From the darkness just beyond Oliver, the three moons did peer. But pale reflections of a distant sun's true light.

"Trinemorro," came the girl's voice. "Mina," she echoed, her voice like ripples come close to shore. "Nowhere feels safe," she let on, as she hid behind the trails and the branches. "Not but knives in the dark, whose hands would see their own light cut out,"

Well before the man with the knife came bumbling from the dark, so tortured by their father's visage, the light from the girl's eyes turned to shadow. Like moons eclipsed by some greater terror.

"What words will do to a mind so lost," the gentle rustle of leaves and branches.

Looking for someone?

"He is Gone, in a prison of his own making," and gone too, was she, further into the darkness.
 
And so, from the dark, the Trinemorro spoke. Of safety and knives and lost things. He felt called out, his heart twisting in his chest for all that they’d done — in the past, tonight, minutes and years from now. By his honest assessment, by the look of the road abaft and ahead, it wasn’t going to get any less lightless.

A bunch of confident men, straying to the dark like they owned it. He had no purpose here, no bearing and no power.

“ What will the words do? “ He muttered, tracing the sound of steps and words, for to his eye, there may as well have been no one there. And then, unbidden, another would speak where he’d not anticipated anyone. A gauntleted hand flew to the hilt of Syr Vega’s sword, yet tucked to his belt and already bare without its scabbard, the plate upon him giving not a whisper when he turned on heel. Faced — Syr Faramund?

Outrage fought for purchase on his face, in the wild of his eyes as the rest of him struggled to remain calm against the thunder of his startled blood.

He is gone. We are gone. We are all gone. Gone, had they all screamed within the Mount. Trust, brother— No. As when all sense seems to have departed from the world, who and what ought a man suspend his blame upon, his distrust. Was it likelier that himself had gone mad, perhaps even fallen asleep at his post by the tree mere moments prior, or that everyone else had. What a valid question that was — What the fuck was he straying here for indeed, let alone the both of them.

“ She doesn’t find us safe. “ He responded, watching the man as an alerted hound. Held onto the hilt, but didn’t draw on it.

“ Drop the knife, Faramund. “
 
'She doesn't find us safe,' agreed Faramund, the knife still clutched firmly in his hand. 'Why do you think that is, brother?' Raising his eyes until they found Syr Oliver's, the dawn-thing posed a question he already knew the answer to. The trinemorro knew, also.

So careful, so cautious, and yet still she sought to guide him down the right path. After all he had done... What he was like to do if nobody stopped him.

Why? The creature known as Faramund asked itself, sweeping its gaze across the forest in search of the escapee. The girl called Mina. Gifted One. 'How do you stand tall when I can do nought but stumble?' He spoke out loud, addressing the silence as it screamed noisily in his ear. Condemning him. Accusing him of things he had no recollection of. His history was nothing more than a fabrication, his life merely a series of falsehoods he himself believed true.

The knife in the creature's hand shook as it stared down at its feet. My feet.

Control waxed and waned. A man at war with his own mind, he stood no chance of overcoming the monster within. But he would hold out, long enough to say what he needed to say. '"I trust you'll do what needs done, come what may."' Drawing in a steadying breath, Faramund forced his hand to still. The knife, Oliver's knife, slid from his fingers to land with a dull thud upon the forest floor. He had meant to give it back to the knight, as a gesture of goodwill.

How situations changed.

'Do you remember, syr, what I... asked of you, in the tunnels?' Faramund's vision swam. No longer could he see Oliver's face behind the red mask he wore. Pursuant. Enemy? Fara pressed on. 'Syr Bebin is badly wounded, and Syr Castor will be lucky to see sunset tomorrow, if... if you don't find help... and soon.' Help, help, help. Beyond help. 'You're the only one left who's strong enough to do what I need you to do.'

The sabre whispered from the scabbard, sharp as the day it had been forged. With some reluctance, it joined the knife in the dirt. Faramund fought the urge to pick it back up and smite the mask in two.

'Now, please... before I go for good.'
 
