His boots scraped against stone and loose gravel when he stopped before the great white wall. The young Rider who was his company stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. Eyes thinned. No doubt he thought Vargis was a country Rider, one of those who never came to Simanel. Vargis thought he remembered training the lad in front of him. There were enough names and faces to fill a thousand lives. And ever since Agrippa had pulled them both out of the action - Vargis thought for good - it made up the whole of his life, training people to do what he did. Vargis was still wearing his mask, while the boy had tied it to his belt. That was the new fashion. Full masks were another new fashion. One he could not fully endorse. His stopped beneath the eyes, with a tent that seemed to fold up over his nose, so that only his eyes and forehead were visible. There were no designs or artistic flourishes on his mask. Young people. They were too concerned with appearances these days, and what those appearances meant

( Vargis gestured impatiently at the young man. )

There was a certain sadness still lingering inside of Eithne, but at least now it was small enough for her to ignore. There were more important things to do of course, more important things for her to focus on, and now she had a new way of fighting that she needed to master. If she couldn't be deadly and quick with a sword then she'd probably end up dead. She needed rest now, but found her head spinning from everything going on. Everything that had happened and would happen. She couldn't sleep. Even if she was tired and sore, her head just wasn't. A walk then, at least around the camp. Some of them were still awake, but most of them were asleep now. It was dark enough that she might have seen stars if she looked up. But she was still afraid of seeing ash and being forced to wonder how long before everything burned and they reduced the world to nothing more than ash... At least, if they allowed that to happen. And she knew none of them would allow it.

( No real Rider ever would. )

There was no erasing how she felt, no drink could do the job, and certainly no talk could have. But she could ignore it now that Vargis had given her a good reason not to leave and wallow in it. She would have wallowed in it if she'd left them here to be on their own. She'd dread every word she found on the road, thinking it might be about his death. About their deaths. Even if she didn't particularly like Vera or Hasna, she'd been with them for a long enough time to understand that their deaths should be mourned even if she didn't believe in such things completely. Death was just that, death, the end and there was no time worth wasting in mourning when another drink or coin could be in hand. But now things were complicated. Feelings muddled and bound to beings she never expected to be bound to.

Like him.

She could see Eragos now, huddled a bit away from the camp, talking with Hasna. Eithne didn't want to approach them at first. She dreaded dealing with Hasna, especially after the reception she'd been given after she tried just to stand closer to the group and be of help. She hadn't had a blade in hand, and now that she had a sword, Vargis' of all things in her hand she worried that the woman might assume she'd slayed the older rider for being old or something. Hasna wouldn't actually think that, Eithne was being cruel. The woman had every right to think she'd been a monster for murdering tht Grey Rider. But from now on she just wouldn't do things like that in public.

And then there was what Vargis had said. The last bits of what he said in that long talk. The closer she was to Eragos. Well it wasn't like she could avoid Eragos and hope she didn't already tarnish him by being as close as she had been. Avoid him? She couldn't even avoid thinking about him, let alone make sure she wasn't teamed up with him. Vargis had to know that when it came to Eithne at all Eragos usually got lumped into whatever she was assigned to. Or vice-versa. She hadn't known Eragos had been sent to find Vera first, but there he'd been and she knew why Agrippa sent her. There were countless missions along the way and they were never far apart.

( He hadn't meant missions at all. )

It seemed an impossible feat to try to sleep now, when the ashes of her kingdom and her peple rendered in the skeleton of Hatharida behind them. But at the same time, it seemed an impossible feat to try to stay awake any longer. She'd gone without sleep for two days, had eaten only bits of scarce fruit, and the magical summoning of the power of the earth had weakened her to the point of uselessness. There was nothing more than rest for Thiele Varchardt of Lsaia to do in this night. Turning down the generous offer that the Lady Vera made to set up some sort of bedding, Thiele instead chose the space beside the unconscious champion she'd chosen for her land. In a way, he was the only thing left of her home, and that alone was reason enough to curl with her back against his arm. But he was also a good man with a good heart. That was reason enough to keep her there.

