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One Last Chance

Part 7 - Trust (AO3 Link)

Athran heads off to perform his duties, and the team reconvenes to plan the final assault - the grand theft. But sometimes, even planning the plan does not go according to plan.

CW: violence, (very) minor character death, mentions of abuse

Athran released a shaky breath, his skin clammy, his hands curling and flexing by his sides as he walked a few steps behind his escort. The guard was one he’d only seen once before, but it had been recently, and it had been memorable. As they moved down the hallway the large man paused, turning, a thin smile curling up the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you’re looking better than when I left you. You elves must heal up well.”

Immediately, Athran looked down, casting his gaze to the marbled floor. He was meant to show reverence to the guards as well as the guests, and the last thing he needed was to anger the man who’d already beat him senseless earlier that night. His face still ached from where he had been struck for dropping the tray, and part of him wished he’d remembered to apply the salve. It would have helped numb the area; muted the pain.

He supposed a lot had happened between then and now.

After an extended pause, the guard scoffed and turned, continuing to walk. “Didn’t think I’d get many kicks out of this job, short as it is. Should thank you for being a clumsy bastard. Thought I’d die of boredom tonight.”

Athran hated the mercenaries. Or some of them, at least. There were no consequences for men hired for days or weeks at a time. They just did what they liked, and so long as it didn’t directly inconvenience Talveron, they got away with it. As most could never afford slaves of their own, they often treated it like a fun little experiment; a way to get a taste of what that might be like. Athran had learned quickly to avoid such men, but this time, that seemed almost impossible.

Although compared to some, this one wasn’t so bad.

The guard paused, glanced down at a card of paper, then huffed. “Right. Here you are.” Reaching out, he knocked three times, then stepped away, walking back towards Athran. He paused, leaning in close, his breath hot and honey-sweet with mead. “You have fun, eh? And try keep it down. Walls are thin ‘round here.” He snorted. “Or don’t. Some folks might like a bit of a show.”

It took everything Athran had to suppress a shudder as the guard slowly looked him over then left him there, standing alone in the corridor. Suddenly, he felt cold, as though instead of being surrounded by wall and stone, he was out in the open, afraid and exposed on an empty field. He wanted to run. Flee. Anything.

Then he remembered the warmth of Hanin’s arms around him. How, for the first time in eleven years, he’d felt safe somewhere, even if only for a few seconds before reality had come crashing back into place.

The door creaked open, snapping Athran back to the present. Even knowing who was behind it, his heart thrummed wildly, hands growing clammy as it opened and a man appeared. He was handsome. Tall. Well-dressed in a robe and subtle jewellery, his hair neatly combed, his moustache perfectly maintained. That didn’t mean much, usually. Most of the worst people in Tevinter looked something like that.

“You must be Athran, yes?”

Swallowing tightly, Athran dropped his gaze, horrified that he’d actually let himself look higher than the hem of the man’s expensive robes. “Yes, my lord.”

There was a pause, then Magister Pavus stepped aside. “It would be best if you came inside. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of holding conversations in the corridor.”

Athran obeyed, moving past the Magister, careful not to accidentally touch him. Some could be picky about that, and he really had no idea what to expect. He trusted Hanin as much as he could trust anyone he hadn’t seen for eleven years, which naturally left a bit of room for doubt.

Regardless, it was still more than he trusted anyone else.

The door closed and Athran released a slow, shaky breath, trying to keep it as silent as possible. Magister Pavus’ footsteps were slow and careful, moving in a wide circle until he stood in front of Athran, the deep crimson of his robe a blur of colour at the edge of his vision.

“I… don’t suppose you know who I am, do you?”

Athran wet his lips and bowed his head. “The Magister of House Pavus. I am here to serve.”

He heard the man exhale, the sound almost uncertain. “Ah. Yes, well… that I am. Although I tend to prefer Dorian, when not conducting business.” He moved again, over towards a set of plush chairs at the side of the room. A small table sat between them, a leather case sitting on top. Athran didn’t want to know what was in that, and he remained rooted to the spot, not entirely sure what to do. Normally he would have been given orders by now. It seemed the Magister also realised this, because he cleared his throat gently. “Come. Take a seat. There is much to discuss.”

Athran obeyed, settling across from the man, his heart still thumping hard against his ribcage. He knew Hanin wouldn’t lie to him. Logically, he knew that. But no one, slave or servant or otherwise, ever wanted to be alone with a Magister in their room. It never led to anything good.

