That was the problem, of course. No thing should be so close, so intimate. Never again.

To lose it entirely, though, would be a sin of a different sort, he decided. Let them judge his intentions just as they would his actions. Let them judge how he viewed himself, how he viewed others.

I had invited all of those who figure within my plans, to a greater or a lesser degree. There was a pattern to be woven (my apprentice, certainly, would appreciate the comparison), each of the guests directed in a certain way, ideas seeded, things set in motion. One does what one must, to achieve things of importance, or to try to.

My plans have been... disrupted, to some degree. There is the blood of a Reeve on my hands, on this book. People die. Things change.

The first message I was given, truly given, from any of the Seven. From my master, Melchior. A single word, and with it a sense of calm that is impossible to translate into words. That single word, to some extent, defines all that I do and feel.

How to achieve unity, when the gods' children are so fragmented, so independent? My master prizes ambition, and yet that same ambition causes division. A paradox. Matters of faith are, by their nature, intricate puzzles, perhaps without solution. And yet it is my task, one of my tasks, to attempt a solution nevertheless. Even knowing it impossible, who could not turn their mind to such a challenge? Do the myths not say all was war, so long ago, before Ylessa and her children brought peace? Can a mortal not seek to aid his god, his gods, in bringing about the same, especially when existence itself remains so... fragile?

Ambition, again, perhaps foolishly. We are what we are.

A lament, truly, for that which was lost to him.

Ode to a City Stolen

Return to me, my city,
Let me walk oncemore within you,
Let me taste of your sweet air,
Let my heart endure awhile.

And though none would know it, it led directly to the second, and lent it a painful intensity of emotion. From bitterness, the worst hatred is born.

All of my long-past-due works are now complete, Vuldurn's sheath, the Reeve's cloaks, and I've sufficient coin in the bank (who'd have thought the Telanthans, so scornful of us, would adapt our system with even a modicrum of efficiency?) to be at some leisure now. It'll disappear into my invention soon enough, but at least I can pretend to myself that I don't have to worry about things for a bit.

"He dinnae die, he med eh speech 'ere de othah day."

"Him -did- die. -And- him make a speech here."

"Ah. Onna those, then."

"No, was different. Di'int you 'ear 'is speech?"

"Him -remembered-."

Thought it, perhaps, a step too far.

I find it necessary, however. Given the new distance between myself and 'Lord' Aanson, or rather between myself and the Reeve, and the eternal uneasiness (however diminished recently) between myself and Captain Taliesin, there are few official channels that remain open. Vuldurn is reassigned, more a demotion than anything else, and subject to the Reeve's orders, so therefore useless to me in most things.

I was entrusted to aid in the birth of a child, in guarding it.

In raising it.

I now undertake to do as much, by any means. I shall ensure that this child of mine, to extend the metaphor a bit more, will have an upbringing shaped by the Order. By me.

Still, though, I will make the attempt.

Venice, possessed of some demon of her own I think, decided it better to end her life. No doubt, in some noble sacrifice intended to lay to rest her own, considerable sins. She wrote me a note, perhaps with the intention that the knowledge of this act would give me some ease in my own soul for what she had done.

In all three things, she manifestly failed.

Of a city, if it can be managed.

I've not yet managed the last, of course. I am but a tailor. But a scholar. But a priest.

Bjar Azirni reached the Refugee District, and looked upon the people gathered there to hear him, and realized he had never been more frightened in his life.

Immediately after they arrived, Mariv and Eleia split off, each finding their own friends and other familiar faces, laughing and joking and sending a ripple of reassurance through the restless crowd. Bjar himself waded through them as well, recognizing everyone and no one, the words he uttered barely registering in his mind - bland agreements, empty blessings, mild statements. Arriving at the ramshackle assembly of crates (and if he observed correctly, at least one shattered chair) that would serve him as a stage, he ascended it, looking out over the sea of faces and drawing up all the courage he possessed.

And then he spoke.

I haved passed through a crucible, I have been purified.

All I have now is purpose.

Ever have I strived to please my master, ever I have sought to do his work. My entire life has been a commitment to knowledge, to truth, to the accomplishment of goals to ensure the greater good; oft times, goals beyond my reckoning. Perhaps beyond my abilities.

But I have ever worked towards them, nonetheless.

So many have died, in the world, through the ages. So many have made the long journey to Annwn, have faced the Dark Queen's judgement, have been returned to Aagos or to the Well or to gods know what else. So many have been resurrected, their minds enfeebled by the trauma of their experience, remembering nothing of their pain or their ordeal or of Annwn itself.

I have died. I have been judged. I have returned.

And I remember.

The world is all lead and bone and luminescence, a world of terrifyingly unnatural nature, a world alien and yet as such, perfectly fitting.

He moves, as a sound breaks the tranquility, a whisper that mounts with each passing moment. He scrabbles in the sand, he runs to the edge of the mirror-like water, and he waits.

He fears, viscerally, intensely, the fear of one who has gone so far beyond what they know that all that remains to them is the fear.

And then, through the fog, the Mistress herself comes.

His brother.

And still he could not weep, even as he carefully put away Bjar's possessions, or as he straightened and re-ordered the new supplies that had been obtained. Or as, finally, he withdrew from the shelves a sheaf of papers, and began to read them.

Of late, and with this last news, I fear that this balance has been overthrown entirely. No, that is incorrect - the balance had shifted long ago, the Darkness overwhelming and the Light just barely remaining, offsetting it a desperate fraction.

Now, the scales themselves would seem as if they would be destroyed, and all else rendered meaningless.

The demons come.