[Closed] If Ever You Needed Someone

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

“No?” Demkaih repeated the word as a question, his voice wavering on confusion and anger. No? What the clocking hell did the wisp of a woman mean by that?!
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​​Blue mugrobi eyes met hazel-green Bastian ones, and it was not sympathy or understanding that was held there as Niccolette pushed the man away with her words. The tall entrepreneur smacked a closed fist down on the table, spilling tea and rattling fine porcelain cups, his mediocre glamour shifting with hot bright crimson.
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​​ “No!” He repeated the word, sharp and short, louder but not yelled. Leaning both hands on the table, Demkaih frowned at her.
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​​ “No Niccolette Ibutatu. You do not get to choose what is my affair or not. You do not get to tell me Uzoji’s death was murder, and expect I will sail from here without avenging him. You loved him, but we loved him too. Family, friends. I knew Uzoji when you were but a babe swaddled in your crib. Do not forget that you may have loved him best, but we loved him first.” Inhaling deeply, the older man straightened, reaching for the new carving of Hulali with seeking hands. Thumbing over the figurine in its pouch, he breathed, finding his calm as best he could. Anger was not a useful emotion, not when thought was required. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and exhaled.

“Oh Great Father of Tides, Bringer of Floods. Take this taint from me like the draining of stagnant waters, and fill me with your clarity. My mind, my body, my soul feel this vile rage. Purge me of my impurities, and cast Your net over me. Draw me to Your most Glorious side. Give me the peace I seek.” Opening his eyes, Demkaih stood tall, his glamour resolute.
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​​ “Fine.” The mugrobi said firmly, his timbre rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. Releasing the carving, he inhaled and exhaled again with a nod.
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​​ “You can have your affair adame, but if you will not help me I will help myself. I may not have your power, but I have my resources. If you will not speak, I will question the entire Harbor.” Reaching for his blades, Demkaih shifted them to his sides again, adjusting the curious holsters on his belt with clanking of wooden bracelets.
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​​ “I will go to Silas Hawke himself if I have to. The self proclaimed King would know more I suspect than even the widow of Uzoji.” It was a cruel jab, a lingering hurt from his anger. Frowning at the woman, he shook his head
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​​ “Epa’ma, Niccolette. Hulali grants us the patience and wisdom to see the path through the storm, and I forget myself in the deluge. I forget you are not Mugrobi, and you may not understand the intricacies of our people.” Another subtle stab, digging at her heritage in his clipped anger.

“You are entitled to your privacy, and you do not know me. I have assumed to much familiarity with the wife of my friend, and have let my anger tarnish my words. Forgive me.” Bowing respectfully, the older merchant made his way to the threshold of the kitchen, pausing there for a moment.
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​​ “If you want a friend, I will be in the Harbor for a while yet, most likely at the Black Dove.” He looked at her, hesitating as though he had so much more to say, instead pressing his lips together with a hard exhale and beginning to walk down the hallway to the discarded travel bag he’d left at the front door.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette’s eyes sparked bright when Demkiah slammed his fist on the table, when he raised his voice in anger. She did not move, holding still, as straight as if there were an iron rod in her spine. Her field held around her, crisp and clear and bright, and she watched him intently.

Demkaih set his hands on the table and leaned in towards her. Niccolette felt it, then, a slow tingling of instinctive fear that crept up her spine and made her breath catch. She bore up under it, and lifted her chin a little higher, and met his gaze unrelentingly. He staked his claim to Uzoji, as if time could matter for the knowing of a man; as if having cooed over Uzoji in his swaddling clothes gave him any rights.

Niccolette had never claimed to have a monopoly on grief. She believed Demkaih was sorry for Uzoji’s death; she believed he was sad. She believed he was angry too; he had given her plenty of evidence of it.

And then -

He pulled back, and found another carving like the one he had given her, and began to pray. Niccolette’s eyes dropped to it, and if Demkaih had had his eyes opened he might have seen the glimmer of tears in hers - the memory of his kindness at the funeral, the tears she had wept into the figurine he had given her. Then - for the time she had spent in Thul Ka afterwards - all the way home to the Rose, cradling the figurine in her hands and crying her heart out to Hulali. His waters, she thought, bitterly. It was still in her nightstand, that godsbedamned carving.

But her eyes were dry by the time Demkaih finished all his praying. Not angry enough, Niccolette thought, idly.