“You are of clan Lavellan, yes?”

Weakly, Athran nodded.

“And you have been in the Imperium for quite some time?”

Again, he nodded, then hesitated. “Eleven years, my lord.”

Even though he wasn’t looking directly at him, Athran saw Magister Pavus stiffen slightly.

“I see. And please, Dorian is fine. I… know it may not seem as such, but I am on your side.”

If he wasn’t so utterly terrified, Athran might have laughed. As it was, he just gave a faint nod, feeling strangely light-headed with the motion, his stomach in a knot. “I was… told as much.”

“You were? Ah. Excellent.” There was a measure of relief to the Magister’s words and he seemed to relax. Good for him. “That saves us some time, then. But first, I recall the incident at the party. Are you well?”

This time, Athran did glance up, mostly out of sheer confusion. Magister Pavus must have read the expression on his face because he smiled kindly, shifting to clasp his hands in front of him. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but I struggle to imagine Talveron Idaris as a…. lenient man.”

The throbbing pain in Athran’s face was enough of a reminder of that fact. Even if it had not been Talveron’s hand that dealt the blow, he would have condoned it without question for embarrassing him with such clumsiness. “I am fine. Thank you.”

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.” The response was like a reflex. He had been asked so many times in the past and no one had ever been interested in the truth. But then, Athran paused, something about the way the Magister watched him with a kind of patient concern leaving him curious to test the waters. “Yes. My eye. Sometimes. It is nothing unbearable.”

“I see.” Magister Pavus nodded, then cleared his throat, turning slightly in his chair. “Adiran. Could you come here a moment?”

At first, Athran wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then a door opened at the side of the room and a young man stepped in, all nervous energy and tousled hair. “Yes, D--” His bright green eyes flicked across to Athran. “I mean, ah, Lord Pavus?”

“Would you mind fetching some ice from the kitchens?” The Magister’s pale grey eyes flicked across, then down, as if inspecting Athran’s form. It was hardly unusual, for him to be measured in such a way. The result, however, certainly was. “Something to eat and drink as well, if you please. Whatever you can comfortably carry alone.”

“Of course.” The young man bowed, straightened, smiled warmly at Athran, then hurried out of the room.

There was a lot Athran could tell from first impressions, and he discerned two things in that brief exchange. Firstly, the young man, Adiran, was not afraid of his employer. The smile had been as much for Magister Pavus as it had been for him. Secondly, the Magister himself, who had watched with a kind of fond amusement as his servant hurried out of the room, genuinely seemed to care about him.

That or he was a fantastic liar.

“Now, while we wait, I imagine you have a number of questions. I will answer what I can.” As the Magister spoke, Athran found his gaze returning to the man’s face. Dorian smiled at that, the expression encouraging as he reached out and snapped open the clasps of the leather case. “However, I find it is often easier to talk when partially distracted. It frees the mind from the burden of overthinking.”

Athran watched warily as Dorian removed a board from the case, unfolding it and setting it on the table along with a number of small pieces of various shapes. He worked wordlessly as he set it up, and Athran’s curiosity quickly got the better of him. “What is that?”

Dorian glanced up, and for a second, Athran feared he had become too complacent. That he had been tricked into a false sense of security; into overstepping. But quickly, a smile returned to the Magister’s face.

“A Ferelden game. They call it ‘chess’. I understand it’s quite popular among strategists.” Finishing, he sat back, two rows of pieces now standing at either end of the board; black and white. “Have you heard of it?”

Slowly, Athran nodded his head. “Yes. They played it in the Free Marches too, sometimes. But I never…” He swallowed, fingers anxiously plucking at the fabric of his pants beneath the table. There was no use pretending. “I don’t know how to play.”

Luckily, Dorian was not at all taken aback by the confession. Instead, his eyes almost seemed to brighten, and he waved a graceful hand towards the board.

“Would you care to learn?”

Hanin and Lyrene practically flopped onto their cots the second they stepped back into the overflow barracks, the twin sensations of relief arriving and anxiety flooding out of them overwhelming as Launcet closed the heavy door.

“And you’re sure this won’t be a fucking problem?” Cyrus, who had been with Launcet when Lyrene and Hanin were ‘summoned’, looked about as pleased as a rain-drenched cat. “Some Magister is going to be expecting a couple of slaves to show up at his door. What’s he going to do when they don’t?”

