Perhaps Rosenheim had been reading A Complete and Uncensored History of Ala Mhigo for too long. But no - the longer he stood in the Sandsea’s kitchen, flipping the pages of a cookbook he had found in one of the cupboards, the more he realized he could not possibly be mistaken.
It was all written in his best friend’s hand.
“Do you know whose this is?” he asked the bar’s nearest occupant, a Sea Wolf helping herself to her fourth glass of cider on tap.
“Hm.” She peered over his shoulder with ease to examine the book and frowned a little at its contents. “I think that one came from Izzi Drake. Dumped it here after spring cleaning, probably.”
But the handwriting was almost certainly Bernard’s - and there, in the subheading of instructions for a Gridanian almond pound cake, was a slight space in the kerning that indicated the start of a message in code.
He flipped back to the title page - Cakes for Every Occasion: A Hands-On Resource for Bakers of All Skill Levels by B.U. - and his mouth fell open. “Cakes,” he marveled.
“Right?” said the Sea Wolf. “It’s kind of a shame; I think most of the Riskbreakers are kind of sick of cake.”
Bernard Undertaker…
“Whenever there’s a big event - Starlight or the company’s anniversary or something - the Sandsea’ll just… get a whole bunch of cakes. And no one actually knows where they come from!”
…keeper of the Undercity…
“Usually there’s so much left over that Ashe gets pissed and ends up yelling at everyone to eat the godsdamned cake before it goes bad.”
…one of the most feared men below the Ala Mhigan capital…
“Part of me still suspects it’s Malev Tolous playing innocent, but he’s been out sailing for the past however long, so. I have no idea.”
One month after the burning of the Temple of Rhalgr
One room over, the door swung open.
Crashed open, more like, the door itself pulled straight off the barricades of rotten wood and too-short nails that'd stapled over the frame. Yanked fully free from the carpentry bindings with all the ease and thoughtlessness of prying apart a mold-worn thread.
Hawthorne closed his eyes, prepared for the following crash of every vase and clay-made bowl that'd been piled in the face of the other room's door, the walls, the other room's shelving. He didn't really want to look at it, but he felt he could guess the sideroom's carnage from sound alone, the new gravesite of the past month's work mapped out in a stilling duration of new shards scrambling out of the path of his visitor's footsteps. A pillar of hand-painted and stone-polished plates, crashed in twain or splain in splinters across the countertops and the doorway apron. Two stacks of teacups engraved, each, with flowers and knotwork beholden to Ala Mhigo's crest scattered into a gorey, glossy, crimson-clay graveyard that bore only a fraction of the painted bloom. An arrangement of newly broken platters, planters, unfinished mugs. Vases. Bowls.
"I thought I'd nailed that shut." Hawthorne chewed on his tongue, turning his blade back to the tall clay pot that sat on his wheel. Small gestures of shapes etched out its surface; sweeping great lines and started imprints of figures, rows of geometry and small caverns dug out in a still-wet pattern. He pumped his heel twice, turning the great wheel to carve a line through the base of it.
"Generally," he continued, "if a door has boards on it, someone doesn't want it opened. Generally, also, if a shop has a sign that says 'Enter Here', you go in /that/ door. Unless it really is too much a folly on your identity to assume you've got a weak spot for pottery. But maybe, in those cases, send a letter? Wear a cloak? Come at dusk, even. Alternatives are--"
An interrupting clash from the other room, and Ashley Riot stumbled out from the clutches of the new carpeting of earthy shrapnel. Hawthorne cut silent, looking up finally to see the thick dust of red that clouded out of the connecting hallway and over the soldier that'd wandered into his home. Already red hair hung disheveled, purified in its rusty tone, and the crimson spilled down to tint the rest of Ashley in the same tomato dyes. Red shirt, red pommel, red line of blood seeping down his right arm, red shards of a platter jutting out of three or four brand new tears in his pant leg.
"...never a thing for you, for some reason." Hawthorne finished, and he looked him up and down another three times and blinked. From the countertop, he pulled a washcloth from the pile of clay-coated rags and held it out at an arm's reach, like getting out of his chair would be too much a struggle and a strain.
Ashley's response was a full expression of exasperation and futile attempts to start dusting himself off. "I really hope there isn't any bloodweed in any of this."
"In that batch? No. That was just a genuine, poorly-placed pottery tower." When Ashley took the rag, Hawthorne remained stretched out across the chair's back, his arm still extended, palm up, back arched in a full display of fainting grief. "Now, I have genuine pottery dust." He continued, "All my dreams of a civilian's life, a month of clean hands, awash and away once again with the bombardment of my true nature storming through the door. Oh, am I ever free of this expertly-set metaphor? Oh, am I ever free of my father's blood!"
"Here I'd simply thought you'd boarded up your door to try and trick me into thinking you'd moved." Ashley interjected.
Hawthorne's arm threw back over his eyes, his other hand raised up into one of the few beams of light that cracked through the walls of curtains and clutter in the dark room. "Woe to the day I tried to take on Gelva's walk of peace! Lamentation for the hope I could split from this fated path with the simple intention of decorated pots! My lesson that no manufacture of this land shall ever carry me to redemption! May it never be forgotten, my effort. Free from the same lapses of memory that /everyone/ in the Undercity seems to go through when they all communally forget that there /are/ other Silverbrands to do their bidding."
The thin light went dark when Ashley dropped the now-crimson washcloth over his head, residue of red dust pluming out in a fabric cough. For a split second Hawthorne was lost to laughter, but he quieted up soon as another creak of the back of his chair, already groaning and bent and too old to bear the monk's weight, signaled that Ashley had thrown an arm on it as well. He pulled the rag off enough to stare up at the man, Ashley's forearm on the chair's back. Ashley's smile a bit more lighthearted than ever expected.
"I came to you," Ashley said, "Because, as always, you are by far the most tolerable of your family members. Even if that's... a pretty heavy stretch. I would think you'd find that a compliment."
Ashley's smile was a grin in the tired way that Ashley always grinned - which was less a grin, really, and far more an appeasement of emotion. For show. For business. The nonpolitical smile he always held that always portrayed that he was Just Doing Work.
Hawthorne returned the expression.
"You think so?" His grin bold, he watched Ashley's smile waver just enough for confusion to touch the other’s brow. His foot pumped again and the wheel groaned into a turn. Somewhere, Hawthorne’s hand had moved back to his blade and the pottery, back to carving the thin line in the base of the sculpture in the event that either of them had forgotten he was holding it. "I mean, the part about being tolerable."
"Well," Ashley moved from resting his forearm on the chair to just keeping his wrist on it. "Relatively speaking. You, at least, will hold a conversation."
"I think I can take that as a compliment. I must admit, though, it's a bit unfair of grading. I mean at least, with your bosom buddy leaving blades around in about half of my father's nieces and nephews, I think at least even I can understand if it's gotten a little bit hard for people to keep their heads out of their asses around Undertaker's hellhound."
When Ashley stopped grinning, Hawthorne didn't.
The wheel spun again in front of him, his blade at the base and the clay shearing off into neat, red ribbonry. Hawthorne caught, just in the corner of his eye, the very slightest change in color on Ashley's knuckles where the kingsman gripped the back of the chair.