Making an effort at appearing unaffected, face hard, he watched. And he listened, attention split. Listened to what made the wood go scratch in the dark and whom once more evoked the words of brother, title and what they both knew to be true. Down went the knife, all the while his stare would regard nothing but the man’s face, lit by moonlight come down through a bare canopy. It striped their figures and the ground and the trees, making the whole world appear splintered. Cracked and broken, full of jagged edges.

Torn apart. They had all split at the seams, some more than others. And now he was forced to watch as another appeared come undone before his eyes, making so much sense until he no longer did. Mixed within concern for Kin was that nonsense again from within the Mount, come haunting the both of them. In this old woodland, already hours away. They’d not be free from it ever again, would they?

The saber hit the ground and still he remained, saying nothing. Trust, surrender or manipulation — was there a way to tell anymore? At the plea he drew in breath and let himself straighten, not as a soldier did to attention, but how an authority stood to appraise.

To pass judgement. Though fright had bled from him, tension had not. It was in the set of his posture, the clutch of the gauntlet about the sword, how he’d allow himself not a ripple of expression from where it’d settled upon his face. All that he knew of this man was in itself a knife, forged to a hot point — the other side of the blade was all the things that yet eluded him, even after all these years.

When he spoke, it was steady and weary — like an officer’s last order dealt out at the end of a long day.

“ On your knees, Faramund. “
 
At first, Faramund did not obey. Relief mingled with resistance to the spoken order. What this it? Would Oliver do as asked and deliver the mercy stroke, or would whatever sense of fellowship remained stay his hand? For they had been kith, once. Not so much friends as allies bound by common cause.

Sinking to his knees, Faramund let the flood of questions overwhelm his mind.

Am I doing the right thing? He would ask himself, head lowered, eyes blind to the light of the moons shining down upon them. Sometimes holding on costs a man more than letting go, he thought. Better a swift end, here, now, than a bloated existence built on lies and misplaced trust. Bebin had tried, as had the Captains. But they were mistaken in thinking he could be saved, or that he would of use to them against the archenemy. He was like a double-edged sword without a hilt; too dangerous to wield.

Too dangerous to be kept alive.

'Thank you for this, Oliver,' the dawnling spoke, voice soft in the hush that followed. 'I hope you will understand in time why I am asking this of you. And I hope Mina can find it in her heart to forgive me.' The kneeler's brown-black gaze flicked to where the trinemorro crouched, nigh invisible amongst the trees, beyond the moonlight's reach. 'She is here because of me, after all.'
 
Here they hovered, stood at the water divide. A second, a moment, long enough that he had the time to be sure the man would resist. It almost would’ve been better if he had, but then that would’ve been disobedience, wouldn’t it. From one as Faramund, he had grown to expect not outright defiance, but a subtle and indirect approach that just toed the line. Going his path, where his step took him in any which situation as he understood it. Results over predictability.

Oliver had never beheld defeat like this in his life. Living as they did, by the sword, all of them had submit their lives long ago and many times over therein, had witnessed countless a dying. A lot of them fought, maybe prayed, surrendered their lives in myriad of ways — crying, snarling, pleading, silent.

But this was different. A part of him wanted to walk away from it, for fear it would rub off like some disease. It is too soon for you to thank me, sworn.

“ You jump to conclusions, going as far as to thank me for things you haven’t asked for. In this you are a fool. “ He said, speaking it as declaration of fact. No dispute, no bile, no nothing.

“ If I should yet happen to give you what you want, it’ll be by chance. I will not grant you mercy — I’d rather wrench my heart from my chest than let it dictate what I do with you. “ Duty over love — For the latter is where all sense leaves us. It’s why you and me are here, now.

“ Suppose she is here because of you — Your mistakes and your guilt are your own. “ His stare traced Syr Faramund’s, sought the Trinemorro for a fraction of a second. And yet, a serpent should’ve spoken of a trap, that he should’ve not found the girl in his dream. Was that a mistake too? He’d submit to the fact he’d never understand where Syr Theros went and what he did in realms unseen, but neither was he idiot enough to think anyone infallible. And there yet remained things he could understand, if he’d pry for them.

There was a chance to not submit himself to same as the man knelt afore him. Or had he already done so, lingering whilst the rest suffered? What would it be like to turn his back and submit to fate, one more leap to blind trust under the guise of dire circumstances. Hard decision thwarted in favour of another.

