ask Chara what had happened to this city, which looked to once be an amazing spectacle to see. It really wasn't any of her business, and she hadn't wanted to push the blonde woman's kindness... "Do you know what happened to the city?" She asked Atli at last, just as the sleeping dog leapt up and mercilessly began to lick her face. 

Teselin let out a gasp, followed by a peal of delightful laughter. "No, no, it's fine." She assured Atli, and happily scratched the friendly canine behind the ears. "He's friendly. I've always wanted an animal companion, of sorts. Living like a nomad makes it difficult. But, again, about the city... can you tell me what happened? It's weird... I came from another city, smaller than this one, that had been devastated by other means. I just... feel that I should know what it is I'm getting into."

And what potential there is that I might make things worse...

"Your Highness? Haraldur..." Vega furrowed her brows, suddenly suspicious--moreso than before. "You know you don't need to call me that. I'm just Vega to you. Especially when no one else is around..."

Alarms began to go off in the Eyraillian princess's heart, and it extended beyond the way he addressed her. It was in the lines of his face, the rigidity of his stature, and the heavy gravity that surrounded them that hearkened back to that time, not so long ago, when they had distanced themselves from one another. She didn't want to return to that, not after everything that they had endured together, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Death had not kept them apart, nor her return from death. And during their excursion to the mountains, she truly thought that they had breached every barrier that had been holding them apart. They had been real with each other, no more secrets, everything on the table. Everything had finally fallen into place...
And she would not allow her brother to dissolve everything that they had worked so hard to build. He might be king, but she would never allow him that power.

"What... what do you mean you belong in the dungeons, Haraldur?" She wanted to be patient with him; and she tried. Clearly something had occurred that had him shaken and guilty, once again second guessing himself and what he deserved. But she had seen this side of the mercenary one too many times, and they had made promises in her father's old hunting cabin in the mountains. No more hiding, no more secrets, and no more running away. However he might have been hurting, and for whatever reasons... She could not let him walk away from her again. Not like this.

Her eyes widened when he retreated and made to turn away. Her fire couldn't be contained any longer. "Haraldur. You will not walk away from me again." The tone of her voice surprised even her, and it was no surprise that the former Mollengardian faltered in his steps. "Tell me what is going on, Haraldur. I am half sick of secrets and being kept in the dark. What in all creation has triggered this in you? If not my brother's threats, then what?"

"It's my fault. Well... partially. I supposed I didn't ask to be injured." Both of their heads turned as Caris stepped onto the scene. The young king had been recovering steadily for about a week, and while his strength had returned and the color had returned to his face, he continued to keep his affected arm in a sling, so as not to tear the healing flesh beneath it, held together by pieces of thread. He seemed perplexed by the situation before him; it wasn't like his sister to act so dire. Not to anyone but him, at least. "Really, the two of you are making a scene. Let me clear the air. I didn't lie to you, Vega; when I told you I was injured while sparring, well, that's the truth. What I neglected to tell you was that I was sparring with Haraldur."

Vega all but had to pick her jaw up from the ground. "You what?"

"I asked him to train me. There is no way that I can stand against Mollengard with the training I currently have; not if I have to fight to kill."

"Caris, you are not expected to fight to kill when--"

"Oh, not. I'm not having that conversation with you right now, Vega. We'll discuss that later. If you want to be helpful, why don't you convince your lover, here, that his guilt is not only unnecessary, but burdensome." He shrugged his unaffected shoulder and nodded at Haraldur. "My physicians have informed me that I should be fine by next week. I hope you will keep your promise, Haraldur. I'll be more careful with my armor, next time."

He left the Skynight and the mercenary to stand in the aftermath of what was triggering news to the both of them. That passionate anger had left Vega's face, and left her with confusion. When her brother disappeared from sight, she turned back to Haraldur. "I... still have no idea what is going on here," she shook her head and exhaled, long and hard. "So... you are going to tell me. Come on; let's talk." With a pause, she added. "Over some wine... I could use some." Glancing over her shoulder to see that Haraldur followed, she led him back into the palace.

The more the optimistic girl spoke of her good fortune and gratitude for the gifts that life had thrown her way, the more Atli began to feel ill. At first, he half-wondered if her touch of pneumonia was not pneumonia at all, but a contagious spot of influenza, meant to attack with surety and aim straight for his heart. But no--it was not an illness of the body, as the ache in his chest had attested. And it was not in direct response to her saccharine words (although the wolf barked a response in a tone akin to, "you gotta be kidding me.") He bore no derision or disbelief over her statement of goodness. Only a deep, abiding sadness. Mollengard would destroy a girl like her in moments. Purity like hers was a fragile, white-petaled flower, meant to be crushed until little remained but the imprint in the earth. She...could not last. People like her never did. 

"The city," he began, in a croak on the verge of a choke, which he righted in time, "was attacked by an otherworldly chthonic beast that was under Rigas dominion for thousands of years, so I've been told. It hailed from another realm, and was trapped in the earth, asleep and sealed from Its magic. But It broke free of Its seal and laid waste to Stella D'Mare. Chara Rigas will know more details if you want the full history, but one of the Rigaes, Alster, with the help of a warrior woman you might have seen wandering these grounds--Elespeth--sent It through a portal, back to Its world. It is no longer among us, but the damage accrued was massive. We--Mollengard--we're here to help right this city back on its foundations."

The wolf, who was clearly enjoying his ear rub, snorted. Atli wanted to take a broom and shove the animal out of the flaps right then and there. "You don't want that animal, believe me," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The wolf swished his tail and gnawed playfully on Teselin's finger. "But I don't think you'll find many other creatures here in the city. Most have died off, or been replaced by these nuisances," he thumbed over to the wolf, who, calming down from his earlier burst of energy, rested his head in Teselin's lap and closed his eyes, looking to all the world like the model of a friendly, obedient, loyal dog. "Faker," Atli mouthed at the animal, whose ears twitched, but nothing more. 

"Anyway," he sighed, "I'll give you the time you need to rest. I'll check on you in a few hours and see if your pneumonia will, as you say, abate."

As promised, he returned in a few hours' time. Thankfully, the wolf had vanished, though, by the way the sleeping Teselin was positioned on the cot, it appeared that he had cuddled up with her as an additional heat-source. Coming from that wolf, however, he knew it was anything but an innocent gesture. 

Just as he awoke Teselin from her sleep and confirmed that her vitals were, indeed, back to normal, Chara stepped into the tent. It had grown dark outside, and she held a sphere of etherea in her one upturned hand. "Have you made a full recovery, yet? I've given you more than enough time to rest, Teselin. When you are ready to stand, come with me. ...We have work to do, as we've discussed." 

His retreat had not taken him far--not when Vega's cries had fused his feet to the ground. They felt like stone slabs, heavy and unwieldy. The rest of him followed suit, petrifying, cracking, his killing hand pulling heavier against his beleaguered joints and muscles. No--he couldn't walk away from her--not after all they'd endured. Promises...he promised her that he would cease running. But promises meant nothing if, left unrestrained, he continued to injure everyone in her kingdom. He was an unleashed weapon of Mollengard, tolling damage with each sword swipe. It didn't matter if he recovered his senses, as he did before peppering his final blow on the Eyraillian king. Caris had only moments, those fortunate few moments when he was saved in just the nick of time. He was so close to death, and yet...

And yet...

He was standing before them now, vouching for him, of all people? 

"Your Majesty," he turned to the boy, dislodging his feet from their stone formation, to drop into a formal bow. But he said nothing as he listened, watching the exchange between siblings, waiting for Vega to crackle with horror for what he had caused. I'm irredeemable. You must know that by now, Vega.

But it was what the young king wanted out of him. Mollengardian brutality. A flagrant disregard for life. Loss of the sacred, gain for the wretched. He was a killer, and was good at what he did. 

As the king retreated, Haraldur lowered his head. "I'll see you here next week, your Majesty. Wear full armor." Now left in the uncomfortable, stewing silence of Vega, he climbed to his feet and turned to face her, though he was not yet ready to lock eyes, not yet ready to see disappointment or betrayal or an overwhelming sadness and regret wavering in those icy depths.

"I owe you that much," he admitted with the defeated bob of his head. "Lead the way." 

This time, she took him to her own chambers, a series of apartments that were as richly furnished as they were stocked to the ceiling with wine. A low whistle slid its way out of his mouth as he gazed over the impressive selection. Were he in higher spirits, he'd elaborate on the whistle; instead, he sat mutely at the small table in the center of the room, accepting the goblet of wine that Vega handed to him. He stared at the dark liquid, peering into it as if scrying for his future with all the blood of the fallen. He tightened his grip on the goblet, but the pressure stabbed needles of pain into his wrist, such that he flinched and nearly dropped the drink. Catching it in time with his left hand, he set it upon the table, and leaned back in his chair--sinking into his tale. 