Hawthorne was looking up at Ashley, though. Smiling, his hands on the pot and the wheeling chugging away with tired, stuttered turns that each did their part in permeating Ashley's silence. Ashley's brow twisted down into a slight bend. And when Ashley breathed out, his chest moved just enough for one of the sparse beams of light to flash over the sheathed sword and pommel. Sword always on his belt, always strapped over his second layer of clothing, but tucked under the jacket. Always angled just so that never would the handle ever fall a second too far out of reach, the hilt remarkably bare and remarkably un-decorated.
Hawthorne smiled.
"I'm gonna assume," he said, the wheel whining into a long, oil-begging squeak between them. It'd grown talented, in it's years, of always spitting out the right groan, or pop, or wheeze to fill the gaps in conversation. The blade slid deeper into its mold of clay. "Your absolutely invigorating silence here means you /weren't/ the one heading the charge of finding a river big enough to throw Hamund in?"
"No. I was not."
"Do you think my cousins know that?"
The following silence that hung around Ashley reverberated so tangibly that Hawthorne could've reached up and carved a pattern in the very air. The dip in the soldier's brow took another turn into furrowing, and his jaw set with bone, steel, and iron.
Hawthorne sucked on the inside of his cheek. "Do you know who /was/?"
"Hawthorne-"
Ashley had opened his mouth initially as a warning. As a threat, and a reminder. The advisory of caution, though, snapped from his grasp along with the steeping weight of the air in the room when Hawthorne cut him off with a roll of laughter.
Shorter than him, hungrier than him, the somewhat small ex-Fist threw back his head and laughed far too long and far too loud for a Highlander of his stature. The room filled with it. The dust and the shadows, every vase and bowl that still could be filled with sound.
"Riot! Riot, Riot!" As he cackled, Hawthorne's hands shot up to shield both from the very expected blow and the following glare that Ashley bestowed upon him, embarrassed fury piercing through the shrapnel of tension. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Hamund was a cock, Ashley! You thought I was serious! Riot, look at yourself! He's in the ground ‘cause he was a damned good idiot, and he sure as hells deserves that title. One less cousin anyway to keep up on. Come on, Riot, what do you need? What does Berny need, huh?"
Footsteps. Hawthorne drew his hands back finally to spy the other now in the more distant half of the workroom. Even with the fulms between them, the unsatisfied look on Ashley's face was palpable.
"There's a shipment coming up from Thavnir two weeks from now. Five guards. I need their bodies unfindable and five men to wear their uniforms, and a distraction to either cover or rationalize my initial attack. You'll be paid for the expense of the stand-ins and any materials used in your work - plus twenty percent - in addition to the usual fee for dragging you up into the sunlight for once."
"I do burn easy."
Hawthorne looked back up as he made the comment, locking eyes with Ashley. The man had only barely paused in his pacing on the other side of the room, planted between a coat rack covered in larger, similarly dusty towels, and a couple shelves of clay-caked tools. Ashley’s glower hadn’t changed, the set glare of a Riskbreaker, but under all the dust and red the slightest shift in his pallor gave away the scene that flashed through Ashley’s mind. It wasn’t long, enough that maybe the look of the other could be a trick of the light, or a lapse in perception. But the smell of burning flesh only needed a second to pull a reaction, even if only from memory.
The razing of the Temple of Rhalgr, hardly more than a month ago. The dead brought low on the fervor of the crown.
Hawthorne smiled, moving enough to fall back in the path of Ashley’s stare and resummon the man’s attention. "Does that quote include the materials spent in your entrance?"
"Yes or no, Silverbrand." Ashley spoke quietly as he turned more, inspecting the other pots and plates that filled the workroom’s shelves.
"I just want a full gauge of my remaining funds. You know, I need to buy more nails for my door, and Gelva-"
"You'll do it, or I'm moving on. I don't have all day to track down your next most sociable of kin."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah yeahyeah." The chair creaked again as Hawthorne kicked out one foot onto the countertop and teetered on the chair's back legs. The pottery wheel spun on its own, for now, winding down. His arm still hung outstretched, blade gliding ever thinner lines into the clay surface. "I'll do it, don't worry. What, Hawthorne Silverbrand turning down an opportunity to siphon out more of the crown's money? What do you think I'm turning into?
"Of course," The wheel stopped. Hawthorne dropped back down onto all four legs of the chair and hunched himself before his work, watching closely as much smaller carving were pulled between the stronger lines and larger gestures. "This would be easier if the temples were still intact. My esteemed history as a monk of Rhalgr doesn't quite hold all the bearings and persuasion it used to, when that little detail would now get me a public throat cutting in the Quarter square. But I'll see what I can do."
Hawhthorne was still looking up, but this time Ashley only continued his pacing around the small store - his eyes on only clay and craftware. "If you can only find four men,” he said, “I can work with that. Or, four men and a body."
"I hope your man knows what he's doing, Riot."
From the Riskbreaker, silence followed - a silence soon swallowed up once again by the sound of the wheel, the pottery blade, and Ashley's teeth grinding to the bone.
Excerpts from coded messages left for Ashley Rosenheim within A Complete And Uncensored History of Ala Mhigo by Bernard Undertaker, given to Ashelia Riot for safekeeping.
Undercity in turmoil. Garleans have assumed control of the city. Approx. 1/4 staff report survival after escape attempt. Made the Garleans an offer. They think me cowed. They will learn their mistake. All I have to do is live long enough to see the day.
No word from Tia Malheur. Alma Malheur reported dead. Makes sense. They told me Ashley’s dead, too, but I don’t believe it. You’re better than that, Ashley. I know you’re still out there. I’ll find you, whatever it takes. I’m not losing you, too.
They think this book is me writing a historical textbook for fun. They cannot crack our cipher. But at least they think me boring. Good. Let them.
The man assigned to relay if your wife and daughter escaped safely was found dead today. Tried entering the city through the front gate. The depths to which I’ve had to resort, hiring idiots like that. Garleans won’t let me inspect the body or tell me what it was carrying. That might mean they’re fine, or it might mean they want me to have hope.
Persuaded the Garleans not to torture me. Sold several staff remaining in the city to them. Death and disability are unacceptable. I must be ready when the counterattack comes. When Eorzea fights back. It will happen.
Garleans demanded I marry. Intend to use a spy to watch me, think I’ll love her. As if that could happen.
The agent appointed to marry me is an idiot. I somehow find this even more insulting. She plays at being kindhearted. But she’s nervous. I can see she’s thinking too hard about what she says before she says it. Careful with her words. She’s got to have some sort of angle. All of their kind always do. She’s pretending she doesn’t notice I notice and it’s infuriating me. They’re force me to live on their compound, now, too.
The Garlean blinks twice every time you ask her a question that takes any thought to answer at all. Every single time. It’s a delay tactic. It’s irritating. Sloppy. This is the kind of spy they send to watch me, one who has such an obvious tell?
Gridanian source says Tia Malheur and Ashelia Riot have yet to be seen, but the horde of refugees is thick and the conflict with the city’s guards has made identification difficult. It seems likely the Garleans would kill them if caught and identified. And taunt me with the bodies.
