#e00

And the faces of the people truly are tired. There are no smiles, no conversations held at stalls, nothing to imply the citizens live freely or happily.

Nothing has changed since Theodoric's day. The thought makes Orella furious and helpless all at once, as though by her hand has the city been so quashed for twenty years, as though by her hand has she shaped Ala Mhigo to the still-standing ruin it is today.

Ingvald has no words of solace for her. And why should he? He was but a boy when the palace fell, had done nothing but learn at her hand, had done nothing to enforce this misery on the people. All he can do is be a silent comfort and guide them towards the safehouse they both remember.

It had been an old hideout of the Kingsguard, for when the Palace closed its doors to its patrolmen. Long since has it been torn down by the men and women that watched them use it, and the ruins left to be cursed by those that remember, but amidst the broken stone the secret passage still functions. A trapdoor leads to the palace's waterways, a narrow passage too dark and tight for comfort, but necessity knows no comfort. Judging by the dust that covers the hidden passage, the Imperials do not even know of its existence.

"We'll rest here," Ingvald says. Whether he means the passage itself or the street bothers Orella none; she is to steal away during the night like so many of her kinsmen had done the night of Ala Mhigo's fall, and rue the next day when exhaustion takes her. "I can go," he offers, but Orella shakes her head.

"If I fall, I know you will keep the peace as best you can," she says, and tries not to think of Ingvald, standing alone against the city, with nothing but rags on his back and a flimsy sword in his hand, "But I could not- I couldn't-"

She can't finish her thought, but she suspects Ingvald understands. She'd failed him once. She couldn't do it again.

Instead he presses his forehead against hers and they stand amidst the ruins of their old lives in silence. She does her best to banish the thought of Ingvald, alone, the cells, the chopping block and prays hard enough for her heart to ache that Rhalgr can look after him in her stead.

She kisses him hard enough to hurt, pulls a cap over her hair, and leaves the Quarter once again. This time, there is no resistance. The Imperials, after all, have no cause to suspect anyone leaving.

The path to the monastery is long enough that she finds herself wishing idly that Rhalgr had compassion enough to look over her as well. The night is dark, the path to the High Bank lit by lightning sprite cores, and all manner of beasts are attracted to the lights. All are vicious in their own way, else they would not have learned to live in the Lochs. Ever has it been, and ever shall it be. Gyr Abania is a harsh, unforgiving land, where even the smallest of insects can raise angry weals upon the skin.

The quick movements of a dhara force her to abandon even the dusty path that runs parallel to the main road. With the sun below the horizon, she must needs move slowly. The trail to the monastery has long since been reclaimed by nature, and she has not trodden this path for years. She will not bely her ignorance with a sprained ankle.

Weeds hide the stepping stones that lead up the hill to the great building, still impressive after all this time, and a knot of abaddons plod to and fro, grazing on what vegetation remains them. Unarmed, Orella can only crouch in the shadows and curse under her breath, hoping they do not see her.

Luck, at least, is on her side in that regard. So long does she remain hidden that she loses track of time, but her knees ache when the wind picks up and blows some new scent past the beasts. As one, they all turn and lumber away, leaving the path free, and Orella sprints as never before, legs screaming for succor the entire way. Not for a single moment does she stop to check if she has been spotted by either man or beast.

When she turns, the path is still clear, the frogs' attentions elsewhere, and she thinks--

if You have forsaken Ingvald to make sure I reach the Sali--

but she cannot finish the threat. If Rhalgr has decided she is worthy of His watchful gaze, so be it. The mantle is not hers to wear, but she can bear it for a hundred heartbeats.

When the monastery had yet stood unperverted, Orella had visited it only a handful of times. It had not been for religion that she had come to the Lochs in the first place, and what favours the Twelve had bestowed upon her paled in the face of her own determination. Only the priests, the Fist, and the aesthetics had made their way to the Sali, a quarter day's journey from the city and hidden by the Aenadem. The first time Orella had come here had been to swear her oath to the crown - her true oath, away from the crowds and the heady feeling of showing off - under the watchful gaze of one of the Fist.

As had Berend. As had Ingvald. As had all the others before them, and before them.

Now rise, Ser Steelhand, some dark part of her mind whispers, and do your duty.

She expects someone waiting for her the moment she steps through the doors, but the building is empty. The passage leading back to the Undercity has long since been destroyed, and the egress leads further away from the city; she fully expects the abaddon's nest to await her in the back, but the night is quiet and free of beast and man. The moonlight shines through the hole where the ceiling used to be, and she thinks-

what if Ashley has forgotten?

The Sali's beauty has been stripped from it, the tiling destroyed or missing, the stained glass long since looted, and all at once it becomes a stifling space to occupy. She must leave, look over the far mountains instead, remember how to breathe. The night is clear, the moon strong enough for her to see fog rising from the Wreath, and in a moment of respect, she removes her cap. It does not feel right to hide herself here. At her back is her past, her regrets. Ahead of her are jagged peaks, and an ocean. Ilsabard. The Emperor.

Lamont.