Her skin felt near to boiling - a side effect of the connection between the land of Lsaia and herself, now that the earth lay under a sea of fire. The night was cool, however, and although she couldn't be certain, she thought that Tanist's skin was also cool. Sitting up, then, she un-twirled his cloak from where her head had rested, tossed the azure garment over the man, then dropped back to the earth with a breathless sigh. She was so very, very tired.

This place that Vera had spoken about - this city of answers - was unknown to Thiele. She had no where else to go, and nothing else to say about her path. If the White Riders offered her an escort to this place, she would take it. Perhaps on the way, there would be word of another place where green elves lived. She would like to find a home, a haven away from places that needed swords and knives and White Riders. She did not think it would be Lady Vera's city. But maybe she could discover where to go from there.

Lost in thoughts that wouldn't let her close her eyes, she realizes belatedly that Tanist's breathing had become lighter - not that heavy, deep-sleep sound, but the hiss of air that meant awareness. He had not moved. Thiele frowned, then twisted around until she could see him. The night shielded his face. But she was certain he was awake.

"It's over now," she said in a whisper, reaching for the best comfort she could think to offer. "We're safe, and you should feel free to rest. You've well-earned it."

For he had. This man had gone from stranger to closest friend in the span of three weeks. He'd walked with her, unafraid, unwavering, into the fires that consumed her homeland - and he stayed with her when they brought out the only lives that they could salvage. Yes, there was no one else she could name who had earned his rest better than he.

This was different.

His hip felt lighter without the sword. He had to put it out of his mind. Vargis had never been one for sentimentality or weeping, but he had enjoyed the sword. It did what it was supposed to do. Going back to sword work after so long out of the game simply wasn't in the cards. When you felt age creaking in your hands, when anything felt heavy, you knew it was time to start doing something different. His hands hadn't been so bony as a young man. Though age had not been kind to him, it had missed several opportunities to make things worse, and that would have to be enough. The sword had a good home. That would also have to be enough. This he put out of his mind as he approached. She wouldn't like what he had to say, but chances were she had thought much of through already, and Vargis was not in a position to tell young Riders how to conduct their affairs any longer. This was her fight, not his. If he participated it was out of loyalty to Eragos, not because he claimed a place in the boy's gallery of rogues.

( She seemed content to let him lead. )

White drifted in and out of his vision, swirling seemingly without pattern, and if not for the heat on his skin it could have been winter. South of Hatharida the many cottonwood trees that grew along the Olne river had not felt hte scourge of fire. Breathless white motes soared through the air on a warm spring wind. Those, Eragos knew, were the seeds which spread as far and as wide as they could. Since the world was not ruled by those massive trees with their dull flattened leaves he could assume it was not the most effective form of transmission. They were survivors, those trees. Fire and water could not move them. Cottonwoods survived floods that would destroy other trees, and fires as well, to keep hurling seed after seed at a world which needed no more of them. They should have been pests, but against the moonlight, with each of those cotton bursts captured perfectly in silver beams, he was glad for them. Snow, or so it appeared this close. All of them together forged a blizzard from nothing. Carried with it was a stillness of soul that he might not have found otherwise. Eragos didn't know how a soul could be so still after the horror of that forest.

A forest that was by now burned to the ground.

( Gone. )

This was the first time they'd stopped since they left the burning remains of Hathrida behind. Eithne couldn't forget what happened there, nor could she ignore what happened before they'd ever reached the forest. It made her impossible to talk to, and it made it impossible for her to stick around the other riders who used to be her friends, and the newest members of their party who certainly suffered far more than she had and yet she couldn't get over it. She'd cried back there, openly, not to the point of sniffles or whimpers, but it had been enough to unsettle her. Their collective resolve seemed to be that they could not trust her. Which meant she wasn't more than a burden rather than an asset. Even if none of them had openly said it, Eithne was sure of it now. Hansa's reaction had happened without anyone saying anything. No reaction from them, no back up, just another cold shoulder.

She suddenly missed being nothing more than a street fighter. She might not have had a purpose, but at least she wasn't this unsure of herself.

