Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lady Amangeaux made a living out of expecting the unexpected, finding patterns from nothing, drawing silvery truths from dirty, disguised life. She was a spymaster Karna would have been proud to see at work, a true master of her craft. The emperor, bulb bless his soul, had moved with a precision and knowledge that seemed divine to people unaware of her existence, failing to recognize similarities in the faces that haunted their peripheries. 

It did not, in fact, take her spymaster skills to be unsurprised at Colin winding up on her doorstep again, leaning heavily onto his left leg and clutching a poorly bandaged right shoulder. 

He was well past sheepishness for it, opting instead for gratitude alongside an unsaid promise that he had crossed more names off of her list in obtaining these injuries. This was displayed in how he was careful not to get blood on the rug in her entryway. The kind gesture also displayed that he was not in immediate danger of losing consciousness, and the spike of nerves at seeing him faded to a joy perhaps unusual for the situation.

"I'm starting to get suspicious that you'll only come to visit when dead or dying, Monsieur."

Colin shrugged with effort, a half grin tugging at his bruised lip. "I meant to drop by soon, promise." He gestured with his bandaged arm towards his leg. "You can thank the dagger of a horrible, horrible brussel sprout for the expedited visit."

"Shall I send regards to Brightgarden, then? That's the last location my little sprouts had you pinned down."

He shook his head. "Aubarge, actually. I got overambitious, didn't stop when I should've."

"Stupid man." She grinned.

"Something like that."

She stepped forward and embraced him, wrapping her arms around cool leather. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, the bristles of his facial hair scratching gently against her skin. Without breaking contact, she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, bowing slightly. 

"I missed you," she murmured. A small hum of agreement sounded from above her ear.

"It'd be a real shame if you were found face-down in a convent somewhere, it's getting increasingly difficult to find good help."

"Yeah," he said, and she could feel a breathless laugh against her hair. "Sorry."

After a few more moments and no prompting from Colin, she grasped his arms and leaned back to look at him. Silver streaked through his dark hair, caught halfway between slicked back and hanging limply over his forehead. More silver still found purchase in his beard and mustache, neatly trimmed nonetheless. Some habits just couldn't be broken, it seemed. There were aspects of his appearance that would be quietly kept after for the rest of his life, something she suspected was a quiet nod to Raphaniel and his old vows. In between these flashes of gray, his eyes retained that sharp darkness, tints of blue obscured in the dim light.

She sighed, focusing her attention to potential injuries she had missed. Reluctantly removing an arm, she pushed back a few strands of hair congealed with dried blood, feeling her way along the warm skin of his temple. A hundred times, maybe, that she'd checked him for damages, terrified of what she'd find. Terrified that he'd collapse before she could get to him, that she'd open her door in the morning to another dead friend. Underneath even that, terrified that she'd be the last one left, the only one keeping certain secrets. 

"Maggie," Colin said, hand coming up to reach hers, stilling it.

"Colin." 

He leaned his head into her touch, just a little, weight resting in her palm. She flattened her hand, allowing his own to cover it. 

"See? Still here," he said. 

She nodded, slowly exhaling, then rubbed her thumb along his cheek before pulling back. 

"I'll have Rose come by with better healing potions than what I've got, it might be a few hours, though." She paused. "Have you eaten?"

He turned, looking out at the dim twilight landscape before pulling the door shut. As the outside world became obscured, she saw some of the ocean of tension he was holding melting away, shoulders she didn't know were stiff loosening just a bit. 

"I have, a bit." Read: food that you would smack me for considering a meal .

She pursed her lips. "I'll put something together. Are you staying tonight?"

If it came out a little more hopeful than she meant, he didn't comment on it as he began undoing his trenchcoat, hissing as he moved an arm or leg the wrong way. 

He looked up. "Yeah, if that's alright." The bandanna around his neck was quickly unfastened, thrown haphazardly to the side. "I could use some guidance on what spots to hit next, anyway."

She watched as he bent to remove his boots, before cursing in pain and clearly thinking better of it. Suddenly reminded of the urgency of his unexpected arrival, she hurried down the hall to a medicine cabinet, pulling out the lesser healing potions she had on hand. The whole home had become something of a safehouse, stocked with miscellaneous supplies. It’d been a while since any children had been running around, and as such any spare closet could have poison darts or spare cloaks, though information was kept under tighter security, naturally. 

Comida was a difficult place to hide in, to be certain, but the bordering Fructeran neighborhoods provided a perfect place for hiding just enough to stay safe. Of course, there had been days or weeks spent at the emperor's side, but the times in between were spent here, managing the world she'd built for herself. A younger Amangeaux would have scoffed at the cramped hallways, the books hanging off tables accompanied by half-drank cups of coffee. But there was beauty here, in the warm wood tones. In her bedroom with its cheerful quilt, her lovely bathroom with the window that overlooked a quiet range of blueberry trees. People knock at both front and back doors with a regularity she never could have expected, bringing news with hushed tones. It was a frightening life at times, but never boring. 

She walked back through the hall to see Colin sitting on the ground in defeat, boots still on. To his credit, he looked only slightly embarrassed as she sat next to him, wordlessly handing him the potion before tucking her knees to her chest. In a show of solidarity, she sat with him for a while, and they began catching each other up on who had managed to stay alive, the aftermath of Emperor Rocks’ ascension, and a variety of petty grievances. 

Colin did not ask if she had found anything about Deli, and she was grateful, for there was nothing to say. 

It had been a bad day, when he’d let that go. Sat down and admitted that Deli had made his own choice, and there was nothing more to do. It was such a quiet uproar, the way she could feel the thoughts radiating off him as he stared into nothingness, trying to function. Trying not to let it spill over. 

His hands had twitched for something to do for days after, unable to settle or sleep. Like his body hadn’t caught up to his brain yet, and thus couldn’t give up the fight. He’d left, for a while, and come back himself again, or something resembling it. Stumbling to her doorway with a dozen new cuts and asking for more information, more marks. 

She’d been frightened, then, unwilling to give him a tool to hurt himself with. Then, she’d been angry at him, for letting her think he’d left too, then at Deli, for the smallest second. Under that, angrier still, hopelessly so, at Raphaniel and Karna, for leaving her with the two people of their merry band who she’d never really known. 

It had taken many, many years to get here. Now, at least, he told her before he was leaving. She kept some of his clothes in her closet, spare daggers and an old coat if he needed it. 