We’ll all die.

“ You bid that I understand after the fact. I’d prefer to do it beforehand. So— “ He paused for breath, jaw working as he tried to rid the tension and stray anger off his face.

“ What do you ask of me and why? You are not as you were, leaving us for the Mount. “ You emerged, without Castor. Whatever that implied, he’d leave to the man himself.

“ Plain, if you will. “

I'm done with this dance.
 
My mistakes? My guilt? Faramund could not help but smile. 'None of us are as we were before,' he replied, wiping the expression from his face. Oliver was a stoic. He would not see the humour in his words. Perhaps that was what made it so funny to begin with.

The sword lying in the dirt near Faramund's hand hummed, drawing his attention to it.

No, he recoiled slightly at the thoughts running through his mind, that is not my will. 'I will try to lay it on plain, then. For both our sakes.' Pressing to his feet, the dawnling distanced himself from the weapons he had left discarded upon the earth. He was faintly aware of the way Oliver was watching him. If the Pursuant commanded him to stop, to go back to kneeling, Faramund did not hear it. He was not certain he could have obeyed anyway.

The passenger was listening.

'I... I suppose I should start by saying I was born of this place. The Umbral Mount, meaning. Eleven, twelve years ago, I was a prisoner in its depths, much like Mina was.' Turning on the spot, he regarded the forest around him, the way the moonlight played through the trees at angles dictated by the canopy above. 'Castor and I ran into a creature tonight, a... monster known only as the Shaper. It was he who created me, and it was his hand that directed me to join the order, all those years ago.' Infiltrate might have been a more apt description, but something stopped him from saying it out loud.

No doubt Oliver could infer the truth. They did not make men Pursuants simply for their ability to swing a hammer. Even so. 'My time in seclusion was the direct result of something Bebin discovered about me during a hunt in Crown's Hold. You should recall, you were a part of the kill teams they sent in to clear out the cultists hidden there.'

Blinking, Faramund paused briefly to rub the bleariness from his eyes. Oliver was no longer wearing the Shaper's mask, he realised, thankful for small mercies. But there was something just over his shoulder... something...

He shook his head.

I'm hallucinating, he told himself, ignoring Father's phantom as it tore the head from Syr Oliver's shoulders. He's not here, he's-not-here, hesnothere. 'It- um... it came as something of a surprise... uh,' he knuckled his forehead, the sensation doing little to alleviate the growing pressure behind his eyes. 'Long story short, the enemy managed to get an agent into the order. I assume you can figure out the rest... by yourself.'

Watching his words sink in, Faramund got to the point.

'None of us are as were before. Only, that's not true. I am becoming what I was always meant to be: your enemy.' Glancing behind him, Faramund spied a shock of white hair, the three pools of obsidian beneath, set into a face as empty as his.

'I realise what I am saying raises more questions than answers. But the truth is not something I am privy to, nor has it ever been.' He smiled, though there was no warmth to it. 'Ours is to do and die. That is what I am asking of you, Oliver. One life for many. The girl's future, and perhaps the order's... for mine.'
 
He held ground, perfectly still as the man begun to speak, not making it two sentences before rising without permission to do so. His head keeled as his eye followed where the man meandered, an indignant sensation in every fiber as he held onto the borrowed blade. He’d almost drawn it, gauntlet twitching to grab it tighter and when he didn’t he felt amused with himself, with this game. A cruel thrill.

Strike one. Go ahead, we can both find out how many steps you’ve in you yet, before I cleave you in half. What he wouldn’t have given to wipe that smile clean off, for good.

By some miracle, it seemed to fade of its own accord. There was even an unnerving lull, where that which he’d never truly known appeared as if in pain, struggling through words. To go on. He felt nothing for it, slowly leaving the little solemarks he’d left on the dirt, watching Faramund the entire time as he made to pick up the discarded weapons. First the knife, which he put away to the empty sheath at his waist, and then the saber.

“ We are not as we were, no. “ He agreed betwixt, strange blade on the off-hand in a reverse grip as he settled to stand where the man had knelt but a moment prior. “ And yet, I know who I am still. You’ve not half an idea to scrape together when it comes to yourself. “

And that’s dangerous. Enemy or otherwise.