It was true. Hanin had to admit, the excuse had been… lacking. After Athran and the other slaves had been gathered and sent to their respective rooms, it had taken almost another hour before a second summons arrived, this time for Hanin and Lyrene. Apparently, they were to be taken to the rooms of Magister Sildarius, with Launcet and Cyrus as their escort. Instead, of course, they had returned to the overflow barracks.

“Do you think this is my first infiltration?” Launcet’s gaze cut between Cyrus and Hanin, as though sensing the elf’s silent agreement with the Orlesian. “I have it on good authority that Sildarius was drunk as a beggar by a brothel. With the hangover that old bastard’s going to have, he won’t remember asking for any company, yet alone enjoying it.”

Hanin’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s authority?”

“Mine.”

Hanin startled, turning, his eyes widening as Varlen slunk out of the shadows. “Sildarius was already pretty drunk at the beginning of the night, when I saw him talking to Riv,” the silver-haired elf continued. “By the end, he actually needed some servants to pretty much carry him to his room. It’ll be fine.”

“What are you doing here?”

Varlen stiffened, his resolve hardening before Hanin’s stern glare. “Helping, obviously. Dorian can’t go pulling that stunt every night, you know. Once, sure, people won’t really ask any questions. But more than that?” Varlen shook his head. “It’ll start looking suspicious. So unless you want Athran being sent around to other Magisters - which I sure as hell don’t - we need to come up with a plan. Fast.”

There was something about the way Varlen said it. So matter-of-fact. So callous, yet so undeniably true. Hanin’s jaw pulsed, teeth grinding, but eventually he had no choice but to concede he was right. As much as he hated the idea of Varlen taking the risk of being there, Hanin had to admit his insight would be valuable. “Fine. Stay.”

Varlen arched a brow, moving over to join the rest of the group. “I wasn’t really asking for permission.” When Hanin’s glare sharpened, Varlen swallowed and added quickly, “But, ah, real great to have it! Yep. Super great. Happy to help.”

Sighing wearily, Hanin turned his attention back to Launcet. “Did you get the new rotation?”

The man nodded, gesturing towards a piece of paper already on the table. He must have dropped it off earlier in the night. “Sure did. Was able to, ah… adjust it, too. Just a little. Couldn’t go tampering too much or folks would get suspicious, but swapping some names here and there won’t raise any eyebrows.” Hanin reached over, taking it off the table for inspection as Launcet continued. “We’re going to get you back into the slave’s quarters tomorrow, but that’s about the only part that’s staying the same. Instead of that charming bastard who was keeping watch tonight, we’re going to have an actual charming bastard do the job.”

Nodding, Hanin read aloud from the roster. “Daimon: slave quarters.” He glanced up. “That’s you, Ralon.”

Ralon just grinned. “Great. Should I bring a book?”

Lyrene snorted in amusement. Clearly, she had already briefed him about that aspect of the night. “Sure. Make sure it’s something sleazy, though. Gotta keep it authentic.”

The mood soured at that. Even leaving, the guard had taken it upon himself to make a lewd remark about Lyrene as she passed. It had only been the woman’s painfully tight grip on Hanin’s elbow that had stopped him from swinging around and decking the man.

“Keep reading,” Launcet interrupted, nodding towards the roster. Obediently, Hanin returned to task, scanning until a familiar name jumped out at him.

“Ayden: southern door.” Hanin paused at that, a thought dragging him from his task as he looked up at the young man. “How did you even manage to pass as a guard?”

An almost dangerously sweet smile spread across the blond elf’s face. “Aye, well, pretty easy to hide my ears under a helmet. Sleeping in the barracks got a tad tricky, but I just shared a cot with Cassius and no one dared get close enough to bother.”

Immediately, at the sudden wave of raised brows, Cassius, who had been quietly looming at the edge of the group, rolled his eyes. “Nothing like that. Get your heads out of the damn gutter.”

Ayden just grinned, jerking a thumb towards the tall human. “See? Who wouldn’t give that a wide berth?”

Grunting, but ultimately satisfied, Hanin returned to the list. It took a little longer for him to spot another familiar name, which was testament solely to the sheer amount of security Talveron had operating at his estate. “Livia and Kian: southern sector.”

Connors exchanged a glance with Cyrus and nodded. “That will provide you with clear passage to the wall.”