Eventually, Colin pushed himself to his feet with a groan, claiming usage of the bathtub. She let him go upstairs, watching his frame disappear into the hallway before turning, boots thudding against the floor. 

Knowing she’d be awake for a while, she pulled out some ledgers her sprouts had swiped, concerning the financial trail of a powerful Fructeran lord. There was always more to be done, it seemed. Always, things were shifting, the earth moving beneath her feet.

She was grateful, then, for something simple.  

–

A few hours later, well into the night, Colin came downstairs to lean over her writing, taking the form of cramped but neat pages of notes. She turned to look at him. He smelled distractingly of her soap, dressed in clean clothes and fresh bandages. An hour or so ago, Rose had in fact dropped off a few stronger supplies, and the majority of his wounds had been healed, though the deepest still needed a bit of time.

"What time is it?" she asked, suddenly acutely aware of how long she'd been sitting here.

It wasn’t like her to keep these long hours anymore, but Uvano’s illness and subsequent death had forced her to rearrange the way she operated. Soon enough, she might approach Emperor Rocks, offering her skills and breadth of knowledge, something he’d be a fool to turn down. But to do that, she needed that breadth up to date and accurate, which meant hunting loose ends and possible informants. Which, in turn, meant sending little sprouts out, managing her own spies. Risks she was willing to take for herself were not acceptable for them, so every seam of an operation had to be neatly tucked and pressed, no detail left unturned.  

The corners of Colin’s eyes crinkled slightly. "It’s way too late."

"I had no idea." But even as she said that, a yawn escaped her. Serendipitously, it produced that crinkling effect again, accompanied by an exasperated, lopsided grin. He leaned down and wordlessly swiped the papers from her desk.

"These can wait," he declared.

"Colin–"

"They'll wait." 

She stood and reached to grab at them, and in one smooth movement, he leaned in and kissed her firmly.

They broke apart, and his eyes looked infuriatingly bright, his free hand coming to rest at her waist.

“Hey,” he said, all soft.

It had started a number of years ago, with neither of them bothering to truly keep track. He would come and go, mostly going, and she would as well. When they happened to overlap, there was– this. 

Once, Colin had said that it was because they were the only people who really understood what had happened, who had been there on that road, in that cave. Amangeaux didn't want to entirely associate something nice with something she'd been atoning for the past few decades. He said that there was nothing he had that wasn't tied up in those places, nice or otherwise. They'd agreed to disagree, neither fully believing themselves.

Another time, when they were both younger, she'd said they did this because he felt an obligation to look after her. That he was a lost soul when he had no one to worry about, and she was the closest approximation to Raphaniel he had. Colin had full-body-cringed at that, and asked her not to make that specific comparison when they were in bed. Unwillingly, this had gotten a laugh out of her. Then, he kissed her and told her that she was probably right, but that it wasn't her fault at all, and he wasn't sure he knew the difference between obligation and love, anyway.

He'd gotten very orange after that, and buried his face in the pillow. She'd protested and laughed, pulling at his arm and begging him to specify exactly what he didn't know the difference between. 

It'd been a number of years, and she thought of it still. Duty and love, the degrees of difference.

"I'll help in the morning," he said, setting the papers back on the table.

She nodded.

“Come to bed, Maggie.”

So she did. 

-

She awoke to shifting covers, and Colin trying his best to untangle himself from her without making noise. She opened her mouth to assure him that there was no need, but the soft swearing amused her too much to disrupt his efforts. 

Propping herself up slightly, she watched him in the early dawn, slipping silently around the room. 

They’d never made the habit of waking up at the same time: her and her noble talent for languishing in bed far past first light, him and his soldier’s timekeeping. He never liked to linger once he woke up, preferring to go start breakfast or begin planning future assignments. 

He looked over at her then, catching her open eyes. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he said.  His morning voice was lower, had a bit more of a roughness to it.

She shrugged. “It’s alright. Good morning.”

Wordlessly, he continued about, shrugging on a shirt, arms coming to stretch out behind him, the quiet pops of joints stark against silence. 

It was hard to determine what she was allowed to think. Where the convenience of this stretched into something wholly new, built to exist even in isolation of their intersecting lines of work. She’d grappled quite a bit with it at first, to be honest.

Yet, Amangeaux had spent years of her life worrying about marriages, trying to shape herself into something valuable enough to win security from whatever noble would offer it. Everything had a title, a label, a use. Her beauty was prepared in the morning with elixirs and tinctures, something tangible that she could hold in front of her.

Then, she had been a warrior, and played at being something different, for the first time. She had pulled from some deeper well, and simplified it all: protect her kid, and stay alive. Somehow, she’d succeeded at both, in spite of everything. 

Now, she was too tired to be warrior or maiden. There was no energy left for the constant pretending, at least when she wasn’t truly borrowing another person’s face. When Colin was here, she was content to have him.

He’d finished getting ready by now, hair haphazardly combed back. He opened the door, and turned to look at her again. His expression was hardly visible, but she could feel his gaze. 

She wondered how close the call had been, how narrow the escape was. 

There were sets of boundaries, things they didn’t ask about, or for. He never requested too much information about her operations, never tried to hold her to his idea of rights and wrongs. In return, though, she often had no idea just how many corners he was cutting.

He looked at her, and just then, he stood every inch a knight, weak sun rays beginning to cast his face in rosy marigold. 

He raised his hand halfway to his stomach, as if to make some sort of comical gesture of a bow.

“Go back to sleep, my lady,” he whispered, ducking his head.

From anyone else, she abhorred that title; her stare had gotten potent enough to stop the words dead in someone’s mouth. In his, it felt wry and sweet. She didn’t ask him to shake the habit.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” she said, drawing the covers back up around her. “Take a look at those sheets, for me. I’m sure there’s a link I’m missing.”

He nodded. She was already beginning to fall back asleep as the door shut quietly, warm and loose-limbed in these early hours. 

-

A while later she drifted to consciousness again, light now streaming in through gaps in the curtains. Now, she could see Colin’s belongings, neatly piled on a dresser, comfortable among her jewelry boxes and hair brushes.

It was her turn to plod quietly around the room, smiling absently as she pulled on her clothes, clasped a favorite necklace on. She could smell coffee from downstairs as she did, and without waiting to braid her hair, went to join him.

Sure enough, the margins of her notes on Lord Brandywine were dotted with questions written in a barely legible hand, chicken scratch that was truly impressively messy. She told Colin as much, and he laughed, before sitting down again and translating his comments. 