Her mouth twisted in a wry smile at the threat to go to Hawke, and it faded when he apologized. He was very right; Hawke knew more than she, and well did Niccolette know it. She wished him luck of it; she wondered if he would have better success than she had with the man she and Uzoji had worked for these last five years.

But, too, he revealed his ignorance with the threat; if Uzoji had wanted Demkaih to know, surely he would have told him. They had lied to all Thul Ka, Aremu with his words and Niccolette with her silences, because she could no longer bear the speak the lies aloud. What right did Demkaih have to know the truth?

And if Hawke told him?

Niccolette shrugged lightly at Demkaih’s words about not being Mugrobi. She was not. They did not sting. She doubted that she did not understand, but she thought perhaps it was easier for him to think that than to realize she simply did not care. He asked for her forgiveness, and the Bastian’s lips twisted in a bitter mockery of a smile. He bowed, and she could have slapped him.

Niccolette shifted in her seat, and turned to watch Demkaih go. She picked her cup of tea up from the pool of thin, dark liquid, and took a sip, droplets spilling down into the table below.

A friend, Niccolette thought. No. She did not want a friend; she had enough of those, and she had had enough of them already. Friendship could cool the fire in her chest, could make it bearable - but she did not wish to cool it. She wished for it to burn - to set her all aflame with its glorious heat - to bring the world down with it.

“Pathetic,” the galdor said, casually but more than loudly enough to be heard, and set the cup down. She looked away from Demkaih, not even bothering to watch him leave. “As if you could even be of use.”

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

Moving down the hallway, stepping over the streaks of blood that the Bastian’s feet had left on the wooden flooring, Demkaih berated himself in silence. He was a good man, his father had taught him to be a good man, and even when the Tashwa had killed his father he had remained a good man. Vengeance burned in his chest, was his Hulali given right, but he’d held his place. He’d held his fists, and his blades, and had pushed his anger and hurt down to be an example for Orianna. To keep the business going for her, and their staff.
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​​He had been a good man.
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​​And yet here he was, raging against a spectre of a woman over the reality of Uzoji’s demise. Furious at her for telling him the truth, only to withhold the facts. A child, she was naught but a child compared to himself and Demkaih had not been kind. He hadn’t controlled himself, letting anger and emotional outbursts dictate his actions. Reaching for the strap of his bag, cheeks darker under the blush of his own embarrassment, Demkaih hefted it.
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​​“Pathetic,…as if you could even be of use.”
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​​He had been a good man.
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​​Dropping the bag with a growl, the older Mugrobi stormed back down the hallway, not stopping as he filled the kitchen with his presence. Glamour crackling in its own smaller aura, Demkaih grabbed her by the arm tightly, though not hard enough to hurt her. He leaned down to come face to face with the Bastian, seemingly unperturbed by the knowledge the galdor could more than likely fend herself magically from him.
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​​ “You, you dare insult me with uselessness? Have you seen yourself Niccolette? Was I not the one that scraped your barely conscious erse off the floor just a while ago? Were you not the one that has drunk herself into illness? And you call me pathetic.” His lip curled slightly, eyes bright with anger again.
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​​ “You are a child pretending to be a grown woman. Petulant and too proud, testing my patience and my good humour.” Taking one of his chakra blades from its holster, Demkaih held it up beside their faces, turning it slightly one way and then the other to catch the low light of the room on the honed edge. He looked at it, before looking back at Niccolette.
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​​ “Do you think I carry these for decoration? For some act of protection, the poor weak golly needing sharp things to scare off would be thieves? I have worked the fields, have fended from raiders, and from hostile business takeovers. I have travelled Vita and seen all these settled kingdoms and their dark secrets. I have known death and hatred, and fury and calm. I have earned my place in the world, unlike your privilege of birth, Bastian.” He was too angry, towering over the waif with weapon in hand.
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​​He was not a good man.
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​​ “Do not presume to know me Niccolette, or what I am capable of.” Letting go of her arm with a shove, Demkaih put the blade away, standing tall and looking down at the woman who he wondered was perhaps soft in the head. Had her grief sent her mad? Who was so rude and cruel to those who offered help?
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​​ “Why do you seek to torment me? Have I not shown you kindness and compassion when you were in need? Have I not honoured Uzoji by caring for his wife? Bhe, oveka arata.” He waved a hand at her, crossing his arms and shaking his head.
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​​ “I will not be your sick entertainment today. You are without a friend, Niccolette.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette could heard Demkaih returning, stomping back through her house, back into the kitchen. She did not look; she kept her gaze fixed off to the side, and did not let the faintest flicker of fear creep into her field. She held as if utterly indifferent to him, as if she was scarcely aware of his presence – up until he grabbed her arm.

