The Coming Storm 【Complete】

[Roen]

Roen winced when she heard the booming echo of the rifles all firing at once. She hazarded another look around the corner to see more bodies now crumpling to the ground. Single-fire muskets…they would need time to reload.

 

She had no time to wait--something had to be done to prevent any more bodies from hitting the ground. Thoughts flew by all at once: the time between shots fired and when it could be fired again, the group of Highlanders that had greatly diminished their numbers after being shot, their opposing gang’s leader unarmed with a cut wound, and her warning shout that called out for reinforcements. There would only be a moment’s confusion that would not last long--a very small window of opportunity if she was going to take it. And it was still a dangerous one if not utterly foolish.

 

I just left Broken Nose at The Gold Court. He cannot be too far behind…?

 

The paladin bolted to her feet and charged around the corner, rushing the Elezen dressed in ragged cotton robes. She counted on the fact that they were likely not expecting a charge--and if so not expecting a paladin. Their firearms had all just been discharged. She darted past the Highlanders that were still left standing, skidded to a stop, and instantly summoned aether, releasing a blinding flash of energy all around her.

 

She just needed to buy a few more seconds before they could react.

 

Roen bashed the Midlander that was flanking the Elezen with her shield, enough to drive him back so she could get around to the Elezen’s back, her sword still in hand. She was hoping that the wound and the flash would disorient the Elezen leader just enough for her to place herself in between the Highlander and the gunmen above, with the Elezen in between.

 

“Multiple targets up top!” Roen yelled toward the alley as if to order the unseen men. She knew there was no one there--no backup at all--but no one else knew. At the very least she hoped to seed some hesitation. “All of you, stand down!” She prayed to gods she did not know that soon this place would be crawling with Blades or Flames.

 

She just had to hold off the violence until they arrived.

[Melkire]

The taller-than-average lalafellen corporal huffed an exasperated breath. She paced back and forth along the line comprised of her own men, her bone-white celata held beneath one arm, her blond hair still done up in its bun.

 

Warmer than usual.

 

Haruko Kokojo came to a stop in front of a particularly bland-looking midlander and glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. Flame Private First Class Karl Gregson might not have looked like anything special, but his calm demeanor in the face of fire and his natural bent for tactics made him an invaluable asset that she had found herself relying on more and more with each passing sun. Such a shame about his face, though.

 

"Gregson," she said now. "Analysis, please."

 

"Musket fire, or worse. That it's coming from Pearl indicates a supplier, ma'am, given how poor the residents here are. That means they're organized. Worst case scenario, they've had ample time to train on them. Always plan for the worst. If it was me, I'd have posted my best marksmen at windows in the surrounding structures, assigned a heavy to each, and taken what's left down to the streets."

 

She nodded, then swept her gaze back down the line towards the Brass Blades.

 

They'd set up at the junction where the three alleyways leading from the Quicksand, the Gold Court, and Sapphire Exchange met. Even now, she knew, Blades were securing the various entrances into the palace and cordoning off any alley that led to Sapphire. Her eyes came to a rest on Broken Nose as the Hellsguard approached her; it had been he who'd been the one to sound the alarm over the recently-minted Sand Pearl, and she knew as well as her men did that the chaos they were about to confront rankled in the guts of the Blades just as much as they did with the Flames. Violence was one thing, a daily occurrence taken for granted in this city.

 

Armed and organized refugees, however, were another. That spelt trouble, and that sort of trouble reeked of possibilities, possibilities like riot, revolt, rebellion, treason, and sedition. Such things could not be tolerated.

 

Broken Nose came to a stop in front of her, and she snapped a sharp salute.

 

"Small firearms, ser. Men up top."

 

"We'll take streets."

 

"Leaves us windows," she answered back with a nod of approval. He didn't waste time. Good. They turned towards the assembled men and women together.

 

"BLADES," bellowed the Roegadyn, "THE STREETS ARE OURS. THEY HAVE CONDORS PERCHED HIGH, SO KEEP OUT OF THE LANES. HUG THE STONES. ONE CRY OF QUARTER, THEN BE ABOUT YOUR WORK."

 

"FLAMES," cried the Lalafell, "WE'RE FOR THE STOREFRONTS, THE APARTMENTS, THE WAREHOUSES. SHIELDS HIGH, BREACH IN PAIRS, REMEMBER YOUR DRILLS. CLEAR THE WINDOWS. NO QUARTER. A MAN WITH A MUSKET STANDS CONDEMNED, AS DO HIS FELLOWS." 

 

Two sharp rasps of steel were answered by dozens upon dozens more. Moments later, the rolling thunder of a veritable stampede arose in answer to the sharp cracks of gunfire.

[Coatleque]

Coatleque leaned back in her chair as she heard the news in one ear. The report she was reading fell silently onto her desk as she waited. A moment later she heard the Captain's voice in the opposite ear.

 

"Ser Crofte, are you still in the palace?"

"Aye, Sir."

"Handle this."

"Of course."

 

Pushing off the chair she rose and took her shield which was typically left leaning against her desk. Leaving her office, she signaled for the two Sworn in the hallway to follow her. They quietly obliged and the trio quickly strode around the circle of the Hustings Strip. Coatleque quietly gave orders over her pearl the whole way.

 

"Something is happening in the alleys. I need the guard doubled at the Merchant Strip stairs on both sides. If anyone is still lingering on the Hustings, begin to escort them out, NOW. Ser Trevanchet, take three and watch the Aethernet. I will be at the Chamber of Rule. Nobody is to enter or leave until lock-down is lifted by myself or the Captain."

 

As they reached the doors to the Chamber of rule, they met the existing guard. The group spread out and drew their swords making a wall of shields, ready to hold their ground if necessary.

[Nero]

The alley was briefly filled with blinding light. The Elezen grunted as he covered his eyes with his good hand. The sounds of bodies shuffling in the chaos intensified as the Wildwood kept his eyes shut tightly for several seconds that felt like years.

 

"Multiple targets up top!" came the unknown voice again in a distinctly feminine timbre. As his vision gradually returned, it was impossible for the Elezen to know whether the threat of reinforcements was real or fake. A few scant moments were spent scanning the ground for the pistol which had been kicked away in the chaos. The Elezen's lips curled into a snarl. The rising crescendo of boots on pavement echoed in the distance, likely the authorities. Any shouted commands were unlikely to be heard, so he placed his fingers to his mouth and produced a loud, sharp whistle. 