"I am homesick for the mountains," calls a voice, so close that Orella startles and stifles a curse. So lost in her thoughts has she been that she's forgotten all but the moon and the land. "My heroic mother hills, and the longing that is on me?"

The question hangs on the air, familiar in a way Orella cannot quite place. Old poetry, she knows, but knows not - cares not - who penned them. Nor does she remember how it carries on. There are more important things in her life than pretty words. Her eyes remain affixed on the horizon, though she listens hard for footsteps, or for the drawing of steel. In another life, she would have drawn without hesitation, for friend or foe. In another life she would have heard someone approach.

In another life she would not be afeared for her life, weary to the bone and heartsick of misery.

"Oh, come now," her company sighs. A man with a voice suited to poems, soft and silky, warped only slightly by an unfamiliar accent. "You Ala Mhigans are all the same. No taste for poetry, any of you. The longing on me, no solace ever stills. Does that not bestir your heart? Surrounded by mountains, and not homesick?" A pause in which Orella cannot help but roll her eyes, and then he continues. "I presume you came for the view. 'Twould be a crying shame if any Imperial were to happen upon a young maid sneaking out to worship the Destroyer."

Something about his manner infuriates her in a way she hasn't been irritated in a long time. "What I'm doing out here is none of your business," she snaps. "What know you of the forests?"

"Oh, little and less," is the airy response, and she must swallow a curse.  If this is not who Ashley has sent, she must prepare to fight. Spurred on by anxiety, the blood pulses loudly in her ears, and she nearly misses his next words. "I care not for the stifling nature of trees. Not when the eastern spray is carried so far from home."

Orella's blood, racing as though she's run a malm, stutters as her heart skips a beat. The only spray she's never known came from the east and disappeared four nights before Theodoric's suicide, as ephemeral as the Seld's waves on a windy day. She'd thought it a stupid name back in the day, a hint to her brother-in-arm's proclivities and nothing more, but ever has she been short-sighted.

"Besides," her companion says, tone still casual, "East End has changed."

That is what she has been waiting for, and she can turn, relieved that Ashley has not forsaken her despite his absence, barely daring to hope, barely able to breathe-

and meets the eyes of a man she hasn't seen in twenty years.

"Well, shit," Einar says lightly. Orella chokes a laugh, short and stunted with emotion. As one, they move to embrace one another tightly. Twenty years it might have been, but comrades are they still. "I had my suspicions, but I wasn't sure if it was really you. Shit," he says again, and ruffles her hair before letting her go.

Thank You, she thinks desperately, even as she smacks his waist gently. Wherever Rhalgr's gaze is, His mercy is welcome.

"What in the seven hells are you doing back here?" Einar asks as she smooths her hair away from her face. "Last I heard, you'd run to Gridania. You should have stayed there, Orella, it's not safe here. The Resistance thinks they're making headway, but Garlemald is still-"

"No," she interrupts. Einar's eyebrows raise and he folds his arms; she mirrors the movement, and all at once they are at odds with one another. In another life she would not be so quick to butt heads with all she knows. "We're taking Ala Mhigo back."

Einar stares, expression enviably blank. He waits for further explanation, and when he gets none, makes a frustrated noise. "You're out of your fucking mind. Take back the city? Why? Just because the Garleans have the run of it-"

Once more, Orella interrupts, hands balled into fists already. "Have you not seen what the Resistance has done? They're all the way to Ala fucking Ghiri, and the march on the city comes in less than a sennight, whether you want it to happen or not. Have you given up? You? You, who marched every ilm of Aldenard, who sailed the Ruby Sea, who called this place home? You've changed, Einar," she spits, and takes a full step back from him, furious.

Einar scowls, but stays where he is. "And you have not," he comments. "Bullheaded as ever, charging towards whatever cockheaded conclusion you've drawn up. You accuse me of giving up-"

"Because you have!"

Now he steps forward, looking less angry and more thunderous. The look in his eyes could very well summon Ixion from the skies. "How dare you," he says, calm as a fair day upon the sea. "How dare you. I have remained in Gyr Abania these past two decades watching you, and Bloodhound, and every other person of note. That's right, Steelhand, I know only you two remained. I know what they did to you. I know what you did, and why you did it. I know when you left, and how, and everything else besides. I don't know why you still hold hope that this husk of a land can be saved after it's chewed you up and spat you out. Anyone else could beg faith, but not you. Not you."

The blood races in Orella's veins once more as she struggles to keep her anger under control. The silence that permeates the air now is sour; both breathe heavily, jaws set, muscles tense, ready to spring and fight, the both of them so very Ala Mhigan.

"Zartosht is dead," she says, words brittle, and they puncture the mood. Anger bleeds from them both, though they neither of them stop frowning.

"I know."

"Riot's alive. Helping. Near."

"I know."

"The others-"

"Gisfrid fled to the south," Einar says, and sighs heavily. "Folles' sister followed him. Berend is with the Resistance."

That makes up the rest of their immediate retinue, with a single exception.

"Wiegraf?"