"When you left the dining hall that evening," he began," his Majesty proposed I prove my mettle in the training yard the next day. I arrived, at dawn, and he revealed himself as my opponent. He didn't want me to hold back, and though I tried to rein in my bloodlust, I...I couldn't." He held his throbbing wrist, and his head pounded with equal force, equal pain. "He yielded and yet I still pressed on. I had already stabbed him in the underarm with my sword. He was as good as dead if allowed to bleed out. I...I stopped, somehow. Saw...saw you in his eyes, and I...was disgusted at myself. He was treated in time, thank the gods. But he didn't seem to realize how near death I pushed him. Still, he insists that I train him. And I agreed, because it sounded like I had no choice...and because he promised he'd, well, turn a blind eye to us. But I knew I couldn't face you after all that. It wouldn't matter at all, once you found out that I," he took in a deep breath, "almost killed your brother. So," he shakily took the goblet in his left hand, "if he wouldn't punish me for my actions, then I would. And so I kept away...from you. From everyone. No matter what I do, Vega...I always end up drawing blood. The dungeons really are the best place for me right now." He took a few desperate swigs of his wine, draining the cup in moments. "I won't forget my promises, don't worry. But I'll be better to you in chains." He smiled without humor. "Like a proper monster, I suppose."

As Teselin listened to Atli's account of what had occurred so recently in this city, the catastrophe that had rendered it in such a state of disrepair, her hand went still on the tame canine's head, and her eyes became sharp an serious. "A... beast? How did it get here? Did someone... summon its presence?" And, more importantly... could it return? "I'm sorry... I don't mean to pester you with so many questions. It just... sounds... very frightening, is all."

But, what intrigued her more, was that someone had managed to stop the damage in its tracks--and to send the best back from whence it came. "If you don't mind me asking... where might I find these people? The ones who quelled the threat. They seem like... well, if they would be open to talking to me, I'd love to ask them about the experience. What they did. If you happen to see either of them, might you drop my name?" She offered Atli a sheepish smile, but did not go into any minute detail about her eagerness to have an audience with these quiet heroes of Stella D'Mare. Which was probably for the better; unbeknownst to her, she had said too much, already, to this seemingly kind and trustworthy man. Such was the downside of steadfast hope and optimism: Teselin was truly an awful judge of character. "I always like to know how best deal with terrible turns of events if they happen. Life is unpredictable; what is to say I might not encounter such a beast, myself, someday?"

Highly likely, that nagging voice of bitter guilt echoed in her mind. Fortunately, she was too tired to heed it. "Thank you for letting me stay. I promise I will not occupy this cot for long. A few hours, at most. I'm already beginning to feel a little bit better."

Lying her head upon the cot, she closed her eyes. And it wasn't until her lids shut that she realized how truly tired she was, and what a relief it was to not be suffocated by the a cell that siphoned her ability to stay healthy. At one point, she felt a large, furry body leap up next to her, and she did not hesitate for even a moment to wrap her arms around the friendly beast and take in his warmth. Finally, warm and secure, she drifted off...

...only to be roused some hours later by the healer. Blinking awake, she smiled and sat up. The heaviness had entirely lifted from her chest, and her fever seemed to have abated hours ago. It no longer hurt to breathe, nor was it a labor to talk. As she'd expected, while her magic was not stifled, she would be just fine; and it hadn't taken long to return to herself. "Well; how is that for a miraculous recovery?" She chuckled, rising from the cot. She spared a thought to that friendly dog-like creature (Atli had never really spoken about him in detail, and she hadn't thought to ask; it didn't matter to her, so long as the canine was friendly), and was a tad disheartened to see that it had left. Well, the city was only so big. It was likely that she would encounter him again, soon. "I guess this really proves my theory. So long as my magic has room to breathe, then so do I. Oh, and thank you so much for your help. I truly appreciate it."

Chara was met with an eager look of determination and excitement in Teselin's dark eyes when she came to collect her on her promise. Earlier, the young woman had worried that she would not regain her strength in time to fulfill her end of the bargain, in exchange for her stay. But as she stood, and felt the strength in her legs and of her beating heart, that possibility was no longer a concern. "Of course. Thank you for giving me time; I'm fine, now. And I want to help. Take me to where your crops grow, and I promise that you will see rain tonight."

Guided by the curious ball of etherea in her hand, Teselin dared to shatter the tense and awkward silence by broaching the topic that she had touched on with Atli. Perhaps it was too bold, but if it was true, what happened to the city, and if these people had truly abated the threat... "Your healer told me what happened to your city. I am so sorry you had to endure such devastation." She offered, nodding her head. "But he also told me that you--well, your brethren, at least, were able to put an end to it. To send the creature back. Might I ask... are those people still here? Your heroes? If so... I would love to speak with them, sometime. Magic can be frightening and dangerous... I'm always curious as to how people deal with it in the face of adversity, such as the heroes in your city did."

At last, they came upon the site of a very sad looking crop field and nearby orchard. Chara had not been kidding when she said the crops were dwindling; Vegetables struggled to push through the soil, and from what she could see in the dim light of the etherea, they were small and lacking in the rich color that connoted vitamins and health. And the little fruit that the trees bore, apples and oranges and some that she did not recognize, were much the same. There was life, here, but it was hardly thriving. Just getting by. "It feels like the rain has forgotten about this place," Teselin commented offhandedly, oblivious to how bizarre the statement might have sounded. "I know this feeling; it's familiar. I've dealt with it before, and I think I can do so, again."

Kneeling, Teselin buried her hands in the soil to get a feel for the energy surrounding her. It was as if with the collapse of the city, everything had just... given up. It needed new hope, new motivation. Without that will, Mother nature was turning her back on a hopeless cause. "I'll be honest; I don't know how long this is going to take." She confessed, turning to Chara with an apologetic look. "Sometimes... sometimes, it just happens. Like I have no control over it. Other times, I have spent hours willing for some happenstance to occur. So I cannot guarantee that this will be fast, but... I stand by my offer. If, by the time the sun rises, there is still no result, then I will happily leave. I hope that can assure you of my confidence that I can make a change."

She did not stand, then, but turned back to the soil, and went still. While nowhere near as frigid as the temperatures beyond the city, the night was not without its chill, and yet she didn't budge from where she crouched, fingers embedded in the cold soil. And she remained that way for hours. Chara, of course, was not averse in showing her impatience, and she did leave for some period of time, to get some rest. More hours passed; Teselin did not move. And not long before dawn, Chara returned.

It was a hard thing, to admit defeat, especially when Teselin had tried so hard. She had felt the lifelessness in the soil, and she had called on that life to return. She had reached out to it, opened herself up to it, invited it in. Made herself a beacon for the change, all the while shivering in the cold. How is the possible? The one time I want something to happen... that I want to incite change... Her heart had sank to her knees. Defeated, Teselin pulled her fingers from the soil. "Chara..." She began, her voice soft and broken...

...and she was interrupted by a peal of thunder, as dark clouds gathered on the horizon in the sky. Not ten beats later, she felt a raindrop on her nose; then another on her hand, and her shoulder, and in moment, the sky had entirely opened up, and unleashed a torrent of heavy, penetrating rainfall. Rising to her feet, Teselin's smile grew wide, and she laughed. She had reached out to the rain, called to it; and it had heard her. It had been so far away, and yet, it obliged. "I'm so sorry that took so long." She apologized, raising her voice over the sound of torrential rainfall. "But I'm happy I could oblige!"

This was the first that Haraldur had seen of Vega's personal chambers. Much of it was superfluous; the exquisite drapery and upholstery, the gold that lined the tables and fireplace... and that telling wall of wine that served as a horrible beacon and reminder of a habit that had once poisoned her life. The Skyknight wrinkled her nose in distaste of the bottles of wine stacked high, and made a mental note to dismantle it when she got the chance. For now, she chose one of those demonically tempting dark bottles, and brought it over to a small table, where Haraldur had taken a seat. Wordlessly, she filled a goblet for him, then one for herself, and took a seat across from him. And listened.

"...you can see why you have no reason to feel guilty, can't you?" She sighed, when he had finished. "What makes this ridiculous, Haraldur, is that even my overbearing, immature, sheltered brat of a brother can see that. Caris has always obsessed over perfecting his form with the sword, and you stood to him as an opportunity. And he took that opportunity, regardless of how it might make you feel." Caris was smart; that did not mean he was at all considerate. Perhaps he could be, when the occasion was right, but that had not been a factor in in sparring with Haraldur. "You have met him enough times, already, that even you should know that if he saw fit to punish you, he would sure as hell do so. I'm not saying that I am happy with what happened to Caris... but he knew exactly what he was getting into. And if he does not see fit to blame you..." Reaching across the table, she rested her hand atop Haraldur's. "Then you should not blame yourself."