The Garlean doesn’t stretch her joints enough. I can hear her ankles pop when she walks across the room at night. I hate her so much.
Sold another agent today. Still haven’t found you, Ashley. Can’t die yet. City needs freed. You need saved. She wasn’t doing anything of any real value, anyway. Her “Resistance cell” was her, her brother and their dog. No significant cost to the cause.
The Garlean asked to try the food I was cooking. I wish I could have poisoned her. She claimed to like it, too. Either she was telling the truth or she’s a great liar pretending to be a terrible one. I’m not sure which it is, yet.
Been reading further into voidsent summoning. Told them it was a book about Ala Mhigan rituals to track enemies by using their blood. The idiots believed me. They don’t know a single thing about our culture.
Binding powerful things to my will? Still beyond me, and probably always will be. Tiny voidsent? That’s doable. Can see through an ahriman’s eye, but grow it too much, and... well. Testing will be necessary.
How ironic I used the eye of an ahriman as my icon and soon I’ll literally look through one.
The Garlean mentioned the way I sit reminds her of an old friend she knew. I’m not her friend.
The Garlean bought me a book, said it was because she saw me writing so often. ‘Garlemald: A Glorious History’. What a thinly-veiled attempt to brainwash me. Child’s play.
After I read the book, she pretended to sympathize with me: “It was assigned reading at the Academy. It’s pretty thorough but has a clear bias. Can I read your Ala Mhigan history book?” They clearly want her to see if I’m writing in code. Good luck cracking this cipher. All she’s going to see is a boring history textbook.
I told her it isn’t finished yet. She offered to ‘help’ with research. As if she could. As if I’d let her. What an idiot.
“Bernard Noctine”. When the city’s free, I’m going to burn every single document they ever dared to write those words on. No one must know.
I also need to destroy every single image that exists of me in a suit. A suit! Rhaglr’s blood, I’m going to see them all burn.
Especially the tailor. “Red and black, perfect for your new country.” I’m going to figure out a way to see him burn.
I used to think your wedding was the most awkward and uncomfortable experience I’d ever been through. I remember Marco saying he’d be the best man at my wedding. I’m glad he can’t see this.
Garleans demand I sire a child. They’ll take the thing away, off to their Academy. As a hostage. As if I would care. But it disgusts me all the same. The thought. My blood, swinging a Garlean sword. Learning their culture as if it were proper to. Told they’re superior to what we grew up with.
A young idiot threw a grenade at a Reaper tank collecting taxes near a quarry. That sort don’t want a revolution, they want recognition. Nobody will remember his name.
I fail to understand the appeal of procreation. Spent the entire time waiting for the dagger I was sure she was going to pull on me when my guard was down. Still waiting.
Why would anyone want to be that close to someone? I tolerated hugs for Marco’s sake, but this is far, far worse. Uncomfortable. Irritating. A waste of my time.
Haven’t heard from Gustav. Worried he’s gone native. Boy was always more clever than smart. Maybe they’ve tortured him. Maybe they’ve broken him. Would be a waste.
Found what I was looking for - a concoction that will sterilize me. Should’ve done it years ago. What use do I have for a child? As soon as the first one’s born, I’ll make sure there’s never a second.
The Eorzeans show no sign of assisting us. When Baelsar goes West, they’ll see their folly. Perhaps then we can strike, while the garrison is gone.
The Garlean is with child. Good. I’ll kill it at birth, tell her there were complications, then play up that I’m so aggrieved the thought of making another is unbearable. That should work. If nothing else, the sterilization is something they won’t be able to deny is real.
Every time I look at the Garlean there’s something odd I feel. Not sure what it is. Some sort of spell? Garlemald doesn’t know this sort of magic, do they? Is she drugging me?
The Garlean offspring is due in days. Preparations are complete. I’ll finish the job myself. Can’t trust anyone else.
Couldn’t do it. Can you believe it? It was strange. I’ve never hesitated before. I’ve never felt the ‘guilt’ people talk of when they kill people. But I saw it... no, I saw him screaming. Crying. Pathetic. Weak. And yet Ala Mhigan all the same. I made a split-second decision while the Garlean was unconscious. It would’ve been so easy to make her death seem accidental, but not worth the risk. Took my son. Sent him away. Used his blood, my blood, the Garlean’s blood. Summoned and bound a small ahriman. I can watch the boy through it. This will work. This is good.
The Garlean’s attempts to convince me she thinks anything more of the boy than that he’s a tool to manipulate me have not deceived me. She cannot and will not be trusted. None of their kind can be. I will not fall for her faked tears.
He is my son. And he will be my only son. The concoction works. No more worrying about procreation.
The “agents in charge” were furious. Claimed I was making it all up. Their leader thinks he sees through me. Perhaps he does. But he can prove nothing, and I can prove myself incapable of siring another child. They demand the Garlean stay with me regardless. Continue this charade of a marriage. It’s a punishment, I’m sure.
His name will never be ‘William Noctine.’ He will not be named after the filth that sired his mother. He will never, ever meet that mistake of a family. He will never go to their academy, fight in their military, work as their slave. He will be free. He will be strong. He’ll have the life we couldn’t have, even if it means I have to get him out of here.
This ring stifles my hand. I refuse to wear it.
The Garlean cries. She is my enemy. I don’t care.
The Resistance is weakening. They were passionate, but disorganized. One by one they die or depart. They’re solidifying into various factions. The weakest will die, unable to support themselves. I can keep the strongest alive, possibly.
Garlemald continues to seep through this city’s skin. All the Twelve are absent. There are statues - of Garleans. Disgusting.
A child threw a stinkbomb at a Garlean patrol. They shot him in the street.
Children are sequestered away. My son is safe, but lives in filth. So did we. If he is more my son than hers, he will survive.
Every day since Ala Mhigo had fallen, Bernard Undertaker had clung to a single, all-consuming hope. Through Garlean interrogation, through every apparent betrayal he committed, through every lie he told, every step he took, through his false marriage and all the degradation and humiliation and pacification the Garlean Empire heaped upon him, he remained in control. He remained, he knew, his own man. He remained loyal to his city above all else, because he knew what it would take to bring Ala Mhigo back: Ashley Riot.
It was an absurd thought, any observer might have noted – one man wasn't going to spring a revolution. One man wasn't going to turn the tides. And even if one man could, Bernard had sold hundreds to the Garleans – betrayed the people he claimed to act in service of time and time again to save his own skin. He would be considered, if his acts were reported, one of Ala Mhigo's greatest traitors. History would write him as compliant in the Garlean occupation, as a supporter of the mad king Theodoric, as an unquestioned and irredeemable villain. If given the opportunity, Ala Mhigo would see him executed for his crimes. He would be tossed in a mass grave with other Garlean sympathizers, and that would be his story closed.
He had accepted that when the first Garlean boots had crossed the city gates and he had recognized what had to be done. He had accepted that no matter what, his own survival would be necessary. He had accepted that he would need to do things that no one else could ever understand in order to maintain his position, because standing obstinate against an overwhelming force was suicide, and no matter how “noble” historians claimed a last stand to be, it would accomplish nothing.