“It’s weird, n’est-ce pas?”  she muttered to him after a few minutes. “The money just disappears into thin air. Poof. Wherever it’s going, it’s not being marked anywhere.”

He frowned, running a finger over his upper lip. “Mistress?”

“Not that any of my sprouts can find, no.”

“Militia?”

She grimaced. “Let’s hope not.”

He paused for a moment, eyes darkening. “Look into his family, maybe. Are they– involved?” She looked at him, confused. “With the church, I mean,” he clarified.

“You don’t think–?”

“Well, let’s hope not,” he echoed.

There was a map in a drawer somewhere in this house, with Xs marking places that had been cleared of the Sanctis Putris. It had started with them drunk one night, on a wine he’d insisted he wouldn’t like, no less. Most certainly, it was a liability to have such tangible proof of their intentions, even if it would be unreadable to most others.

Still, there was a visceral satisfaction to it, some childish instinct fulfilled in the red ink covering more and more of Calorum, the grandiose way they had taken to crossing off towns and cities with a flourish. 

She’d thought the dying organization wouldn’t be brave enough to creep back into Comida, not with the chastising they’d received a decade ago. She’d been wrong before, however. Stacking her notes neatly, she made a mental note to start investigating potential links between Brandywine and cataloged FDA members.

Another hour or so passed this way, with light bickering and trading sips of coffee.

Just then, a light series of knocks sounded at the door. Telepathic connection confirmed that it was no one to worry about, and the young sprout known as Hyacinth stepped inside.

She’d decided she needed help years ago, and grappled with how to form a system that wouldn’t hurt people or force them into situations that they couldn’t escape. Street urchins made the best candidates (unassuming, able to fade into the background), and she made offers frequently to those she found.

None of her recruits used their real name, at her request, usually settling on some type of flora or fauna. They were paid handsomely and taught defensive magic to the best of her ability, though she had never gotten quite as good as Karna. 

Besides the fact that it was basic decency, she knew from experience that servants could be bought, if the price was right. Kindness went a long way in ensuring a low turnover rate.

Hyacinth was a young clementine, responsible largely for matters of correspondence– those looking specifically for Amangeaux, not the correspondence meant for others she was stealing and copying down. She’d been an effective messenger for half a decade, and none of the Alarms on her letters had gone off in her hands yet, indicating no illicit mail opening. 

She walked in with a few envelopes in hand, no doubt more word of mouth messages waiting to be repeated. Hyacinth, among her other talents, had an exceptional memory for spoken words, and that meant exorbitant amounts of money went to keeping her loyalty.

Upon seeing Colin, she nodded a hello. There’d been some attempt at keeping him a secret from her spies at the beginning, before quickly realizing the futility of it.

Besides, he’d said, who’s even looking for me at this point?

Colin.

Well, yeah. But I mean– it’s been decades. Anyone who wants to try can have at me, it’s never gone well for anyone before. 

She’d rolled her eyes, and the matter had been settled.

The letters she read through were of no huge importance. A few clear pieces of bait, small updates from other informants on who was sleeping with who, and who was mad about that. Towards the bottom of the pile, though, was one made of a thicker paper than the rest.

Just putting her fingers on the envelope, she recognized the signature creamy texture of Dairy Islands paper. Confirming her suspicions was a royal seal of a yellow wax, imprinted with a tiny “Keep Sharp!” and a wedge of cheese. 

She’d been waiting for this response for some time.

Upon opening it, the letter was addressed not to her, but to simply “Colin”, in beautiful cursive. Briefly skimming the contents to check that it was what she expected, she handed it off to him, who seemed surprised to be included in the letter-reading portion of the morning.

This surprised look gave way to a fearful one, at seeing the address. Then, confusion, a furrowed brow, as he continued reading. By the time he reached the bottom of the letter, his hand had slipped over his mouth, disbelieving.

She waited for him to say something, watched his eyes travel up to begin the letter again, and again, as if checking to make sure he hadn’t read it wrong.

Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been summoned,” he said, dragging his hand over his face. “To Lacramor. By the Duchess of Lacramor.”

She nodded. “Primsy Coldbottle now, right?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed, in a half vacant voice, still staring at the letter. “Um. She wants an audience with me.”

“Intriguing.”

“She’s specified very clearly, several times, that she’s not intending to murder me.”

“Well, that’s good.”

He exhaled. “She wants to pardon me.”

At that, Hyacinth stopped copying down a letter and looked right at Amangeaux. She shrugged in response.

“How- how did she find me? How would she know I was here?” His voice was reedy, now, full of shocked disbelief. “Is this real?”

Amangeaux walked over to him, looked at the letter again. 

“I assume she has her own spies, Colin. That’s certainly the royal seal, and her handwriting.”

He stood then, and began pacing, paper falling forgotten from his hands. It began fluttering to the ground, and Hyacinth rushed behind him to catch it. 

After a few rounds around the kitchen, he continued speaking. “Fuck. Fuck. Do I go?” He turned to look at her, eyes wild. “I mean, she already knows everything, but I– I haven’t been there in years. What if it’s a trap? I mean, it doesn’t matter, I can’t ignore summons, but– Fuck.”

He heaved a breath, still looking to her, apparently for advice. 

“Okay,” she said, “Duchess Coldbottle is new to the throne, and known for being kindhearted. Chances are, this is genuine.”

He nodded, seemingly relaxing somewhat.

“It’s been decades. Calorum is at peace. Maybe it’s– just a nice thing. Setting a good precedent.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right.”

He started walking aimlessly again, fidgeting, accidentally bumping into the table and cursing. 

“I guess I’m going to the Dairy Islands,” he said. Apparently having found a purpose, he began moving to the hallway, picking up pieces of gear and putting them down again. “I need ship passage, I think? I mean, of course I do. Bulb above.” 

He started rifling through a closet, pushing past articles of clothing. “I need my coat, where the fuck is my coat?”

“Colin,” Amangeaux said. He turned. She pointed upstairs.

“Oh, right.” 

In an instant, he dashed up the steps, still frighteningly quick, as always. 

“You know, you don’t have to leave this very second!” she called after him, to no response. 

She looked to Hyacinth, who seemed far too pleased with the situation.

“Please, tell Fawn to book a passage for Lacramor. Something small and discreet,” she said, rifling the letters together. “As fast as possible. He doesn’t seem anxious to wait.”

