Notes: Again, this is a little shorter than I'd originally planned. I felt like things were a little overloaded, though, so I pushed a scene back into the next chapter. Short chapters are more fun, anyway, right? (say yes.)

Anyway, uh, not much else to say here, except that if you're feeling awkward or confused about some of the events within, it's probably intentional on my part. Hope you enjoy nonetheless, and thanks for sticking around despite my sporadic updates.

Through These Nights

Chapter 11: Resignation

Knoll had yet to sleep. He had tried, but it was little easier setting his thoughts to rest than it had been in the keep itself. Not for the first time, he'd tried to have a drink – quiets the mind, he'd been assured, but he was certain, then, that the bartender had underestimated his capacity for thinking.

Not surprising. The patrons at the pub were hardly the sort of men he'd have consorted with only a few years previous. At one point, it might have been humbling, even humiliating to sit among such a crowd of simple low-lifes, people who'd probably never read a book thicker than their own meaty hands, if at all. As it was, he'd found himself staring up from the murky depths of his watered-down drink and wondering if any of them had even come close to failing as much as he had. The conclusions he'd come to were hardly comforting.

Despite the discomfort of sitting among so many normal people, former soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, he'd decided it was better to stay for the night. Better than staying in the halls he knew too well, anyway, even if it was all the way on the other side from the libraries and corridors that had been his old haunts.

The commotion from below had died down. All there was to occupy him was the pattern of the wood on the ceiling. It was easy to tell where it had been patched up- he was amazed at how much looked old, left intact despite the ruin around the city. It was senseless, if he thought about it too long, and thinking about it too long was all he felt inclined to do.

Were I one of the ones left on the street, I might wonder why this place still stood. He counted the older, darker planks, one two, three, four, stretched on above him as he pressed his body closer to the window. But were my own building to survive such an event, I would wonder what I did to deserve its preservation.

It sounded like a classic problem, the sort of thing he might have seen in a philosophy book. At one point, he might have spent some time trying to puzzle over it, use it to justify some theory or knock down another. As it is, the thought of it made him feel sicker to his stomach than the drink already had, and he pushed it away by turning out to watch the clouds drift over the moon through the gaps between the older structures still standing outside.

He had just closed his eyes to try to sleep again, expecting little success, when he heard the knock on his door. Likely the innkeeper, he thought, trying to remember if he'd paid in full or only in part for the room. He shoved the rough, plain covers down to the edge of the bed and padded, still barefoot, to the other side of the room. The worst that could happen, he supposed, was that it might be an especially dim burglar, and he had little to steal, anyway.

The door creaked open, and he was presented with a possibility he had not even considered. She was under-dressed for the cold, in only her plain traveling clothes, and shaking a bit for the oversight. He fought the urge to sigh.

"Sister Natasha." It might have been courteous to invite her inside, perhaps offer her the blanket now that he wasn't using it, but he decided she'd known full well what she was getting into when she went out as she was. The consequences were hers to face.` "It's late. Is something the matter?"

She shook her head, hair rustling lightly against the soft fabric of her shirt. "No, it's just that. . . well, General Duessel had told me you were here, and. . . ."

And you did not consider the possibility that I did not wish for your company? Somehow, Knoll managed to hold his tongue. "I see," he said instead. "Well, I'm quite well, and I'm sure you need rest after the trip, so –"

He watched Natasha set her jaw, resolute as she had been with so many fights and healings before. "I had thought you and I might be having similar thoughts, so. . . "

"As I said, Sister, I am fine." He reached for the door, hoping that closing it would at least shut Natasha out for the time being, but she caught it with her foot before he could.

"Let me come in. Just for a few moments."

He finally let out the sigh he had been holding in, and briefly entertained the idea of telling Duessel off for this. He doubted he ever would, but the thought was tempting. Wordlessly, he gestured

Natasha inside and set to relighting the candles at the bedside table.

She was worse off than she had looked in the dark, pale and still a bit damp. No wonder she'd been shaking. She shifted awkwardly from side to side before Knoll finally pointed her to the bed and to the blanket crumpled up at the edge of it.

"You can't afford to be sick," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "We cannot stay too long, and if you think we will not leave you behind—"

"That won't be necessary."

