He walked past the silent house, it's gaudy collection of cannons facing outward in a crude attempt to stave off dangers they never saw. He'd wondered in the months after she'd left him what happened in that house, what new tribe they'd formed behind the thick walls and the closed doors. He'd never know now. She was gone, her body carried off by the Sultana's dogs.
He hitched up the collar of his coat and readjusted his pince nez. He'd seen this day coming. Hell, he'd wondered enough times if he'd have to be the one to kill her that he'd prepared an arrow especially for her. He'd burnt it this morning, though. There was no longer any reason for it to exist. For a moment he thought about knocking on the door, talking to the people inside. He shook his head, scowling. He didn't know a soul in that house save the Lalafell and the girl. Kenthy had led away the girl, and the Lalafell... He didn't really know the Lalafell anymore. The Lalafell had broken upon the same rocky coast that he had. He wondered, not for the first time, what that meant. Did she mean to betray him all along, as he'd thought? Or was it just that she didn't know any other way to exist?
He shook his head again. "It doesn't matter anymore", he said to himself. "Now that she's dead, the question is nothing more than academic."
He slipped a leather cord from around his neck. Tied to the end of it was a fiery orange and red feather. She'd given it to him long before, the down of a phoenix, meant to safeguard life. He hung the feather around one of the gaping barrels of the cannon that impotently guarded the house. He'd probably never know where she was buried, but it seemed fitting to leave a remembrance on the weapon. He turned and walked away, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the cobblestones, until all that was left was the feather turning idly on the soft breath of the wind.
He hitched up the collar of his coat and readjusted his pince nez. He'd seen this day coming. Hell, he'd wondered enough times if he'd have to be the one to kill her that he'd prepared an arrow especially for her. He'd burnt it this morning, though. There was no longer any reason for it to exist. For a moment he thought about knocking on the door, talking to the people inside. He shook his head, scowling. He didn't know a soul in that house save the Lalafell and the girl. Kenthy had led away the girl, and the Lalafell... He didn't really know the Lalafell anymore. The Lalafell had broken upon the same rocky coast that he had. He wondered, not for the first time, what that meant. Did she mean to betray him all along, as he'd thought? Or was it just that she didn't know any other way to exist?
He shook his head again. "It doesn't matter anymore", he said to himself. "Now that she's dead, the question is nothing more than academic."
He slipped a leather cord from around his neck. Tied to the end of it was a fiery orange and red feather. She'd given it to him long before, the down of a phoenix, meant to safeguard life. He hung the feather around one of the gaping barrels of the cannon that impotently guarded the house. He'd probably never know where she was buried, but it seemed fitting to leave a remembrance on the weapon. He turned and walked away, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the cobblestones, until all that was left was the feather turning idly on the soft breath of the wind.