Hyacinth nodded and started walking towards the front door. As she left, she said over her shoulder cheerfully, “You could have told him differently, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma chérie,” said Amangeaux, fully aware it sounded like a lie. It was too late for her to hear anyway, and she resolved to clean up the kitchen, not bothering to try to slow Colin down.

A few minutes later, Fawn appeared to notify her that passage was booked, right as Colin came thundering down the stairs. 

To the unpracticed viewer of Colin Provolone, he might have appeared normal. To her, there was a noticeable panic in the way he had dressed, everything just slightly to the left of where it should be, shirt rumpled under a coat that seemed like he’d thrown it on as fast as humanly possible. Charmingly, his hair had been combed again, and it looked like he’d washed his face, as though preparing for an appearance that was still a few days out. She hoped he’d actually packed everything he needed, as opposed to grabbing random items to throw in a satchel.

“You’re boarding the Candied Pearl, it leaves in an hour.” She informed him from the bottom of the stairs as he rushed past. “From Port Tangelo. You should have plenty of time to make it.”

A muffled thanks sounded from the kitchen, and he soon emerged again, seemingly prepared to leave. 

Finally, he stopped moving steps from the door, seeming slightly out of breath. A piece of dark hair sprung over his forehead from where it’d been pushed back. 

Unbidden, she reached forward to tuck it back. He bent slightly to allow her to, and grabbed her hand as it returned.

They stood there for a moment. She brushed her thumb back and forth over his palm in what she hoped was a reassuring motion.

“Come back here, after?” she asked.

“Yeah. Course.”

“It’ll go fine. If it doesn’t, then you know how to handle yourself.” She squeezed his hand. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, to finally put this to rest after all these years. To cross one enemy off the list.”

He laughed once, as though still not quite believing it was real. “Agreed. Just hope you’re right, about the whole not murdering me part.”

I know I’m right. She smiled. “Duchess Coldbottle was very insistent on that point.”

“Yeah, well.” He looked towards the door. “Guess we’ll see.”

It was there again, that relentless movement. His unending need to never sit in something for too long. Here, it felt like he was almost waiting for permission to leave. 

And she knew that she was not his keeper, nor vice versa. That if he wanted, he could let that urge take over, and drift forever into shadowy backgrounds, something the opposite of static that you could never quite see clearly. Decades of running had given him the ability to fade into nothingness in a crowded room, to make you forget you ever saw that man before if asked. 

It was an effort, to hold himself in one place. She was pleased that he would try.

“Go get your name back, Monsieur.”

Colin smiled, and squared his shoulders, as if bracing for something. Then, he squeezed her hand one last time, and walked out the door. 

Chapter Text

Dearest Colin,

You are hereby summoned to Palace Lacramor, by word of myself, Primsy Coldbottle, Duchess of Lacramor, Head of House Cheddar and Ruler of the Dairy Islands.

Please, do not worry for your safety. I am well aware of the unfortunate history between your family and House Cheddar, but a long time has passed since then. We are facing a new chapter in the history of Calorum, one that I can only hope will be marked with new alliances and forgotten grievances. 

I would never want to bring harm on someone who has done no wrong to my kingdom, and I assure you that this sentiment will be echoed through my ranks, if need be. However, a more formal pardon is due, I believe, particularly for your grandfather. I understand the need for discretion, and have no intentions of raising the hackles of those you seek to root out.

We will discuss the specifics in detail upon your arrival in Lachramor, hopefully in the near future. Stay safe.

Keep Sharp!

-

“Colin–” Duchess Coldbottle stopped, only one word into her introduction. “Well, what do you prefer?”

What a fucking question.

“Provolone has been my name for many years, your Grace,” he said.

He stood in the great hall of Castle Lacramor, cut from pale, aged cheese, marbled with blue streaks. More notably, he stood alone, facing her, trying his best to appear calm under the Duchess’s gaze.

“Colin Provolone, then. You are hereby given a full, complete, and unconditional pardon by House Cheddar of the Dairy Islands, for acts of rebellion by Lucas Fontina against House Cheddar. Moreover, any past or surviving family members have been cleared of any charge as well.”

Her voice echoed throughout the room, clear and high.

She looked at him, a pleased smile on her face. "I've never done that before. Isn't this exciting?"

He nodded, unconfident in his ability to speak.

"There should be a whole ceremony, technically. My knights stand witness, et cetera. I was told you needed more– discretion."

“That is greatly appreciated, your Grace,” he said, at last. “I– I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

In the back of his mind, Colin was trying to work out the logistics of this. All he could amount to knowing for sure was that there wouldn’t be some grand lifting of the anxiety of someone following him. His work with the Sanctis Putris had ensured he would always feel slightly watched, that there would always be enemies. 

It shouldn’t matter, then. Especially now, well into his years, with the rest of his family too far underground to appreciate the gesture. Still, something about it resonated.

“As I said in my letter, the time for pointless vengeance has passed us by,” she said. “There is enough hardship in these times, and leaving someone afraid for their life over acts of violence from centuries ago would be cruel. Your grandfather was a good man, for acting so strongly on what he believed in. It is time for kindness.”

“I would agree, Duchess,” he said. “I do not know if I will use that name, but it’s– relieving to know it’s been cleared. You seem invested in a sweeter future, and on behalf of those who fought in the war before your time, again, thank you.”

He meant it. He did not know if it was the most practical mindset, but he meant it. 

Almost as if expecting his skepticism, she tilted her head slightly. 

“To not be invested in a sweeter future would be folly, Provolone. I won’t be caught on that side of history; those ideas rarely seem to pan out.” She grinned earnestly, just a hint of bite in her tone.

Brightest bulb, she was young. Young, and bright, and barely learning to flinch from the world. 

He knew of her, of course. Had heard of her brief union with Stilton, and the way that had ended. Her marriage to Count Wilhelmina of House Jawbreaker had proved hardier, a brilliant political match in the wake of Emperor Rocks’s ascension. Duchess Primsy Coldbottle could have been a small weed plucked by powerful elders, her hopes taken advantage of. But there she was at the end of it, smiling, holding the hands of the Dairy Islands and Candia firmly together, an alliance restored. 

Seeing her now, he understood. There was nothing hardened about her, but something firm and optimistic in her gaze.

“Then I admire your tactics, your Grace,” he said.

“From what I’ve heard, I admire yours as well,” she replied. His stomach curled in on itself, just slightly.

“I’m a mercenary, Duchess. For hire.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. And mercenaries need informants, like anyone.” She paused. 

