No, of course not. It had not been outside the realm of possibility, and yet. A small huff of a cruel humor. No. He could not have pretended to know what to have expected after all of this.

Trust. True as it was. If only because so often, it was all there was between them. Trust bent and strained. Trust broke.

He himself had been ready to put an end to his Brother, if the need had come to it. The room he had locked them in, scrawled with runes that needed only drink enough blood to ensure that place could never be opened again. His own, or Faramund's.

Maybe it was the thought of having left Darthinian outside that door that stirred the dark bubble of laughter from the pit of his stomach.

A touch of absurdity, there to keep his mind from closing itself off to all there still was to piece together.

Bebin followed Oliver's gaze toward the woods. stewed, wordless as the haze of things, drifted about him and through him. Ached in the ruin of his leg. Its lower half turned purple from the bind of the tourniquet. Starved of air, as if it had been drowned. Nothing to think about now.

"He is Gone," he repeated, as if the utterance alone would awaken something. In him, in the stars, or the world around them. All were just as likely as the silence that met him. "Is that all that happened, Oliver?" the Pursuant of Dusk turned his eyes back onto his counterpart of Dawn. "He happened upon you and the girl, and asked you to end him?"
 
“ No. “ He admitted, without delay. “ He held a knife, so I told him to drop it, for something felt terribly off. “ Precaution. Thinking back on it now, he had been more than right in the assessment, even if the extent of it had eluded him in the moment.

“ He did, without dispute. And proceeded to disarm himself — I didn’t even have to ask for it. “ Marking, he glanced at the saber. To have called it uncanny would’ve been a gross understatement — such a big man, with that personality of his, brought so low. Self-defeated.

“ I don’t know entire what did it— Was it the distrust by me or the girl that hurt him more, but he relayed the same as he had as we ran into each other in the Mount. “ Wherein they’d stared at one another, wild eyed, himself from within his helm and the sworn in that beam of light.

“ That he should trust me to do what needs be done. What he needs me to do, specifically. “ Frowning, he returned his attention to Syr Theros.

“ Being myself, I asked what this meant and why — as sometimes one should veil a request and a flimsy reason for it within obscurity. “ Not realizing how much of an idiot he sounds, should he speak plainly. An anger rippled in his voice and he wasn’t entirely sure why. The absurdity of it? Speaking of things in their real names, as they were, took vulnerability. The man had managed that well enough, but the rest —

“ No such luck, but explain he did. I trust you know most of it already. “ It took everything he’d left to keep accusation from his tone. His look merely questioned, begged answer without asking.

“ He said he is turning into my enemy, too far gone. “ His face twisted, half disgust and half lingering disbelief. “ Even if that had been just a product of melodramatic self-loathing in his part, it makes him a liability. An outright death wish does that too. “
 
He could not see it. In the pit of thought that ebbed between the pair of them. Oliver and Bebin. His own mind, too tired to imagine this new reality. This absence within the Mount. That place he had walked amidst the dying man's dream. From whence Oliver had seen Faramund. After Bebin had sent them all there.

Where he had seen the prison. The cell, devoid of a prisoner that had been there before. Was that but a fiction? For she had emerged. Oliver too, heard her. Chased after her in the dark. Bebins own senses too strained by the failure of that place. Not a dying man, but a dead man's dream.

That Darkness that awaited them all.

But he believed it. Every tired word that fell from his Brothers' mouths. Oliver's. Faramund's.

I trust you know most of it already.

Bebin sat in the moment. Past and present. Dream and reality. Waves that crashed across the same shore. He gave a nod and listened on.

"He is not the first sworn kin to crack beneath the pressure of our duties," Bebin reminded Oliver, voice tight, so that it traveled only so far as between the two of them. A privilege of rank. "We treat him as we would any man whose been hammer shocked," he said louder. Then hushed once more. "The rest, we hold between us, until we return to the Monastery," he looked over to where Syr Veth worked, then looked toward Syr Zirain. "Less we've no choice but to do otherwise,"
 
“ He is not. “ He spoke betwixt, fast to agree until a thoughtful quietness took him. From there Syr Theros laid down the bare bones of a plan, the lot of them left rattling on the floor of his skull. It seemed too hopeful, somehow, that they could abide by them, to pretend something wasn’t simmering. To cover the flame with a hand and pretend it wasn’t hot.