Knoll ignored her and firmly draped the blanket over Natasha's shoulders. "I know you don't want that." As reluctant as he was to admit it, even to himself, he did not either. There were only so many people he could treat, only so many monsters he could fend off. Natasha was better at both by far, if he was being honest, and kidding himself about his own capabilities would do the people of Grado no service at all.

"How long do you suppose it might take a wyvern to fly from Frelia to here?"

"Assuming there are no delays, I wouldn't imagine it would be more than a week or two. Wyverns are hardy and need little rest-"

"Cormag would."

With the way Cormag tended to fly, Knoll doubted rest for him would change his estimate much. He gave a lopsided shrug and fiddled with the candlestick rather than face the conversation again.

"I can't imagine he's too far away. Our trip to the capital should have given him enough time to catch up." Cormag would return, and then they would all head out to continue their work – hopefully with the relief offered by Frelia's aid, at least. Knoll considered asking Natasha is she had heard yet from Jehanna, or if she had even sent word at all.

I don't wish to beg, she'd said before. As if she thought they still had the luxury to refuse such things.

Natasha nodded slightly in the corner of Knoll's vision. He tried to pretend as if the wax rolling down the side of the candle was more interesting, though he was sure he was not as convincing as he might have liked to be. Natasha said nothing to the effect. It was generous of her, he thought. Perhaps she'd be generous enough to leave.

He had no such luck.

"I've. . .been wanting to ask you something. For some time."

"Hm?" For the sake of courtesy, Knoll turned back to her, only to quickly regret it as the same bubble of wax he'd been watching dripped onto his finger. He hissed a curse and tried to shake it off in a manner he was sure was anything but dignified. To her credit, Natasha didn't laugh. She didn't even crack a smile.

"Had you not been imprisoned. . .had you been given the chance to stay at Prince Lyon's side. . .you would have, am I correct?"

That would explain it. Suddenly, he could barely feel the burn at all.

The thought had occurred to Knoll before. Of course, he had no love for war. Of course, he would not have stood idly by and allowed it to happen. Of course, he would not have clung to his prince's side and hoped, somehow, that he could undo the damage he'd allowed. Peace could not be worth trading away for the sake of a slim chance at saving one person. He would have known that, surely–

His throat felt dry and tight. He forced down a swallow. "I can't say for sure."

"You would have, wouldn't you?"

He wasn't like Duessel. His loyalty had never been to anything higher. He could not place his faith in the abstract Grado the way the general could, for the land itself meant nothing. "I can't say for sure," he repeated, more firmly, despite the sinking sensation settling into his gut reminding him of what a liar he was.

But Natasha, perfect, holy Natasha, likely couldn't say much more for herself. You would have stayed, too, had you not known. Had you not been told. You never saw anything for yourself.

It was hardly fair to hold such things against her. He had to remind himself of it to force his tongue to still, but it was true. She didn't even seem to be judging him, for a change. If anything, when he looked up from the worn toes of her boots to her face, he thought he saw a hint of pity. She wore nearly the same expression she saved for the sick, the dying, the people she'd mention in her prayers at night. That only made it worse.

"Please, don't look so concerned." She was still all nestled up in the blankets, evidently having overcome her previous objections. "I'm not angry. I didn't come here to scold you."

Knoll was finally out of patience. "Then why did you come?" he snapped, stepping closer. "I believe we said all that needed to be said last time- or do you just intend to dig at me until I confess everything and go off to live the life of a penitent?"

The outburst was unwarranted. He knew full well it was, and Natasha's visible wince only served as a harsh reminder. It didn't help matters at all that he'd considered it countless times. What right did he have to try to set Grado back on the path to glory, when his own hands had helped shove it off in the first place?

To his surprise, Natasha did not simply get up and leave. He would have himself. Instead, she reached out and took his hand, giving it the same sort of gentle squeeze he'd seen her use to soothe so many sick and dying people along the way through Grado's countryside. She likely thought of him the same way she thought of all those people: helpless, sad, pitiful. He couldn't stand the thought.

"Because I thought. . . it might help to know for certain that you had doubts, as well."

She tugged ever so slightly to bring him closer, as if afraid a more forceful pull would tear his wounds open once more. He obliged and sat carefully by her side, watching as she pushed the blankets off and turned to face him. She wasn't shivering anymore, but she was eying him with an odd curiosity that made him feel as if he'd started shaking in her stead.