“No one will know, except for those within my orders," she said quickly, as if nervous, "I wouldn't want to endanger you. But there will be books with your name– your name name– in them. The right people will know, if you need assistance, or information.

"The Colby, or other Dairy Island vessels, for that matter, will grant passage to you should you encounter them. No traps, I swear upon the Bulb.”

Years of scraping by on bits of courtly gossip flashed before him, replaced with what he could do from a more offensive position. 

Forget his name, forget his family, forget all of it. Sanction from the ruling house of the Dairy Islands would change everything for what he could do in this part of Calorum. Less skirting around officials, access to official documents; it would take days off of his missions. With that and Amangeaux’s assistance, he could start pushing the Sanctis Putris out, rather than simply holding them back. 

“That is– an unimaginable kindness, your Grace,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My husband was nearly killed many times over a– large misunderstanding,” she said, with a tone that suggested misunderstanding was the kinder phrase. “I know only the smallest bit of what you’re facing, and none of the complications.”

He huffed a laugh at that, and she beamed. Something old and tired loosened in his chest– that primal fear that it was him and Amangeaux working against this mass of terror and power, and no one else cared. 

Maybe there would always be people who cared, and his work wouldn’t die with him. Maybe there would always be more good people. 

Duchess Coldbottle furrowed her brow slightly, then. “I’d like to honor your work more formally, in some way. I know you served under a Vegetanian order of knights a while back, though no longer.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

"Well, then." She set her shoulders back and raised her chin. “Colin of House Fontina, please kneel.”

She turned to the side, reaching for something he couldn't immediately understand. The words took a second to catch up in his brain, but the command registered instantly. He knelt.

She stood then, brandishing a pale yellow sword, glinting in the filtered light of the hall. His head fell automatically, decades old knowledge flooding back.  He heard her light footsteps approaching.

His mouth went dry. Oh, he could hear the bishop laughing now.

The blade landed on one shoulder, resting gently.

It's really a technicality sort of thing, my dear boy.

Soft, clammy hands patted his cheek, as Colin avoided eye contact, looking for a way to escape this.

Oh, you'll attend prayer, wear certain clothes. But it's not that sort of– sacred vows and all that are most of a gesture. No one will forsake you for the occasional indulgence. 

This way, people stop asking questions.

Colin nodded, then, and agreed to kneel.

As the blade lifted from his shoulder, he jolted back to the present. 

"I charge you with protecting the faithful, those who know the Bulbs light, and stand in reverence of it," she declared, face solemn for her age.

She drew a wide arc over his head, coming to rest on his other side.

"I charge you with protecting the faithless, those who know not of the light, but who remain in it all the same."

Another arc.

"I charge you with upholding honor, justice, and chivalry. I charge you with the destruction of corruption, of rot, and of those who would walk our land with intention to hurt.

"I charge you, knowing that it is unnecessary to do so. I charge you, knowing that you have continued in this way for all time, and will forever more, unbreakable and unbending.

"I charge you, not for action, but for putting name to action already occurring. I charge you to do as you have done, with the grace of our good land and our own faith at your back."

The words spoken during his first knighting were long forgotten by Colin. He remembered the quick tapping of Raphaniel's staff on his shoulders, a dull cheer from the crowd. Then, a new set of armor, secured lodging. Being allowed to sit and dine next to the bishop at functions. The lingering sense of falseness.

Here, now, there was no pretense of lies, nothing to fall behind. The sword lingered on his shoulders longer, as if imbuing something into him. 

The blade rose and drew back. His life was seemingly a series of folds, twisting in and around itself and coming back again. Vows upon vows, promises to keep. 

"Rise, Sir Colin of House Fontina, protector of the realm."

So he did. 

-

Colin walked out of the main hall, feeling not quite all the way in his head, caught between floating and sunken deep beneath the earth. Everything felt fuzzy, out of focus, the people speaking around him blips of noise that glanced off his back.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to look like someone who'd just had their insides rearranged, or maybe, been told that the black cloud following his family for three generations was gone, and casually, he had been titled. Again. Total shock and disbelief was a feeling he’d thought he’d seen the last of after watching Archbishop Colliflour unhinge her jaw and be consumed by a mass of swirling blades, but apparently, there was still room in his life for new experience. 

“Fontina!”

“Fontina!”

“For Bulb’s sake, Colin Fontina!”

For the first time in his life, Colin Provolone turned around upon hearing his family name. 

Captain Annabelle Cheddar stared back at him, seemingly relieved to have finally gotten his attention. She had her sword at her side, dressed proudly in a blue coat that spoke nothing of her royal heritage. Tarthur's only daughter, renouncing her ability to wed or have children. He'd never met the man, but he imagined he was turning over in his grave. 

“Captain,” he greeted. 

If this was how he died, then that was on him for not seeing it coming. Waiting until Duchess Coldbottle’s eyes were off him, that was smart. He’d go with his name cleared, at least. Amangeaux would be so pissed off at him for spoiling her hard work, all these years of trying not to get him killed. 

But Cheddar did not draw her sword. She looked at him, dark eyes searching. Around them, the bustle of Lachramor continued on, passerby having no clue of the layers of years sedimented in the fog around them, the rusted past coming back sharp and pointed.

She cleared her throat, looking down. “Primsy liked you. I suspect she was really worried you’d be afraid. Understandably, maybe.”

He nodded, utterly confused about what could possibly come next in this exchange. “Her Grace is a kind leader. She’ll bring great things for the Dairy Islands.”

The funny thing about being Colin Provolone was that no one had expected him to really say much in quite a while. He made an existence out of silent dispatches, brooding in corners with his collar pulled high, short answers to complicated questions. Letting other people talk for him, when he could. His diplomacy felt clumsy in his mouth, and under Cheddar’s steely gaze years of composure threatened to buckle. 

“You’re not wrong on that account, Sir.” Part of him relaxed at her more casual tone. She looked around briefly, breaking eye contact to check their surroundings.

“Look. My great-grandfather killed your grandfather. And he was a bit of an ass, and no one really missed him that much,” she stated, rather nonchalantly. 

Colin raised an eyebrow. “Strong words.”

“Primsy can give you the official pardon, and the title. Let me buy you a drink? We’ll pour one out for all the things our families used to care about.”

He exhaled and thought about when his ship was leaving. It was a situation he couldn’t have concocted out of his strangest nightmares, but there was no simple way to say no. Besides, he hadn’t had a drink in Lachramor in such a long time.