 

On cue the windows that the riflemen had been using slammed shut, one after the other. It was fortunate that most of Ul'dah ignored the run-down buildings of Pearl Lane; walls were easily knocked out to make passages between buildings, and there was nobody there to protest besides the occasional squatters. Assuming that nobody was there with them, the riflemen could easily make a hasty retreat, and the weapons themselves stored in such a way that it would be it would be highly improbable that anyone with any sort of actual authority would be able to identify which of the many bandit gangs had been using them.

 

Meanwhile, the Midlander had managed to recover from the shield bash as the chaos ensued, and pulled out his own pistol. Blood streamed down his nose and his disorientation showed as he aimed it at the one who had attacked him and pulled the trigger, but the bullet missed narrowly, whistling past the newcomer's hood.

 

--

 

"You get your gods-damned eyes on the Blades now before I pull your eyes out with pliers!"

 

"There's a lot of chaos. It's not--"

 

"You do as I say or I will personally pull out your spine through your throat!"

 

The crew had awkwardly shuffled away as their captain raged in his cabin. It was not the usual tranquil fury or smoldering glares, but it was a full-blown inferno of enmity and frustration. Nero paced back and forth restlessly, clenching and unclenching his fist as his other hand lay pressed against the ear. The crack in the window to his cabin had scarcely been repaired and already another one had been made next to it. The pearl made a soft chime again. On the one hand, it had been worth it to pay some people to keep an eye on Scythe and his gang; on the other hand, when one pays street rats and petty underworld brokers, one can hardly expect professionalism.

 

The report had come in naught but a few minutes ago. Firearms had been discharged in Ul'dah's Pearl Lane. The tentative assessment was that Scythe had been muscling in on another gang's territory and the confrontation had gone south. In the span of ninety seconds, Nero had thought of a varied litany of curses on Scythe, his parents, his grandparents, his future children and any pets he might have owned.

 

Surely now, though, the bandits had the attention of the Brass Blades and the Sultansworn. The rule of Ul'dah was that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down; breaking the law was only a problem when it made trouble for someone with power. Out of sight, out of mind, and the bandits had made a mistake in letting their presence be noticed.

 

That idiot had acted without thinking! This could ruin everything! All it would take is one confiscated firearm and the Monetarists had the ammunition to turn the public opinion on Limsa Lominsa. This wasn't supposed to happen. Nero had known for a while that Scythe had started using his newfound firepower to strongarm territory and men away from the other gangs, but so long as everything stayed quiet, it was not a problem. Scythe was the kind of dog where pulling at the leash too hard made him try to break it that much more often. The territory grabs were concessions, but now it had spiraled out of control.

 

"There's someone else fighting down there. No uniform."

 

"Description," Nero snapped.

 

"Robed; can't tell if they're man or woman. Some people saw a flash of light; must have been magic. No smoke from an explosion besides the firearms. Shouting. Blades are moving."

 

"Just...get out of there," Nero said, his voice straining to control his temper.

 

A gods-damned paladin, then. But who? If they were wearing robes, they were attempting to conceal their identity. If there was no visible uniform, it was someone who had to resort to subterfuge to move through the city. Might it have been a member of the Sultansworn? Surely their uniforms were shiny enough to blind all passersby with their conceited self-righteousness, but more than likely it was one of the so-called "free paladins".

 

Nero's face twisted in contempt. Was it Roen? If she had stumbled upon a gang fight, she would have impulsively jumped in to stop the bloodshed, the idiot girl. A small part of him sincerely hoped it was not, but anything was possible at this point.

 

She was the last thing he cared about right now though. There had to be a way to salvage this. Assume a worst case scenario and execute a plan based on that. Scythe was the most dangerous kind of brainless thug; one who was smart enough to make simple plans, but lacking in the foresight and patience to initiate anything of genuine success. In short, he was simultaneously the best pawn to have and the pawn that was the hardest to control.

 

No, no, there was still a way to turn this around. The firearms would be identified as Limsan, but they couldn't be linked to Nero. In actuality, does this outbreak of violence not help his case? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him. This happened not because of Limsan weapons, but because the Monetarists couldn't give a rat's ass as to whether the bandits were in the city. After all, the bandits regularly preyed on refugees and travelers and used their spoils to bribe the Brass Blades and bureaucrats, both of which were on the Monetarist's payroll. So long as the bandits didn't target trade caravans or anything that made a noticeable impact on the Monetarist's revenue, they were permitted to do as they pleased. The gangs formed because of the enormous economic disparity in Ul'dah, and said disparity was enforced by the Monetarists in order to keep the gil flowing.

 

Propaganda. That was what he needed. This onset of violence and corruption was because the Syndicate cared naught for order unless it affected their pocketbooks. 

 

Yes, there was still a way to turn this around. 

 

But I have to work quickly, or everything is lost.

[Roen]

The pistol fired only a few fulms away, and it just barely missed her. Roen felt the shot graze the edge of her hood as she reflexively jerked to one side, even though she knew any attempt to dodge a fired bullet was a futile effort. She counted herself lucky that the Midlander was still dazed. She raised her shield between her and the Roegadyn on the other side of the Elezen; likely if the Midlander had a pistol, then likely the Roegadyn did as well. She was not likely to get lucky twice. “Stand down!” she yelled again as she slashed at the weapon arm of the man that had just shot at her.

 

The keening of a Wildwood’s sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the shutters above slamming shut. She sighed inwardly with relief that there would not be another barrage of gunfire descending on to the streets. Either they bought her ruse or…

 

“You have ONE CHANCE to surrender! LAY DOWN the weapons, get on the ground, face down!” came Broken Nose’s booming voice echoing off the walls of the ally. From the corner of her eye, the paladin spotted the familiar dark red hue of Brass Blade armor as the men rounded the corner, sticking close to the walls. A few of them glanced warily above for any rifles pointed their way, shields still raised in anticipation.

 

It only now occurred to her that her own identity was in danger of no longer being hidden. She hoped what Crofte said was true, that Taeros truly did not have a warrant out for her arrest, and that the Blades working for him would leave her be. She was not sure about the Immortal Flames however. While she and sergeant Melkire met in private, he did it so that there was no need to arrest or detain her for possible suspicion of conspiracy.

 

But it was too late now to rethink her actions. Her eyes darted from the Elezen’s back to the two that were flanking him. They would need to be detained for questioning if they were wise enough not to resist arrest. She knew the Blades would not hesitate in cutting down a man or two who posed a threat. If they attempted to run, either they would find their paths blocked or she would need to slow them down if they had other means.

 

"As the Blade said, you have one chance," she said firmly. "Surrender now or your life may be forfeit."

[Nero]

The Elezen and his associates glanced around with grim looks on their faces. They turned to and fro, only to see that the narrow alley that had provided them with such an ample kill box had now served to trap them with a wall of bodies and chainmail. The Elezen was still clutching his hand that had been slashed, and his baleful gaze carried deep contempt. The trio of them spun slowly a few times to find that they were well and truly surrounded, and their riflemen had retreated.