Once the man finished, he merely regarded him for a second in silence, a clinical scrutiny in the incline of his head. That’s it then — ill tidings, war. Yourself and yours against me and mine. Why shouldn’t he snuff him out now, before the liability should expand. Or actually take someone’s life, as it almost had Castor’s. Perhaps that had already happened, for all he knew.

Someone else had known all of it — The Captains, Syr Theros. Why would they let you live?

“ Shaper. A creature and a monster, fashioning more. All those things I’ve both seen and heard tale of — the very one we fought tonight too, I reckon. “ He started, aloof in his tone as he eyed him intently, a butcher studying a pristine carcass before the first cut. “ They are not easy to kill. “

How hard are you to kill, Faramund?

“ You allude to that you might be much like them, or other. “ He thought on how the man had just kept pressing on, fought while carrying the child the entire time, refused when he’d offered to help. Come back from where Castor had not, practically unscathed. Survived one thing gone wrong after another. How he’d always rushed in head first, always there for vanguard, always ready—

Until now he’d taken it for a simple death wish. Was it something more — did he know he couldn’t die like the rest of them?

“ And you declare yourself my enemy. Accepting death, if I should deal it upon you. “ That is, again, where we differ. He may have been ready for any day to be his last, but he would not die gladly for anything. Death is not serene.

Faramund’s was to do and die. His was to do and live.

“ Your death does not buy life. When I kill you, there’ll be another of your ilk. And another. “ He shook his head. Maybe it’ll buy time, at most. How much is that worth, when we’ll be watching over our shoulders regardless.

“ That aside. One thing eludes me yet— “ He rotated on heel, shifting weight, a strangest feeling in the pit of his stomach. “ If you are truly of the mind that you say you are. How your death will gain us so much. “ Something like anticipation, but— better.

“ Then why not give it to us yourself? “ He drew the knife, flipped it in the air to grab it by the blade. Threw it into the no-man’s-land betwixt them, where it sunk into the dirt in a wet huff, handle up. Ready for taking.

“ Slit your throat and be done with it. “

I'll wait.
 
'Maybe. Likely. But it won't be me.' That was the point. An end to all things. For a time, at least. Memory was a fickle thing. Faramund remembered next to nothing of his past life, or lives. Why should this time be any different?

It won't be me, he promised himself again, when I'm gone, it'll be for good, and the Shaper won't be able to hurt me anymore.

Laughter filled the silence. Cold and cruel and full of bile. A red mask, refracting moonlight, rushed from the darkness to hover a few inches from Faramund's face. The passenger liked to haunt him with visions and not-quite-premonitions. It also liked to remind Faramund of who he was, what he was. It enjoyed watching him lie, especially to himself. Just as it couldn't help but take control away in dire situations.

The knife landed in the dirt between them. Faramund was loth to pick it up.

Slit my throat and be done with it, he says. Does he think me so cowardly, that I would not have tried already? 'Fine, then.' Stooping to grab the handle, Faramund glanced up at Oliver, half-expecting to see a sword blurring towards his head. He was almost disappointed when the blow did not fall. The rattle in his skull doubled, drowning out all sound. When next he spoke, he could not even hear his own voice. Words formed all the same. Took shape in the space betwixt.

'This isn't going to go the way you think it is,' he said, putting the blade to his throat. 'It won't let-'

In a heartbeat, Faramund's vision boiled and blurred, turned to black, as if all the stars in the sky had been snuffed out. The blade at his throat trembled, a single red bead trailing down the contours of his neck to disappear beneath the collar of his gambeson. The knife, its blade wet with lifeblood, was removed from the doppler's neck. Smiling, it crouched down to scoop up a rock the size of Faramund's fist. Big enough to bludgeon a man to death with, even one in plate armour.

Standing, it waited, watched Oliver, a self-satisfied smile creasing the features of the man whose stubbornness had cost them both so much.
 
Fine, then.

Like a petulant child he’d just told to do some chore. He watched as the man bowed down for the knife, even having the gall to meet eyes. It was absurd, felt malignant. Maybe he should’ve just chopped his head off while he had the chance, just to spare himself of whatever this was.