Niccolette turned then, and swallowed the scream that threatened to emerge, looking up at the Mugrobi as he loomed over her, squeezing her arm tightly. She could feel the fury in his field, crackling around him. With him so close, the size of it did not matter; it surrounded her, and washed over every inch of her skin. Niccolette’s breath came hard and fast, but she did not scream; she held herself still and her field clear and her lips together, and met Demkaih’s gaze as he insulted her.

He called her out for the hypocrite she was; he called her a child, too, petulant and proud, and Niccolette watched as he took out one of his blades. For a moment, as she lifted her gaze back to his, she did wonder if she had gone too far. Death and hatred, fury and calm, he promised her, and Niccolette turned her gaze to his weapon again, and waited. She did not interrupt; still, she did not even open her mouth to speak.

He let go of her arm and shoved her away. Niccolette caught herself against the edge of the chair, and looked back at him again as he put the blade away – called her a stupid galdor, as if she did not speak Mugrobi, and told her she was without a friend. Yes, she thought; yes. Good enough. Perhaps he would do, after all.

Niccolette lifted her fingers to her arm, and slid them along the spot where his fingers had gripped – pressed, firmly, feeling the throbbing ache of a bruise. Another, to match the line on her throat – the striping of it across her body, where a human who sought to rob her had fallen a few nights ago.

“Pathetic, perhaps, but not stupid,” Niccolette said, in flawless Mugrobi; there was no lingering trace of her Bastian origins when she spoke, and from her accent she could have been born in Thul Ka itself. Still she did not rise, letting Demkaih loom over her, looking up at him. “I do not want a friend.”

Slowly, Niccolette let go of her arm and rose up from the chair. She looked up at Demkaih again; it was not as if she could look any closer to directly at him like this. “You do not know what I am,” she said, calmly. “Or what Uzoji was,” she shrugged, and stepped away now, putting space between them, her long black dress trembling with each movement. She turned her back to him, and ran her fingers along the edge of the table, slow and light. Perhaps it was the lessening of the fever; she had not felt so clear in weeks. Months, perhaps; she was not sure.

Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled out, and slowly let rage fill her field. She opened herself to the air around her, and it spilled out, hot and red-tinged, seeping into the air around her. Her eyes fluttered, slightly; it spilled to the full extent of her field, stretching out seven, nearly eight feet into the kitchen around her, burning hot. Rage, every inch of it, but not slanted – not hostile – not sigiled, not directed at Demkaih, for all that he would feel it wrap around against him.

And then Niccolette shuddered again, and it slid away into nothingness, and the air was clear and cool once more. She took it all back inside her, and slid it from her field, and turned to look at Demkaih, eyelashes fluttering faintly with the effort of it. From a little further away, it was easier to meet his gaze directly. Niccolette ran her tongue over dry, cracked lips, her skin pale and red-stained from her own heat.

“We joined Hawke five years ago,” Niccolette said, casually, back to Estuan now, her accent unrepentantly Bastian once more. She glanced down at her hand against the counter, and then back up at Demkaih, tilting her head to the side. “Before that we pirated on our own, of course,” she shrugged again, black fabric shifting over her shoulders. “They were Uzoji’s plans, but I will not pretend I did not approve.” Her gaze fixed on him. “I will not pretend I did not enjoy the conquest.”

“Death and hatred, fury and calm,” Niccolette smiled, slowly. “I know something of this also, now.”

The Bastian took a deep breath, and shivered. It had felt good to speak the truth, and she did not much care what Demkaih thought of her for it. “Uzoji had not wanted them to know, his family. You as well, I suppose,” she shrugged. “Should I have dishonored his memory by spilling his secrets to any who ask? His death does not change any of what was owed between us. Secrecy was the least of it.”

“Now you know,” Niccolette said. “Those they call the Drain took him from me. When I am ready,” her gaze lowered again, but she did not hesitate. Her field remained utterly indectal around her, crisp and clear; she was not caught in the grip of some overwhelming fury, but calm and utterly sure, “I shall find them, every one who was involved, and I shall take them apart limb by limb,” her gaze lifted, slowly, but it was clear she was not seeing Demkaih, her gaze fixed instead somewhere in the middle distance, as if she was already seeing her reckoning, “and I shall make them long for death, before I grant it. I shall have his vengeance, whatever the cost.”