“Exactly,” said Launcet, pleased that someone had put the pieces together. “Now, I’m stationed up on the back wall, but I’m not alone. That’s where the problem’s going to be.” Walking to the table, he leaned back over the map of the estate. “There are no mercenaries on wall duty, just Talveron’s private guard, which means they’re well trained and probably not open to accepting a bribe.”

Hanin nodded. “Then we kill them.”

In truth, he had been expecting a series of groans and a few rolled eyes, but instead what he received was a tense, uncertain silence.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” was all Launcet said, arms folded tight across his chest. “But if that is what it takes… do it quickly and quietly. Leave no survivors. The Nightingale doesn’t want any talk getting out about who you lot actually are. If we can blame this on a rogue group of mercenaries, that would be ideal. From what I’ve seen, I can’t imagine Talveron interviewed them all personally.”

“Alright then,” Hanin said, glancing about the room. “It’s a start. But how are we--”

A loud series of thumps suddenly sounded at the door, hard enough to make it shake in its frame. Silence fell across the room, panicked glances darting about, everyone frozen in place as though they had forgotten how to move.

Then, the Dusk Squad launched into action.

Cassius had Hanin by the arm, hauling him to his feet, the others manhandling his squad in much the same way, shoving them towards the cots. “Go,” Cassius hissed, “under the cots. Hide as best you can.”

They scattered, sliding under beds, Hanin grateful for the first time in his life for the lack of armour as he shimmied his way beneath the low frame. It was a tight fit, but he managed, the floor pressed to his back, the bottom of the bed to his chest. Part of him worried if he breathed too hard, the whole frame might shift. Relax. Don’t think about it.

From where he was, Hanin could see a slice of the scene unfolding by the door. The Dusk Squad were out in the open, all clad in Inquisition attire, three of them sitting around the table, seeming utterly unphased as whoever was outside the door pounded a second time, the act somehow increasing in aggression. Breathing out, Cassius gave a final check of the room then threw the door open. The movement was so perfectly sudden and unforgiving that the knocking man staggered forward slightly, caught off-balance as the door gave way beneath his fist. From what Hanin could tell, he wore the colours of a guard. One of Talveron’s proper soldiers, if he had to take a guess, based on the crispness of his uniform and his carefully groomed exterior.

“Right. What’s going on in here?” He demanded, recovering from his stumble, tersely tugging his coat back into place. “You are all with the Inquisition, correct?”

“Sure are.” Daimon stepped forward, his face the puppy-like picture of confused innocence. “And I’m pretty sure nothing’s going on? We’re just staying up playing a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Right lads?”

As if on cue, Ayden, Krissa, and Livia gave a wave, the elven man smiling brightly as he fanned a handful of cards. Where those had come from, Hanin couldn’t begin to say.

“I’m winning, for the record,” Ayden announced, then yelped as Krissa kicked his shin, her scowl sharp enough to slit a throat.

“Not for long you’re not!”

“Ow - what the hell, Ly? That’s going to bruise…”

Sighing, Cassius turned away from the commotion back to the guard in the doorway. “There. That is what is going on here. I take it there are no rules at the estate against card games?” He thumbed back at the now healthily bickering group at the table. “If the noise is the problem, I’ll give them a talking to. We’ll keep it down.”

The guard stood his ground, something about the way he was looking past Cassius through narrowed eyes spiking Hanin’s heart rate. Slowly, the guard’s posture stiffened, as though he were being drawn up by a string at the crown of his head. “I know what you’re doing in here. Come clean, now, and I won’t report it.”

Cassius seemed at a loss for words, but Daimon quickly filled in the gap, two steps bringing him directly before the guard. “Afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. Great that you know what we’re up to and all, but it’s hard to confess to something we don’t know ourselves.”

“The servants.” There was no room for argument in the guard’s tone, the words delivered sharp and clear. They sliced through the faux-squabbling of the table group like an axe through a neck. Shifting slightly, peering around the room, his hand drifted down to rest at the hilt of his sword. A warning. “Or slaves. I caught a glimpse of their uniforms slipping through the door. I don’t know why you’ve got them in here, but it’s over now.” When he was met with nothing more than stunned silence, he gave a frustrated sigh. “Listen. It’s late. Just bring them out and I’ll get them back to their quarters. So long as you haven’t done something stupid, like roughed them up, there doesn’t need to be a fuss over it.”