“You’ll have to pick a place, Captain,” he said, finally.

She smiled and began walking down the street.

-

Having truly sampled the breadth of Calorum’s selections of alcohol, Colin would have to admit he was still partial to the spiced milk of his home country. The pub was warm and dry, a refuge from the constant mist of Lacramor, and Captain Cheddar’s name had won them a private booth away from prying eyes.

Served hot and full of various flavors –cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, among others– it felt soothing, warming in both the material and alcoholic sense. 

He had grown a taste for Amangeaux’s wine, after all these years, but there was still nothing comparable.

It should have been more awkward, to sit down with the person who by all means, should want him dead. The Captain exuded such a confidence, however, that her calm presence was almost forceful, steering them into polite conversation. 

Colin followed her lead, as they talked about the local culture, how it’d changed, how various fishing towns were faring. The topic turned eventually to the prospects of the Dairy Islands, how they were riding out the chaos that occurred less than a year ago. Eventually, how the Duchess had taken over the leadership from House Cheddar, after the Captain’s own abdication of the throne. 

He scoffed, thinking about it. “Oh, what a shit show. The entirety of Calorum holding its breath because the heir of a family might not have children is a tale as old as time. Coldbottle will do a good job, there’s hardly a difference.” 

He looked up to see a shadow had fallen over her face. 

“I’m not having children,” she said, hardening her posture, as if daring him to oppose it.

“I know,” he replied, because who didn’t. “I don’t have any, either. No plans for it, obviously.”

Clearly, that was the right thing to say. She sighed, relaxing her shoulders and peering into her half-empty mug. “Guess that’s the end for both our family names, then? No secret cousins lying around?”

He chuckled. “Nope. The whole getting melted thing really kind of– put a dampener on the idea of children, I think. If there are any, I hope they’re off far away, farming or something." That was a nice, if unrealistic thought. He hoped there was a merchant, or an artist, that had escaped his sinkhole of a family name.

After a moment, he spoke again. “Was there a reason? That's a pretty big call to make– no judgment, of course,” he reassured, hoping she wouldn’t take it poorly.

She tapped her fingers on the table for a moment, thinking, the silence spreading between them thick and comfortable.

Rain gently pelted the windows outside, the steely grays of the outside streets a contrast to the welcome orange hues of the roaring fireplaces keeping the quaint pub known as the Silver Dish warm. Crackling wood and the murmurs of various patrons kept the place ambient and cozy, quiet without a total lack of sound. 

“I couldn’t do it,” she said bluntly, after a minute. “I thought about it, about ruling and politicking, making heirs. Thinking about how to advance agendas and command fleets of officials. And I just– couldn’t.”

Colin saw the youth he’d seen in Duchess Coldbottle, then. She was older, sure, but not by much, and she seemed ashamed of the situation. He went to reach an arm across the table, before thinking better of it.

“Better you knew it before you were in too deep, Captain. I’ve seen too many people think they could handle it and live horribly for it.”

If only someone had told Deli that, so many years ago.

“Could you?” she asked, pointing with her mug.

He made a tsk sound, gesturing at himself. “Me? No. Absolutely not. I’ve spent a lot of years hunting down a few people, and that’s the way I prefer it. Much simpler.”

She grinned. “I’ll drink to that.”

The conversation ambled on, shockingly simple. They worked their way through several drinks, swapping stories and trading information. Annabelle, he discovered, was a lot like him. How funny, that they were the last of both houses, both choosing to fight rather than lead. 

There would be no more fighting between them now, though, and especially not when they were in the ground. It would be nice to end it this way, he thought. 

The dregs of house Fontina and Cheddar, tipsy at a pub downtown, swapping war stories.

His father would probably hate it, and that made him warm up all the more to her. 

She confirmed what he already knew: that someone had reached out to Duchess Coldbottle on his behalf, sharing information and making a request. Annabelle offered to look into who exactly, but he denied it, shaking his head and laughing, saying he had a good idea of who. 

Eventually, he walked out of the bar, with a promise of passage on the Colby and the frightening knowledge that “C’mon Provolone!” as a rallying phrase had caught on in some regions lingering fresh in his mind. He boarded his vessel with tired feet, steering himself directly to his cabin as night fell.

The words from the Duchess’s address had echoed through Colin’s mind the entire trip to Lachramor, swirling and morphing as he tried to deduce a possible threat. It had taken up much of his journey to spiral down the specifics of this, which provided a welcome reprieve from the usual storm of thoughts that fell on him when he returned to the Dairy Islands. 

Unfortunately, the last few minutes before the return journey began were a return to form. It was as though the years were sedimented into the saccharine fog, one tilt of wind in a specific way and he was twelve years old again. Even the songs of the crew he heard were unrelentingly familiar, recalling bars he'd inhabited looking to pick the pennies off of drunken sailors.

He thought of things he hadn’t considered in years, fitfully swapping between exhaustion and relentless intrusions of memories, hopes, and failures he’d buried. He thought of his mother, who he’d never known. He thought of kids he’d grown up next to in Lachramor, as young and hungry as he had been. There was Deli as always, Karna next to him. 

She would have thought it hilarious that he’d been knighted again, he considered. It was almost calming, that way.

The journey continued on as such for three days, with Colin feeling half-awake most of it, replaying his conversations again and again. Sailors reported the seas as unusually calm; he liked to think that it was because all of the turbulence had taken up residence inside his head.

-

By the time Colin docked in Fructera, it was certainly time to check into an inn, the sun setting over pulpy shores. In the tiny seaside town he encountered, no one would care to notice folk legends of the Ceresian countryside, apparently, or too old sellswords, or defected knights, or whatever he was now. He still had the uncanny ability to pull up his hood in such a way that prompted forgetfulness, a remembrance of only blurry features. 

He did not stop in the tiny seaside town. 

For the first time, consciously, his feet felt unwilling to stay in unfamiliar territory. Something deep in his chest pulled him onward, urging his strawberry mount to go just a little further, just to the city. He knew it better there, anyway. 

He did not stop at the city border, either.

By now the dead of night, clouded and anxiously humid, he rode through the outskirts of Comida, the last ten minutes of his journey slowing to a crawl, as though all the exhaustion was hitting him at once. Deli had made fun of him for always being a light sleeper, easily made to jump or brandish a dagger at whoever was closest. Now, Colin was so tired it was unbelievable he’d do anything but pass out instantly upon arriving home. 

