Tia touched his arm. He started from his seat by Marco's bed and realized that the boy was asleep. "Ash, will you tell me a bedtime story too?" This, accompanied by a teasing smile and another tilt of that elegant eyebrow propelled him off the stool by his son's bed. He walked forward and caught her up in his arms. "I can probably arrange that," he mused, gazing down on her smiling face. She pretended to struggle. "Villain," she whispered. "Release me at once!" She shook with silent laughter in his arms. "Never," he growled softly and slung her over his shoulder with one quick movement. He strode out of his son's bedroom and onto the bluffs outside of Valnain, grinning at her attempts not to burst into laughter- their son was asleep, after all. He set her on her feet in the grass and kissed her thoroughly. How lucky he was- his parents had married him to the daughter of a merchant- a fine match- and they had fallen in love. Few men were so fortunate. She tasted sweet, like good red wine or apples or (blood) nectar. Ambrosia. Her lips smiled against his and the sun glared down on them mercilessly. He was too warm, much too warm for this blood-heating activity. Maybe they could find some shade somewhere near. He started to break out of the kiss with that purpose in mind, but Tia's hand crept under his arm and up his back and buried itself in his hair as her tongue ran over his and he was distracted- she was normally not so forward; usually she left that to him. "Someone's in a good mood today," he murmured against her lips. She made a small hungry sound as he spoke and he obediently gave in- immediately her tongue plunged back into his mouth, hot and forceful, plundering, and he was too hot, this was wrong, and he tried to pull his head back but she sank her teeth into his lower lip and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and he struggled but she didn't; his sword slipped effortlessly between her ribs as Rosencrantz watched. She slumped to the ground, blood spilling out of her mouth, and he looked at his handiwork in horror. He dropped to his knees and she was looking at him. "You kill everything you love," she said, showing him her gentle smile. He was freezing. He shivered under heavy quilts and listened to the chattering of his teeth. He was just on the threshold of consciousness, and two facts arced through his mind like lightning- he had a fever, and he was in his own bed. A great heaviness seemed to lift itself from his confused mind- the dreams had been nothing more than fever illusions. He vividly remembered two of them- the last one of killing Tia (not a dream) had been so horrifying it had woken him up. The other had seemed much longer- it had been one of those quest dreams. He'd been in Leá Monde (it was alive) chasing a man with metal arms. The dead had walked and he had added to their number more times than he could count. He'd slaughtered dream-creatures by the hundreds. And then, something had happened, but he couldn't recall what. He swallowed and pushed the quilts away from him, throat clicking with dryness. He was too warm. Someone shifted in the soft chair next to his bed, and he fell asleep again, reassured by the knowledge that Tia was alive and well, and guarding him vigilantly. "...was dying when I was born. My father was old even then, and had no other heir. He was desperate to save my life, though later I cursed him for it." The voice spoke quietly, as if to itself, and Ashley let the words wash over him. It seemed familiar, that lilting tenor voice, but he could not place the voice with any face. "He passed me the Blood-Sin when I was three days old. You might think that it was the reason for my (pallor) pale skin, but that's not so. The Blood-Sin doesn't change your appearance, it preserves it. My father told me later that he feared I would forever be three days old, but the Dark seems to have an awareness of necessity- my father aged normally while he had it, the better to stay suspicion, I assume, while I simply grew until I was twenty or so-after that I did not age. Thirty-five years now, and still I look only twenty. Even the Dark has difficulty using a three day old babe for its interests, I suppose..." The voice trailed off and Ashley heard a faint metallic click. He was barely awake, and could not seem to understand what the words meant. His back itched but he was too weak to do anything about it. He needed to sleep. This workshop was ideal- above ground, with a handy deadbolt in addition to the usual latch. Keane had been a wary fellow, it seemed. Ashley eyed the magic circle with curiosity. A long time before (days, in fact) he had avoided them when possible, wary of anything that smacked of magick, but now...it almost seemed to beckon to him. The light danced and to his tired eyes spoke of safety and rest. He set Isfahel down on the workbench. The light spiraled up around him, burbling with recognition and welcome as he knelt and carefully stretched his body (what's gotten into you, riot?) over it. No sooner had he closed his eyes then he gasped and opened them again. Sydney Losstarot perched lightly on his chest, staring intently into his face with glittering eyes. Ashley tried to dislodge him- how could one emaciated cultist be so heavy?