“So,” Niccolette shrugged, and her gaze fixed slowly back on Demkaih. She probed the bruise on her arm again, feeling the sharp, invigorating pulse of pain. “There are your answers. Do you like them?” She smiled, and picked up the cup of tea, and drained the last of it.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

Demkaih stared down at her, frowning still, hearing her speak his native tongue with ease. It didn’t change what he had said though, nor what he felt. A snake could speak many tongues, should it need to. He had been wrong before. She was no lioness, she was an uliam, vicious and wild in the dark.

As she stood, rubbing the bruise on her arm, the taller man refused to budge. He felt regret at the mark on her arm, that was wrong of him, but he didn’t show her his hand. The woman was mad, and he had no doubt that if he turned his back on her, she would fly with further insults. Truly, he should just leave.

Ah, but what would Rayowa say? He’d promised her.

The galdor let her rage loose, a sweeping tangible force that filled the room, though it wasn’t directed at Demkaih he felt it. Her anger was deep, and volatile, terrible in its fury. The man felt frustration then, empathy for the woman mingled with bafflement at her unwillingness to accept his help. To accept his friendship. Niccolette said he didn’t know what she was, what Uzoji was, but did it matter? Did that really make his friendship so hard to bare?

Her field drew back, taking with it the rage, till there was a peace in the air and she turned to him. The tall Mugrobi steeled himself for her snark, her outburst, trying to prepare himself to be the good man he was supposed to be. Her words were soft, but heard, and Demkaih couldn’t help the soft curse that escaped him.

Idiots.

The anger in his stance dropped a little in disappointment, baffled why two perfectly clever young people would wrap themselves up with Silas Hawke. He didn’t speak, listening instead, keeping the sudden realizations from his face. Pirating? The older man recalled times where the young Uzoji had been fascinated by his trade routes, asking so many questions which Demkaih had so proudly answered. He’d wondered if perhaps the boy would pick up the trade routes with him when he was older, almost part of the family business, but now he understood.

That little chroveshit.

Standing still, arms crossed and face unchanged, the man listened still as she continued. He didn’t acknowledge that Uzoji had kept it a secret from himself as much as his family, but there was a touch of warmth in his chest. The boy he had thought of as family, that he had looked over like a brother, he’d thought much the same of Demkaih? Perhaps, of course, the merchant knew this but it had never really been said. Not out loud, not like this. It was hard to be angry at the dead man when he knew why the hidden had been hidden.

The Drain? The man narrowed his eyes a little, watching Nicco speak of her vengeance on them. He’d perhaps heard of them, through his fleet, but his knowledge was not strong. Were they an organisation of sorts, or a trade route? Why had they taken Uzoji from her, and to what end? The dark haired Bastian smiled, picking up her tea and posing her question to Demkaih, as though by revealing these things the older Mugrobi should be ashamed of the truth. Ashamed of Uzoji. He pondered her for a moment, standing there tall and proud with his frown etched on his face and blue eyes narrowed, silently contemplating all she said.

And then, he smirked. A chuckle escaped the man, and he uncrossed his arms to drag a hand over his chin, before holding it out to Niccolette as though to ask her to wait.

“You mean to tell me, all those times that desema sat down for hours with me going over the trade routes and charts, it was not because he was interested in spice trading?” Shaking his head, Demkaih rubbed his neck and sighed.

“Bajea! Did you ever pirate my ships? By Hulali’s tits…” Chuckling again, he rested his hands on his hips, looking down at the Bastian as his smile faded. After a while, he moved to draw a chair at her table, sitting down slowly and lacing his fingers together as though about to strike up a business deal.

“Tell me more about this Drain. Why would they have murdered Uzoji? Is it because of Hawke, or was there something else? What do you plan to do?” The older man’s face was serious, his tone no-nonsense, clearly ready to help whether the Bastian pushed him away again or not.

“Hulali teaches that we should forgive and we should never strike in anger, but there is such a thing as an eye for an eye. Death is sacred, and should not be wrought by mortal hands. This Drain, they have stolen a soul from Hulali’s net and left it unbalanced. Uzoji’s soul is unable to return to the cycle, because his death was not Hulali’s to give. We must balance the net, a soul in exchange for Uzoji’s. The lives of the blasphemers for Hulali’s Glory. Then, he will be able to return and rest, and Hulali will rejoice for the circle is whole again.” The Mugrobi spoke with absolute resolve, completely believing what he was saying without question. His faith guided him, in all, and the death of Uzoji’s assailants would balance everything that was wrong.