 

"As the Blade said, you have one chance," the figure, now revealed to be a woman, spoke firmly. "Surrender now or your life may be forfeit." At her offer, the Elezen's face curled into a spiteful scowl. He barked out a bitter laugh in response. The hoarse laugh only grew in its crescendo as the Brass Blades grew closer.

 

"Where do you think we are, you pompous bitch?" he spat, coughing slightly as if choking on his own amusement. "My life is already forfeit. Anyone forced in this shitehole" he swept his arms to the run down buildings of Pearl Lane. "got nothin' to lose." He pulled out a dagger from within his sleeve and his companions, still wielding their weapons, turned from the woman and lashed out at the approaching Blades.

[Roen]

Broken Nose frowned. The Roegadyn knew the bandits would not surrender, for they rarely ever did. This would end bloody.

 

It was always the same. Broken Nose was a lowborn himself, had worked himself out of poverty by joining the Brass Blades. He knew the desperation that drove many who otherwise had nothing to seek the security and safety in numbers that came with being part of a gang. While he would not admit it openly, the Hellsguard knew it was very much akin to joining the Brass Blades.

 

Despite the fact that he wore his armor with some measure of pride, Broken Nose was no fool. Like any other bandit gangs, the Brass Blades too extorted money from helpless merchants, and strode about with an air of authority because they were great in number.

 

What set them apart was that they were owned by the Syndicate--the true power in Ul’dah.

 

And while the Brass Blades were rewarded with coin and power, as well as some small semblance of legitimacy in their job, these thugs were only paid with fear and submission. They drew strength in showing their willingness to punish their enemies, in making examples of those who stood up to them. It was against their very natures to cower...and given the impoverished conditions that drove them to this life in the first place, none of them ever wanted to go back. Rarely did they relent without resistance.

 

So when the Elezen and his two guards turned towards them with weapons drawn, Broken Nose growed, “Cut them down! Take one alive for questioning!”

 

The Brass Blades had been staying close to the wall as to not make obvious targets of themselves from shooters up top, but when the shutters did not open again, they stepped into formation, raised their shields, brandished their scimitars, and met those that came at them.

 

Broken Nose charged the large Hellsguard to the Elezen’s left, meeting the bandit’s brute strength with his own. He bashed away the thug’s drawn weapon with his round shield and brought about his scimitar across the Roegadyn’s chest. Killing armed bandits was always easier than taking them alive. He wanted to call them fools for fighting armed Blades while they themselves wore only cotton robes.

 

Then a metallic thunk caught his attention as he shot a glance to the Elezen, the apparent leader of the group. The Wildwood’s eyes went wide, then began to roll upwards as he stumbled forward. Behind him came another clang of a shield as it clattered across the stones. Broken Nose glanced behind the Elezen to see the paladin he had just met with moments ago; it was her shield that had been lobbed at the back of Wildwood’s head.

 

Broken Nose only spared her but a moment’s glimpse as he turned back to the Hellsguard in front of him, but inwardly he thought that maybe with her about, they can take a few alive. Paladins and their succor. For the longest time, he had regarded them with disdain--both Free Paladins and the Sultansworns--for they always walked about with an air of superiority about them. It was as if their oaths had bequeathed on to them a mantle of righteousness that put them above the rest of the laws of Ul’dah.

 

But now, in the last many moons that he had come to know Roen Deneith, he had come to appreciate some things about their value system. And their unique set of skills.

 

He was beginning to have some hope that they may actually not kill everyone this day.

[Roen]

Roen tugged her hood lower over her eyes as she pulled away from the wounded Highlander. At least he was breathing, which is more than she could say for the others that took gunshots to the chest. She sat back onto her legs as her gaze went from her bloodied hands to the crimson stains that ran in between the stones. There were almost half a dozen bodies unmoving in front of her, all shirtless and sporting similar tattoos that marked them as members of a group of bandits called Hammerbeaks.

 

When she was part of the Sultansworn Order, Roen had been given the files of high profile bandit gangs as well as various noble houses. Protecting the Sultanate required knowledge of those who might threaten or even support it. The Sultansworns, the Immortal Flames, and the Brass Blades were all debriefed of notable criminal elements and the powerful figures that led them. Hammerbeak was barely mentioned, for they did ‘lay claim’ to some of the minor territories and streets within Ul’dah. But as long as they did not incite obvious violence that threatened the citizens at large, they were left alone, even if their existence was already known by the authorities.

 

Looking at the bodies now, Roen wondered if this practice was a wise one. She had not questioned it then, as she was an initiate learning the ways of the Order, but since then she was beginning to question many things.

 

A pair of dark vermilion sollerets entered her line of sight, drawing her from her thoughts. “Deneith,” Broken’s Nose’s low voice rumbled just loud enough for her to hear.

 

“Only two lived,” she said quietly.

 

The Hellsguard paused a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Never mind them, you shouldn’t have stayed.” He leaned in to keep his words just between them, glancing over his shoulder to the regiment of Immortal Flames that were exiting various buildings around them. Roen followed his gaze to one fair-haired Lalafell in particular, one who seemed to be giving the orders to the rest gathered.

 

The paladin stiffened as a few more glances were thrown her way--one Midlander Flame jutting his chin on her direction as he addressed the Lalafell. “Corporal Kokojo, isn’t that…?”

 

The Lalafell turn her direction, giving the paladin a once lookover. There was a slight narrowing of her eyes, and Roen realized that the Lalafell knew who she was. But then the Corporal turned back to the Midlander in front of her and answered without missing a beat. “I don’t recognize her, Private, do you?”

 

“No, Corporal, I don’t.” The Private quickly turned his attention elsewhere as well, coming to a stiff stance. Both the Immortal Flames began to walk away, quietly exchanging what they discovered above.

 

Broken Nose exhaled through his nose audibly in relief, then glanced past Roen to a few Brass Blades that were lingering nearby. “Well don’t just stand there! Clear out these bodies. Take those alive to the gaol and call for a physician to examine them.” He paused and pointed to the two Blades that were dragging away the unconscious Elezen. “And that one, put him in a separate cell. He will need to answer some questions.”

 

Both the paladin and the Roegadyn stood in silence for a moment longer as those around them went about and dragged bodies--both living and dead--away, before they spoke again. “Guns? Rifles?” Roen said quietly.

 

Broken Nose opened his hand, showing her an ornate pistol. “This was found on the ground. And the Flames are combing the buildings for those rifles. We caught the Elezen, but those who were wielding the rifles scattered.”