- but to no avail. "Sleeping with the Dark, Ashley? You might find a more considerate bed partner." The cultist's bladed fingers seemed to have their own separate life- they lifted and fell gently, and Ashley found himself watching them with cloudy interest. "Get thee gone, Darkness," murmured Ashley, and suddenly his back burned, it burned like the fires of heaven and the world gave a great lurch. "Unwise," chuckled Sydney. "...the color of blood, or so I was told. He warned me that it would turn black over time, and ebon would reign when the task was at hand. And so it did, though of course I had to rely on others for prognosis..." The room was silent. When he ventured to open his eyes, the bedside chair sat empty. Bright morning sunlight shone through the window, painting golden rectangles on the damp white sheet covering him. He felt almost normal. Weak, but alive. Some food and sleep would take care of the weakness- the fever had broken and all would be well. He stretched and rested the back of his hand over his eyes. Tia would come in soon, probably bearing food. He almost never got sick and he knew that she enjoyed the chance to have him home and be in his (usually ill-tempered) company. There was a scratching at the door and the hinges squeaked as it was nosed open. Canine nails clicked on the hardwood floor and Ashley let his other hand droop over the side of the bed to be licked. "Good morning, Berry," he mumbled, voice hoarse. He rubbed the dog's ears, enjoying the feel of thick fur. The hinges squeaked again. "Tia, I had the oddest dream," he said as Berry licked his wrist. Silence. And then a mild voice said, "Did you?" A stunned second passed in silence as Ashley's hand stilled. In the blink of an eye he sat up, sheet pooling at his waist, the silver dagger in his hand a solemn warning. It was Sydney Losstarot in his doorway, clad in one of Ashley's white shirts- it was horribly large for his slender frame- and carrying a silver tray in his metal hands. Ashley glanced at the table by the chair. Ten oddly shaped razor blades nestled together in a shining, deadly heap. And then the last two days (see? not a dream) crashed down on him. The dagger slipped from his fingers to clatter on the floor as he lost consciousness. The humming and the twinging of his back roused him. He could feel Berry's chin resting on his stomach and was grateful for the animal's familiar company. Ashley didn't open his eyes- he knew who was in the room with him and had no immediate desire to see him again. He exhaled. Tia, living again, making him an invalid's breakfast in their kitchen downstairs. It had been a pleasant illness until the sight of the cultist had dispelled the illusion. He did not look forward to taking up the burden of grief again. So he just lay there. And Leá Monde. The cursed city. The city of the dead, the city of the damned. He'd come out of that place with no memory beyond Guildenstern's blade flipping end over end as it fell to the street below. He was vaguely afraid to find out what else had happened. He thought he remembered carrying Sydney out of the cathedral, but the memory, if it was one, was oddly blurred and not to be trusted. The humming diminished into minor tones, became eerie and (the way he hums revelations) mournful. It seemed to creep into his head and wrap ghostly silver arms around the worst memories, the ones that he could not banish from his darkened eyesight, caressing them gently until they subsided sleepily into the back of his mind. The sound swelled to a crescendo, filling him, and he felt that it was trying to comfort him, trying to ease some of the pain. He wanted to reject the unnatural release, the unasked-for peace. Be silent, he thought. But the wordless song continued, a croon that drew bitter, exhausted tears from unwilling eyes. Berry whined, betraying him, and moved to lick the salt off his temples. The humming stopped; footfalls and the squeak of the hinges marked the other man's retreat. Ashley hated to be grateful for that thoughtfulness, but nevertheless he was. Some minutes later he realized that he was not tired