Was it right? Perhaps not all of Hulali’s devout would say as much, but Demkaih believed it. There was some truth to it, in the myths and legends of the Fish Headed God, but the interpretation was wide and varied. And if one believed it to be true, did it not then justify the actions that could be taken to bring justice?

To Demkaih it did.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

In all of it - her weakness, her healing, her sobs, her insults, her confession - Niccolette had never looked less than confident. If there was shame, it was for Demkaih; if there was uncertainty, it was for him too. Except - when he chuckled, for just a moment, something hesitant went over her face, as if it was not what she expected, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

Niccolette did not quite smile back. Demkaih cursed and asked if they had ever pirated his ships, and Niccolette shrugged; she did not know the answer. She had scarcely known who he was, before the funeral, if she had known at all.

Demkaih gestured at her to wait. Niccolette stood, and watched him as much as he was watching her. She felt tired; she felt clear-headed, still, but tired, and it was a struggle not to tremble. The boost of energy from his anger was fading. Like an adrenaline spell, Niccolette thought bitterly; she had bartered with her own future to get through. Well. She ought to be used to it, by now.

Demkaih sat, and in an odd parody of manners Niccolette sat too. She was shaking, now, but she tried to hide it, smoothing her black dress over her lap and looking up at the Mugrobi businessmen. There - yes - relief, Niccolette thought, that he still wanted to help. He had questions, of course.

She followed what he said about Hulali with narrowed eyes, her face set. “Not a soul,” she whispered, her first words since she had stopped. Her voice was raw in her throat, aching. “Not just one. Not for his,” the Bastian rubbed her eyes with her hands.

Niccolette lowered her hands to her lap. She was shaking more and more; she couldn’t seem to control it. She felt, beyond anything else, tired; she was conscious of the desire to lay down on the floor and sleep, just there, in front of Demkaih. It was hard to think of anything else. The spell - the bath - his fury - her fury - it had worn her down, slowly but steadily, and this was the price.

“The Drain is...” Niccolette gathered what tattered remains she had and tried to focus, looking up at Demkaih, “a rival, a rival to Hawke, but they are not known as he is, they are... secret and shadowy. He has other rivals but not like them, and I...”

“I do not know why,” Niccolette whispered. She was shaking so hard it was hard to speak; she took a few careful deep breaths, jaw clenched, and relaxed it, slowly. “I do not know if it was just to strike at Hawke, or if...” she swallowed. “Hawke knows more, but he will not tell me,” there was a sky full of bitterness in those words. “He says I - I am -“ Niccolette could not bring herself to repeat the words.

There were tears again, then, suddenly; her breath hitched and they spilled down her cheeks. No sobs, this time, only a steady stream of tears from both eyes, and Niccolette whimpered. “He is not wrong,” she leaned forward, just a little, her head hanging and her long hair tumbling down between them.

“Perhaps I did die with Uzoji,” Niccolette whispered, slowly looking back up at Demkaih. She tried to straighten up, but there wasn’t anything left in her for it. “At least - the parts of me which...” she shuddered again, and sniffled, and finally tried to wipe her eyes. “Whatever is left, I...” one hand settled to her chest, rubbing lightly over the left side of it, and Niccolette finally managed to sink back against the chair, struggling even to stay upright.

“I am sorry,” Niccolette whispered, looking back up at Demkaih. “For what I said - I -“ was it weakness, to apologize so? Or strength? Niccolette could not tell; she did not know. She was sorry; she was not sorry it had worked, but she was sorry she did not know another way. “Pathetic is right, I suppose,” more tears, then, hot and fast, and a few breathless sobs. She was not seeking reassurance from Demkaih; she did not say it expecting him to comfort her or disagree. It was only that she had lost the will to lie, and that she was tired enough that the thoughts came spilling out, as freely as the weeping.