Cassius and Daimon exchanged a slow, uncertain glance. Then, after a moment, Cassius nodded and Daimon took a step away, removing himself from the conversation. “Alright,” Cassius said, spreading his hands. “You got us. It’s hard to resist the temptation of company after so long on the road.” He cleared his throat, turning towards the beds, the guard warily moving further into the room. “You heard the man! Jig is up. Come on out, you two.”

Slowly, not entirely sure what they were thinking, Hanin did as he was told, sliding out from under the bed. Or, more correctly, shoving the bed off of him, then rising to stand awkwardly in the space left behind. Lyrene performed a bit more gracefully, her expression sculpted into what Hanin hoped was a mask of fear. If not, he would have to find some way to make all of this up to her when they were back at Skyhold.

Luckily, none of the others took this as their cue to reveal themselves, and remained concealed.

The guard eyed them over carefully as they stood, revealed, lingering for longer on Lyrene. Hanin knew that look well. It was one he had given his squad many times. The guard was checking them for signs of injury, so Hanin made an effort to stand taller and raise his chin.

After a moment, the guard grunted. “Alright. Come on, then. You two know you’re not meant to be around the soldiers’ barracks, yet alone in one.”

Hanin was about to follow his instructions but noticed Lyrene was remaining rooted in place. As though she was terrified.

Or as though she was waiting for something to happen.

“They won’t be in trouble, will they?” Ayden asked suddenly, lurching to his feet and moving to the guard’s side. “Please, ser, it was just meant to be a bit of fun. We didn’t know they weren’t allowed.”

The guard regarded Ayden for a long, calculating moment. “Do you take me for a fool? You wouldn’t have hidden them unless you knew they shouldn’t be here. As for the slaves… I don’t deliver punishments. Just enforce the altus’ orders.”

“But--”

The guard raised a hand sharply, cutting off Ayden’s distressed protests, but something seemed to give way before the young man’s imploring. “Alright, look… I’ll keep it quiet as best I can. The altus wants this to all go smoothly, and this… it isn’t ideal for any of us.” He turned, brow creasing when he realised Hanin and Lyrene hadn’t moved. “Come on, then. Quickly and quietly. I’ll get you back befor--”

Suddenly, there was movement. Like a lioness pouncing on her prey, Livia was on him, the belt from her uniform wrapped tight around his neck. The guard jerked and staggered, rasping, hands flying to his throat, but she held fast, her once soft expression hard and grim. The chatty nervousness that seemed to shadow the woman had all but vanished, and she twisted the leather tighter as he bucked and clawed at the belt, his throat, her. She didn’t even flinch when he reached down, groping blindly for his blade, ready to slash blindly to save himself.

“Ah. Poor bastard’s looking for this, ay?” Ayden grinned as the guard’s hand passed through air where his sword used to be, then raised the blade himself, turning it over curiously in the lamplight. “It’s nice, you know. Think I might keep it. Bit of a souvenir.”

The guards movements were slowing, aborted coughs jerking his body as his lungs tried to pull in air. He sank to his knees, Livia’s hands still affixed to the belt, pulling it tight, crushing his throat. His face was almost as red as his uniform now, veins bulging at his temples, eyes wide and blood-shot as his fingernails raked his skin in his struggle to pull the leather from his neck. Slowly, almost inevitably, he slumped, a few more broken attempts to breathe causing him to spasm, until he went suddenly, impossibly still. Blood ran down his neck in slow trickles, soaking into his collar. Livia, expression blank, kept the belt tight well after he stopped moving.

“Shit,” Lyrene breathed, taking a shaky step back. Hanin couldn’t help but agree. None of them were strangers to death, it was true. But with a blade, it seemed different, somehow. Cleaner, or perhaps just less personal. Stab a man in the right place, and you can comfortably leave knowing he would eventually die. You were free to just move onto the next opponent on the battlefield.

But that…

“Y-You killed him.” Darren had made his way out from under one of the cots, his face stark-white, eyes staring at where Livia still held the corpse of the guard in a kneeling position. He seemed almost transfixed by it, stunned into a kind of emotional delay. “W… Why did you do that?”

Looking at the ‘Dusk Squad’ now, Hanin could see it. For the first time, he realised with no small amount of certainty that these men and women who had been joking and laughing with them moments ago, were agents. Assassins. Killers and murderers and thieves, brought together by order of the Nightingale to complete a task. His task. They were dangerous. Ruthless. Willing to get their hands dirty and cast aside morality to ensure success..