 

Roen frowned. It was not of Garlean make--those she recognized easily enough. This one originated from Vylbrand.

 

“Plans fail. Somethin' always goes wrong. Victory goes to the prepared. And you have not so much as asked him about the weapons."

 

The sergeant’s words rang in her ear. He had suspected that there were weapons smuggled in, not just the supplies for the refugees as Nero had claimed. Roen had not given much weight to it…until now. Now there were bandits within the streets of Ul’dah that were wielding weapons they should not even know how to use.

 

“I need to speak to that Elezen.”

 

Broken Nose cocked a brow at her. “Are you serious? The corporal there just turned her back on you, to give you a way out of this without possibly getting arrested and dragged off to the gaol yourself, and now you want to walk into one to talk to a prisoner?”

 

The paladin grimaced, but still nodded. “No one said I was going to make this easy for you,” she said apologetically. “But I need to know where these guns came from.”

 

The Hellsguard crossed his massive arms, looking down at her with a reproachful scowl. “You don’t think we know how to interrogate a prisoner?”

 

Roen sighed, giving him an imploring look. “I am certain you and the Flames both have your ways, but I need to know before it is known officially. Once I do, I will leave the walls for you to figure things out.”

 

The Roegadyn glared at her for a moment, then slumped his shoulders with a sigh. “I'll see what I can do. I can probably reason with the corporeal that this is a Blades matter and falls under our jurisdiction, at least for a bell or two until things get sorted out. But once they start collecting more evidence of Limsan weapons, it will be turned over to the Flames. And your friends the Sultansworns likely will be poking their nose about too, no doubt.” There was a hint of a sneer as he said the last, but Roen noted that it no longer held venom as it once used to leaving his lips.

 

The paladin nodded. “Aye, I suspect the same. Which is why I need to ask my questions first.”

 

Broken Nose let out a long exasperated sigh. “I should've never let you convince me about this reformation business.” He shook his head.

 

The paladin flashed him a small, quick smile. “You convinced yourself. It is not my doing.”

 

The Roegadyn rolled his eyes and turned from her, tucking the weapon in hand away as he approached the Immortal Flames. His arms were out as if to make an offering, but Roen could already see the Lalafell look past him back to her. There was a sharpness to corporal’s gaze, and she nodded absently to what Broken Nose was offering. But Roen could see the Lalafell’s thoughts were already two steps ahead.

 

As were her own. Roen needed to find out where those weapons came from. She was trying her best not to let her mind wander to where it wanted to go, where it had no choice to go.

 

Limsan weapons, smuggled into Ul’dah and given to bandits.

 

“Ask him about the weapons,” the sergeant’s voice echoed in her head again.

 

She needed to talk to the Elezen.

[Roen]

The Elezen was a pitiful sight to behold. His head hung slack and his robe had been taken away, revealing a slight frame battered and bruised by the Blades that had arrested him. His face was gaunt and his ribcage was noticeable, the skin of his chest stretched tight across his bones.The chains of the iron bonds that held his wrists jingled as he began to stir awake. When he tilted his head up slightly to notice who was standing on the other side of the bars, he let out an annoyed snort and looked away.

 

Roen had no sympathy to spare for the man. She had been sneaked into the Blades gaol by Broken Nose after he claimed jurisdiction over the incident in Pearl Lane. She only had until the Flames arrived before she had to make herself scarce. She had insisted on questioning the prisoner first, before the others could put him to question. She had to know.

 

“I need you to answer some questions for me,” the paladin said calmly, breaking the silence between them.

 

The Elezen barked out a laugh, or tried to. What came out was frustrated sputtering and hacking coughs. "I don't recall asking for one of the Jewel's whores," he finally snarled contemptuously.

 

"Continuing to resist will only make things harder for you.” Roen sighed patiently. “It does not have to be that way."

 

"Oh, so that's how it goes, then?" the Elezen sneered. "First it's 'I'll break all your teeth out one by one if you don't talk,' and now it's 'You're only making it harder on yourself.'" The bandit tried to spit at her from the back of the cell. The projectile fell short, but the message could not have been clearer.

 

Roen frowned. She knew the brutal methods that the Blades employed, she had been part of their organization once. His words of such threats were not false. "You did fire a gun. In the streets of Ul'dah. That alone could have gotten you killed."

 

"I've fired dozens of guns in the streets of Ul'dah. This just happens to be the first instance of any o' you clueless gobshites noticing it."

 

"It is not a common thing, the weapon you wielded, that pistol. Where did you get it?"

 

The Elezen scowled. "The Holy See o' Ishgard gave it to me himself.”

 

“It was well made.” Roen slid her arms across the bars, coming to lean on the crossbar. "I suspect I know who might have supplied those weapons." A part of her already felt a hint of dread seizing the air in her chest. She hated what she was thinking. "I only need you to confirm a few things. In exchange, you tell me what you want. I will see what I can do."

 

The bandit’s scowl turned into a vitriolic smirk. "Oh, I see. I'll have a few ribs intact by the end of this moon if I just tell you everything you want to know, is that it?" He turned his head away. "Go waste someone else's time, stuck-up bitch..."

 

She bowed her head for a moment, shaking it slightly. "I will not lie to you. What I can probably get you is limited. But..." she sighed. "What else will you do?" She frowned, hesitating a moment on her next words. "I am trying to help. I am working with someone who wants to help you.”

 

The Elezen said nothing, his head turned to stare at the wall. The silence continued for several more minutes before he spoke again. "The guns came from my boss, and no way in the hells would I be tellin' you where he is." The scowl returned. "'sides, that face of yours says that you already know. You just haven't admitted it yet."

 

Roen blinked and she felt herself stiffen slightly. Her voice had quieted even more although she was now struggling to keep it as even as possible. "When did you get them...? These guns." Her mind was already racing to calculate how long it had been since Nero’s wagons were confiscated.

 

The prisoner’s expression mellowed somewhat, though it was still undeniably belligerent. "A long while ago. Just ain't bothered using them until now. Got'em long enough ago to spend time learnin' to use them," the Elezen said, his expression curling into annoyance. "I ain't telling you no more shite."

 

The paladin slid her arms out of the bars, crouching down to meet his gaze at eye level. “What will you be telling them?” She glanced warily to the door even as she whispered the question.

 

"Hah!" the Elezen barked. "A few bells in their loving care and I won't be havin' a jaw that can tell them anything." He seemed resigned to his fate yet defiant, even as his emaciated arms shook against the manacles.