Selling out individuals who played at being a resistance? Selling out teenagers with stolen grenades who would blow up a single magitek reaper and think they'd won the war? Selling out old men who'd rather die a hero than live on their knees? Wasn't he just giving them what they wanted? A good many of them had never wanted a free city, Bernard knew. They wanted everyone else to see them. They wanted the others to see that they were true Ala Mhigans. It was the false, overemotional, idiotic pride that Bernard had always seen in those around him and had exploited his entire life. All he did, then, when he sold out the locations of weapon caches, when he informed on people whose idea of a revolution consisted of half-baked assassination plans without the smallest chance of success, was give the fools what they really wanted. If they were remembered at all, they'd be remembered as heroes, and he a villain.
That was what made Ashley Riot so important.
The people couldn't unite behind a villain. When the revolution came, when the armies marched on the city and he saw their flag fly again, when the altars to Rhalgr were restored, when the Garlean army was crushed beneath a proud city's populace, they would never follow a villain.
Bernard couldn't be a hero and survive, but Ashley could. Former Kingsguard or no, Ashley Riot was a man whose tale could be spun into a legend that could save Ala Mhigo in its own right.
It had been crucial to internalize that truth for the past twenty years, rather than simply admit that Ashley was one of only two friends he had ever had. To sacrifice others for the sake of a hero was tragic justice; to sacrifice others for the sake of a friend was the act of a selfish man and a coward.
Ashelia had gone to see her father, and Bernard knew Ashley was under some kind of Garlean control. He suspected Ashley Riot would've chosen to die fighting rather than make the choice Bernard so readily had, and that meant the Garlean bastards had some sort of leverage on him. Perhaps Ashley thought his family were their hostages. Perhaps he thought they were dead, that he had nothing else to live for. Whatever it was, Bernard knew which path Ashley would take. He knew Ashley too well, and some things never changed. There was only one path to Ala Mhigo beyond Baelsar's Wall that was fast enough, secluded enough, and lightly-traveled enough for Ashley Riot. So Bernard stood and waited.
Eventually, he knew, Ashley would come.
It wasn't two bells before he was proven right – a man nowhere near as touched by age as Bernard was came through the woods at a full sprint. A vision from the past. He looked half dead from exhaustion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. That may very well have been the case.
And Ashley saw him, too, and showed nothing. This wasn't Ashley the friend, this was Ashley the Riskbreaker. Ashley was working, just as when Marco had died, and Bernard recognized immediately this was going to be difficult. The spear, drawn and leveled at Bernard so quickly it looked almost as if Ashley had been carrying it the entire time, confirmed Bernard's suspicion.
Be that as it was, for the first time since Marco's death Bernard found himself unable to suppress an emotion: he actually, genuinely grinned at his friend.
“Hello, Ashley Riot.”
But Ashley didn't move, didn't blink, didn't twitch. Bernard considered his tone, and his words, carefully. Ashley must have recognized him, he realized – had he not, Bernard would have a spear through his chest. Somewhere, then, was the Ashley he knew.
Maintain courtesy. Don't give him a reason to attack. Keep him talking. He's not like to interrupt you. If you're an enemy, he'll want answers. He'll want something.
“Please,” Bernard continued. “I know I haven't aged as gracefully as you have, but surely you recognize me? Or is my assumption the Garleans did something to your head correct?” Friendly condescension. Connect emotionally. Present as a friend, present the idea he's being manipulated. Lay the groundwork. Don't frame as an accusation, frame as an option, as a possibility – you're not ordering him, you're offering an explanation to him.
“Don't.” Ashley said. His voice was raspy. Bernard suspected he hadn't used it much recently. Had Ashelia not found him after all? Ashley took a deep breath. Bernard recognized he was preparing to attack. Defuse this. He's not himself. You have to break him free.
“Are you going to put the spear away or not?” Get the weapon down. You can't beat him in a clean fight. It's been too long. You don't have surprise. You don't even have your weapons ready. He's got reach, drive, conditioning. Probably hasn't stopped fighting for twenty years. “I've looked too hard for you to fight you. I'm old. All my fighting is with words and information now. I certainly doubt I could fight you to a draw, let alone beat you.” Be ready to draw. Ashley will aim for the heart. Get the spear away, get inside his range, and I'll have a chance.
Best not to think of that.
Bernard's familiar, the ahriman his son had dubbed “Ahri”, manifested behind him, sensing the stress his master was under. Ashley didn't lower the spear, but his posture, the movements of his eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. Good. He's thinking. If he keeps thinking, he won't attack, and I won't have to take this further.
“What did you do to her. To both of them. To-” Ashley cut himself off. He was struggling. Fighting. Good.
“I tried and failed to save Alma. Tia I had no contact with until quite recently. To be honest, I wasn't even aware they'd made it out alive. The Garleans made sure of that.” Grab a fact, something easily proven, something he could find out from a commoner. “But when Gaius van Baelsar is killed by a Riot, the word spreads.” To Bernard's surprise, Ashley gritted his teeth.
He hasn't heard? They'd have locked him up until it was old news, then. Ah, but if he runs and asks someone, he'll get the answer and know I'm right, and I still win.
“That's what I'm to think, then? When you never cared one whit for them to begin with?”
And for the second time, Bernard's self-control slipped. Somewhere inside himself, he knew Ashley didn't know. Couldn't know. But the fact he had given so much and the man he gave it for dared to accuse him of this was too much. His temper flared and his voice grew much harsher, as an angry parent's. “You have no idea what I sacrificed so this day could come, Ashley. You have no idea how many are dead, died on your behalf. Died so I could find you. Died so I could make certain your daughter was safe, once I knew she'd survived at all. It doesn't matter if I liked Tia,” Which is good, because she's nothing close to what you deserve and frankly you should never have stuck with her to begin with, oh Rhalgr do I want to show you how right I was but now is not the time- “what matters is that you cared about them. That was enough to give all I could for them.”
And Ashley looked so angry at Tia's name, looked more poised to strike than Bernard could ever remember seeing him. Finally, his friend spoke, in a quiet tone that told Bernard just how dangerous Ashley was in this moment: “You murdered them.”
And there it was. That was the lie that turned Ashley Riot into a Garlean agent. That was what it took to make him betray his city, betray his people. It all made sense, now. But it was no less disappointing. Did he actually care that much about his damned wife? About a daughter he hadn't known but for a few years?
Either way, now Bernard had to talk. He knew Ashley wouldn't interrupt him, and that meant he had to say all he could before Ashley could stop him. Give him a reason to think. Give him information to digest. More, and more, and more. Drown him in it. Overwhelm the lies. “So that's what they've got you believing! There it is. That's what it would take, then. It does make sense. The only thing that would keep Ashley Riot from his family is the lie that they lie dead. No, Tia and Ashelia are both alive. Ashelia has her own free company. Has dreams about her father all the time. My best guess is there's some sort of connection, there. It seemed to run both ways.” Take advantage of that. It's something he can't deny. Hit him in the face with it, break the wall down. “Did you see me in a dream, recently? In a red room?”
And Ashley's eyes widened. Surprise. Disbelief. Perfect. Keep going.
“I told you to go to Camp Dragonhead,” Bernard continued, taking advantage of the hesitation. “I was so certain you'd be there. But of course you weren't. You were on a mission, weren't you? Nothing ever has deterred you when you're like that.”