Taking a long sip from her goblet, the Eyraillian princess rolled her shoulders back and stood, moving closer to the smoldering fireplace. Though she was doing far better than before, back in the Tadasuni encampment, it did not take much for chill to creep into her bones and stay there. And it took even longer for her to expel it. "No more of this, Haraldur. Please? You made a mistake. But my brother is alive, and frankly, what angers me more than you wounding him is that he expects to prance along the front lines of battle. What the hell is it thinking?" Taking a seat on the hearth, she pressed her fingertips to her temple. "Maybe I'm crazy for saying this. But... you should oblige him. Train with him. You are out of his league; sooner or later, he will realize that, and it might be enough to scare him to his senses. Not to mention... it has already seemed to endear him to you."

Looking sidelong at the mercenary, she offered a smile. "And if it will get him off our back about seeing one another... then it may not be so bad. But I'm not going to waste this opportunity with you wallowing in the dungeons." Her smile turned wicked, and she winked in his direction. "If you really want to be punished... I can think of other ways to be hard on you."

Together, Teselin and Chara bid farewell to the healer, whose expression was a cross between relief and worry, but he hid himself away in time before anyone could suspect his apprehension. It was already enough to work alongside an enemy he was growing to respect and whose company he enjoyed. Now, another innocent girl's life was in danger, and he didn't know what to do except watch as her small frame lessened and distorted in the distance, fading before his very eyes. 

Chara expected, nay, wanted a quiet walk, with as few words exchanged as possible. However, the girl of boundless pep, which even a spot of pneumonia could not quell, showered her with questions and wonderings so numerous, that she about asked if her word vomit was the rain she so promised to deliver. But with a sigh, and after adjusting her ball of etherea from one hand to the other, she answered her charge's inquiries.

"It took the effort of three. Lilica--Vitali's sister, if you recall, managed to disconnect the Serpent from Its chthonic magic, which is the only reason this city is not a plate of glass right now. Then, Alster opened a dimensional rift, using the sum of his magic and anything extra from the warrior, Elespeth--who you met yesterday, briefly--and broke the Serpent down into pure energy. I cannot even hazard how he managed such a feat, but it took his arm in the process." She gave the girl an almost accusing glare before continuing her account. "Your dear brother was the one who put him under a sleeping curse a few months ago. Who knows what disastrous consequences would have occurred if we did not manage to awaken him in time before the Serpent's escape. And," her voice seemed to sharpen, to grate like metal, "Alster is no longer here. He's with your brother. Lilica is with your brother. My star-seer is with your brother. They all fancy themselves adventurers now," she scoffed, but reeled in her bitterness and smoothed her expression. "You may speak with Elespeth if you wish. She's not a magic-user, so she can only tell you so much, but she is partly responsible for the Serpent's defeat."

They stopped when they reached a small field of browning crops. Since Stella D'Mare's downfall, they had been wilting at a more expedited rate. While the drought had been ongoing for over six months, the city boasted a sophisticated system of aqueducts, their main source of water stemming from the mountains surrounding the peninsula and beyond. Now that two out of the three were destroyed, water was more scarce. There was still enough to provide for the current occupants (Mollengard included), but not enough to regulate the herb garden, the citrus groves, the orchards, and the vegetable fields. It was as if the Serpent sucked out all the energy from the earth, leaving it colorless and defeated--like most of the survivors of Stella D'Mare. Like herself. 

"Have at it, then," she said, positioning herself behind the young girl as she knelt and clawed her hands into the soil. Throughout the explanations, the silent meditations, and the convenient excuses, Chara crossed her arms and never hid the skepticism lining her brow. Eventually, she grew tired of the wait and abandoned her post, which a sentry took in her place. She still did not trust the girl to be left alone. 

She returned some hours later, to find Teselin in the same position in which she left her. That was not surprising. Neither was the lack of rain. It was overcast, the clouds a patchwork of steel gray and off-white, but that was nothing new. The weather was of a teasing nature, hanging clouds in their vicinity, but never delivering more than just a spittle of rain at a time. 

But as the girl rose to her feet and looked about to spout apologies for her failure, the sky opened up, and droplets spattered to the ground. The droplets thickened and multiplied, pitter-pattering with an aggressive, drumming force. A cascade of water roared from up above, drenching Chara in minutes. It was not a warm rain, either. It chilled her, generating shivers and draining the heat from her skin. 

"Next time," she called, to be heard over the rain, "do contain the quantity of rain you summon. This amount is too aggressive. The ground is too dry; the rain will slough off and fall down the mountainside, back into the ocean." She pushed the wet hair from her face, annoyed. "We'll have to try again another day. Come," she began to walk at a brisk place, eager to find shelter from the torrent, "I'll show you to your new quarters." 

A handful of hours before Teselin's breakthrough with the clouds, and before Chara's half-damp reception, Hadwin was once again on the prowl. This time, he was in human skin, and fully dressed, when he met up with Elespeth in the small patch of woods at their appointed time. In his hand, he carried his pipe, which he drew on with judicious puffs. As Elespeth approached, he beamed at her with all the enthusiasm of a friend who hadn't seen another friend in years. 

"Elespeth! And here I thought you weren't going to show. Or that you were going to surround me with a handful of Rigas lackeys and throw me into the dungeons. Thank you kindly for your unwavering faith in me." He chuckled and rounded on her, blowing pipe-smoke in her face. He handed her the instrument in question. "Here. Have some. It'll take the edge off. Believe me, you're going to need it. If they think you're too high to function, they won't register you as a threat. They'll just see you as a heartsick warrior who's fallen on hard times--which isn't far from the truth. But really play it up--you're devastated, you're desperate, and you need a fix. They're not likely to turn you away in this instance, either. I'm taking you right into their den." He pulled a deck of cards out from his small bag. "A gambling den. Hope you brought some cash with you." He eyed the conspicuous-looking weapon strapped to her back. "And you're gonna have to leave that sword behind. All weapons need to be concealed." 

As Vega spoke her reassurances over his behavior, Haraldur sighed and shook his head. He reached for the bottle sitting on the table and poured himself another goblet-full of wine. This time, he drank at a more reasonable pace, figuring it would be a waste not to at least enjoy the flavor of the high-quality red. "No. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. It's one thing to know about the Forbanne. It's another thing to experience that brutality first-hand. I...if I had succumbed entirely, it's very possible he would be dead right now. And neither of you seem to understand the severity of the situation. Who knows what I'll do next time? Even with every precaution in place, it may not be enough. I want to believe I can control myself, but," he looked up to feel her chilled hand touch his own, its proximity oddly soothing the inflammation of his wrist, "it comes and goes. I don't understand why you still want to trust me--because what I did to your brother was no mistake. It was intentional. Maybe not consciously, but my hand well and truly wanted to kill him. And everything else agreed." 

Still, he was too ashamed to meet Vega's gaze. His eyes were locked on the remaining liquid in his goblet, which was lower than he first surmised. When she made the trip to the hearth, he remained seated, not trusting himself to bridge the gap, or to press warm hands on her skin, or cocoon her into an embrace from behind. She was so cold, in need of warmth, and he, in need of her. However much he deserved chains, his long, self-imposed isolation had driven him half-mad for intimacy. He had missed her, and it was an ache that twisted stronger than the chronic pain of his wrist. 

"I won't let him fight on the front lines," he said, quietly, distracting himself from those thoughts he wished to make into reality. "He'll never survive against an army of Forbanne. Even I couldn't survive against such odds. But," he swished around the remains of his wine, "if fighting me provides even the smallest window into understanding what he's up against, then I'll offer him that service. Even so," he sighed, "I would feel much better in a prison cell."

At her unexpected flirtation, Haraldur perked up, and his sudden movement banged his knee against the underside of the table. With a cough of embarrassment, he grabbed the goblet and held it to his lips, even though there was nothing more to drink. "That's not a punishment, Vega. No matter what you do to me." Finally, he made eye contact, and in his eyes were a challenge. A dare. He stood up, strode over to the hearth, and hovered so close to her that she could feel his body heat, even beneath all the slabs of armor. "Do your worst, Sir Vega Sorde." And, tilting her face with his hand, he locked his wine-stained lips against her wine-stained lips.

Despite her efforts, and the amount of time it had required to summon the promised rain, Chara Rigas did not seem particularly impressed at Teselin successful attempt to fulfill her promise. On the contrary, her face was lined with annoyance, which likely stemmed from immediately growing soaked beneath the torrential rainfall. Nonetheless, none of that could dampen (no pun intended) the young woman's glee and pride. So often, this strange, arcane ability of hers played against her, triggered disaster when no effort at all was placed in summoning. Just like that village she had left, prior to finding Stella D'Mare. A small community atop a hill, with a rather dry atmosphere and sharp energy in the air. It hadn't taken much for a storm to find that place: for lightning to strike, to take advantage of the current in the air, and for homes and farms to be burned to the ground. And yet, she had done nothing to purposely invoke it: she had simply beenthere. And while the village had had such a quiet and calm history of weather patterns prior to her arrival... it did not taken the locals long to point a finger in her direction. Had she not escaped, she might have been executed.