But now she was. Where was she going? Why was she still following them? Eithne easily slipped past everyone that had gathered to camp and made her way away from the camp. Smoking used to be an easy way to ignore what was going on. Delaying the inevitable. There was a lot there on her mind. Not only was there the question of if she should continue on with them, but what would happen to her if she would? Hansa wasn't the only one who didn't like what she'd done to that Grey Rider they had originally captured, the others were equally displeased. She was sure Cols would have been downright nauseous if he had seen it. Thankfully he hadn't been there, at least one of them could still be counted on for something.

( And then there was Eragos. )

"Pigeons," Birloch said quietly.

"Lots of 'em," Raed added with a stabbing glare.

"And you saw all this," Eragos said with a wry tinge of his voice. "From behind the bushes."

"You'd be surprised what you can see when ya ain't runnin' around like a madman wavin' some huge sw-"

( Raed cut off with a yelp. )

For the last few hours no one had rest of any kind. Sleeping Tiger had insisted on carrying Frozen Pond across his back. Vargis had objected to the idea - initially. When he raised the possibility of Sleeping Tiger slitting their captive's throat while he slept the Dragon Knight looked so disgusted that Vargis wondered if they had the same father. It was the same look that Eragos summoned a thousand times before. Whatever else he could say about either of these strange foreigners, they did their killing to their enemy's face. Vargis could at least respect that. If not always agree with it. Right now Sleeping Tiger didn't occupy his thoughts. At least, not entirely. What occupied his thoughts was the fire that raged seemingly all around them. A burning of the forest, exactly what he would have done in their place, as he'd said before.

( Being right never felt so wrong. )

Although the tunnels were easier to navigate when lit, they were harder to endure. She understood why Elden preferred to have them blind as he led them through the underground -- respecting the remains burnt into the earth was difficult to do without taking up time that their party required to move. The fire hadn't purged as much from the tunnels as it should have, even if it managed to kill everything within them. There were pieces of tools and furniture she could make out in the piles of blackness and ash that collected in the antechambers they passed through. The pieces of the underground network that were closest to the exposed entrances were the messiest, as far as remains were concerned. Whatever senses the Green Elves were gifted with, they'd known the fire was coming. They just couldn't move fast enough. That cold analysis kept her going more than any optimistic thought or prayer could have.

Vera stepped as lightly and carefully as she could around remains without losing Elden. He led them with such urgency she nearly forgot that he'd followed them into Hatharida. They only spoke when Elden told them to keep pace. Vera asked him once what they were rushing towards, to which the old sorcerer glanced back sharply and told her he was finding a way out of the forest. He was trying to get them to where they could wait on the others. Vera knew, however, that his main interest was to get her out of the forest. It wasn't something she voiced. She didn't have any argument for staying in Hatharida. Even if they did look for Vargis' group, there was a very slim chance the forest would let them stay together. They had to trust the other riders to find their way. There was no other logical course of action.

( A grim thought. )

In this place his dreams were restless changing things. Eragos could not remember a dream that he'd been given before coming to Hatharida, but here all dreams were nightmares. At least they were for him. He dreamed of fire and death. Of screaming. Of murder that was this place's legacy. For the three hours of sleep he'd allotted them Eragos received not a second of rest. How did he know that fire and death were the legacy of this forest? How did he know anything about this place except what he heard in the breeze between the trunks of the trees? How did he perceive anything which was not there to be perceived? Yet the dreams were real, as real as the flesh on his bones or the rage in his heart. It must have been Talon. Not personally, not there walking his dreams as a nightmare, but in spirit. Corrupting this place. Poisoning the dreams of men who shared silence with the forest at night. Cold alternated with heat, so that he would sweat one moment and shake the next.

( It was a terror. )

All around the forest was quiet. Normally the quiet of a forest, the peace and solitude that plants afforded him, was a welcome thing. In a forest that should have been full of life it was unnerving. Vargis turned his attention to the hastily scrawled note he was writing to himself while he had the chance. A chew of his lip beneath the mask, and he added another line. Floral scent, but reedy. Could be interesting combined with something heavy and sour. Might offset the aftertaste but retain the flavor of the leaf. Satisfied that it was as complete as he could make it the note when into the leather pouch he'd set aside for the purpose, along with a number sketched along the bottom in the short pencil he'd brought along. The number corresponded to a well-oiled leather pocket in the largest of his four cases. Inside was a pressed flower which he'd found along the way, and carefully preserved. Or rather, as carefully as the conditions allowed.