It could still come to that. That was his rage talking again, bidding he step closer. Put the saber through him, as many times as it takes.

The man spoke, blade at the throat. Oliver’s eyes narrowed against the insult — that he would’ve been stupid enough to expect any which outcome — that he truly should’ve wished for his death, beyond the poison of his petty anger.

“ All these years we call each other brother and still, that word means nothing to you. “ We save each other and let each other go, when the time is right. A part of him had been sure, based on so much that he’d seen tonight alone, that he couldn’t have killed the man even if he’d wanted to. He would’ve risked a fight, just approaching.

Had he been wrong? Come the failed attempt, shifting of posture and large rock, it dawned on him he hadn’t been. If for different reasons than he’d thought. Worse reasons.

When he drew breath it was defeated and saddened, somehow heavier. The saber clicked softly, nicking the earth as his gauntleted hand adjusted to proper grip at the end of his slack arm. They’d not catch each other unawares and unprepared.

“ You had the chance to warn me this would happen. “ And I have none but myself to thank for not falling for the second trap tonight. Despite the fact he’d rather have looked at anything else, he kept his eyes on the smiling face. “ You didn’t. Was that submission just a ruse, so you might have me waltz over to take your head, too sure? “

It felt a fool’s errand — he may as well have been speaking to the woodland around him. He took a step backwards, putting more space betwixt them. One stride, two strides, three. There was a large tree there and he lingered next to it, the thick trunk filling empty space by his side like a friend.

“ I’m going back to camp. “

With that he turned to go, eclipsed by the old pine.
 
If Oliver was hoping for some kind of a response, he wouldn't get one. Motionless, the doppler's blank visage was a testament to Faramund's woes. Whatever light lingered there, behind the eyes, was one bad day away from being snuffed out for good. If not for symbiotic relationship they shared, the passenger would have replaced its host without a moment's hesitation.

The Pursuant turned to go.

'Oliver! W-wait!' Taking a step forward against its will, the passenger relinquished its hold, all too happy to go back to playing its games. 'You're... forgetting this!' Flipping the knife over, Faramund held it up to the moonlight.

I won't be needing it anymore, he grimaced, an underarm throw sending it toppling through the air to land at the knight's feet. I'm done.

Whatever trust there had been between them was gone, now. Maybe he would come around in time. From where Faramund found himself standing, it seemed a vain hope indeed. All things end, he thought, watching as the orkin vanished among the trees. Not you, though. No, you are cursed, friend. Bereft. Broken. Yours is to do and die and do again. For as long as it takes.

'To do... what?'

Blinking away his tears, the dawnling felt the strength go out of his legs. Down, he went, what faint spirit remained joining him in the dirt beside the brook. Racked by guilt, poisoned by hatred, the host contemplated its reflection in the dark water. Tears fell like rain to dimple the surface. Faramund barely noticed his reflection smiling up at him. Victorious. And full of spite.

'Yeah,' he croaked. 'Fuck you, too!'
 
A call. To wait and to claim what was his. A metallic sound told him what landed on the forest floor in his wake, but he wouldn’t look at it. He’d not bow down to pick it up, that blade marked with the sliver of his brother’s blood at the cutting edge.

Come the question, he slowed down just long enough to respond past his shoulder. He’d not look, merely elevate his voice that the man might hear him.

“ To see that our brothers yet live, Faramund. “

*​

Shapes loomed betwixt the trunks, more than he’d anticipated. But there was the faintest chatter, no shouts, and a shape standing tall where he’d previously stood watch. A pipe flared with the tiniest ember, the darkness of an upturned hood alive with a coil of smoke. As he retraced his steps, the slightest scent of herb wafted to him. It reminded him of home, so vividly it made his throat ache.

Relief.

“ Hail, camp. “ He spoke, saber falling from guard to the side.
“ Syr Oliver. This yours? “ A sharp smile met his weariness, a gloved hand coming off sword hilt to produce his helm from underarm.
“ Syr Zirain. “ He greeted, accepting the sallet expressionlessly. “ As you were. “

Sent away by Syr Zirain’s little mock salute, tips of fingers at the brow, he continued in the pace of his brisk march where the rest lay. The watchwoman had not come alone, bless whomever had sent them and that they should’ve made it here.