The look Einar gives her is darker than night itself. Good, she thinks. "Alive," is the answer, "Last I heard, in the city, but if word of your Resistance has reached him, he'll have fled already."

"That shite," Orella growls, and as Einar nods in agreement, she considers the man in front of her. "And you?" she asks. "Why are you still here if you think it beyond saving?"

The answer doesn't come right away. Einar regards her with his warm brown eyes, lined in ways Orella doesn't recall. The wind picks up, blows his hair away from his cheeks. Somewhere down the line he's added a tattoo she doesn't remember, a faint, sprawling web that means nothing to her. When he realises what she stares at, he covers it with his hand.

"A present from the Garleans," he says, voice low with an emotion she can't identify. "From when I tried to leave. I changed my mind after they managed such a good job of cutting me open."

That seems to be all the detail he's willing to give, but Orella can imagine the rest well enough. A man fitting the description of one of the infamous Kingsguard, trying to buy passage out of the country. They'd have stopped him. Questioned him. Beaten him when they found his manner disagreeable, tried to mark him as he wrested free and fled somewhere safer. The wound would have healed messily, and he'd have covered it up no matter the cost or the pain.

"You changed your mind, but you didn't come back," she says. Einar shrugs.

"Why would I? To see the king's corpse? To be strung up beside him? I'm no fool, Steelhand. We all knew how the city felt. And I know how it feels now."

"Then you know change is coming," Orella insists. "As it was, so it is now. You might not be a fool, but all I see is a coward unwilling to pick a side."

Einar sighs, deep and weary, resigned to something beyond Orella's knowledge. The lines around his eyes deepen when he frowns like this, and she wonders whether it is better to die young or old. She doesn't have an answer.

"Is that so bad?" he asks after a time. "Cowardice? If it keeps you safe?"

She thinks of the cells, of the torture she has endured, and makes a decision.

"I'd rather be dead than be a coward again," she says, voice firm. "I've done my time, Einar. You know what comes. Join us or don't, but don't get in the way."

"And if I do?"

At her back stands her past. Her regrets. Every brick of Ala Mhigo has been permeated with her guilt. Somewhere in the palace stands the viceroy. Past the High Bank, Ashelia marches on.

The wind changes.

With her back straight and her shoulders dropped - still so familiar to her, and the old salute is a near thing - she feels more herself than she has done in years. And if that means she must needs cut Einar down...

"Yes, again," he says, taking a sheaf of proffered paper from a boy no older than fifteen. He jerks his head at the door and the boy leaves without a word. "Brown hair,  you said? Standing how high?"

"Taller'n you," is the response. The Gull grins at the papers, knowing how annoyed the courtesan must be to snap at him so quickly. "Tall enough, for a half'n half. Smaller than Berthi by just a little, I'd say. In good shape, too, but a miserable face."

He hums in acknowledgement, trying to listen and read at the same time. He can barely read the spidery scribbles the page, knows it is of at least middling importance, and curses the man that wrote it. So engrossed is he that Wicked Cloud's next sigh - this time disguised as merely a burst of static - startles him, and he's glad she can't see him jump. "Whatever you're calling yourself these days, he looked like he knew the Eastern Spray."

Now that's interesting. The Gull sets the papers down and at least has the good grace not to frown at them, but there are few enough people that remember that name that there can be no doubt it’s more than simply a likeness...

"I can't imagine who'd call themselves something so crass," he says lightly, wondering if it’s true, after all this time.

So lost in thought is he that he almost misses Wicked Cloud cursing him in language a lady ought not know. He tells her as much, and is promptly told something he doesn't understand. He's not bothered to learn the native Roegadyn tongue.

"You are insufferable," she says once her tirade is over, and he grins. "I no longer care if you do or do not know him. You heard the message and my contract is done. Do you require anything else of me?"

"Poetry," is the reply. "Recited underneath the new moon, and a promise to wed me."

"Fuck you."

The courtesan and the rogue laugh together. At least, he thinks she laughs, but from the way the linkpearl has destroyed the sound, he cannot be sure, and does not want to ask. "Thank you for telling me," he says once they quiet. "I need nothing else. You take care of yourself, Cloud. If you or the girls need anything..."

"We'll call."

With that, the line goes dead, and he plucks the pearl - an irritation - from his ear, rolling it between his fingers to consider it carefully. A request- entirely out of the blue - from a mixed-race Midlander matching Ashley godsdamned Riot's description asking him to go to the Sali? And quickly, too - he'd have to leave immediately if he is to make the appointed hour - and if he is to meet who he thinks it is...

But words are words, and who he thinks of has been gone for nigh-on twenty years, and he has seen many that match the description in the intervening time.

Still. This request has not come from the Resistance, and if it truly is Riot making his return, there is little and less to be won by taking shelter in the Undercity.

The papers are easily forgotten, buried under some small mountain of personal effects as he retrieves his arms. Heartsnatcher slides home to its sheath at his belt, and Tearjerker into his boot.

The road to the monastery is a long one, but at the very least, it will not be uneventful. As the Gull walks he is glad for his daggers, still serving him after all this time, and with every step, an old marching tune comes to mind.