And to think... that wasn't even the worst that had ever resulted from her phantom power, in her young life.

But not here: she would not let that happen again. It was a shame that stifling her magic had rendered her so retroactively ill, after her venture through the cold. Otherwise she might have insisted that Chara keep her there, in the dungeons until Vitali returned, since she could cause no harm if her power had nowhere to go. And the idea was not off the table... Perhaps after a few days, when the residual chill of travel was no longer stuck in her bones, she might reconsider.

"I apologize for the... absolute downpour." She couldn't help but chuckle, as she followed Chara to wherever it was she would be staying. "Sadly, I have not yet discovered how to control the extent of what I summon. I might have been trying too hard, this time, because I worried it might not work, but... There is really no way of knowing." It was a risky thing to say, considering that Chara could easily consider she was not all that useful without full control of her power. But after what had happened on that hilltop village... well, full disclosure (or as close to it without admitting what had occurred, there) was necessary. "At least it should die down--there is only so much water in the sky. It will trickle to a drizzle, eventually. Oh--and, Chara?"

Filled as she was with gratitude towards this woman's kindness (however reluctant it seemed), Teselin toned her enthusiasm down to thank her host. "Thank you for allowing me the chance to prove myself to you. Even while I got sick, and spent hours trying to keep to my promise... I just want you to know that I am grateful you're allowing me to stay. I don't take it lightly."

Elespeth had considered and reconsidered Hadwin's offer all day. He couldn't be trusted; but then, neither could Mollengard, and of the two evils, the conquering nation far outshone the strange shapeshifter in its notoriety and danger. It was futile to take them out fighting, especially with the Forbanne warriors on their sides. If anything was to be accomplished, then it needed to be dismantled from the inside-out... and, unfortunately, Hadwin was the only inn that she could find. He was her best bet for the mere reason that they were out of options.

So the former knight met with him that evening, as he had requested, and sure enough, he was there, waiting. "Don't be so smug. I could still summon some 'Rigas lackeys' to throw you exactly where I think you belong." She frowned, and coughed at the smoke he blew into her face. "And if you think for a second that I am going to go anywhere with the likes of you--let alone infiltrate Mollengard--without each and every one of my mental faculties, then you are wrong." With bitterness, she added, "And I think we both know I don't need to pretend to have fallen on hard times, anyway. I'm in a city where I don't belong, with my only connection to it having left for an undetermined amount of time, and I'm at my wits' end. But you already know that, surely."

She was about to ask him to lead the way, until he told her to leave her sword behind. Elespeth faltered, and considered turning back the way she came. "Are you being serious?" She hissed, protectively gripping the hilt of her sword. The one that Alster had enchanted, and which had yet to fail her in battle. "You want me to traipse into Mollengard's gambling den, among a hoarde of lawless murderers, completely unarmed? I'm beginning to think you want them to tear me to pieces. Is that really what this plan is all about, Hadwin?"

She hadn't thought to slip a dagger into her boot, either. And she was putting herself in more danger than she had ever let herself encounter, before. How could this possibly end well? "...fine. But if this does not go well, then your neck is on the line, too. Because I've advised Chara Rigas about your untrustworthy ways, and she is keeping her eyes open for anything to go array. You will be the first to shoulder the blame, mark my words."
With a reluctant pang, the Atvanian fugitive unstrapped her sword, and delicately left it propped up against a tree, where she made a mental note to retrieve it, later. "They want me to come across as an emotionally and mentally exhausted mess? Well...then they can have, that." Reaching behind her, she untied the ribbon at the end of her braid, and loosened her hair until it fell in unruly waves down her shoulders and back. It was a small touch, but it made her look less as though she was ready to fight, and more as though she had struggled to fall asleep, and sought a distraction.

Sadly, that was not so far from the truth.

"Show me the way." Against her better judgement, she followed the shape-shifter into the den of the enemy.

A week apart had stirred fire not only in Haraldur's loins, but Vega's as well, and the Skyknight was more than happy to meet her lover's needs. Haraldur was right, though; it wasn't punishment, no matter how rough. And even though, by the end of the day when they lay next to one another--in her bed, not in their clandestine attic--they were both exhausted and relatively sore, it was unlikely that the mercenary felt 'punished', at all. She had not asked him to stay, that night, but the invitation was implied; and, however inadvertently, he'd accepted, when he chose to fall asleep next to her that evening.

Pressing her forehead to his naked shoulder, it hadn't taken long for Vega to fall asleep late that night. And yet, just as easily, she found herself wide awake in the wee hours of the morning--awakening to the strange, familiar sounds. Sitting upright, she listened carefully. The keening of a roc rang in her ears, in the distance... and the pitch was familiar. She would recognize it anywhere, anytime. Aeriel... but she's gone. Why do I hear her? 

Slipping out of the sheets, she pulled a sheer shift over her naked body, and moved to the other end of her bedroom, towards the glass doors of a vast veranda. Without a second thought, she threw the doors open and stepped out into the winter chill, listening more carefully. "Aeriel... where are you?" That keening, the heavy beating of wings... It was as if the avian was all around her, everywhere at once. Vega closed her eyes, just for a moment, and she swore she could reach out and come in contact with feathers. Aeriel--she was here. Somewhere, even if she couldn't see her. Reaching out, she felt around the darkness, yearning to feel something real. It had to be more than an illusion--she wanted it to be. I know you're here. I hear you, I feel you... let me see you. I'm here, too...

Something brushed against her fingertips; soft, like the very tips of feathers. No, this wasn't an illusion. It was real. Closer... where are you? Come closer... The keening was growing louder: right in her ear. Vega's heart swelled with hope. Could it be... was Aeriel alive...?

And, suddenly, everything changed. Vega gasped and opened her eyes, and stared up into the concerned face of Haraldur. She was lying on the cold marble of the veranda, amid the frigid winter air while dressed in nothing but a thin shift, snowflakes gathering in her copper hair. "...what's going on?" She asked, teeth chattering against the chill. "How did I get here? Did I... I must have walked in my sleep. I'm sorry, Haraldur. I didn't mean to worry you..."

"That won't last," he almost hummed with satisfaction, repositioning the stem of the pipe in his mouth. "They're gonna want you to sample their 'products,' to get you hooked before you buy. Word is they've been doing business with a few D'Marians who're desperate to forget their current troubles. So your presence isn't a surprising one. But, they'll sniff you out for sure if you don't fit their model of the ideal customer. They have a sense for the sincere, and suspicion for people of your straight-laced caliber. But," he shrugged, "to each their own. At least my stuff is medicinal. High-quality. Straight from your friend, the healer. Just enough of a high so that the world looks a little fuzzy around the edges, but my mental faculties are just fine, thank you very much. And since I'm gonna be the one to navigate you to this place, a little faith in my mind would be great right about now." 

He finished sucking on his pipe, dumping the cinders on the ground and packing it away in its case, which he tucked back into his bag. "Geez, Elespeth," he snorted, and pulled a dagger out of his own boot. "I'm not throwing you in there unarmed. But they're gonna shove a foot into your ass if you wander in with a sword poking out of your back. That's just asking for a fight. This is subterfuge. Weapons are a last resort." He handed her the dagger, hilt first. "My only one. But eh, not my style anyway." And to demonstrate his "style," he fished out a pair of brass knuckles with spiked tips, slipped them through his fingers to test their balance, and jabbed his fisted hand forward. With a nod of approval, he packed them into the lining of his boots, to replace the loss of the dagger. Then, with a shrug and a muttered, "whatever you say," to Elespeth's threats, for he still had plenty of leverage and didn't care if the Rigases caught him, he tossed his head and shuffled forward. "Oh, one more thing to add," he looked back at her, to ensure that she followed. "That ring...it'll protect you. Your darling fiance enchanted it before he left. I saw him do it. But I guess we'll put its use into practice tonight. Well," he said, his voice taking on a posh, upscale tone, "shall we?" 

Together, they wandered out of the Rigas estate, into the ruins of a city that, with Mollengard's exhaustive construction efforts, was faring better. Much of the rubble outside the estate was cleared, and boxy houses, utilitarian yet sturdy, circled the streets in perfect geometric patterns. The more Mollengard built, the less remained of old Stella D'Mare and its elevated walkways, colorful shingled roofs, circular doorways, mosaic fountain squares, and flowering trellises. And the more it began to look like a military stronghold. However, the path that Hadwin took led them away from the Mollengardian influence and down a long, narrow passageway, with a stone stairway leading into darkness. "You can always stab me in the back if I'm leading you into trouble," he murmured out of the side of his mouth as he took the stairs at a steady clip, uninhibited by the darkness with his wolf-inherited eyesight. At the foot of the stairs, a small square opened up before them. A pale half moon shone overhead, offering a little context for their new surroundings. With glass-infused mosaic tiles, a three tiered fountain (though the water stopped running long ago), and the cornerstones of three old-style buildings, fanned out like pinwheel, it was a perfectly preserved pocket of what once was. He took her to the building on the far left, where a faint yellow light was pulsating from the first floor window. 