They were exactly the kind of people he needed.

But even knowing that, the look on Darren’s face made Hanin wish they weren’t.

“It was us or him, kid.” Daimon’s gaze cut away from the guard’s body, something cold and calculating in those brown eyes that matched his sister’s. It was entirely at odds with the person Hanin thought he knew. “We get sprung here, and it’s all our necks on the line.”

He didn’t even cringe at his choice of words, but Darren did. “But he… he was just doing his job. Wasn’t he?” He searched around imploringly at the crowd of faces. “Wasn’t he? I-I thought…”

“We’re not here to do things gently.” Kian spoke for what Hanin felt was the first time since they’d met. The young man’s expression was somber yet resolved as he leaned back on the edge of the table. “But this isn’t on your conscience. It’s on ours. It’s why we’re here. What we’re here for.”

Mortified, words failing, Darren turned to Hanin, distress seeming to radiate from him despite his silence as he sought something from him. Disapproval. Reassurance. Disgust?

Hanin just shifted his attention to Launcet, who was dusting himself off miserably as he crossed the room. “What do you plan to do with the body?”

Grunting, clearly far from thrilled, Launcet nudged the guard’s knee with his foot. Only when there was no response did Livia finally allow him to thud heavily to the floor. The most off-putting part was probably the way she slipped the belt back around her waist, as though it hadn’t just been used to choke a man to death.

“Might have to get creative with this one. Some mercenary would’ve been easy enough to deal with, but one of Talveron’s own?” Launcet exhaled in a rush, running a hand down his face. “Maker’s fucking balls...”

Daimon clapped him on the back good-naturedly. “C’mon, Launcet. Gotta earn your keep.” He paused, gaze drifting down to the guard, then shrugged. “At least we kept it clean for you. Good call with the belt, Liv. I was just going to knife him.”

Livia gave him a half-smile, her old mask slow to return. “Thanks. Figured we could use as little mess as possible.” She scuffed the floor with her boot. “Besides, it’s real hard to get blood out of wood...”

Turning away from the Dusk Squad as they argued over what to do with the corpse, Hanin found himself faced with a different kind of problem. Darren was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, Lyrene and Cyrus by his side. Ralon and Connors slunk nearby, the Antivan seeming perturbed while Connors showed about as much interest in the affair as she might give to a tree in passing. Sighing, sensing this wasn’t something he could just ignore, Hanin walked over to the group. Each step felt heavier as he approached. Each step left him less certain of what he was going to say.

“They murdered him.” Darren was speaking softly as Hanin drew near. There was less horror in his voice, now. Less everything. He just seemed... lost. Shaking his head, he looked up at his squadmates. “We don’t do that, do we? Just… kill people because it’s convenient?”

“No, we don’t,” Lyrene said softly, her arm wrapped around the young man’s shoulders. “We don’t, Darren.”

“But they do.” There was something about the way Cyrus said it; a kind of unspoken certainty to the words; that left Hanin both reassured and unsettled. “It’s why they’re here. The Nightingale hired them for this.”

“I know. I do. It’s just…” Darren just shook his head. “How are you all just okay with this?”

“Because the alternative would have been worse.” Hanin’s voice projected far more confidence than he felt, but when Darren turned those shocked eyes on him, something wavered. “Thata doesn’t mean it was right. Or just.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“It was necessary.”

Sometimes, when people change how they see you, it happens slowly and silently. Often, it’s strung out over a long series of events; events that form a picture different to what they imagined. Eventually, painfully, they realise, with ever-increasing clarity, that you were never that picture to start with.

But sometimes, it happens in the span of a sentence.

And Hanin knew. As Darren looked away, defeat written in the the curve of his shoulders, he knew he had lost something. Something important. Something that had been freely given the moment he was introduced to the young man as his Captain.

Trust.

There had never been a moment where Darren questioned him. Argued with him. Defied him. But this time, it was different. This time, the young man couldn’t seem to find a way to agree, even though part of him was undoubtedly desperate to. He couldn’t find a way to justify what had happened, even if it meant standing his ground alone. Even if it meant going against the word of his Captain. Even if it meant questioning what he was told to be true.

And, with all the doubt he carried, Hanin couldn’t help but feel that was for the best.

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