enough to go back to sleep. Or had he fallen asleep again? Berry had left the room without attracting his attention. He swung bare legs over the side of the bed and realized that he was naked. He wondered if he had undressed himself- the alternative was slightly alarming. Anger (shame) threatened to spill heavily into his mind but he dismissed the thought as irrelevant almost immediately. He doubted many things about Sydney Losstarot, but the possibility that he'd been taken advantage of- physically, at least- seemed farfetched. Of more importance to him at the moment was the tray at his side. Cheese and bread adorned it and made a positively savory picture. Simple fare, but plenty of it and he was famished. He tore into the meal with no hesitation and his stomach growled for more even as he finished. He glanced at the door just once before standing on legs that immediately threatened to collapse. His head spun a bit but he did not- would not- sit again. After a moment it passed, and he realized that he really felt well. Bursting with energy, almost. He crossed to the dresser with no hint of infirmity and pulled on a pair of loose blue trousers, noticing with a start that his arms easily bore three times the number of scars that they had- how many days ago?- before he had entered Leá Monde. All were no more than thin white lines on his skin. He wondered if they'd been healed by potion, time, or magick. And he realized that he had little real knowledge about what had happened in Leá Monde, and none of what came later. But the answers were waiting for him- downstairs. Sydney crouched on the wooden floor of the kitchen, metal arms full of great red dog. Traitor animal, he thought. He pulled a stool up to the huge scarred kitchen table, once a workshop bench, and eyed the other man. Several moments passed in silence as the dog licked Sydney's face, and then Sydney said, "You christened your dog Berry?" Ashley felt his body freeze. Steadfastly, he told his muscles to relax. "Not I. Marco." "A fitting name. This fellow is a sweet one," said Sydney. Sydney likes dogs, thought Ashley. Nothing will ever surprise me again. "How long have I been sick?" "Three days." "How did we get here? Surely you didn't carry me." "Mm," said Sydney. "Answer me." "So you press me," murmured Sydney in the dog's ear. "You are asking the wrong person." "I thought we were done with these games. Tell me what you know." "Or the wrong question," said Sydney, and suddenly he perched on the stool opposite Ashley's. His eyes glittered. "So," he said, "will you return to the VKP, Riskbreaker? Your brothers in arms?" Ashley stared at him, taken aback by his sudden shift in countenance. "No." He could offer no explanation, only the simplest answer- the reasons behind it were too complicated to articulate, but he knew there was no going back. "Ah," sighed Sydney, as if offered a deep and concise explanation of the situation. He leaned forward. "You ask me how we got here, you hear a voice in your head, your back burns, as if-" he leaned back. "You know all the answers. Look inside yourself." "I-" started Ashley as his blood inexplicably began to race. Sydney slid off the stool. "Look upon my back, and tell me you do not know who bears the Blood-Sin." He writhed out of the white shirt and turned his back. New pink skin, unblemished, assaulted Ashley's eyes and his back began to tingle. Sydney glanced over his shoulder but did not turn. "Don't lie to yourself. You know everything." The blood fled from Ashley's face and his eyes unfocused. He did know, he remembered (arms stretched, back arched) the searing pain, remembered carrying Sydney through the forest, falling dozens of times, remembered (i'm lost, we're both going to die we survived the city but not the woods) stumbling over the magic circle, wanting with all his soul to be home, in bed. And he was, bloody half-dead cultist draped over him, saturating his skin (his sheets) with tainted blood. He hated the blood, he didn't want it touching him- and then it hadn't been. There was no blood. Sydney had barked a laugh, whispered something, (my heir) and then the fever had arrived, gleefully carrying him off into forgetfulness. He snapped back into himself and glared at the other man. "Take it back," he spat. "I don't want it, take it back, damn you!" And Ashley's curse sent Sydney reeling, tossed across the kitchen to slam into the door. Ashley stared at him, confused, then rose to help him. "I can't take it back," said Sydney as he grasped Ashley's offered hand. "My story is finished- or will be soon enough." He wiped the blood trickling from his mouth and gave Ashley a sardonic smile. "But yours is just begun."