"Gonna gather some intelligence first," he whispered, as he sneaked beneath the window ledge, and slowly lifted his head to peer inside. 

His eyes scanned the men who were gathered in a circle, fanning cards on the table, all with pipes in their mouths, all with sharp-smelling grog poured into tankards and cracked glass bottles. Even though some had their backs turned to him, he didn't need eye contact in order to fish inside their minds. His Sight had evolved in potency, extending beyond its limits with frequent use. It took no amount of effort to see the wisps of smoke that denoted the fears of his quarry; in fact, it incorporated with his regular vision, a diaphanous, phantom world superimposed on itself. A constant stream he could not shut off or dredge. He balanced between those two worlds: the overland and the underground. And the underground was as it suggested: dark, hidden, insular, horrifying...and fascinating.

"Well, well," he said, loud enough for only Elespeth to hear. "What's usable here? Drowning--boring. Dying. How droll. Forbanne. Who isn't afraid of them? Hm... Mother-in-law, Mother, and wife. That's a rough trinity. Losing all your teeth. Well good luck pal, you have five left. Snakes. Too bad you eliminated the one you had here, hmm?" He shoulder nudged Elespeth, who was standing beside him. "Oh, this one likes the company of other men. Might have to work on him." His mouth stretched into a grin. "Losing money. Discovery. Captain Solveig. Captain Solveig...and...unicorns. Okay." He ducked away from the window and instructed Elespeth into a crouch with him. 

"There are some weak-links in that crowd. Target them. There's a man whose right eye twitches ever so slightly when he's drawn a bad card. He has a mole on his upper lip. He's a simple man, so afraid of losing money that I daresay he'd do anything possible to keep it. Like trade information. There's another man, he's balding with a beard that's up to his chest. He'll play with the wiry fringes of that beard when he sees something he likes. He's not the most patriotic Mollengardian around, either. His thoughts border on treasonous. He could be an ally. Then again, the lot of them are not so hot on rule and order. They all fear that Captain Solveig is going to find this place and bust them for their illegal operations. If they suspect you of foul-play, call them out on their own. But first you need to play that injured fawn act. Ingratiate yourself to them. Strike only when they think they have you. As for the game itself," he winked, "leave the cheating to me. I'll get you your golden hand, eventually. All right," he motioned her to the front door. "Off we go." 

Once positioned, Hadwin gave the door a few rhythmic knocks, tapping out a certain code that gave its echo response on the interior walls. The latch jostled and the door swung open a crack. A suspicious eye flitted out, taking in the sight of Hadwin and Elespeth. 

"What do ya want?" he growled.

"Why, to visit your fine establishment, of course." He presented the man with a winning smile. "Only place left in this midden-heap with some vivacity. I've come to play, and to score, and I've got the goods to prove it." He flashed the man a gold coin, unmistakably of Rigas quality. The man checked it, bit it with one of his remaining teeth (he wondered if that was how he lost most of them), and grunted in approval. He then turned his hawk-like gaze to the disheveled Elespeth. 

"What about her?" 

"Oh, she's worse off than me. Wants it all. Whatever you got." 

The man looked at Elespeth, suspicion furrowing his brow. But it didn't take him long to decide before he opened the door wide, shoved them both inside, and locked the door before the lantern light could leak out against the glittering mosaic stones from outside. 

As the day wore on, Haraldur insisted on harsher measures for his "punishment," which he received, not with the agonized shivers of pain, but with the agonized shivers of desire. Though the differences could be negligible, as pleasure and punishment operated on similar principles, their sexual union was nothing but ecstasy for him, his delayed gratifications made all the sweeter when at last he reached the peak. 

His armor and clothes had been long-discarded on the floor beside Vega's bed, with no indication of returning to his body anytime soon. But between his training regimen and his bed-time regimen, his stamina finally caught up with him by the end of the day. They retired early, him sated and content, his latent worries fading into a comfortable, dreamless state. He slept, and for once was not afflicted by his recurring nightmares, the ones in where he was the sole arbiter of Eyraille's doom. Now, he felt nothing of the sort, laying beside Her princess, and drifting, as if on roc wings, into a peaceable stillness. 

However, Haraldur was never a deep sleeper. Even when prone, his mind, his ears, were open to any disturbances in his vicinity, ready to act at a moment's notice. So when Vega left his embrace, slid off the bed, and wandered over to the far side of her chambers, he opened his eyes, and slowly turned his head toward where she'd gone. And when he felt a chill air blow in the direction of her departure, he found his trousers, slipped them on, and followed her at a quick clip. 

The transition from toasty-warm bedchambers to frigid night-air nipped against his naked torso, but he pushed through the threshold in time to see Vega...reaching out for something. Brushing her hands against dead air. He even could have sworn that she said 'Aeriel.'

"Vega," he called to her gently, daring to make contact. But when he did, she fell limp, and he caught her before she sank fully to the hard marble floor. Her eyes fluttered open, and confusion took the place of her previous dream-like wonder. "Come on," he pressed at her shoulders and helped her upright, "let's get you inside."

Closing the doors and tying the thick, velvet curtains around them for good measure, he sat her down beside the hearth, which was nothing but smoldering bits of wood. He stoked the embers, added more wood and tinder, and reignited the flame to a steady roar. In the meantime, he grabbed her some furs, wrapped her in them, and then wrapped himself under them with her. 

Once her body temperature was stable, and her teeth ceased chattering, he drew back a little and searched her eyes, all while trying to school his expression, to hide his fear, or the pattering of his heartbeat. "You were calling for Aeriel. And you...looked like you were reaching for something out there. You can talk to me, too, you know. About what happened. But only if you're ready."

"Sadly, I seem to have no other choice than to have 'faith' in your mind... and intentions." Elespeth muttered, and wordlessly accepted the proffered dagger. She tucked it snugly into her boot. 

What shocked her most of all, beyond her lack of formidable weapon and the questionable substances tat Hawdin encouraged her to put into her body, was the news of her engagement ring. As if she could tell just by looking at the piece of jewelry, the former knight brought her hand to her finger and examined it. Just cold and tiny diamonds; nothing esotheric or arcane about something that came across as so mundane. But the idea that Alster had, in fact, enchanted it to keep her safe was well within the realm of possibility. It required no effort of her meager imagination to picture the Rigas caster doing just that: ensuring her protection in his absence, much though she likely didn't need it, and frankly feared more for his safety, wherever his fool's errand might take him. And yet, also within the realm of possibility, was that Hadwin would lie to her in a heartbeat, for any various and sundry reasons--or perhaps for no reason at all, but to see just how gullible she was, and how much she might believe.

"I wish I could believe you," was all she said to him in response, neither denying nor confirming that she believed what he said to be true, and followed him down towards the bottom of the hill, where the city was being rebuilt.

What she saw did not look like Stella D'Mare as she remembered it. Certainly, Mollengard had done their part in building housing, but... it was all to their own taste. Bland, utilitarian, with none of the spark or brilliance that the original city boasted. In fact, it looked very well as though Mollengard was building the housing solely for their own purposes, and for their own kind, and less for the families of the city who still required a place to stay, other than the shelter of a tent. Against her better judgement, Elespeth followed the D'Marian down a flight of stairs, taking them away from the enemy's stronghold, and into an even darker, shadier dwelling that she had not known to exist until now. Of course, that was likely the point. Underground, you were out of sight and out of mind. And even Mollengard--especially Mollengard, she would think--had ample secrets it wished to hide from its very own kin.

Hadwin did not have to ask her twice to keep back while he gathered whatever information he could; something to give them leverage. As sickening as it was that he could see right through people as though their skin was transparent, Elespeth did have to admit the skill came in handy when it was necessary to go in armed with information. "Who is this Captain Solveig?" She asked, as the name had already been mentioned a handful of times. "And why does everyone fear them, so? Are they Forbanne? Or... do they make the Forbanne?" A voice at the back of her mind suggested that she might not really want to know the answer. So she did not press the topic.

Letting the D'Marian do the talking, Elespeth stepped up to the door with Hadwin, keeping her face and posture impassive and uninterested. If she had to play it sad and despondent, then she would find a way to do so, safely. But she would not show any of these people weakness. 