For his part, he’d do his damnest for the benefit of it, but there was no predicting how the man would emerge. Were he to do so at all.

No choice. What constitutes such a thing, when already it feels like there is but one. The man himself had sought to take it and failed.

“ I stood at that precipice, mere moments ago. I didn’t think he’d actually put the knife to his throat— “ He admitted in the low tone they’d resulted to, eyeing carefully about them for any sign of outright eavesdropping from the sworn.

“ But it changed him, like by some rogue spell. Submission gone, straight to malice. “ His hand swept the air, slashing a line.

“ And he knew that would transpire, he would fight, if not of his own accord. “ Drawing breath, he eyed at passing air like someone he particularly wanted to strangle to death was standing there.

“ I went the other way after that and he let me walk. But it has left my will to understand and further suffer him at its terminal limit. “

And that’s without accounting for the fact I’ll never trust him again.
 
A silence then. As more of the tale was told.

He had seen it then too, in Faramund's eye. The want to kill. To fight. A thing born from terror.

"Such are the tools of our Enemy," Bebin said, mournful and knowing. "To strip us of every last bit of reason, and leave us hopeless," he spoke like a man who knew too well of the cold waters he invoked now. "Adrift, without but the fear, and the rage within us, spreading like the roots to feed a bloody harvest," he growled low. Looked to Oliver, knowing too well he had seen it. Felt it.

"You went the other way, and you made it here, despite all that you have seen, Syr Oliver. At this junction, what else is there for us to understand?" the words of a man who need to hold on to something yet. Something to keep himself from dying in the bitter cold of the world that surrounded them still. "We act as we would, with any soul whose fought alongside us, until we've no choice left," he said. Remembering the fool Mund's jest.

It was that. Or a knife through the ribs.

"But we will remain ready to act," he said with a surrender to it. Rest his head back against the mossy stone he had propped himself up against through his forced watch. "To give breath to more..." he stared out into the darkness of the wood. Shook his head. "We mustn't, not so far from home," he keeled his head towards Oliver, his own hands trembled, and he could but squeeze them tight into fists to still his own nerves. "Are we in agreement, Brother?"
 
He bobbed his head, despite the bud of disagreement in his gut. It felt like Syr Theros was vouching for Faramund at a disproportionate extent, his deeper sentiment for that man specifically making him blind to betrayal. They’d only be as strong as the trust they had for one another — and there was a link that threatened to break him off the chain entire.

What will I do, when I leave? Retire to some farm, out there — simpler life, made complicated by everything I know. But without having to worry whether to forego executing a man or sleeping one eye open until either me or him is dead.

“ Yes. Let it be as you say. “ We’ll speak of it again, am sure, later. He wiped a hand through his hair, rubbing at his forehead and down the side of his face, trying to will some spirit into his body that felt heavier by the minute. Settling to place, cursed by his decision to sit and linger.

“ Sorry about that piece of shit stick. I chose badly. “ He said finally, daring to glance at the man’s leg and unable to imagine how it felt. Bound to keep a man’s eyes open.

“ Made you fall. “
 
The tears continued to fall as the Midnight Sun passed over the plains of Khurun, a silvery beacon against the true dark beyond. Bathed in its light, head down, Faramund felt as if a great blanket had settled across his shoulders. Warm. Comforting in its familiarity. It didn't take the pain away, the fear that he was becoming something... other.

He sought that which only oblivion could provide, and yet he had failed to find it, so cursed was he. So... broken by time's ceaseless turn.

Footsteps alerted him to the presence of another. The ranger in him knew no concern; too soft to be Syr Oliver returned, and too loud to be Enemy. Mina, then. Looking up at her approach, Faramund smiled forlornly. 'Gone? Y-yes, I suppose he is.' Wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, Faramund turned his head away. 'You should go, too, Mina. You're not safe, here, with me.' How she saw the light in him, where only there was dark.

Maybe she's gone, too? He thought. Gone, gone, gone. Just like me.

Faramund refused to believe that. She was the only hope he had left. Trinemorro. Gifted One. He shook his head. 'You've changed,' he managed to whisper through a throat made of sandpaper. 'But you're just as brave as you were back then.' The three moons shone down on him as he closed his eyes, the guilt and grief returning in a tidal wave so large, he had no way of resisting it. Only the hand on his back kept him grounded, long enough to give voice to the war within.