 

Roen exhaled, her shoulders sagging. She recalled hearing about Natalie’s methods of interrogation; the Sworn had methodically pulled out Delial’s fingernails one by one as she asked each question. It was not just the Blades who were known for their cruelty. The paladin shuddered to think what the Elezen may face with his unwillingness to cooperate. But there was a part of her that also feared what he would tell them about who had smuggled in the guns. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she finally asked, her voice too resigned.

 

Another contemptuous "tch" escaped from the prisoner's mouth. "Maybe show up in less clothing next time. Or stick a few of those bastards on your way out," he sneered.

 

She sighed again, glancing one more time toward the door. "Do you not want to make some difference before you meet your fate?"

 

The Elezen merely glared at her. "I'll tell you this much. If you kick people often enough, sooner or later they'll learn to kick back. As for difference? Hah! What difference? Only ones who make differences are people with money. People who can tell other people what to do. There ain't nothing for us to do, cause we don't want change. We want a war."

 

Roen leaned in, frowning. "And what would a war accomplish?"

 

The bandit smirked. "Pay evil unto evil. You can't change this cesspool. We're just little kids, breaking mommy's vases for attention. When she don't notice the vases, we steal the jewelry. When she don't notice the jewelry, we smash the windows. When she don't notice the windows, why, we'll just burn the houses down. That's all them rich people care about, so we make them notice us. They won't be turnin' away. Not this time. Not when their blood be spillin' down their gilded steps and their servants be pleadin'. No, we ain't gonna be ignored anymore."

 

"...And then what..?" the paladin rasped.

 

His hateful glower became more vehement, more intense, as if his glares alone could murder someone. But soon it began to subside. "Then? Then the rich people's rich friends come along, and kill us all for gettin' their carpets dirty. And that'll be that. Cause ain't that how it always ends? Cause to them, people are trash. Just refuse you can sweep under the rug, and when the garbage start pilin' up, you just hire someone to burn it away for you."

 

Roen shook her head, her expression now full of dread and sadness. "Then why do this? If that is the end your foresee? There has to be a better way. People are not refuse. Do you not see? Even as you suffer under their foot, you still believe as they do. You still propagate what is so wrong with this place."

 

Suddenly, the prisoner thrashed violently against the shackles and the iron bar clanged as the chains rattled in his rage. "Then what would you have us do, you arrogant bitch? You can go eat shite, you and your better way! You know what a better way means for someone like me?! It means not watchin' my sister starve! It means findin' a place to sleep where I won't wake up with roaches! It means killin' everyone who tries to rob us! It means not havin' to consider slavery just to get food at the end o' the day!"

 

The Elezen's spindly, too-thin form flailed like a bundle of sticks as he practically frothed at the mouth. "When's the last godsdamned time you went hungry?! When's the last time you had to stare at mold on your goddamned bread?! No, I don't see you, blind justice-sucking harlot! You wanna know why?! I'm too godsdamned busy starin' at my own ribs! I'm too busy lookin' at the places the poor aren't allowed! I'm too busy lookin' at a city, who don't give a single godsdamned shite! You can go rutting yourself with your godsdamned better way till your own daddy can't tell you from the whores on the street!"

 

His last vitriolic words echoed off the hard stone walls as the outburst seemed to drain all of the energy from the Elezen; he laid panting in the aftermath of his rage. Cold sweat dripped from his face, running down a thin nose and gaunt cheeks as he stared at the ground, battered breaths drawing attention to the frail chest that drew them.

 

Roen bowed her head, her forehead coming to lean against the bar. "You are right," she confessed quietly. "I have not suffered as you have. I do not know poverty as you do. And perhaps that makes me naive. But there is nothing that would ever convince me that killing others, bathing the streets in blood just for attention is ever the right solution." She frowned at seeing his labored breathing. "I wish someday, you would be able to see the change come." Her words were quieter, saddened. She doubted he would survive this imprisonment.

 

"Get away from me," he rasped in disgust. His torso heaved as he hacked and wheezed out several painful coughs, the spittle stained crimson with blood.

 

The paladin rose back to her feet, letting out a long sigh. He clearly suspected she knew who had delivered the guns. And perhaps she already did. When she turned for the doors, he rasped grimly, "He…he'll punish this city." The Elezen’s gaze seemed gripped with delirium. "Everything. Everyone who stood by and watched. No shelter from the storm that's coming."

 

Roen stood still for a moment longer before striding toward the door. She heard the last of his words, rasped softly, echo off the walls:

 

"Everyone's gonna die. By fire and smoke and steel and a shower of blood."

[Roen]

Broken Nose did not like this. He did not like this at all.

 

The Hellsguard Roegadyn crossed his massive arms, firmly planting himself in front of the entrance to the gaol. He knew his looming form alone was a deterrent for anyone who was even thinking about going into the dungeons. Others probably saw him let one enter--a cloaked figure who said not a word in passing--but the Blades knew enough not to ask questions. Broken Nose maintained his silent and intimidating scowl...at least until the Immortal Flame corporeal entered through the doors of the Headquarters.

 

Thal’s Balls, the Roegadyn thought to himself. Deneith should have been long gone from the gaol by now, but she had not yet made her exit. He watched as the blonde Lalafell made her way toward him, strolling by desks and other Blades. She seemed oblivious or uncaring of the glares thrown her way; the Immortal Flames were never a welcomed presence in the Blades Headquarters.

 

The little Flame came to a stop before the large Hellsguard and gave a formal salute. "Nothing yet?"

 

"He's shackled inside. Gave us a bit of a fight. And--" Of course it was at that moment that the door opened behind him. Deneith always had impeccable timing for trouble. He growled under his breath as he kept his eyes on the Lalafell. "I let this one go in a little earlier. She was a bit insistent."

 

"Ah. Corporal,” the cloaked woman said quietly as she stepped out from the gaol.

 

"Tch. The sergeant's papers make that quite clear." The corporal turned to face Deneith with a frown. "Is this altogether wise? She's going to be here shortly..." The Lalafell spared a glance over her shoulder towards the front door.

 

Broken Nose rolled his eyes in immediate agreement. "She was supposed to be gone by now, corporal."

 

Deneith remained stubborn as ever, much to the Hellsguard’s chagrin. “I actually have a spare Blades uniform if it is needed. I would like to stay if..." She glanced between Kokojo and Broken Nose. "...do you know which Sworn is coming?"

 

Kokojo snorted without turning back around. "Given the gravity of the situation, that should be obvious."

 

The Blade grumbled, nearly tossing his arms into the air in a helpless gesture. Sure, why not just imply to the corporal that the paladin visits regularly enough so that she stows a Blades disguise in his office? He gave the Hyur a pointed look of annoyance.