Inside, the place smelled stale, and heavily of ale and whatever questionable substance caused a haze of smoke to float in the air. Already, the former knight found it stifling, and wished to spend no more time among these ilk than what was necessary to gather the information she needed. Anything to incriminate Mollengard and expose their true intentions. She had been quick to take note of the handful of men Hadwin had mentioned, outside; they were as good a try as any. So with absolutely no plan of action, and possibly making one of the most dangerous decisions of her life, she walked up to that table, and did not wait to be invited to take a seat. The game immediately came to a halt. "Oh--was this seat taken?" She asked, arching an eyebrow. "I didn't see tokens or cards, so I figured it was unoccupied. You don't mind another player, do you?"

"Ah. Sweetheart, this game isn't no childsplay." One of the men patronized her with a sneer. "Don't be so sure you wanna play. This is business... how'd you even find us?" His tone quickly became suspicious, a sentiment mirrored by the other men at the table. "Somethin' tells me you don't belong."

Elespeth couldn't help but snort. "You have no idea how right you are. This city is a wreck; does anyone really belong, anymore? The way I see it, we're all a bunch of squatters in a mess that can't be cleaned up. An... acquaintance tipped me off that you play here, nightly. And I need a distraction." She stuck her hand in one of the pockets. "It's poker, isn't it? I've gambled before; don't worry, I didn't come with empty pockets. If you'll deal me in, I'll happily put my money on the table." She withdrew a solid gold coin, worth more than what the men were already gambling. Their eyes lit up instantly. "I'll happily put my money on the table, if you'll deal me in. But, if you're afraid of losing..." Instantly, she could tell that struck a nerve among some of the burlier men, who wore their pride on their sleeve. "Then I can try another table. It's up to you. I'm just looking for a game."

Along with the bitter cold, heavy sadness seated in Vega's bones, when she 'awoke' to find herself on her balcony, with no rocs in sight. The keening--at least, what she thought she had heard, was no more. Just a dream, or an illusion. Or... something else entirely.

She didn't resist as Haraldur guided her back inside and sat her by the fire, where she shivered violently, even beneath the warmth of the furs, for the good part of an hour. Between the stoked flames at the fireplace, and the heat directly from Haraldur's body, eventually she warmed to a comfortable point where her limbs were not aching with cold. But her heart was still weighted with that penetrating sadness, like she had come very close to finding something precious... but not close enough. "I know that you have demons, Haraldur. I know they have kept you up at night. But you are not alone in that suffering." The words were direct, but Vega's voice was soft. Like she was confessing to herself for the first time.

"It's happened... once before. I can... I thought I could hear Aeriel. As if she was right next to me. I could... feel her. But I could not see her." Warm tears streamed down her face, unbidden, and unannounced. Heartsick, she pressed her forehead to Haraldur's chest. "What I did was horrible, Haraldur. I raised that roc from infancy. I loved and cared for her, and we were a team... and then I was daft enough to do that necromancer's bidding. I didn't pay with my life, but... Aeriel did. I am never going to forgive myself."

Vega wept quietly, her shoulders shaking with her sobs, for several minutes, unleashing baggage that she hadn't wanted to face. Thankfully, with everything that had occurred since her return to Eyraille, she had been paying attention to other matters, and the circumstances surrounding the loss of her roc and lifelong companion had been pushed to the back of her mind. "Did you know that rocs can live up to a hundred and fifty years?" She mentioned, her lips pulling into a sad smile. "She could have--should have outlived me. A roc and its rider are partners for life. And if living with this guilt--this insanity, thinking that I can still hear her, that she is still there, is my punishment, then I will live with it. I don't know what else to tell you, Haraldur. I don't know what is causing it... or if it will ever stop."

As they were all but shoved inside the small room, (Hadwin didn't take it too personally), the man with five teeth grunted his way back to his chair, disinterested in the new company, and eager to resume the game. Too eager. What manner of powerhouse cards graced his hand?

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Chest-beard glared at Five-teeth, whose butt was ready to sink into his cushioned chair. 

"Did it last time," he whined.

"Lazy-ass." Chest-beard stood up and rounded Hadwin and Elespeth. As his seat was in the far corner against the wall, he almost climbed over Five-teeth and Mole-lip to reach them. The lengths each man took to secure their game, and to look over the competition's cards, was impressive. Already, he saw the remaining three men using the interruption to shuffle their cards, but the trained eye could tell that those innocent little shuffles introduced an extra card or two from up their sleeves. Everyone cheated at the table; that never changed. But these men were shameless about their methods. And as a result, they would be less than tolerant should he decide to employ his own methods for getting ahead. 

Chest-beard, without warning, frisked the two of them, searching for weapons or any other concerning concealments. Hadwin, who left his small pack behind, had only his changepurse, his brass knuckles, and his pack of cards, two of which he squirreled away in the lining of his boots. For some reason, people seldom thought to look there, and for this crowd, they were no exception. 

"You're clear," Chest-beard said, and returned to his seat. And while Hadwin thought on how best to rob them clean of their pool, Elespeth stepped forward, and gave a performance counter to what he instructed she'd do: all assertiveness and bravado. But it worked, and half the men at the table fell for her taunt. Hadwin smiled to himself, pleased by his "protege." Playing to her strengths instead of kowtowing to weakness... she'd do. For entertainment purposes, at least. And...she was the perfect distraction. 

"By all means, then," Five-teeth, the man most affected by her challenge, waved them both to the empty seats by the corner. Luckily, the chairs were beside each other. He sat down with a flourish, a practiced move that swung his arm behind his boot to dislodge a few cards, which he then hid up his sleeves. His deck was identical to the ones the men used at the table. As they should be: they were standard Mollengardian issue, and he had swiped the deck from a soldier's barracks just the other day. No one caught his deft move; they were all focusing on Elespeth, who made herself a glaring target. The misdirection.

For the first three games, he let everything play out as normal, observing how the other men operated and tuning in to their idiosyncrasies. Their verbal tells and micro-expressions. The increase of fear and excitement, much as they tried to conceal it. He could almost feel Five-teeth's heartbeat racing. But as he surmised, Mole-lip undermined him, and won the first hand, with a straight flush. Nothing, of course, was honest, but he and Elespeth had to play honest, to show their commitment to the game. Their willingness to risk, which he did, with every placing of coin and demands for a rematch. In the meantime, he counted. Tracked. Laid out a map of the table and all the cards in play, predicting, confirming with his Fearsight, and working around those predictions. Finally, he was ready to throw himself into the gamble. Now, it was time to shift the focus from Elespeth--to himself. 

"You know, I'm feeling pretty lucky," he said, and slid all his gold into the middle of the table. "I'm willing to bet it all for the next round. Are you in?" He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for compliance that was built on oneupmanship. The pressure to succeed, especially against young upstarts. Half of them muttered their agreement, and introduced their gold and silver pieces to the pool. Double or nothing. Now, their eyes were on him. What did he have? What would he do? 

After the dealer (who was obviously cheating), thumbed the cards to each player, he turned to Elespeth, whose hand he'd been keeping tabs on, by nature of their closeness. It all depended on her, now. He was willing to throw his hand...but how she reacted to his next move was crucial. 

"I say," he grinned at her, eyes gleaming, "care to give me a kiss, for good luck?" And before she could consent to or rebuff his advances, he pressed himself on her lips, and made a spectacle of the act. He wanted to rile anger in her. He wanted to see a fight. Squirming. A slap to the face or a punch to the gut. A pure and genuine response to his spontaneity, one that would not fall under scrutiny as something pre-planned. And while his lips were busy, he deftly swapped her hand with the ones up his sleeve--the cards which would win her the pool, if all his painstaking calculations were correct. 

Even with her body positioned before the hearth, and her heat trapped between him and the several layers of furs, it took Vega the better part of an hour to reach a stable temperature. He tried to hide his worry behind impassivity, a feat that he was accomplished at affecting. If just a few moments outside, in frigid temperatures, sapped her body of all warmth and left her a shivering mess, then how had she been dealing with her condition for so long? He knew she suffered chills, but to the extent at which it had escalated...was it growing worse? Did every day that pass edge her closer and closer to death, as he feared? A nightmare, one of many, played its recurring image in his restive mind: Vega, her eyelids frozen shut in silent repose. Lips blue. Her veins like glaciers. Hardened into a stasis from which she'd never thaw. Dead, again, in his arms. 

No matter how many times she reassured him of her place among the living, her body told a different story. And now, her heart-rending admittance was difficult to read as anything but portentous. While he knew little of magic, he was superstitious, and her sightings of the deceased Aeriel were ominous. As though the roc were calling to her beyond the veil, enticing her to cross over, to reunite. Would Vega take a step too far, one day? Breach the wall over her balcony, and fall to her demise? Would the voices become too much to bear? Drive her to madness? 

Perhaps it was for his peace of mind, but he needed to know what occurred between Vega and that hateful necromancer, a man he still desired to kill. He needed to know the details, whatever she could recall. There was a solution, he reasoned. Or some way to dampen the connection she shared with death. But his only lead to any such solution was through her encounter with Vitali. 