'I'm sorry.'
 
Relief relieved tension with the appearance of the other knights. He could feel himself slipping from reality and into the kingdom of mud. Castor desperately willed lucidity lest his unconsciousness become a matter of the mundane.

"I'd not thought you so weak Syr," intoned Elven knight as he stepped forward.

"You fuc-"

The Sworn's words were cut off as the elf drove an enshrouded palm into his abdomen. Pain suffused Castor's very being in a way he'd never known before. All manner of curses old and new took queue yet he'd not the breath.

He looked upwards towards the crimson veil and knew the serene gaze that lay behind. It was often thought Syr Veth was blind but that was not the case. His sensitivity to the Shroud was simply unnatural.

Before Caster lost his grasp on the real he heard the elf's fading words, "Syr Vega will be fine but your leg..."

Castor eventually came to, only vaguely able to make out the muffled voices of Bebin and Oliver. Visioned blurred as consciousness found him with all its accompanying realities. "What's the word?" he managed as his gaze steadied.
 
"Sorry," Mina echoed. Her voice like the morning mist, caught betwixt the trees that swirled upon distant hills. A haze that shifted so slow, it almost seemed still. "You are sorry," she went on. As if the words took time to sink in to the mud of her mind.

Each sound she took in, a thing that might give roots. Sprout and grow out into the matter there behind her trinary gaze.

Her hand yet rest upon his back. Felt all the rivers flow there inside of him. Felt all the mire there behind his eyes. The darkness.

"And I am brave," she pat him. Rubbed the palm of her hand against his back, as a sister to a brother. Familiar in their comforts. "You can be brave too," She said, her moonglow eyes, bright as midnight suns there in that ink of night. "Change," she said, as if to try the word upon her tongue.

Taste the syllable that fell from her lips. Copper with its tang. Cold and cutting. But then. What had she tasted? But the bitter sweetness of the Blight. The blood in the air. The sour stink of fear. The forest floor. The leaves. The mountain air. A six legged insect that had crawled across her arms.
She blinked. And saw the man again. "Faramund," she said like the new fallen rain. "Are you afraid to be alone?"

Now that he was Gone.

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A hand waved, to dismiss the worry. The strain of pain there in the movement. In the neck and the eyes. Strung tight as fibers of flesh and sinew would allow. "Wasn't you that sicked that bloody monster on me, was it, Syr Oliver?" A wry grin split across Bebin's face, as if the Thief's moon turned crescent. "Or did you mean to give me such a piece of lumber, hoping to serve me my comeuppance?" the grin waned as he closed his eyes and leaned back once more.

His breath focused. A cool breeze stirred the leaves and branches about them. All the forest set to rustle in hush and whispered secrets set to cool blues and dusty greens, whilst the moons' light painted pale silver and gold in scattered fractals across the litter laden floor.

"No" he said in defeat. Bitter smile turned to heavy frown. "Simple chaos, those things that can't be accounted for,"

Come Castor's croak, and Bebin shook off whatever pool of doubt he began to sink into.

"We are alive yet," the Pursuant said. Shift with a pained groan that saw his hands grip towards the malformed limb. Bandages soaked red, tourniquet tight. He huffed out a breath, and let go of his hurts, hands set to tremor as he brought his mind back to level. Another set back unto the moss covered boulder.

Fingers dug through the soft earth. Found traces of the Shroud there in the channels of the soil. Moist against his fingers. He lift them, to see. The dried blood that marked his deeds there upon the spiraled pads of his prints, wet again. "And waiting for Syr Veth to take my leg," he said as he rubbed his thumb and fingers together.
 

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It was difficult to watch the man grin, humouring his stupid remarks. That Syr Theros should’ve been so reasonable and even calm, even now with all that awaited him. With all that had happened tonight alone, he entertained the feeble hope that it wouldn’t be the worst of it.

Even if his senses told him otherwise. With Syr Vega out of it, there’d be only himself and Syr Zirain to hold Syr Theros down. Would it be enough? The last he’d seen anything of the sort, it’d taken four people in addition to who did the actual work.