( He might have come out of retirement, but he was still looking for the next pipe tobacco. )

There was no line of demarcation. One moment you were not in that dense wood, and the next moment you were. Eragos remembered the feeling none too well even so soon after it struck him. For a moment it was there, vivid and powerful, and in the next moment it was gone. Only it lingered in ways he did not want it to. The creak of his gloves against his skin, powerful, unyielding. The billowing of his cloak at the sudden gust of wind. The tightness of his mask quite suddenly. The stiff and harsh fabric of his uniform against his skin where underclothes did not shield him. Suddenly the flambard seemed to weigh both nothing and everything. As if every murder it had ever committed was a burden that its wielder must bear. There he felt like dust. There he felt like nothing, incomplete and yet too perfect, both at once, neither real but both destructive all the same. The sensation was nothing short of oppressive. For a moment, a long moment, he could not breath. When it was done he fell into a crouch without his knowledge or consent. The hilt of the flambard supported him - its point braced against the ground yet not penetrating it.

( For the earth was frozen beneath him. )

The closer and closer to Hatharida they came, the heavier and heavier the snow became. As she had squinted against the wind, Vera felt as if riding had also become a sort of digging. The rhythmic walk of the horse, the painful gulps of air as the wind stung the back of her throat, the burn of muscles leaning against the elements, the striving to either have rest or to deliver rest... burials always clung to her thoughts. The opening of the earth. The cold faces of the dead. She remembered all of the eyes she'd covered in soil. Their stares cropped up when she was awake, when she was asleep, when she was mending an arm that belonged to a living, breathing being. She even remembered the ghosts of the missing, ones likely dead that she could not find. How many villages had she visited like that one? How many more would she walk? In the blizzard shoving itself upon them all, Vera's soul felt the thin unforgiving fingers of Amasa. Graves did not save spirits. How could they? How could something like soil save the substance of a life? Burials only existed as a comfort to the living.

Vera wondered, then, if she shared her memories with the Riders around her...would they understand? She met Raed's eyes as they pitched a tent in the cursed weather. He barely held her gaze for a second before he looked away. As if it were a part of her strange talents, Vera knew the answer before she asked the question. Even in the white, she was on her own.

( .... )

The cloak felt tighter than normal. Constricting him. So he cast it aside. There it lay draped upon bony branches, ridiculous pale things that belonged to juvenile birch trees. They dotted the river, caressed it without possessing it, so that Eragos had to wonder at their sincerity. It didn't matter. There was a great deal at that moment which felt as though it didn't matter. The camp had passed by him in a haze. A haze brought on by shoulders that ached. And a heart that was heavier than normal. He felt as if every corpse he'd carried into its final resting place, dug by the hands of one White Rider after another, was resting on his back after all. Weighing him down. It was impossible to tell if he could even draw his sword. Let alone swing it, or do damage with it, the sort of damage a dragon ought to do. He wanted someone to kill just then. Someone to pay in blood for what had been done. One wasn't enough, one corpse to answer for an entire city.

( How many was enough? )

He peered beyond the tree with a narrowed set of eyes, searching the relative darkness for any sign of Birloch's passage. The man had twenty lives and he'd used all of them today, if the number of vultures circling overhead was any indication. Normally they preferred their meat uncooked. Today they were making do with whatever slim pickings they could find. Eragos wished he'd found something better than this, more reassuring than this, but it was precisely what he'd expected to see. Not an argument for the gathering of evidence. But not an argument for destroying them, either, at least not one that could be subscribed to. If they had the will to do this what else would they do? Rand, tied off to a stand of shorter trees at least twenty yards away, seemed nervous at the sound of so many vultures calling. Sun was setting. Soon it would be wolves to feed on those who fed on the dead. The vultures would be gone. That was a small mercy. Enough to take it and live with it, but not much. They could at least bury the dead.