And that was it. He wanted to be at home, that was all. He was tired. He wanted a bed. He would– deal with the depth of the title later, he thought, as he walked in using the key hanging around his neck, strung up next to a small wedge of cheese. Call him stupid, or something. Amangeaux had enough charms up that the lock was basically a formality at this point. 

Upon arrival, there was the distinctive drop in his heart rate as soon as the door closed. Unsurprisingly, no light shone from the downstairs floor as the house slumbered, no spies flitting in and out. 

He took a lantern and his roguish skills up the stairs, avoiding all the spots where he knew the floor creaked, coming up into the hallway. He was ready to use the guest room, to bother Amangeaux with all this in the morning and let her rest. But as he passed the first door, unbidden, his free hand reached out and turned to open it.

What should have revealed her well into sleep instead showed her own lantern light, spilling over long forgotten ledgers sitting on her lap as she looked straight at him, eyes bright. Her hair was down, falling in tresses that remained red after all this time. Maybe the most red it'd ever seemed to him, cutting a stark contrast to the yellows and blues of the past week. 

I missed you. I wasn't even gone that long.

“I woke you up.” He was putting the lantern down, now.

She shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”

The door closed gently behind him. 

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. It was always like that now, with them. Like she was waiting for him to talk, letting him take his time.

“I’m a knight, again. Kind of. I don’t know how it keeps happening.” He laughed at that, at his voice, coming out shaky and pale. Bulb above, he hadn't spoken more than a few words consecutively in the past few days. “Duchess Coldbottle, uh, she knighted me.

“Not like in front of everyone,” And he knew there was no stopping now, “But she, she pardoned me.” 

Amangeaux nodded, moving the ledgers off the bed without breaking eye contact.

“And she told me that I could be a Fontina, if I wanted. That she knows what I’ve been doing for Calorum. That– fuck–” He wiped at his eyes– “that my grandfather was a good man. That he was pardoned too, that my whole family was.”

All the children he never had for fear of their lives, siblings, aunts and uncles, some killed but mostly nonexistent. All this loneliness, all of these axes over his head.

It had never been about that. His job now, his pursuits. It was never about escaping it, or solving it, or righting that wrong. It had just been movement forward, the only thing that felt right after it all. Suddenly, more tears sprang, and his hand came to his mouth, biting back some heavy, heavy emotion.

“Oh, mon coeur –”

He knew it had been her. That she had cased the whole family, figured that the young Duchess was a sweetheart, easily swayed. Slipped her informants the information they needed to make the call. 

“I don’t think I want to be a Fontina,” he said, voice wavering, still standing in the doorway. “I don’t even know if I can be. But there’s gonna be a book, somewhere, that has his name cleared, or something. I don’t know, I just–”

“Colin,” she said, “Come here.”

So he did. 

Walked over and started pulling back her quilt, before realizing he hadn’t even taken his coat or shoes off. He unbuttoned his coat, then sat down on her bed and unlaced his boots, still sniffling occasionally. Pulled the bandanna off. Then the bandolier, the outer tunic, his socks. Folded everything neatly, placed it on the ground. Ran a hand through his hair, half-combing it. Looked across the room at the still lit lantern by the door, and almost tripped getting to it. Extinguished it, leaving only Amangeaux’s dim light. After a moment, that too went out.

Almost too quick, he walked back to the bed. Mechanically crept under the covers, laid on his back. It’s only then that he turned to look at her. Like a kid again, almost nervous, and it was so ridiculous of him to feel like that. 

So ridiculous, because as soon as he did, it all dissipated. The look on her face was one of calmness, of knowing, even barely lit in this light. At that point, she’s under the blankets too, on her side, red hair still strewn over her part of the bed, and she knows him. 

She tugged his hand gently, and he nodded. Shifted onto his side, closer, until they were inches away. In the night, in the dark, there was so little about them that was different from anyone else. 

“I think, maybe, I wound up happy by accident,” he admitted, pushing it into the space between them, just to have something there. 

It felt terrible to say out loud.

“I don’t think I deserve any of this. And one day, it’ll catch up to me, and I’ll get what I was meant to have.

“Hunting those people down, that was supposed to be my punishment. I didn’t mean for this– I didn't think–"

At one point, Colin had been scared every day of his life. Stealing for his father, hiding from authorities. Then, as a sellsword, hoping desperately to remain unexamined, never given a second thought. Even with Deli and Raphaniel, there was a constant sense of wrongness, a slight feeling of nausea tugging at the edge of everything.

His whole existence, though, there had been a reason. Lucas Fontina had poured black ink over the family name before Colin had even been born, and that was how it would be forever. There was something simple and easy to accept in that monotony, a nice, even burden to trudge through his entire life.

As horrible as it was, the whole FDA nightmare had felt almost fitting for him. He would never have relaxed his guard enough to say it drunkenly in a tavern, so the universe had found another way to enact its will. He had survived, somehow, and felt nothing about that fact. There was always more to bear.

He tried again. "I don't know what to do, without that hanging over my head. I don’t know how to be a knight, when I’m not faking it."

Amangeaux furrowed her brow, almost confused.

"I didn’t mean to be happy," he said, “I just– I don’t know. I thought I’d never stop running.” 

He'd pictured a very solitary existence, after the events under the battle of Pangranos. In the days after, he'd talked with Deli about the very idea. It felt good, in that moment, a fitting response to everything they'd done. To be alone forever. It felt very grand, in the medic tents, watching the comedown of a war they'd aided in starting, watching bodies getting carried in and out. They’d agreed on it.

Deli had walked off towards the bordering Meat Lands a few days later.

Colin had never had the conviction he did for those sorts of causes, though, and he still didn't. 

And as it turned out, the difference between being alone forever, and not alone forever, was just one person who was willing to sit with you, and miss you when you were gone. And, that difference seemed particularly thin when you were tired, with your boundaries worn down, and you wanted to lay down for a minute, and stop holding it all in your head.

It was a slippery slope, then, to the not-aloneness. Because at this age, he was too tired for the dramatics of sneaking out in the night, of arguing about what it meant, that he only slept well with her. She was, too. She would never ask him to stay longer or prove some depth of feeling. Let him have his space, as he did her. And like the contrarian child he’d always been, that only made him want to keep coming back.

Yet again, there was something him and Deli could never seem to agree on. Yet again, Colin couldn’t find it within himself to regret it.

Amangeaux moved a hand up to rake her hand through his hair, gently combing the greasy locks. 