He held the sobbing woman tight against himself, whispering soothing words. Kissing her forehead and rubbing his rough-hewn hands over her back. "I know what it's like," he said, his words almost lost over the sound of her tears. "I heard her voice, too. Saw her. Arina." He hesitated to utter her name, half-afraid that she would materialize and disapprove of him in the arms of another woman. "Almost every night after her death. She sought me. Looked for me. Her eyes were hateful. Accusatory. It was all my fault, she said. I left her there to die. And I...that's true. I did." He closed his eyes, expelling a troubled breath. "She...never really went away. I just learned to let those words pass over me. As best as I could manage. It may fade in time, Vega. But it never truly leaves you. But maybe...we're better for it. I know that sometimes the pain reassures me. I haven't lost my humanity, though I question if it's even worth it sometimes. As you know. And you...haven't lost your life. It's not a connection to death. But to her living spirit. Her memories, which thrive as long as you thrive." He only wished his words were true. That she was grieving, and nothing more. But he couldn't be sure that it was only grief. And before he could stop himself, he asked, "what...what happened? When you went to settle the necromancer's debt? How did she--? How did she die?"

It was all Elespeth could do not to retaliate when one of the men crossed the table to frisk the two of them. That they so much as dared to touch her ignited a spark of anger that smoldered and glowed in her stomach, but one that she managed to keep contained for the time being. Now she understood why Hadwin had advised her not to bring her sword; these men were serious about letting in potential threats. Well, without her sword, as least she seemed not to register as a threat.
No wonder the goons running Stella D'Mare had not seen fit to exile her, along with her fiance...

Relieved that they agreed to let her play, the former knight was not unaware that nearly all eyes at the table were on her. But not because they believed her in her bravado and confidence; no, that was not it. To them, she was still just a confused, foreign woman who was world-weary and in over her head; and that, they found amusing. Hadwin was right to think that she was a good distraction, for that reason alone. Well, whatever worked on her behalf, she would not about to argue the point. Besides... a treacherous part of her had to admit that, despite the company she kept, this mindless gambling really was an adequate distraction from her troubles, after all. She never expected to win, for her experience gambling was limited to what she used to do with her brothers, and a handful of times that she had strived to earn some money to get by while traveling in her flight from Atvany. But there was still a sense of an adrenaline rush, and it was fascinating, how each of the men had their different tells.

In all honesty, none of the lot were actually good at this game. For one, the cheating ran rampant across the table; hidden cards and sidelong glances at other players' hands. In fact, she was convinced that she was the only one who wasn't cheating, which would explain the poor hands that she was showing. Finally, it appeared that Hadwin wanted to put an end to that losing streak. Elespeth furrowed her brow, wondering just what he was up to that convinced him it was a good idea to suddenly put all of the money on the table. She hadn't exactly proven clever or sly at playing cards; but... that did not mean he didn't have aces up his sleeve.

The shapeshifter didn't allow her so much as a beat to consider what he was thinking; because not a second after the curiosity crossed her mind, he showed her.

While it happened so fast, it felt like moments too long that Hadwin seized her in a kiss, that she felt him swap out the cards in her hand. Too long before she wound up a fist, and her knuckles came into contact with the side of his face--hard.

Seeing red, her heart still racing with anger, the atvanian fugitive drew back, her knuckled aching and her teeth clenched. "Touch me again." She hissed at him. "I dare you."

That was when the looks of the men around the table changed. They were not longer amused; they were impressed. She pressed her lips together. "Well? Are we going to get this game on, or not?"

Suddenly, her 'luck' seemed to have taken a turn for the better. And the frustration of the other players was palpable. She started out slow, just to give them a little bit of hope, but for all she was inexperienced with the game, she knew enough to understand when the cards were winning for her. And just a few most passes later--thanks to Hadwin's cheating, no doubt--she had the game.

"What a load of shit." One of the men bellowed, slamming his hands down on the table so hard that the cards and money diverged from their piles. "Well that's some damned luck if I've ever seen it. Care to share how you pulled that off, sweetheart? How many more cards you got hiding in your sleeves?"

"None. To be very honest, I'm not good at cheating." She told them, calm and collected, and tugged on the cuffs of her tunic to prove her point. "If it makes you feel better, though, this is actually my first win. It's probably just beginner's luck. Look, I get it: that's a lot of money to lose. You don't want it to slip through your fingers. So my question to you, is this." She raised an eyebrow, and folded her arms across her chest. "What are you willing to give me, instead? The most enticing offer gets to walk away with this heap of cash. Those are my terms."

The other exchanged glances, confusion and suspicion written on their faces. "What do you want?" One of them growled, his face contorted in a sneer.

Elespeth looked pensive, for a moment, as if she were considering. But the truth was, she already knew well what she wanted. So did Hadwin, for that matter. "Just some common knowledge, I guess. I've been living under a rock, so to speak, and I feel out of the loop. I suppose for starters, I wondered how long Mollengard intends to stay and help rebuild Stella D'Mare? We all just seem to be spinning our wheels. I just wondered what the outlook is; if there actually is an endgame, or if this whole endeavor is as abysmal as it seems." No one spoke up, not yet. To quell the hesitation, the former knight drew another couple of gold coins from her pocket. "Is this incentive enough? Words for coins seems like an awfully sweet way to make some money. No strings attached."

The Skyknight had toyed with the consideration that she might never tell Haraldur what had happened when she'd helped Vitali, for a multitude of reasons. Predominantly, she didn't want to hearken to anything that would remind him of her unique condition: that for all intents and purposes, she should, at this moment, belong to death. But aside from that, her memory of the event was unclear, even to her. Vivid pictures still played through her memory, visceral feelings and sensations that she would never forget, but the chronology of the events didn't make sense when her memory played it back. Even if she felt inclined to divulge the experience, it wouldn't be accurate; maybe it wouldn't even be true. She hadn't been in any condition, at the time, to be a reliable source of information on what had happened.

But now, he was asking the question that she had dreaded he might one day bring up. Bless the mercenary for having the grace not to ask before; not to pry. He had given her ample time and space, and never sought to tear open old wounds... not like she had done to him. Forcing him to face his demons so that he could heal. This was really no less than she deserved. She'd had it coming, and now, there there was no turning away from it. She owed him that much. 

"You really want to know?" She whispered, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Their bodies were so close she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. "Are you sure? Because once I tell you, you won't forget. Just like you won't forget that I died... and that a part of you will never be able to let go of that." Tears trickled down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut. "The necromancer wouldn't tell me what was going on until we got there. We flew far from the Tadasuni encampment. He was seeking a man who owed him a debt, and... who wouldn't pay. The trouble was... this man was dying. And Vitali needed him in the realm of the living to collect his debt. And I... he told me I still have access to the other side. So he instructed me on how to find a hold on his victim's soul."

The vague memory of that made her shudder; and that was where the rest of the story became a blurry fog of fear and pain. "I can't tell you the details, because I... can't remember. It's all just disjointed images and fear and pain, and... I think... that something went wrong. Or might have gone wrong. And Aeriel, she... must have sensed that I was in danger. She always knew; we had that connection. In the end, Vitali got what he wanted, but Aeriel... I don't know. Somehow, she was a victim of the crossfire." She drew a shaky intake of breath; and exhaled on another sob. "I came to, and she was... gone. Dead.

"And that's all that I remember." Her voice quieted, to something barely over a whisper. "He wouldn't revive her. He... had what he wanted. I don't remember anything between that point, and when you found me. But I know that I killed her; that this was my fault. All because of this." Vega pulled her shift apart at the front, exposing the angry, red rune, that looked as though it would never fully heal. "I pulled a soul away from death; so it took another. I am no better than a murderer... I don't deserve to be a Skyknight. Let alone a commander of them." 

Drawing away from the comforting warmth of Haraldur's body, she met his gaze, her blue eyes bloodshot from her tears. "So now you know. How awful I really am. Because the worst part is... I would do it again, if it meant severing your debt to that awful man."

Hadwin didn't even brace himself for the guaranteed wallop to the face. He took it, point blank, hearing his jaw crack and his teeth grind together. His tongue cushioned some of the blow, at risk to itself. When he backed away from Elespeth and reflexively rested his hand against the affected area, his mouth opened into a grimace, which revealed bloody streaks across the white. He didn't expect her to hit him that hard! All the same, he wanted to chuckle and praise her aim, more than pleased at her genuine reaction to his sleazy advances. Instead, he quipped, "Well I'll just take your punch as good luck, then. Gotta be worth more. Worthy things are often painful." He gave a good-natured grin, still bloody from the fist crunch. "Right, boys?" 

They all muttered their ascent, but their eyes were again resting on Elespeth, in appraisal. Begrudging respect plied at the faces of everyone present. Some of the men even laughed, poking fun at Hadwin's expense. 

"Well I guess that engagement ring ain't yours," Chest-beard said, rifling through his cards. 

"Think you better cut your losses now," Mole-lip added, still snorting from the incident.

