Hello, everyone! Here's a new story! I just finished "Carnival Row" & highly recommend! An amazing series & an even more amazing Orlando Bloom! Enjoy this new fic!

"Philo..."

He was in Tirnanoc. The territory was still free of Pact forces, but they could all feel the impending doom looming in the air. The native fae felt their wings flutter with the imminent destruction of their ancient home. The Burguish soldiers who had found shelter there knew evacuation would come soon.

Yet, through the snow laden rocky land that would soon see bullet holes and blood, Rycroft Philostrate could only think of one.

Her translucent wings filled his mind, along with her wind pixie eyes, and soft chestnut hair. He longed to hold her in his arms, to run away with her and to leave the horrors of the war behind.

Along with the dark secrets of his past.

"Philo."

BANG! BANG!

Gunfire. Shouts. Screams. Death.

Around him, chaos exploded. He desperately tried searching for her, but fae were dropping like flies and Burguish soldier blood spattered the rocks.

"Philo...!"

Was she safe? Was she alive? He yearned to run into the rocky gorge and find her and flee, but Tourmaline's words rang in his ears. She would die for him.

Thoughts of her death clouded his eyes. He could imagine her flying towards him, arms outstretched, fierce love in her eyes as she nearly reached him and then BANG!

She'd be dead in the snow. Her fae blood would paint the white flakes crimson.

And it would be his fault.

"Philo!"

He gasped awake.

Philo sat upright in bed, covered in a cold sweat, breathing heavily.

He was in his bedroom, a soft hand rested on his shoulder.

"Philo?" came the voice that shook his from his sleep, "Are you alright?"

Portia lay beside him, her expression a mixture of worry.

He didn't answer, still recovering. The red snow. Her still wings. They still haunted him.

"What was it about…?" she said softly.

He cleared his throat, trying to push the dark thoughts out of his mind, "Nothing."

Philo stood, reaching for the jug of water on the desk.

Portia's face fell, "That wasn't nothing," her voice was filled with hurt, the hurt of the person you loved refusing to open themselves up to you.

He sighed after a moment, overlooking the view of the Burgue.

"It's the case," he lied, "I can't stop thinking about it."

"Philo, you need to leave your work at the Constabulary," she said in a pleading voice, "no man can bring the horrors you see home with them."

She was right, of course. And though the string of murders had consumed him as of late, that wasn't the subject of his dreams.

He had seen her. She had come to him in this very room, a knife pressed against his throat, but it still made his heart skip.

A relic of his past had survived to the present, and it was the greatest gift he did not deserve. He had lied to her, left her, but he had to remember what Tourmaline had said to him. If Vignette had known that he was still alive, she would come for him.

And she would have gotten herself killed.

"I know," he reached for his shirt on the floor, shrugging it on.

"Where are you going?" Portia asked, puzzled.

"Out," he spoke curtly, "I need some air."

"When will you be back?" she said, desperate that he would join her again in bed, desperate for a sense of closeness with him she knew she would never have.

He stopped at the door, holding the knob for a second as he looked into her hopeful eyes.

"Don't wait for me."

He opened the door and slipped out.

The Burgue after dark was a dangerous place. Already, the increasingly uneasy relations between the Critch and the Burguish men and women were prevalent during the day. At night, real tempers broiled with the aid of drink and lust.

Philo walked silently, burying himself in his coat to avoid the staring eyes of the men. It wasn't unknown that he was a Critch sympathizer. Sergeant Dombey made sure nobody forgot.

He needed time to think, time to process the fact that Vignette was here in the Burgue. Philo had left his life as a soldier behind when they evacuated Tirnanoc, but his past had dug itself up with her return. Old feelings came rocketing to the surface, strong emotions he could not contain.

Portia was kind and good to him, but he did not love her the way he did Vignette. He would never be able to love her the way she did him, and that crushed him. Another person who suffered by his hand, another person he disappointed.

The only thing to combat these thoughts were the case, and that did not do anything to quell the turmoil within himself. The murders were connected to him and his past, but why? Who knew the secret of his bastard birth other than Vignette?

She would never have confessed to a living soul of his spoiled lineage, that he was for certain.

His troubled mind sought the help of the Haruspex. The witch was dangerous and tricky, but Philo knew there was something he was missing in this ghastly puzzle.

In the midst of his thoughts, Philo found himself walking aimlessly. Yet, he was not as aimless as he thought. He was in the Row.

The booming fae brothels were alive, the bars overflowing with men and Critch hoping to drown their sorrows, and people milled and tumbled in the dirty, soaked streets. He was in front of Tetterby Hotel.

It wasn't by chance that he had found himself standing before Vignette's new home.

What are you doing, Philo? This is bloody ridiculous!

What was he doing here?

Had he come to torture Vignette further? To strengthen her suffering? She said it herself, he had destroyed her when he left Tirnanoc with the impression of his death, and now he came to her doorstep asking for what exactly? Forgiveness? Hope? Love?

He himself was not sure.

Philo sighed, watching the chaos of the Row unfold around him. There was nothing for him to accomplish here, nothing he could hope for. Vignette would never forgive him for what he had done, and that was something his broken heart would have to accept-

BANG!

A pain erupted in his temple. Philo felt himself drop.

His vision swam and his ears rang. He could feel the cool stone beneath his cheek and red drops fall from his temple.

There was movement around him, as he tried to keep his eyes open. He saw black coats and leather boots.

Hands grabbed his arms. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but no words formed. Darkness clouded the edges of his vision.

He felt himself being dragged across the wet stone, lifted.

A black bag was being thrown over his head. Before the fabric covered his fuzzy vision, he could make out the interior of a carriage.

There were muffled, deep voices.

His temple was burning with pain.

That was all he felt before his world went black.

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