Niccolette propped her elbows on her legs and buried her face in her hands; her fingers dug into her scalp, gripped and held, long and white amidst the masses of her hair, and she could not do anything but sob anymore, not again, too tired for anything else. It was a familiar place, these days, but she could not but loathe it - loathe herself, perhaps, too, in those lowest of moments, for being trapped there.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

Demkaih nodded, something like relief sweeping over his features at Niccolette’s agreement with his religiously justified plan of vengeance.
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​ “For his, more than one.” He echoed, his laced hands resting on the table as he watched her, the weariness now seeping visibly into her body language. The older Mugrobi thought for a moment to stop her, direct her to rest, but her previous fiery fury gave him reason to bite his tongue. Niccolette was difficult to navigate, and frankly now she had decided to speak to him, the dark skinned man was loathe to stop her.
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​​His brow drew down further as the Bastian fumbled through her explanation. Hawke had no say here, in this situation. The Drain were his problem, but Uzoji was their family. Niccolette’s husband. Demkaih’s mind tripped ahead of itself. Would he need to deal with the hatcher before he could deal with the younger man’s killers? Was he ready for that? Quietly, the business man contemplated his resources, his connections, who was loyal and who could be working both—
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​​Niccolette’s tears pulled him from his thoughts, and his frown of consideration shifted to one of concern. He looked at her, sitting there with her head in her hands, apologies on her lips. The blue eyed man didn’t want her apologies, sure that in her situation anyone would be lost and a little unhinged. He tsked, pushing back his chair and standing from the table.
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​​ “We all have our sanity questioned at one time or another, Niccolette. Either by others, or by ourselves. It matters not, but what does matter is what we do when we come out of the other side. You need to rest, and I need to think. I am taking my leave, and you are going to bed. Uzoji’s murderers will still be out there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. When you are rested, and ready, send for me. I will come, and I will offer any help you need. Money, ships, people, blades, magic. I am at your disposal.” The Mugrobi merchant bowed deeply, hand on his chest. Straightening, he looked over her again.
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​​ “I will be in touch should I not hear from you in a ten-day.” He said quietly, hovering for a moment, lest she had anything more to say.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih rose, and looked down at her, and Niccolette felt unfathomably small. It was hard to breathe; she kept the sobs quiet, but they wracked through her, and she could scarcely even bring herself to look up at him. She did, though, slowly, tears streaming down her face.

Demkaih promised his help, and he bowed to her. Niccolette could not find the strength to rise and bow; she thought if she tried, she would end up in a heap on the ground. She did not think, in truth, that she had a claim to anything resembling dignity just now, but whatever little sliver she might have held onto, she did not wish to spill onto the floor in a heap. She swallowed, hard, and looked up at Demkaih.

A tenday, he said, looking at her. Niccolette nodded, quietly, and propped her face in her hands once more. Once we come out of the other side, she thought, tiredly. How could there be another side? How could there ever be another side?

Niccolette held there until Demkaih had gone. She did not call out to him, this time; she let him go. She listened, softly, alone in her empty house, until she heard the quick thud of the front door. Then, slowly, the Bastian crumbled forward again, and buried her face in her hands, and sobbed herself dry.

She knew that she did not have anything like the strength to reach her bedroom; she knew, too, that she could have asked Demkaih to take her there. What would such humiliation have been, compared to all the rest? She had not; she had not. And so, instead, Niccolette slipped herself slowly off the chair, shaking, hand gripping the seat to ease her down to the floor. She lay down, there, slowly, curled up on her side on the hard wood, and wept a little while, her head pressed against the cool wood and her dress a tangle of fabric around her.

Niccolette woke to a scream from the maid. She sat up; her head ached, and she could feel her hair sticking to her cheek. The woman whimpered, staring at her. She was shaking, but she found her knees, and then, using the chair, pulled herself to her feet. Everything ached; chills were sweeping through her, the last of the fever still holding her tight, whispering in her ear. Niccolette swayed, slightly, and walked, slippers shuffling unsteadily over the floor. She went past the maid, and down the hallway, and found her bedroom, left the slippers beside the heap of wet towel, and pulled the blanket back with the last of her strength.

Niccolette curled up beneath it, and found that she wasn’t drained, not yet; there were still more tears that she could weep. She cried; she cried, as if she still believed the well of sadness inside her could be run dry; she cried, although she knew better by now than to hope there was another side.

And in time, she was bathed in the light streaming in through the shutters; in time, the chills stopped and the trembling too; and in time, Niccolette surrendered to sleep, and she could not have said if she wanted to dream. There was love, in her dreams, and blood and fire too; happiness and vengeance and pain, tangled up in a knot inside her, indistinguishable. It was hers, though; that, at least, Niccolette knew. It was all that was left in her chest, and it was hers, and she clung to it, and refused to yield.

And in time her dreams faded too, and there was nothing, and perhaps that was kinder still; she woke and she dozed and she dreamt again, and the last of the fever drained from her, and left her cooler in its wake.