Ashley didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't react. But Bernard knew he was fighting with himself. Excellent. That meant Bernard was winning. Keep at it. Make yourself too valuable to kill.
“I'll take you to meet your daughter, if you like.” Whatever you do, don't mention Tia. Don't say what happened to her. Don't mention what she's become. How can you spin it, without lying? If he senses a single lie, he'll think it's all a lie. But mentioning her as a godsdamned addict and mistake of a mother could push him to violence. “I don't think it a good idea for me to go to Little Ala Mhigo. Where Tia is. I'm not a popular face there.” Excellent. Does Ashley know anything at all about Little Ala Mhigo? Elaborate. “I would have expected Gundobald, of all men, would understand my position. But here we are.” As if I'd be stupid enough to actually approach the man. Please. With his connections, he already knows what I've become in the eyes of the Resistance. But Ashley doesn't.
And Ashley still did not lower his lance, but he seemed to calm the barest bit. And yet the threat was still there. Ashley said nothing, and Bernard said nothing, and the sounds of the forest filled the air for several minutes. He had said his piece, and would wait for Ashley's response. He had grown used to waiting.
“They told me you were dead,” Ashley finally said.
“They told me you were dead. And I knew from the start it was a lie.”
“You – you had your agents come for them. There, while we were on- on the hill. Tia's throat was slit, Ashelia was-” Was Ashley going to cry? Seriously? “...Like-”
Like Marco, eh? Let's hit him with the best response. The most logical response. If he thinks me a liar, he won't believe a denial. So let's attack from the side.
“Why would I?”
“He would never have died, if not for me. He was in that bar that night on a favor for me. And then I sacked the temple of his faith. Named my daughter after him. Took in his... his stupid dog.”
That?! You think THAT is enough to kill you over?! As if I'd have let you live that long if I blamed you! As if I would've waited. Is that REALLY the best those three-eyed bastards could do? And you FELL for that? Gods, Ashley, this is ridiculous. They must've torn you apart to break you enough to believe this sort of nonsense. His control was slipping again. Ashley must have recognized how annoyed he was getting, how irritating this whole scenario was. How frustrating to have his friend back, only to have him so far away. Let's come from another tact. Let's point out why this whole event is ridiculous. He responded too quickly to question my motives, but he certainly knows my methods. They didn't erase who I am, just added a lie about what I did.
“Do you remember Gustav?” Bernard asked. Ashley took a moment to nod. Good. This'll be easy.
“Gustav is the only man I ever recruited who was able to shadow you, and you put the fear of Rhalgr in that boy. He wouldn't have agreed to so much as follow you if I had a knife to his mother's throat. Who am I supposed to have sent to kill you and your family?”
“I turned my back only for a moment. I got soft.”
“What sort of idiot do you take me for that I would try to kill you in an open expanse where you could easily see assassins coming? If I were going to kill you it would've been just outside your door.”
That much was certainly true. It wasn't an exaggeration to say Bernard always kept a plan on hand for killing anyone he'd ever talked to, should he have to, and not even Ashley was excluded from that. “It would've been quick, because I know you, and I know it would have to be an instant death or you would kill absolutely everyone around you on the way down. And further, if I was going to kill you, I'd have done it myself. What sort of idiot sends men to kill your family first?” In all honesty, he was offended at how stupid Ashley clearly had to think he was. Garlean torture is thorough. It doesn't have to make sense to him with enough force. But this makes it all the easier to break it down.
“The sort who's more intent on teaching a lesson.”
Well, he had done that before. Can't say he wouldn't ever. How could he approach this? Wait, I've got it. “To whom? If I killed you, everyone in my organization would worry for their own lives. That sort of fear breeds revolt. There would be absolutely no gain.” He hesitated, considering if he should go this far, but it was time to. “Besides, I've already accepted whose fault Marco's death was. It wasn't yours.” It was mine. “Frankly I can't comprehend what sort of lapses in judgment it takes to look at what happened and blame you.” It was all mine, and it's your fault I have to think on it again. You'd better appreciate that.
Ashley took a single step forward, but didn't seem like he was going to strike. Indeed, it seemed almost as if he was going to run past. To run away. Easier than accepting the truth. You're not getting away. “Don't go back to Ala Mhigo,” Bernard said. “Not until the revolution comes. They'll find you, refit your mind with the lies they've clearly already implanted. I won't allow that to happen, Ashley.” Even if I have to kill you and die trying. You're better a corpse than a slave. Grey will be taken care of whether I'm here or not. “Everyone else has left or died. My organization is filled with Garlean footpads and cockroaches.” He won't care about them. Ah, but I've an ace. “Your family isn't there.” The thing you'd betray your city over should be enough to betray the Garleans. “Go and be with them. You can meet my son, too. It'd do him good to meet a proper man.”
Did I mean that as an insult to myself, or the Marbrand boy? Or both? Regardless, something changed in Ashley. He did not soften, but some part of him behind the eyes at last grew calm. Ah, of course. He just needed orders.
“That's what you've been doing these twenty years, then? They've kept you well-hidden.”
You have no idea. “I have done precisely what I had to do to stay alive, because there's no one else in this world who was going to save you.” The only ones left who even knew you are your family. “And when the revolution comes, someone has to be there to throw open the gates.” And accept what comes next.
Ashley clearly thought it over, then nodded. “Ashelia, she's...”
“An extremely capable commander in her own right, though far too trusting for my standards and more attached to her personnel than she ought be. She's also married. To the Marbrand boy. He's an idiot, but a kindhearted one. Were he a problem he'd already be dead.” But still, it seems picking people beneath your level is a family trait. An irritating one. Do I tell him I attended the wedding and it was by their standards a good one? No, that throws us off track. Threatens his stability by reminding him how much he's missed of her life. “She's adopted my son. It's a strange state of affairs. But it's what the both of them want, so it doesn't exactly bother me.”
“Your son.” Ashley seemed to think this absurd. And it was, to be fair. “Your son.”
Bernard sighed. Of course. He would dwell on that. The only good thing about Marco not being here is that I don't have to put up with this from him, too. “Yes. Get it out of your system. The Garleans assigned an agent to play my wife and made it clear my life depended on her having a child. That's what this one is for.” He jerked his thumb at Ahri. “The boy named himself Grey. Much better than 'William Noctine.'”
Ashley seemed to be thinking for a moment, then blurted out another question. “What of Tia?”
Gods, do we really have to do this? Can't you just go back to Ul'dah and be with your daughter and forget about that waste of flesh and bone? No. No, of course you can't. You idiot. How am I going to explain this? “...Tia is currently residing in Little Ala Mhigo.”
“Little Ala Mhigo? With the Resistance?”
No, Ashley, in a pit in the dirt with smoke in her lungs. And missing, now. Stupid woman. I told her he was coming back, and she goes off and gets lost.
Ashley must've picked up on what was going on, because he pressed the issue. “What is it?”