"Happy," she murmured. He could hear her subsequent grin more clearly than he could see it, the soft rustle of her face against the sheets.

And it was true. More than it wasn’t, at least. Most of his time was spent doing something he thought might actually help people, combing through landscapes and cities. Some days were bad, others good. Some days, there was a kind stranger, or good food, or a festival was in town when he was there. Some days, he was here, waking up warm, plodding around her house quietly and enjoying the small novelty of existing around another person. 

The conversation lapsed after that. He wondered how much she thought about her life as queen, after his encounter with the Duchess and Captain Cheddar. She had told him once that it had been exhausting but glittery, a life that moved in montages and blurry moments. Time had worked differently when people were hired to shuffle it around for her.

He’d asked if she missed it, ever. She said of course, but that it was the small stuff she missed. Not having to decide what to wear was nice, as was people cooking for her all the time. Then, she said she missed Karna more than she’d ever missed her husband, or the father of her son. That she wished she could talk to Raphaniel more than either of them too. 

It was funny that she didn’t know Colin all that well when they were all still alive. He might have died in that cave, and then she would have gone on anyway.

As if to assure some deity somewhere of his gratitude, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. 

“I think you make a fine knight, Sir Colin,” she whispered in response, almost like a secret. 

He hummed a disagreement, pulling back. “I think it was more of an informal thing, anyway.” 

He added in his head that he never should have had the original position in the first place, knowing she wouldn’t take well to that argument. 

“Then I think you make a fine man.” She shifted again, tucking herself into his frame, draping his arm over her side. “I’m tired of pretending like this all counts as penance, for you. It keeps you upright, to stay fighting. To do good.

“At some point, the good is just what you are.”

Colin’s breath stopped, for just a moment.

“And you, Maggie?” he said, after a time, limbs growing heavier. “Is this all still making up for her, then?” 

It’s the kind of conversation you only have half asleep, when nothing else can touch you, and all thoughts go soft and pliable. 

She exhaled. “I make my living off of her information, stealing all her old tricks. There’s nothing of me in this. It’s all Karna.”

He found her hand in the dark and grasped it, slipped his fingers through hers. Thought for a moment if every corpse piled up in his past had created something bigger than him. If the twisting mass of loss and secrets had consumed him, swallowed his sense of self and replaced it with a series of memories to flash through.

And yet–

“That’s not how it works, to love someone that’s gone,” he said, not quite sure if he even believed himself.

“You can’t be them. It only feels like you are, sometimes. Like every movement is theirs, for them.”

He holds his back straight like he was taught to by other soldiers, who took the time to show him how to put on his armor and pray correctly, even when he should have already known that. Hears Raphaniel’s whispers in every conspiracy he uncovers. Sees Deli in every person he cuts out of Sanctis Putris’s efforts, but also in every movement of his blade, every block and blow they trained to perfection together. 

In both of them maybe, there are too many people to carry. Too much inside them. But it was not her to succumb, and he knew it. 

“Until you turn around, a lifetime later, and you’ve shaped your life around this love of them, which isn’t a person at all. It’s you.” The last words were pressed into the top of her head, an almost-prayer. “It’s you.”

There is more he could have said here, here. He could have said that he’s still running, all the time. That it’s easier than it used to be to stay, though. That he can picture the future in chunks, rather than a day at a time. That she is potent, and lovely, and so much more than the people they’ve lost.

But already, her breath had begun to even out and slow. These days, maybe good sleep is worth more than any words he could conjure up. 

As he began to drift off, his thoughts flashed through the memories shifting to the top of his mind, as though the past few days were finally being sorted through, laid to rest. Annabelle's face when she talked about her great grandfather. The milky shores of a home he thought he'd never wear his actual surname to again. The cheese pin attached to his tunic. Duchess Primsy's earnest belief that things would change, and old resentment could be forgotten. The proof of it right there, in Liam Wilhelmina's presence. 

Among all of it, the idea that there were new people trying to help. Younger, shinier, carrying a little bit less. Those with kindness to spare, innocent to cling to for as long as possible.

Karna had never gotten to be Primsy Coldbottle, or Annabelle Cheddar, or even an approximation of them. Colin will never tell Amangeaux this. He doesn't have to.

On a bad day, a particularly bad one, Colin had walked in unannounced, and came into her room to see a green chili pepper sitting on the ground in front of a mirror, weeping.

In that moment, every ounce of resolve and rationality drained from his mind, and the string of curses that resulted from as he jumped backwards were incomprehensible even to him. It took less than a second for the reality of the situation to catch up with him: the fact that Karna was wearing Amangeaux's dressing gown, looking much younger than he last remembered her, and that she would never have wept like this where someone could find her. The fact that she'd been dead for five years never even crossed his mind.

Amangeaux-as-Karna turned to look at him, then, tears streaming down her face. Colin tried his best to slow his breathing. They stared at each other, three faces in two bodies.

Finally, she spoke, voice barely a whisper, hoarse and devastated. "I can't get it right, anymore. Something's wrong." A sob. "This isn't what she looks like."

What normal conduct should have been would be to go give her a hug and persuade her to drop the disguise. To tell her that there were other ways to hold on.

What Colin did was sit down with her. Eventually, he pointed out that her brow should be lifted more, and that she was missing the slight angle of her nose where it'd been broken. That she ought to have a bit of dirt smeared on her cheek, for the sake of accuracy. Detail after detail, until her breathing calmed, and a perfect replica of Karna Solara sat before them, with puffy eyes and emerald green curls. 

It lingered, flickered, then faded back to Amangeaux, who reflexively reached a hand out, as though Karna was leaving all over again. The room felt very quiet, then, emptier. 

"Thank you," she said, turning to look at him for the first time since he'd entered. "I'm sorry." 

He shook his head. "It's nothing." 

He took her hand, then.

Colin would leave that next morning with the image of Amangeaux's expression in Karna's features constantly at the back of his mind, and the inevitable self-confession that there was nothing he could do to keep himself from coming back. Useful information or otherwise.

I get it, he had wanted to say. I get it, and nobody else will, and I can't leave you alone with it. And I'm sorry, too.

Colin would leave this next morning too, one surname heavier and three generations lighter for it. His coat would be cleaned, his pack stuffed with provisions, and his next targets locked. He would move through the world with a precision and knowledge that would seem divine to people unaware of her existence, failing to recognize similarities in the faces that haunted their peripheries.