 

Deneith did not seem to notice his ire, relief washing over her face. "If it is Ser Crofte, I think we will be alright."

 

Broken Nose noticed the condescending smile toward the paladin afforded by the Flame, but before either of them could respond, the doors to the Headquarters opened again to admit Coatleque Crofte, two other Sworns in tow. “Why don’t you duck back into the office and come back looking a little less conspicuous,” he rumbled to the paladin under his breath.

 

“Too late,” Kokojo hummed as Ser Crofte approached, thankfully leaving the two other Sworns to wait by the entrance. Maybe this won’t go so bad after all.

 

"Ser Crofte," Broken Nose greeted the woman gruffly, his salute slow to come. He was doing his best to keep any hint of distaste from his tone.

 

There seemed an uneasiness that flitted about her countenance only for a moment, before the Sworn reciprocated the salute, following it up with a small bow. "Sergeant Nose." It was immediately followed by the Flame salute to the Lalafell next to him. "Apologies, I do not believe we have met." she said, addressing the corporal.

 

"Corporal Haruko Kokojo, ser. I believe you knew my former sergeant, back when he was with the regulars.” The Lalafell pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning on, returning the salute.

 

"I assume you got the report on your way over." Broken Nose's tone was casual, even as the Flame and Sworn exchanged formalities.

 

"Lady Coatleque Crofte of Her Resplendence's Royal Guard," the Sworn said with a bow before nodding back to the Roegadyn. "Aye, I have read the report of what happened. A firefight in the streets. I am here to evaluate the situation only."

 

"--Not to slit his throat, right?" interjected the Lalafell.

 

"If further action is required then we--" Ser Crofte stopped and looked at the corporal. "No. My office does not murder captives."

 

The Immortal Flame’s eyes narrowed at the emphasis. "So long as we're clear. Commander Swift was rather adamant: no repeats."

 

Broken Nose smacked his lips in distaste, knowing full well whom the corporal was speaking of. Even the Blades were aware of the execution that Mcbeef had carried out of the pirate prisoner. There were rumblings about whether it was hurried and why. Wasn’t that the start of it all?

 

The Sworn straightened herself before responding. "As I said, I am here to evaluate the situation. This is not, as of yet, a matter for the Sultansworn." The woman’s eyes strayed to the cloaked figure with an eyebrow arched in question as Deneith was wordlessly slipping away.

 

The corporal took that moment to move in front of the Sworn, gesturing and heading toward the gaol. "I'd rather not be here all night. Shall we?"

 

"Yes, please,” Crofte responded as she too turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

 

Broken Nose did not spare the cloaked figure a glance as he sharply turned and opened the doors to the gaol, leading the Flame and the Sworn inside. Kokojo only allowed him to guide them for a few steps, before impatiently darting ahead, peeking into each cell. “No...no…oh, shove off, you probably mugged a merchant…ah, here he is.”

 

"Let's just say he hasn't been all that talkative so far,” the Hellsguard said as if that would explain the bruises and welts on the near emaciated Elezen. He crossed his arms again, leaning against the wall to allow for the other two to inspect the prisoner. Kokojo was already holding onto the bars to intently look over the bandit.

 

"When was this man last fed?" Crofte asked.

 

"Irrelevant." Lalafell reached one hand back behind her and snapped up at Broken Nose. "You recovered small-arms, yes?"

 

Broken Nose shrugged off the Sworn’s inquiry. He was starting to think that Crofte was not that different from Deneith. Soft. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. "Feeding the prisoner is never our concern, ser." He nodded to the Lalafell. "Pistols. This one had a fancy one too."

 

"My men recovered a single rifle,” the corporal said without turning around. "I'll have it sent 'round to both your offices. The commander will need to sign off on that first once we've finished our own inspection."

 

"Firearms are not readily sold in Thanalan. I assume these were smuggled in from La Noscea?" The Sworn glanced between them.

 

The Blade sergeant nodded. "Looks like Limsan make, from the look of things."

 

Kokojo bit the inside of her cheek as she turned her head to look up at Crofte. "Does that mean anything to you? I'm at a loss."

 

Crofte crossed her arms but remained rather straight faced. "That remains to be seen." She moved forward to the cell to address the prisoner. "You there. Can you speak?"

 

"Piss off," came the rasp from the back of the cell. The Elezen raised his head; he was obviously in a weakened state, but his face still managed to conjure a scowl.

 

Broken Nose rolled his eyes. His men had gotten similar answers already of course, when they had first brought him into the gaols. The Elezen was not unlike the rest of the bandits he had come across, full of anger and never in any mood to cooperate. And this one seemed especially venomous. But his attention was soon pulled away from the exchange between the Sworn and the prisoner to the corporal, who approached him with a sadistic expression on her face.

 

“I need a spare bucket. And do you have a chocobo stable nearby?”

 

The Roegadyn cocked a brow at her and thumbed toward the door where one hung on the wall. “Have at it. And the stable is a few paces to the right out of the building.” As he watched the corporal walk back out, he called out after her. “Ya need something corporal? I can get one of my men…”

 

"No, no, I absolutely must do this myself. Be back shortly." The Lalafell hurried back down the corridor.

 

Broken Nose stared absently after the Lalafell. He shook his head, muttering a curse or four to Nymeia under his breath. He continued to listen to the volley of polite questions from the Sworn and the vitriolic responses from the bandit for a few more minutes. He spied Deneith entering the corridor in a Blades uniform, trying to be as unassuming as possible.

 

"Why not just leave me to die already, stupid bitch…or get…get on your knees and beg if you want me to tell you that badly." The Elezen coughed again, grinning slightly as the chains jingled.

 

Broken Nose tapped the keyring on his belt with a warning look. "Maybe won't be smiling with a few broken teeth?"

 

The prisoner ignored the thinly veiled threat. "The Hammerbeaks preyed on all of the poor in Pearl Lane. They ran rampant for several moons…and would you believe who came to help?" He coughed. "Would you…believe who gave a single toss about those jackals, or the people…the people they fed on? Why not tell me, you ignorant bint? I'm sure you already know the answer."

 

The Hellsguard scowled at the implication, giving the Blade by the door a pointed look. But then came the disgusted cries of a dozen Blades outside. Soon the door to the gaol swung open again, the corporal returning with a bucket held between her legs with both hands. It sloshed about with...something that made Deneith immediate step back with a hand covering her nose and mouth.

 

Kokojo grinned at Broken Nose. "Open it."

[Roen]

"Honestly, is this necessary just yet?" Ser Crofte protested, clearly alarmed by what the corporal held in her hands.

 

Broken Nose gave no objection as he unlocked the cell and swung the door open for the Lalafell. He was not about to get in the middle in between a Flame and a Sworn.