Perfect. They were all too distracted to see the switch, Hadwin thought, as his cut tongue lapped up the blood from inside his mouth. It would all heal soon enough, though he wished the aching throb would last. There was never enough stimulation to keep his heart pounding and his blood racing. But oh how he sought everything, regardless. Danger was too addictive to surrender--even if it led him to his death. 

They resumed play, and eventually, Elespeth showed her winning hand, courtesy of his well-received trick. It was a full house, one he determined would sail under the noses of all at the table. But math and predictions were faulty, and he was ready to initiate the next tactic, were they to contest the win, but they didn't. Not really. Only Five-teeth, who had the most to lose, was insistent on seeing her sleeves, but stifled his protests when her reveal yielded nothing. 

"Looks like she took the luck out of you," Mole-lip said to Hadwin, who gave a convincing groan and pushed the pool of glittering coins toward Elespeth. 

Then, came her proposal. The Mollengardians shuffled uneasily when she asked for information, but she enticed one mouth to waddle when she threw in a few more coin. The sounds of ringing metal seemed to chirp with promise. A chorus of finches, joining their flock in the middle of the shining pile. All else was silence. 

"We're not going anywhere," one of them squeaked. Five-teeth. Of course he'd be the one to sing first. The fear of losing the pool was too great. "Stella D'Mare is as good as ours. The location's strategic. We don't have a water port this far south. And the weather," he rattled on. "The crops. Citrus and olives. The farmland outside the city, the capability to grow year-round. Well," he shrugged helplessly. "Can't say no to that."

"Why can't Mollengard take Stella D'Mare then?" Hadwin joined in. "Why the long-con?" 

"I've said enough," Five-teeth barked, standing to reach for the pool of coins. "Now I'll get paid my due." But Hadwin reached out and swatted the man's hand away. He leaned over the pool, his arms planted around the precious gold like bars of a cage.

"Let me wager a guess," he hissed the last word, "before you take your pot. But if I'm right, you give me twenty percent. Is that fair?" He didn't wait for their response. "You're afraid of the Rigases, aren't you? Even with their biggest threats gone, you're still afraid. There might be another Serpent wriggling beneath the earth. The city has secrets even you're not aware of, and they're impossible to know without a little digging. You're playing it safe, for once. Waiting it out." His golden eyes squinted in an almost sinister gleam. "Am I right?" 

"Okay, that's enough outta you," Mole-lip roared as he flew to his feet and drew a curved blade with a wicked edge from beneath the table. Hadwin backed away from the gold, shaking his head in disappointment. 

"That's not in keeping with the spirit of the game." 

"Shut-up, you damned spy!" 

"Oh?" He looked genuinely surprised. "So I am right? Well, I may be shit at poker but I'm great at guessing. Maybe I missed my calling." While he talked, he pulled his brass knuckles out of his boots. "Should've been a sideshow act." 

They didn't wait through his riveting discourse before all five men swarmed him and Elespeth, weapons drawn from secret places around the room. "Let's see how good you are at the blade," he called over to Elespeth, who already had her dagger drawn, "and I'll show you how to throw a real punch." Something revivified in him. The thrill of a fight. It had been so long! But he found his stance with ease, his metal-coated fists rising to shield his face. He met the first man with a left-handed swing to the gut, and spun to connect with Five-teeth to uppercut him in the chin. He was satisfied to see the man spit out a tooth. And thus, five became four. 

He and Elespeth were at the fight for a while, until the door behind them cracked and burst inward. They all stopped to see a towering Forbanne man stalk inside, followed by a woman who was just as tall and intimidating. 

"Shit," Hadwin cursed, as he sidled beside Elespeth. "That's Captain Solveig." 

All of the men immediately dropped their weapons and bent into reverent salutes.

"That won't be necessary." She crossed her arms over her chest as she strutted about the room in a casual air. Somehow, she made a simple jaunt look intimidating. "I came to play, but it looks like you found another sport entirely." She stopped before Hadwin, who smiled innocently. She flicked her attention to Elespeth, and recognition set into her hard-lined features.

"If you want to join Mollengard's ranks, Elespeth, you need only ask," she said, her smile one of amusement. "You already seem so invested in our cause. And you," she raised an eyebrow at Hadwin, who was covered with blood. "I take it this is your doing?" 

"Just a friendly dispute. ...With weapons." 

With a look of impassivity, she turned to the still-saluting men and waved a hand out to Elespeth and Hadwin. "You will excuse them. They're D'Marians. Their city, their entire livelihood...gone in a mere evening. It's not unreasonable that they would seek out distractions, better fortunes, and lash out at their benefactors. They're desperate, but they need our support. We must be patient as we rebuild. But we should never forget our generosity. Our hospitality." She walked over to the pool of coins, which had since taken a spill to the floor when Hadwin had knocked Chest-beard into the table. "Pick up these coins." The five men complied, sweeping each one off the floor and gathering them upon the flattest surface of the broken table. Solveig emptied a bag from the corner of the room, and slid the gold inside. She cinched it up, and presented it to Elespeth and Hadwin. "Our humble gift to you." The five men tried not to balk at the exchange. "It won't replace what you lost, but may it help, at the very least. Now," she threw an arm on each of their shoulders as she led them out of the trashed room, "go on. Go back to your homes. Or what's left of them." There was an ominous ring in her last words, but a magnanimous smile graced her lips. "And I'll have a talk with these men about their behavior." 

With a gentle shove, she sent them on their way, and closed the door behind them. 

Haraldur heeded Vega's warnings, arms stiffening in her embrace. What was it about her experience that would alter his viewpoint of her? Did she die a second time? Was she actually a wraith, less alive than dead? A spectre of flesh and blood? But it was already too late for him. He had asked, he was prepared to hear her story, and no matter what she said, he could never turn his shoulder on her again. He had made promises to stay by her side. He pledged loyalty to Eyraille. And...he loved her. Even if she revealed herself as a ghost. It made a macabre kind of sense, for a man who mastered the art of killing to court Death itself. No matter how uneasy he felt, she was still Sir Vega Sorde. She made that abundantly clear to him, over the course of their reconciliation period. 

It was with a nod and a reassuring squeeze that he said, "I'm sure, Vega. You're safe here. Don't worry. I won't let you go." 

So began her disjointed tale, told with the vaguest of brush-strokes, the most minute of details. It made sense that she would remember so little. There was much he couldn't recall in his life, due to trauma: the name of his father, the date of his birth, the span of years that encompassed his killing spree. As Forbanne, those ten years sailed by like a long, unwaking nightmare. And like nightmares, he could dredge up the fear, the horror, the images of violence and the vast, abiding emptiness of existence. But nothing concrete, nothing grounded in fact or knowledge, thought and reason. He lived the life of a chained animal, trained in the pits to attack all, murder all. Everything was a threat. Eviscerate, and live another day. 

"Why did you have to go to the other side? He could do that just fine on his own. He's a damned necromancer! That's what he does." Realizing his sudden outburst, he closed his eyes and took in a mollifying breath. "I'm sorry. Continue." 

But it was hard for him to remain calm, when further infractions of the necromancer's making sprung up in the retelling. Nothing about her story incriminated her, in his eyes. But it revived his loathing of Vitali, tenfold. "He is to blame, not you." He couldn't even stand to utter the man's name. "I should have killed him when I had the chance. Ended his reign. Offered him to Death as a sacrifice. I bet he's worth a lot in the afterlife." His hands twitched, tightened, and he was glad that Vega pulled away, afraid that he'd hurt her with his rage-fueled grip. 

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault," he almost chanted, more to himself than to her. So riled he'd become, that he nearly sprang out of his seat by the hearth, ablaze with excess energy. He wanted his sword. Something to squeeze. Something that felt right. Familiar. But he stayed put, trying to pull himself through, for her sake. He looked at her, then down at the offending rune-mark on her chest. It was bloody. A stigma. He wanted it gone. Erased.

But would doing so erase her? Return her to death? It was where she rightfully belonged. And were it not for the man he desired to kill...

He owed Vitali everything.

He also owed Vitali a violent, lingering death. 

"If you're a murderer, where does that leave me, Vega?" he said, trying to find reason in himself, trying to guide her through her tears. "I'm the kinderslayer. An attempted kingslayer. I don't deserve anything but a merciless death inflicted a thousand times over. But I'm still here, because you find me worthy to be here. At your side." He pressed a hand to her chest, but not to block the sight of her wound. He cradled the roc pendant that hovered just above it. "This is what matters, Vega. Your love for her. She sacrificed for you. If she didn't, you'd probably be lost. And...I wouldn't have been able to live with that. Not a second time. I'm thankful for her sacrifice, Vega. Because she kept you safe. And returned me to you." His hand trailed away from the pendant, daring to touch the blood-crusted outer rims of her rune-scar. "So...I guess that means we're both awful people."