The men spoke and a figure somewhere behind him rose, way sooner than he’d wanted. Begrudgingly he roused to attention from where he’d let himself sink, breaths shallow like someone was strangling him. At the sight of Syr Veth approaching, that somber smile beneath a healer’s mask, his heart twisted, like a little rat attempting to burrow deeper. Where would it be safe?

He couldn’t keep the tender concern from his face, movements mechanical as he moved his helm and blades aside. A shift on spot saw him knelt beside the injured as Syr Veth lowered down a bundle of leather and a wooden box, both with a chime of contents. Metal and glass.

“ Are you ready? “ The man asked, as if that mattered, the rhetorical nature of the inquiry writ in the way he went on untying the leather that held his instruments, speeding on. The wooden box clicked open, moonlight in the neatly compartmentalized vials. There was even a crystal there, put aside next to some obscure contraption. But they’d not be needing those today.

" By the Eight. " The healer started, leaning down to inspect the ruined leg with almost fascination. He was quick on the draw of a knife, steel so ready he may as well have conjured it. Cloth tore as he made to expose mangled flesh.

“ I haven’t anything for the pain that doesn’t compromise your ability of getting out of here— “ Practiced and daring for it, he measured down from the patella with a flat hand, four fingers’ width. There was just enough there, as he’d suspected.

“ More, I mean. Dwale or hemlock — could knock you out. “ Or kill you.
“ Then we’ll build another litter. “ Oliver retorted. The healer glanced at him with some amusement, wordlessly congratulating him for having finally recovered from merely staring like he’d been caught up in the middle of some nefarious scheme.
“ That we will, am sure. “

A scent of herbs and turpentine mingled with the blood and disturbed dirt beneath them all as valiant attempt was made to clean where he’d have to cut. Syr Oliver he instructed to replace the old tourniquet with one from his healer's box, fastened and screwed tight at the thigh.

“ It is either that, or I’ll have Syr Oliver and Syr Zirain assist me. By holding you down. “ And they will have to. They settled there, eyeing the man about to endure the pain. Or not. “ But it won’t be for long. Two minutes. “

Staring down at the leg, Oliver chewed on the inside of his cheek. His gauntlets were already off.

One hundred and twenty seconds.
 
'Change,' he repeated the word, as if it had not crossed his mind. That is what I am afraid of. He was in the process of becoming something... other. Evil, he was not, but the monster within knew no reason. Nor would it listen should he choose to resist, as he had tried to do before. Many a time too many.

'I am afraid, yes.'

Nodding, Faramund closed his eyes. 'Scared, and tired unto death.' Of the dark, and the things that dwelt there; of the Everwatcher and His lackeys, brilliant as they were blind. Most of all, though, he was tired of the lies he had told- been forced to tell over the years. A part of him knew they were not his lies, but knowledge did little to wipe away the guilt. If anything, it only compounded the ideas floating around his head.

If they are even mine to begin with.

Blinking away his tears, the dawnling made to stand. Mina's words had only served as a reminder, a warning of what could happen should they remain. Alone. 'Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.' Gazing down at Mina, Faramund hesitated but a moment before offering her a hand up. 'Places, people... both are susceptible to change. For better, and sometimes worse.' Pausing, red-rimmed eyes turned to admire the stars above, only to find them Gone.

'Maybe I am still capable of being the man I always believed myself to be. We shall never know, unless I try.'

To change. To become something other, something better.

Padding softly back to camp, Faramund pondered the road ahead. He lacked the strength to deal with his passenger, this much he knew. But he had allies now. Brethren he could trust to keep an eye on him. For as long as their patience lasted.

Squatting down beside Bebin, the dawnling acknowledged Syr Veth with a look and a nod. Usually, there would have been some small attempt at banter. A few choice words to brush away the fear. The Pursuant seemed to have it handled, though. Brave-faced, and resolute in his wish to see the leg taken before it took him.

'Hate to be that guy, but what're the odds we make it back to the monastery in time? If by some miracle we could save it...' A shrug, as he let the thought linger.
 
"Fuck." was all Castor could manage once he realized the Pursuant wasn't joking. Even still he tried to get a closer look, as if challenging reality's cruel jape. Immediate and excruciating pain slammed the door shut on that idea. The Sworn knew that what came next for Syr Theros was going to be unpleasant in the extreme and would require all available hands. Castor could not help there but refused to remain useless.