 

Kokojo took two small steps inside and threw the contents of the bucket over the poor malnourished Elezen. With excrement covering both the prisoner and the wall and floor around him, she stepped back outside, slamming the bars closed again. She smiled proudly up at the Sultansworn. "There. Now he's fed, I pissed off, and you can live up to your name, Shite-licker Crofte of the Brass Blades." Almost instantly the levity was dropped for a stern expression. "He's a criminal, not some misguided sod."

 

The Roegadyn held up a hand subtly toward the door to keep Deneith there, just as Ser Crofte gave him a glance as if to question the apparent title. She was speechless, as he was. Broken Nose merely shrugged.

 

The Elezen retched and coughed, the sound not unlike a whetstone being ground against a block of granite. Even through his gagging, a weak laugh could be heard occasionally interjected through the spasm of dry heaves. "Yeah…see…she's…that little bitch ain't lying to herself…hah. Just like Pearl Lane…see, she knows she's just an animal. She knows that she ain't any better than just throwing shite around. Take a page from her book, why don't you..." The prisoner looked as if he was about to retch again.

 

Kokojo smirked over her shoulder at the bandit. "I have a pedigree."

 

"Yeah, I'm covered in your pedigree," came the spiteful response amidst heavy coughing.

 

The Sworn shook her head in stunned silence before turning to the corporal. "Twelve forfend we should act civilized. Do this your way then." She put her hand to her mouth as if to fight off a wave of nausea and backed away from the cell.

 

The Immortal Flame nodded briefly before turning back to the bars and slipping inside the cell. She stood only a fulm away from the man. "I learned this from a Lominsan. Last chance."

 

"I've been...given a dozen 'last chances' in the past three suns..." the Elezen mustered up what spittle he could as he spat on the ground. "Do…do your worst."

 

The little corporal shrugged, then drew her blade and, in the blink of an eye, set the point against the man's groin and shoved it in against the bulge.

 

The agonized cry that came out of the Elezen's weak frame was truly pitiful, and more animalistic of an expression of pain than anyone knew he was capable of. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and his chest heaved with heavy, pained pants in lieu of screaming.

 

"CORPORAL! For Menphina's sa...sake...!" The Sworn made one move toward the cell, then staggered backwards once again from the smell with her hand over her mouth.

 

"Picking the part you like the most, huh?" he gasped out in between loud, pained groans. He writhed against the manacles, the iron chains jingling in a symphony of protest.

 

The Lalafell played just barely with the hilt and pommel, raising her left gauntlet to her face as if to inspect her nails. "Now, I can either pull this back out, or I can twist it as I push it further in. Your call."

 

Broken Nose only watched, his thoughts dark but his form unflinching. It seemed the little Flame had some bite to her after all. He only pushed off the wall when he saw Deneith darting forward, quick to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder to stop her protest. The Roe shook his head at her in stern warning. He could see her shocked expression even behind the mask.

 

The Elezen did not respond, merely biting his lip as his spindly body twisted and turned, as if trying to crawl away from the pain.

 

"A name. Make me believe it. Then mayhap I'll stop,” the corporal slowly and painstakingly moved her sword-arm closer to the man, gradually rotating her wrist as she did so.

 

The writhing and crying out continued until the Elezen finally gasped. "A…a woman…came by…to this cell. She'll know. She…urgh…was there...in the alley." Even with his face twisting in an agonized expression, the prisoner managed the ghost of a grin. "You…you want answers? Maybe try looking at your precious paladins first."

 

Deneith wrenched her shoulder away from Broken Nose’s hold, stepping toward the cell and swinging the door open. "Corporal. Stop. Stop this now. Please."

 

The Elezen barked out a laugh that was more akin to a gasp than an expression of amusement. "Nah…let her…let her do her thing! You never cared before…when…when someone did this to us…if they were Blades or Flames or bandits..."

 

"Corporal, that is enough!" The Sultansworn’s voice echoed off the stones, this time holding firm in its indignation.

 

"Hmph." A wrenching motion drew the sword out, along with some blood, before the corporal reversed her grip on the hilt and slammed the pommel forward into the Elezen's face. She didn't pause to inspect her work as the prisoner slumped forward; she strolled past Crofte, sheathing her blade as she went. "Fetch a medic," she told Broken Nose. Only then did she turn to Crofte. "I was told the criminal was to be left alive. I was specifically not instructed as to the rest of his treatment."

 

Crofte merely shook her head at the Flame. "Who else was at the scene? I was not aware of any Sultansworn present in the streets."

 

Both Kokojo and Broken Nose exchanged a look before both of their eyes went to the second Blade that was with them. Deneith had already entered the cell past Kokojo, kneeling in front of the man as if to see if he was conscious. The Roegadyn shook his head in disapproval. She was too soft for this.

 

"You're outed. Talk." The Lalafell’s voice was calm and cold, and it cut through the tension like a knife.

 

It was not until then that the Sworn paid the second Blade any mind, but now Ser Crofte turned her attention to the woman in the cell with the prisoner.

 

Deneith seemed to pause for a moment, keeping her back to them all as if hesitating. But slowly she rose and pulled the turban and the mask off her head as she turned. "I was there,” she said quietly, the Hyur looking straight at the Sultansworn. "I was the one in the alley."

 

Broken Nose heard the long exhale that was released through the Sworn’s nose. "Of course it was you."

 

The corporal glanced between the two women. "The sergeant and I have a prisoner to see to. Perhaps you could take this outside."

 

Take the chance given, Broken Nose wanted to say out loud. The less he knew about the details of this, better off he was. It would be easier to keep things legitimate, with less things to hide. But the two women seemed not to hear it.

 

"No need,” Crofte answered curtly. “Based on what he said and the current revelation, I know what I wanted to."

 

Kokojo gave Crofte a narrowed eyed look. "If this is a foreign matter--and I suspect that's the case, given the manufacture--then you're obligated to share what you know with the Flames. If not through myself, then through Swift."

 

The Sworn crossed her arms and turned her back to Deneith, looking only to the Immortal Flame. "Indeed. I will speak with my Captain and then to your commander. This issue may be far bigger than we suspected."

 

The confusion in Deneith’s face was clear as she exited the cell to approach the Sworn. "Can we speak?" she asked quietly.

 

It was obvious that Ser Crofte was looking anywhere but at the paladin. "No,” she said flatly. "I have a report to file now. If you would excuse me." Clearing her throat, she walked swiftly past them, only calling back to Kokojo when she was nearing the door. “See that he lives, Corporal. We may still have need of him." With that she she exited, the heavy door closing behind her.