“She was ill for some time,” that's a nice way to phrase it. Sure, her illness was her own fault and her own doing and ruined your daughter's childhood, but this makes it sound so much nicer, doesn't it? She can explain it herself. It's on her, not me. It wasn't my decision to ruin her life, so she can take the responsibility herself. “And then she got better. And then she walked out and hasn't been back. It's been difficult to get reliable agents in the camp,” if only you knew, Ashley, that I have to rely on a Silverbrand even more useless than the rest of their kind “and I've been unable to learn where she went or why.”
Ashley was quiet for a moment. Bernard had nothing more to add – anything else would raise questions he didn't want to ask. When lying, too much information could bury one deeper. “Thank you,” Ashley finally said, and Bernard was relieved he hadn't asked anything further.
“If I had known she had planned to leave, I would have tried to impress upon her how important it is she stay. I'm sorry.” I should've had her tossed in a cell, somehow, with a crime I could easily free her from. And I would have, if this was Ala Mhigo, but Ul'dah doesn't work the same way, now does it? Maybe I could've bribed a mercenary to lock her up, or done something else. But then you'd hate me for it, wouldn't you, Ashley? And that sack of bile isn't worth that.
Ashley shook his head. “I suppose there's only one place left for me to go now.”
Where's that? If the answer is 'looking for Tia', I'm going to wait 'til you turn your back and hog tie you, you son of a bitch. If anyone can keep you out of harm's way, it's that daughter of yours.
“...I did meet her, deep in Dravania.” Ashley said. So she did succeed. “She saved my life."
...What? I must've misheard him. Or he misspoke.
“She saved your life?” The nod Ashley gave him was completely serious. She saved his life? That girl? The one with her fancy armor playing at military command, not invested enough in finding her father to commit to it until she'd finished playing war with the Ishgardians? The one too busy building airships to reunite her family and too soft to punish anyone adequately? The one that lets in strays like she's running a charity? That one, that child, that's who saved Ashley Riot, the greatest fighter Ala Mhigo ever produced? How did that happen?
“She is a woman grown, one who has carried far too many burdens.” Ashley said. Bernard barely registered it, still trying to figure out how she could possibly have saved Ashley, but nodded anyway out of politeness. Never mind, there'll be time to figure that out later. There was something else I should warn him about. Something more important, right?
Right. “By the way, there's something you may want to be aware of. It worries me, at least. Gerrith Gaffgarion is still around, and with Garlemald losing one of their prized agents, it's possible a man like him may be hired to bring you back. Age has not weakened him. There are others out there, but he's the only mercenary I'm aware of that might actually pose a threat to you.” He was definitely a threat to me, back then, and if what I've heard is true he's only gotten to be more of a bastard with age. “I regret not killing him when I had the chance.”
Ashley sighed, and Bernard felt the weight of his friend's exhaustion in that sigh. “Of all the people to survive these twenty years...”
“I'm going to be frank with you, Ashley. You're the only good man left.” And I'm why.
But Ashley shook his head, clearly not believing Bernard. “I've lived half my life as a lie, Bernard. No matter what they did to me, that will not change."
No you don't. Don't pull your self-sacrificing nonsense on me. “There's no blame in being a victim.” The answer was immediate, forceful. He wasn't going to accept an interpretation of the situation other than his own.
But infuriatingly, Ashley shook his head again. “It's as you said. Only a fool would think to put the pieces together as I did. I never did remember burying either of them. And Alma, she was... there were never any memories of what became of her.”
“Gods damnit Ashley,” Bernard said, barely suppressing how furious he was getting. “There's no man in this world could endure twenty years of Rhalgr only knows what they did to you."
“Isn't there? I would imagine Ashelia endured it with me.”
Who cares about her? She didn't want you freed enough anyway. "I didn't sacrifice what I have so you can feel guilty for something you've no fault in.” Hundreds dead. Two decades I spent with a collar and a leash, bending over backwards for those smug sons of bitches. I may as well have killed every last man who didn't leave with my own hands. I sacrificed my freedom, my name, my plans, my position, my power - my legacy - and I certainly didn't give it all up so Ashley Riot could be little more than a shell of a man. A walking corpse.
But what if he is? Something deep within Bernard asked, something he'd been silencing for twenty years. What if you did waste it all? What if this was all the path of a fool? If you hadn't been so obsessed with keeping him safe, you could've left the city before they marched in. You could've run your own Resistance from outside, revered as a patriot instead of reviled as a traitor. You could've put your hooks into the other cities, forced their hands a decade ago. Freed your city by now. Saved them all. Kept your name.
And maybe, if you'd done that, Ashley would've been saved anyway.
Bernard's limbs tensed, his heart raced. He suppressed his rising panic, but he couldn't quell the anger in his voice. “You need to live, not be some echo of a man engrossed in imagined losses and blaming himself for crimes he's innocent of.”
“I saw the signs. The holes in their patterns.” And their blades, surely. I'd bet my life you've far more scars now than you had twenty years ago. “I thought the worst of you.” So did I. “And I played along even when I had my doubts.” So you could survive. “Even when I saw my countrymen broken and beaten in the streets.”
Focus. Break his will. Get this stupid idea out of his head. Think. How do we do this? “In all your life have you met a man harsher than I am?” This'll work. Appeal to his knowledge of me. “If I tell you it's not your fault, then it isn't. Would it help to hear your daughter say it, too?”
“You misunderstand me," he snapped. He turned from where he stood overlooking the Shroud, his gaze sharp but steady on Bernard. "I will keep moving forward.”
You'd better, you bastard. “Good.”
“But in my own way. I cannot simply take from what my daughter has built through her own deeds. If my dreams were any indication... she and hers truly have a chance.”
Maybe. Better than the Resistance, at least. “...Perhaps.”
“Where will you go from here?”
...Where WILL I go? I want to go with him. I don't want to go back to the Garleans, to the cat and mouse game. To playing at being their dog. “...I'm not sure. I hadn't planned past this point.”
Ashley chuckled at that. Briefly. He WOULD think that funny. I suppose this is only the second time I didn't have a plan, isn't it? “Would you go to the Sandsea?” he asked.
And live with that lot again? With Ashelia's feigned pleasantries? Watching men and women who should be fighting sit around and drink tea and talk nice to each other? Throw away the chance to help my city? Look my son in the eyes and know he'll always see me as a demon? Deal with being a burden on him? Absolutely not. But I can't word it that way, now can I? “If I abandon Ala Mhigo, I discard my chance to be useful in liberating my home.” How sickeningly patriotic of me.
Ashley nodded. “I'll look after Grey for you.”
Maybe you'll be the father figure he needs. “See to it he doesn't end up like us. He deserves to cling to his dreams. I worry your daughter may try to push him along our path.” She likely wouldn't on purpose, but oh is he the type to use her as an excuse to fight. Little would-be hero. Would've joined the Resistance, eventually.
“I will.” Another moment of silence, which Bernard soaked up. Twenty years of waiting, and he was still savoring the moment. He knew it would soon come to an end. “How are we to communicate?” Ashley asked.
“Anything you say to this one I'll hear. He'll hang around my son from here on. It started as a way to make certain he didn't die. I also kept record of everything that has happened since the Garlean attack in a book in your daughter's study. You certainly still remember how to read between the lines, I am sure.”
Ashley cast a little glare at the voidsent. He didn't seem to like it, and Bernard found this more amusing than he should have.