( At least. )

Trying to sleep was impossible. The minutes were flying past her worse than the words were in her head. If they went as fast she couldn't focus on them, but here she could. Silence all around, darkness nearly everywhere. She'd put the candle out when she'd gotten into bed but she just laid there watching the small bits of light that came through the window not far away. They danced across the ceiling when they were there. Reminding her that some were still awake, and soon they all would have to be. But who would come to wake her. Who would want to? Cols would avoid her sour mood from little sleep and a horrible argument. Eithne wished she couldn't feel. If there was something she could rip from herself to make her feelings go away she would.

( If only. )

Eragos shoved the door open with more anger than he felt. No, not more, less. He was a fool. Twice a fool tonight, but that wasn't even the worst part of his foolishness. Talon had him twisted into knots without even trying. He should have taken Eithne in his arms and tried to give her something. Anything. A word, a kindness, so that when all of this was over she would remember him as more than a hateful wraith. He should have told the Lady Vera how he felt. It wasn't just Talon. He was a fool for loving two women and not knowing how to show that love, not knowing how to honor the faith they placed in him. And now that it was over he would go back and set it all right. Give in, do whatever they wanted. Only Talon couldn't be allowed to live. Gola shouldn't have been allowed to live; he was already paying for that mistake. Too many mistakes to count in the last month. He should have known that it was never as simple as being what some would call a right man. There were some things, upon reflection, that he didn't want to know or do. Killing was one of those, but there was no one else. He could see it like a grim vision of the future. The courts collapsed, or useless, and the men of Beit-Orane doing whatever they pleased to the country which had all of his loyalty.

( Vargis eyed him from beside the fireplace. )

When Vera was young teenager and still under Rider Agrippa's mentorship, she traveled in groups of three to six Riders across the country. Often times they took camp along the road or just slept under the stars. When the weather was too harsh, a farmer would allow Riders to share his or her home. All of them, in white uniforms and masks and muddy boots, crammed into a small kitchen that had the hearth fired up to the max. The Riders sat there until they fell asleep at that table or were told to keep quiet by the kind farmer. Even as skinny as she'd been, Vera sometimes had to squeeze in between two older Riders with her knees jammed against the table and her back rigidly straight against a chair.

Laughter, crude jokes, boastful accounts of thrashing criminals, sad stories about Riders lost and funny ones of lords with their pants caught down. There was always a lot to take in. It took months for Vera to warm up to such conversations. The smile she learned was gradual, but she always listened. She'd stay awake, sometimes until everyone else fell to sleep, just listening. Vera had never known the sounds of a home. The Red House weeded out the noise of living with its emphasis on discipline and control. There had been too much elegant pain in her childhood to incite the soft feelings she had, sitting with older Riders in those tiny homes. Those nights were part of the reason Vera had come to love the White Riders. She never felt more at home than at one of those uncomfortable tables.

( The cottages here reminded her of those small farmhouses... )

Eithne was first and foremost a fool for believing in anything besides herself now. He hadn't replied, but she knew he'd heard her. His choice was made, his move being played. Eithne could do no more. Left with duty, a stupid thing that she may or may not have believed in now. Duty to the White riders, to their guests, maybe eventually to herself when she found her room. Not till then, when she finally did find the time to rest her head she didn't know what she'd do. She hadn't failed herself yet though, not a tear to cry, or the remnants of one to show. Her eyes were dry though, perhaps that was in it's own way showing her exactly how upset she was. She didn't bust the door in or throw a chair, she simply walked inside and closed the door ever so gently behind her.

If they had been listening, or watching what unfolded, none of them seemed to move just yet to show her they had. All of them seemed to still be in place, save for where they were looking. Which wasn't at her, or the door Eragos had left out of. He couldn't be what she wanted. He couldn't send Vera away, he couldn't stop. Ha indeed. Everything else was up to her? What had ever been up to her? Ever since she was born the world had tossed her from here to there. No real decision on her part. Maybe she'd joined the white riders out of choice, but it was more out of there was nothing else to save her. She would have been dead, or at least missing a few body parts.

( Or perhaps her soul. )