“ Syr Veth. “ He gave the healer but a glance on his beeline to Syr Theros, next to whom he’d shove his helm. The saber took its side on the ground, falling from his grip in a chime. Syr Vega’s sword was next, finally drawn from where it’d been since he’d picked it up hours ago. Taking a seat, he laid the blade over his lap, that residual wariness even as his posture sagged within plate.

“ I ran into Faramund, in the woods. He told me to kill him. “ He started, voice lowered for decency’s sake, tone casual as if he’d begun describing last night’s dinner. His look finally dared seek his fellow Pursuant, sought his eyes, concern writ upon his face even as he kept the sentiment from his voice.

“ How are you holding up? “
 
There in the darkness of the woods, just behind the pine that which Syr Oliver had laid his hand against, after a long, dark and quiet moment, peered out the three eyes as bright as the moons. All seeing as they were, as they stared unto the man so fallen upon the earth.

At war with himself. Unsure of what or who he was. But he was that same man. Who had taken her from that far away field. Though she was not the same then. That same man still, who had helped her find her way.

Out.

From that place. Beneath the Mount. One finger, to the broken hand that she felt some strange thumb to.

Step after steady step, she strode closer to the man. There beside the brook, she stood above him. Her bright moonglow eyes looked upon him. His mind, a maze she could see straight through. Gone as he was. No grin to be had. No Lie to hide behind. He tried as he might, to find his way back through his own mess.

Maybe then, he could see her. As she felt no fear of him. And she would let him see her. Honest as he was in that moment. She sat beside him, and placed a hand upon his back as she watched him sob and weep, ugly as new life so often was.

"It's alright," she said softly. "He's all Gone now," she said certain. "It's only you,"
 
​
So it was.

"Better now that our sworn kin have arrived," he said through gritted teeth. Anger swirled with pain, as salt to brakish water. His mind turned over a lashing for the both of them, having left Castor and himself to whatever wolf fancied a prowl. But now was not the time.

"Good Syr Veth says its best to take my leg, just below the knee," he said it just as easily as Oliver had spoken. A bitter laugh there behind it. "Not worth the risk of infection, with the journey ahead of us, even with the help of the shroud," he shook his head, though it was not the thought of his own maiming that bothered him. "I'll be taken care of, soon as Castor is put back together,"

Faramund had asked for death. At the hands of his own Brother, no less. Bebin almost wished he could be surprised at that. Though the tune was different then, was it not? There in Crown's Hold. After their long mission in the sewers. Through the city.

They had encountered a construct then too. And he could still remember that pathetic look in his eye. As if he were a child, and not the Knight he had sworn to be.

He wasn't good in the dark. Yet he asked for the darkness to take him.

Bebin groaned and shut his eyes. His head swam with memories that blurred with nightmares. The dreams of dead men, still clung to his soul. Still clung to his ghost, there in that Kingdom of Mud he swam so readily across.

"That you say he asked," Bebin's eyes came open, and he looked to the blades Oliver had rest down. The black sabre there with Castor's own steel. His eyes found Olivers. "Where is he then?" he said in a hush. "Did you find the girl?"

 
Just below the knee.

Oliver sucked in a breath at the notion, lamenting in Syr Theros’ behalf if not daring to glance at the maimed mess of his leg. The man would lose it, then, lest he was of the mind to dispure the healer and take the risks therein. Infections were the main cause of death after battles, but still— He didn’t know if himself would’ve had the ability to submit to the choice.

Let alone smile as he described it. He shook his head idly, glancing down at his hands that rested upon steel.

“ I didn’t capitalize on the request. “ He responded, more brief than he felt he should’ve been. “ Even if the things he told me would’ve justified it, so— He remains in the woods, at present. “

With my knife. If he's brotherly feeling left, he'll return it, properly.

“ I didn’t so much find the girl as heard her. She was there, in the dark. And spoke. “ He explained, head jerking at the direction past his shoulder.

“ Words to the effect of ‘He is Gone’, just as I find Faramund having creeped up on me like some shadowcat. “ As a ranger does. “ She’d not come with me and I wasn’t of the mind to force her. “
 
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