“Keep in touch, then. I'll do the same.”
“Of course. Good seeing you again, Ashley.” How ridiculous, to put it that way. As if it had only been a day.
“...And you. I'll send Ashelia your regards.”
“Thank you.” Bernard watched Ashley set off again, presumably towards Ul'dah, but walking this time. He stood there, watching his friend disappear, and dwelt on how easy it would be to follow him. To abandon his city. He'd weathered two decades, he'd weathered an entire generation. Did he really need to stick around, still? And what if the Garleans executed him upon his return, after having been gone for so long?
But with Ashley at rest, I can't betray Marco. I still have a handful of cards to play.
He turned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked for a home that hadn't been home in a long, long time.
As Rosenheim paced around the basement workshop, trying and failing to puzzle out a particularly lengthy line of code, an ahriman's silently flitting wings cast shadows along the margins of the cookbook.
“Cakes,” he said once again.
A gurgle from the ahriman.
Rosenheim turned another page, not so much as casting the miniature voidsent a glance. “Ordinarily I would say that learning domestic skills would make you that much more attractive to potential romantic partners, but-”
Before he could finish his sentence, the ahriman dove straight for his face, its claws extended.
I wrote the piece Out Like a Lamb a year ago today, in which young Ashley meets his best friend in the worst days of his life. I’ve been meaning to write much, much more about what transpires in the years between that story and this one, but I have so little time to work through everything I’d like.
This piece takes place shortly after this one from @safestsephiroth.
The thought of walking home in his ruined boots hadn't been an appealing one, but the pair he'd lifted from the Kingsguard smithy were somehow both too heavy and too tight all at once. The growing ache in his feet only worsened the fatigue that had settled throughout the rest of his body as he put the palace farther and farther behind him.
The dreary afternoon eventually gave way to a premature dusk. There was a deep and visceral part of Ashley that no longer wished to be alone, and he only realized it when he found himself standing before a derelict building at the corner of North End. The glow of a fireplace lit the interior from within; some remnants of the flickering light illuminated the peeling wooden sign by the window for Belladonna Tailoring and Millinery. He approached the threshold in the dark of night, raised his fist, and knocked twice on the door.
There came the sounds of Tia's chatter, Alma's giggling, and then the mechanism of a lock before the door opened to reveal his fiancée's shining face. Her eyebrows rose only a fraction as she regarded him, until she asked, "Did you forget something?"
He had awoken in this very house only that morning, having spent the night with Tia in her home for the first time since the beginning of their courtship. Tia had initially been wary of any arrangements that might have exposed her younger sister to details of matters beyond her years, and rightly so; yet Alma herself had insisted that it made no sense for him to walk all the way back to his own apartment when he had needed to be at the palace the next morning, and also that she was fourteen years old and already knew more about sex than she would ever care to.
Alma stood on her tiptoes to grin at him from behind her older sister's shoulder. Ashley opened his mouth with the intent to give some form of greeting, but found he could not summon words for either of them.
He could feel the warmth of the hearth from where he stood, and inwardly he chastised himself for lingering there like an idiot and permitting the heat to escape into the night. Tia had turned so that he might slip past her to enter the house, but he had not noticed even that gesture of welcome; he stood rooted in the doorway, silent.
"Ashley? What's wrong?" she asked him.
He stared into Tia's eyes - her beautiful, dark eyes - now so full of concern.
"Marco... Marco's dead."
Alma gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Almost at once she burst into tears, dissolved into sobs that rent his heart even after all the horrors he'd seen and heard that day. Tia grabbed him about the shoulders and pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"No!" Alma cried. She was nearly doubled over in her grief. Tia did not look at her, and Ashley suspected it was only because she could not bear to do so. "He's not, he can't be-"
"Bernard confirmed it, as did I. He was..." He swallowed. He was only at Rinomy's because I asked him to gather intel for me. "He was having a drink at Rinomy's Board in Muthru. Someone threw a bomb. It landed right in his lap." He couldn't tell them the rest: that it hadn't killed him instantly, that his guts had been blown to pulp but the rest of him had been kept intact, that he'd surely been alone and in agony for his final moments, that he'd seen the body himself and would never forget it for as long as he lived. Perhaps he would tell them, someday. "We've ruled out the Silverbrands, the Balam Ring, the... the two godsdamned surviving Blackram Knights. Gaffgarion would have let us know it was him." He knew he was rambling now, and on matters of which they had no knowledge. "But Rinomy's was a neutral zone for the entire Undercity. It should have been safe for everyone, it should never have..."
Memories came, unbidden, of a towering assassin garbed in black striking a flint in his childhood home. Half the East End’s a neutral zone, Marco had said to him when they'd met in the days that had followed. No one from the Undercity’s supposed to kill anyone up there, for any reason. Only through Marco's kindness had he made a way for himself in a place ruled by treachery.
He might have survived, if not for Marco - but he certainly would not be the man he was today. And he would never have met the Malheurs.
Tia held him and Alma both, even as silent tears fell unabated down her own cheeks. For the first time since he had heard the news, he allowed himself to shed the disposition of a Riskbreaker - to truly mourn. He could do so here, with the woman he loved, and that knowledge was the first thing that had truly brought him comfort since he'd left her that morning.
Halfway through his second cup of mulled wine, he jolted to his feet from where he and Tia and Alma sat huddled by the hearth.
"What is it?"
"Montblanc," He winced at the blisters on his feet as he squeezed himself into the too-tight workboots. "Someone has to find Montblanc."
Tia stood as well, though she did not follow immediately in his wake. "Won't Bernard-"
"Bernard always told him to leave the mutt and find a proper guard dog." His tone was caustic, he realized, though he hadn't meant to direct his annoyance at her. "Sorry. He's not going to see it as a priority." Especially not while he has suspects to interrogate.
"We'll go with you," said Alma, and went to get coats.
A cursory search of the tunnels Marco frequented turned up nothing. It was well after nightfall, and more than once did Ashley consider simply abandoning their task until the following morning; the dog had been whelped in the Undercity, and he would survive a day without food regardless. Yet the thought of leaving Marco's companion alone on such a cold evening seemed unthinkable, even after all of the unthinkable things that had come to pass that day.
During what he had told himself would be his final lap around Muthru, he spied a familiar flash of white fur slinking into a shadowed alley. The dog cowered into such a frightened stance as he approached that it took Ashley several moments to recognize him as Marco's.
"Monty!" Ashley held out his right hand, palm up, for the spaniel to sniff. "It's alright, Monty. I'm here."
The dog loosed an unsteady growl, replete with a number of frightened whimpers.
"Come on, Monty, you know me." He'd first seen Montblanc when he was little more than a pup tottering on overlarge paws; when last they'd met, the dog had run to greet him with boundless enthusiasm. "We have to go home. You'll be alright."
Still the dog did not budge, nor did he untuck his tail from between his legs, and he thwarted every attempt to move him by force with a series of warning nips. Ashley was halfway through considering carrying the frightened dog and enduring any bites when another figure appeared at the end of the alley.