"It's not for me to say, but. . ." She slipped her hand free of his and let it fall to her lap. "I do. . . wonder sometimes, how we'll ever help everyone. Even if the funds from Frelia come in, even if there are more reinforcements, I just. . . this is never going to be the same Grado again, is it?"

Knoll shook his head. "That much has been obvious for some time. But simply because it won't be the same doesn't mean we can just let it stay as it is now. People cannot live like this." The words did not sound like his own. He felt as if he were reading aloud from an unfamiliar book, reciting something he'd barely rehearsed. Natasha did not seem to notice; he thought it might have been because it was what she thought she wanted to hear.

"I know." She nodded, as if to herself. " I know that. Of course I do."

"It's hard, nonetheless. Even if you know."

He heard her sigh, and felt her body shift downward as the air escaped her. "If we keep going until Grado is as it should be, we'll be working at this at this until we're dead."

I've nothing else to do with my life, he thought, but didn't say that. Instead, he reached for her hand, quickly, before she could pull it out of his grip. She didn't even try once he had it– to his surprise, she latched on tight, weaving her roughened fingers between his own. "We cannot do it all ourselves. Grado must also rebuild itself. No one can do it all."

She leaned in slightly, and for just a moment, the light from the candle caught in her hair, setting it more silver than gold. The slouch in her shoulders, the resignation in her light sigh, the way her gaze remained fixed at the toes of her shoes, rather than at him– it was all too familiar. He lifted his free hand and hesitantly ran his fingers through the ends of her still-damp hair, hoping it would somehow set her worries at ease, if only for a little while, as he had thought it might help his prince so many years previous.

"I'm sorry," Natasha murmured, and Knoll allowed himself to imagine that the apology was for his sake.

The mead must have dulled his thoughts more than he'd anticipated, for he couldn't say when it was that his hand traveled to the delicate line of her jaw, or that her own fingers became entwined in the mess of his hair, or who it was who moved in first for the kiss. But he could almost ignore the sudden lurch in his stomach at the taste of her, at the sensation of her drawing him closer and pressing his back into the bed, if he closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking. Despite the sense that he'd betrayed someone by it, that was exactly what he chose to do.

The cold air bit at Cormag's ears as he clenched his legs tighter around Genarog's back and gave the signal for the wyvern to begin the descent. Genarog responded immediately to the light prod of his rider's heels and spread his wings wide, allowing them both to glide downward, out of the clouds, allowing Cormag to catch a better view of the land below in the dim morning light.

He'd seen the capital city from above many times before – the first time as a mere child, on a different beast, latched tight to the back of an experienced rider. It was different, then – there'd been a certain magic to the city that must have come out only when viewed through the lenses of youth. Of course, it was no longer the same city. The buildings he could count from high above so many years before were rearranged, ruined, or gone entirely, and a great rift scarred the landscape around it. But somehow, though he could see so much more of the wreckage, it was easier to take from the sky. As high up as he was, he couldn't see the faces of the people left behind, or imagine the voices of those he'd lost expressing their dismay.

And dismay, they'd surely have. He hadn't expected Frelia to be especially generous, but he'd hoped for a bit more than they'd offered. A request to Rausten to send more clergy to fend off the remaining monsters, and a promise that their military would stand by Reims should a rebellion gain strength, but as expected, they could not spare much at the present time.

Frelia is still rebuilding, their young king had said, his voice as terse as Cormag remembered it from the war. I wish the best for Grado, and am glad for our repaired bonds, but this is all I can offer. He seemed better suited to kingdom than Renais' prince had seemed, more like how Cormag recalled Vigarde than anything else, despite the feeling as if he was forcing himself to be diplomatic at times.

"At least we got a bit, eh?" Cormag murmured to Genarog, not for the first time. In response, his mount just snorted.

More than the support, Cormag was glad for having not been offered the pity he'd expected from their princess. Perhaps she could have wrangled more out of her brother, but it was likely she would have asked questions, too. Are you well? Will you stay? Will you come back? When will I see you again?

It was uncomfortable to consider, let alone contemplate at length. Not that she bothered him, but that he knew he might have taken her up on the offer. Cormag gripped the reins tighter and shook the thoughts off, focusing instead on the landscape growing closer and closer as he made his descent.

I can't abandon Grado now, he reminded himself. Not again.