He'd resolved to maintain watch as best he could. The dusker focused inward as he allowed his influence to encompass the camp's perimeter. They'd not be taken unawares during the procedure. Castor continued his steady focus even as Syr Veth's blade began to descend.

---

"Ah good, another hand," remarked the Elf as Faramund arrived.

He glanced towards each of the knights and finally down to Syr Theros' leg. "Let us begin." He held aloft a small blade akin to a scalpel, glowing slightly with imbued shroud. The Elf took a measured breath before beginning to cut away at the rotted flesh. His work was efficient and precise, even a novice could notice his experienced hand.

One hundred seconds remained.

Syr Veth cut deep into flesh, this time just below where he planned to amputate. He removed muscle so as to create a 'flap' that would be used to complete the procedure. The healer proceeded to clear away further muscle until the bone was clear for all to see.

Sixty seconds remained.

Then he reached back towards the bundle of leather and retrieved a silver bonesaw. He said no words but all knew that the pain Syr Theros just experienced up until this point would be dwarfed by what came next...
 
Come the blade. Come the cutting. Come the pain of flesh sliced away. Not there where the blade cuts. But where all is still left behind. Jaw clenched so tight it felt as if teeth would burst.

Breath. Calm. Simmered there beneath the surface of it all as sweat drenched into cloth of blood stained ban. A hand grabbed vicious round gold and tattered surcoat. Pulled the dawnling closer. Eyes like obsidian arrows struck. "Make yourself useful, fools ass, and put a leather tween my teeth!" he growled as the sawed and silvered blade came shining. Bebin released his sworn brother, all wicked smile and grin. "Hurry on now, Mund!" he hissed "'For the good doctor takes my bloody leg, and I eat my own tongue!"

A heated madness. A fever to help cloud the pain. As sweat poured down ruined face. His eyes cracked to Oliver. Almost afraid of whatever reality waited for him. Once the teeth were done.
 
Do you, really, hate being that guy, Faramund?

He glared sidelong at whom, yet again, failed to shut his damn mouth, come arriving back from the woods like any which geist. There was no time for anything else, which was probably for the best. While Syr Faramund was at Syr Theros’ immediate side, Oliver had taken post holding on to the leg, a little elevated, lest the bone splinter once sawn through. His stomach twisted as the knife came out.

The worst part was the visible pain and the words. In the periphery of his vision he saw a dark look, but wouldn’t dare meet it, too trained to task of holding on. And he would, hold on.

The sound of saw through bone wasn’t much different to that of halving a log. Finer, perhaps, a little more sinewy and sharper as small fiber after another was cut. They made great time and he got to learn just how much heavier a man’s severed leg was than he’d expected.

He felt nigh idiotic, absurd, holding onto it. Meat, but infinitely worse.

The fuck was he to do with it, now.
 
'Oh, aye! Would you like a cup of tea, first?' A brave bastard, was Bebin. A good friend, too. Is that why this hurts so much? Faramund wondered, going against the grain and doing as bid. Of all the brethren, Syr Bebin was perhaps the closest thing he had to a brother. Not many would have stood by him, after all that had come to light. Fewer still would have fought so hard to keep him on the right path.

If this is the right path, it's pretty fucking awful.

Looking to Syr Veth, Faramund waited for the nod before rifling through his little box of wonders. There wasn't any wine, just vials and crystals and tools made for the cutting. There was, however, a wooden prop. For biting down on, Faramund assumed.

Slipping it 'tween Bebin's teeth, the dawnling nodded, let his eyes wander off as Syr Veth continued slicing. The sound of a serrated blade going through bone was nothing new, but it sent a shiver down his spine all the same. Endure! He held Bebin down as the saw did its work. Just a moment longer...

The leg came away with a wet hiss. Bloody instruments were laid to rest as Syr Oliver knelt there, a brother's severed limb balanced in his bloody paws. The sight of it was almost surreal. Faramund grimaced, his gaze drawn to Bebin's, fresh concern replacing his own self-absorbed fears. Somehow, he had managed to hold onto consciousness, if only by the barest of threads. Mund patted the man's shoulder reassuringly.

'Well, that's one down.'
 
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