"Montblanc." It was Tia, breathing on her bare fingertips in a vain attempt to keep them warm; she held her frigid hands out to the dog just as Ashley had. The dog straightened and made his way to her, wagging his tail only a little hesitantly as he bypassed Ashley completely. Tia slipped a length of twine around the dog's neck and nodded to Ashley. "Alma's back at home. You can stay the night again, if you'd like."
Though he longed to accept, he shook his head. "I have to be ready for Bernard to find me, in the event he learns something." Despite whatever intrusions he regularly endured from his friend, he refused to compromise Tia's privacy.
Tia nodded; she seemed neither surprised nor disappointed by his response. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. She glanced down at Montblanc, then around at the dark alley. "He was... Twelve, he meant so much to us all. But to you in particular..." Her words trailed off, but once more she threw her arms around him until neither of them could endure the cold any longer. Only then did Tia voice the remainder of her thoughts. "He brought us together, Ashley; for that, I'll be grateful to him always. No matter what becomes of us."
"And we'll endure this together," he replied. His watering eyes stung from the chill of the wind. "I swear it." Montblanc gave another little whine from somewhere around his knees. "I'll stop by tomorrow to pick him up. Try to get some rest, if you can."
"I love you, Ashley."
"And I you, Tia."
Tia departed with Montblanc after one last kiss, yet Ashley remained rooted at the alley's entrance. He waited and waited in the oppressive silence until a shape at last unfolded from the shadows.
"What have you found?"
"The powder in the bomb was of a unique concentration," said Bernard. His tone was as clipped as it had been earlier in the day; his rigid posture radiated the depth of his rage and confusion, belying any of his overt semblances of composure. It was little wonder the dog had been terrified. "It's only ever been manufactured in one place: the former limestone quarry."
It was a start, at least. "Then let's go."
Ashley had not the faintest idea how they had all known where to gather. He had not spoken a word to anyone of their plans save the Malheurs, and he had had to plead with Bernard to allow that much. Yet as the four of them stood on Marco's favorite hill beneath the lone tree and a sky covered with stars, another tiny contingent arrived one by one.
It was the first he'd seen of Élodie since they were scrawny teenagers. She wore a dark shawl across her otherwise bare shoulders, and before anything else, she approached him to kiss his cheeks in the custom of her people. She then clasped the Malheurs' hands, though Ashley doubted she had met either of them before; to Bernard she inclined her head, and the gesture was no less respectful for its lack of touch. From then on, she took up a position behind the sniffling Alma and kept her gaze lowered to the earth in veneration.
There came heavy booted footsteps, and a tall Highlander man dressed in the regalia of a nobleman mounted the hill. Ashley had never seen before and could discern no familiar crests on his clothing. Two women in Fist robes, a Roegadyn and a Miqo'te, arrived separately; they regarded each other with mild surprise but stood together for the duration of the event. Most puzzlingly, a child of indeterminate race and age ran to the top of the hill and placed a tattered bouquet at the roots of the tree, only to flee the congregation moments thereafter in the direction from which he had come.
In time, a faint westerly breeze picked up across the highlands, and only then did Bernard step forward with the earthenware jar containing Marco's ashen remains. Ashley knew of no funerary rites used by devotees of Rhalgr and doubted that Marco would have rightly earned them without having died in battle. For a moment he debated holding his friend back, begging him to wait for at least a little longer, but the reverent silence that hung over the assembly proved too great a comfort to threaten.
And he knew Marco would have reviled the notion of remaining in a jar for years on end.
The process of scattering the ashes proved to be much more ungainly than Ashley had imagined. Bernard removed the first handful and made to throw it into the wind, but the majority of the dust fell to the grass at their feet. Ashley accepted the jar from him and ran his fingers through its contents, coarser than any ash he had ever felt, as his heart beat wildly; though a few particles caught on the breeze and were carried away, his own attempts attained no real results. But Bernard had relinquished the jar and would not take it back. Slowly, unsure of what else to do, Ashley poured out the remainder of Marco's ashes along the roots of the hill's solitary tree.
Bernard Undertaker had his hands deep in his pockets, his breath thick in the frozen air. The new coat helped him blend in, but there was only so much he could do towards that end. The Ishgardian greatcoat was warm, at least. Not that it could possibly be enough in this place. He thought back to when he was young and trying to keep warm in the Undercity. Makeshift scraps of cloth over freezing bits of fingers and limbs, filching food just to keep warm. The smell of the vendors above...
He shook his head. Best not think on that. Focus.
He heard the footsteps coming back yet again. He put on the fake smile, the warm countenance he could slip into like an old pair of boots kept in the closet all summer. It was something his subordinates always found unnerving about him. Back when said subordinates were plentiful. Back when he wasn’t beholden to the worst enemy his city had ever had.
It’s worse than if the Gridanians had invaded and somehow won.
The Ishgardian guard knocked on the door.
“I’m here, Charles,” Bernard said.
“Still no sign of your client, Guillaume?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a shame, I’ve been expressly ordered to deliver the message to him personally. If I could I would quit this place this very instant, but honor binds me here. Tell me, Charles, what was it like in your youth? When the snows weren’t a constant aspect of life?”
“Easier to take a piss outside. Your coin can only buy you so much time here before people get to talking. Before people start wondering if this lord you’re waiting for exists. Before people start asking if you’re an enemy of Ishgard.”
“That’s the very nature of coin, isn’t it? It’s never as strong as loyalty and dedication are. That’s something Ul’dah could stand to learn, eh?”
“I don’t know much about them.”
“They’re terrible people, all of them. Not like here. You’re a proud, steadfast civilization who know how to stand together in times of trouble. You understand unity, loyalty, the importance of knowing how to defend oneself. Ul’dah doesn’t recognize that the rich can only get so rich before the poor raise arms against them. But that would never happen in Ishgard.”
“Suspicious words, those. Best be careful who you say them around.”
“On the contrary. I have the utmost faith in your government. Why, as I understand it you’ve managed to bring an end to a feud longer than any living memory. Peace in our time. Save for the Garleans, eh?”
“What about them?”
“Come now, surely you’ve given it some thought. Ishgard’s going to keep fighting someone. Garlemald’s right there, biding their time. Building up another attack. You can’t seriously tell me you haven’t heard about them and their actions in-”
Ashley’s not coming here. Of course he’s not. That look was rage. He was angry enough at my voice to let it show during a mission. What lies does he believe of me? But he’s not here, and he won’t be coming here. How did I miss it? No, they must have him headed for-
“-Dravania. And that’s close enough to you that you can bet they’ve set their sights on Ishgard.”
“You seem to know a lot about Garleans.”
“I keep up with the news in my spare time.”
“Maybe you stay until the night’s passed and if your noble isn’t here you go home. For everyone’s sake.”
“You know what? I think that’s a rather generous offer of you, Charles.” The man left Bernard to solitude again. Bernard rubbed his temples, thinking, then threw his cowl on over the coat.
This was a waste of time. But I’m close. I’ll never get through the city’s gates, not without the risk of one of Garlemald’s spies catching me, so I’ll have to find another way.
Two days later he reached Gridania and tore the bits of latex from his face. He cleansed the makeup in a stream and was glad to see a familiar reflection once more. Disguises made him uncomfortable; it was better to stay completely unobserved than to have to rely on looking different than you ought, he reckoned. Something unnoticed is never remembered.