 

"...Twice. I told her twice." The dunesfolk woman sighed.

 

Broken Nose stared at Deneith, who stood there with a look of confusion before she too took her leave without another word. The Roegadyn shook his head as he began to lumber out of the gaol to fetch a medic.

 

If Deneith knew who had brought guns to the streets of Ul’dah--and was now on the outs with her one ally in the Sultansworns--this whole thing was headed down a path he did not want to imagine. And now both the Sultansworns and the Immortal Flames had an inkling of it, even if neither Kokojo nor Crofte were ready to act upon it just yet. And he couldn’t discount the Brass Blades getting involved, since he himself had been made privy to the knowledge.

 

Broken Nose did not like this. He did not like this at all.

[Nero]

Night had fallen over Ul'dah, the cool glow of the night sky enveloping the Jewel like a blanket. A Brass Blade walked briskly through it, tugging on the cover of his turban over his eyes. The sound of mailed boots clicking on the cobbled streets sounded too loud in this quiet corner of the city. While the warm glow of lights and the festive shouts of people still echoed from the Sapphire Avenue, the area in front of the Brass Blade headquarters was relatively still. Inside was a token force of Blades, but many of them were out and about, enjoying Ul'dah's street life.

 

The lip of the Brass Blade curled somewhat as he entered the headquarters and made a straight line to the gaol. No one questioned him. It was generally true that if you act like you belong somewhere, most people won't stop you out of fear of raising a fuss. It was rather gratifying to know that that principle held true even in places of authority. The area in front of the entrance to the dungeons was empty save for a single Highlander Hyur standing watch. Things were going just as planned.

 

The first Brass Blade made a small gesture as he approached the door to the dungeons. He wasn't wearing the traditional bronze mitts but was instead wearing gauntlets that allowed him to extend his right thumb and index finger forward. The Highlander Hyur nodded and swung the door open. As the first Brass Blade entered the gaol, he passed a small pouch to the Highlander with his left hand.

 

The farther one descended into the dungeons, the fouler the stench became. It wasn't just sweat, blood, and excrement; it was desperation, and fear. The Brass Blade gave cursory glances to each of the cells until he found the mark he was looking for. The sight gave him pause.

 

The Elezen's sack trousers were covered in blood stains and the cell reeked of sweat and fecal matter. What was once a spindly, if reasonably alive Wildwood had thinned and shrunk into a mere skeleton covered in taut, pasty skin. Darkened bruises encased his wrists where manacles held them and were only defeated in hue by the bruises on his face and body. His chest heaved with laboured breathing.

 

The Brass Blade opened his mouth to say something before stopping and wordlessly swinging open the cell door. The Elezen seemed to barely lift his head up as if to acknowledge this new torturer before his neck went slack. The Brass Blade then withdrew a small vial from his belt, uncorking it. The vial was filled with a translucent, viscous liquid, and driven through the cork was a small golden needle. He knelt down to the Elezen with the needle covered in the almost gelatin-like substance, glancing his head up.

 

What a wretched place to be in.

 

The Brass Blade looked down and examined the Elezen's calf. It was easy to see the blue veins against the stretched skin. With a careful motion, he pricked the Elezen's calf with the needle; the hole was minuscule but was surrounded by just the barest visible purple tinge. The Elezen did not react to it at all.

 

He corked the bottle and sighed, standing up. It would only take a few hours for the substance to take effect. Perhaps even less, given the Wildwood's pitiful state. The Brass Blade corked the vial and walked out, double checking to make sure the turban covered any notable features of his face.

 

The Brass Blade walked out of the dungeons and back into the streets of Ul'dah with nary a word.

 

The night went on.

[Roen]

“He’s dead, alright.”

 

The medic withdrew his hand from the corpse, flicking his fingers in distaste at the stench that had seemingly been laid upon his skin from its brief contact with the dead Elezen. He rose, turning to face a very displeased Brass Blade sergeant who loomed over him at the cell’s entrance.

 

“Halone’s frozen ass…” Broken Nose gritted his teeth. “Weren’t ya s’pose ta keep him alive?”

 

The Midlander shrugged helplessly. “I treated his injuries and stopped the bleeding! It doesn’t mean that I can fix the months he’s gone without food--or his general well-being for that matter! He didn’t die primarily from the wound inflicted by the blade to his...jewels, so to speak. He died because he was unwell and malnourished. And beaten.”

 

The Roegadyn Blade frowned. It was obvious the medic had no love lost for any criminals he treated, and Broken Nose knew that they only did what was minimally necessary for certain prisoners. It was usually the more violent criminals that got the least amount of care. And this Elezen certainly qualified. Still, the Hellsguard did not think he would waste away so quickly, given that the medic did see to him. But the labored breathing, the quick wasting of what little muscle he had left, and the coughing up of blood…the signs had all been there that he was not doing well. And yet they had still kept him in chains. He was a dangerous criminal after all.

 

Ul’dah never showed mercy to the weak.

 

“So no sign of foul play?” Broken Nose cocked a brow.

 

“Nothing obvious.” The medic glanced over his shoulder, frowning as a new wave of stench greeted them. “No new beatings since I saw him last. No broken bones or wounds. And usually any kind of poison would show some signs. Foaming at the mouth, bleeding gums, bloodshot eyes…depending on the agent used.” He shrugged again.

 

Broken Nose narrowed his eyes and poked his index finger against the Midlander’s chest. “Look him over again and make sure. You were assigned to tend to him and he died. Under your care and under my command. Neither the Sultansworns nor the Immortal Flames will be happy about this.”

 

The Midlander snorted disdainfully. “The man was a thug, sergeant. A murderer belonging to a bandit gang no less. I would say his death, as well as the Hammerbeaks cut down in Pearl Lane, will equate to being less criminals we have to worry about.”

 

The Roegadyn exhaled sharply through his flared nostrils, annoyance pulling his brows dangerously low. “Check him over again. I don’t care if you come out smelling and looking just like him. Got it?”

 

The medic grumbled but nodded, turning back toward the prisoner.

 

With the Elezen dead they’ll look for another suspect, Broken Nose thought darkly as he began to walk back down the corridor. The Brass Blades knew about the bandit gangs within the city walls, but so long as they were not threatening anyone significant, most of them were left to be. There were never enough resources that they could muster to fully counter all the bandits...and some of the gangs were admittedly a source of business for some of the Brass Blades. He himself had accepted a bribe or two in the past, or turned a convenient blind eye from time to time. At least before he'd chosen a new path for himself.

 

The Roegadyn also understood that the poor, after struggling to survive for so long and having little means to do so, often banded together in one group or another for the simple sense of security. There were many reasons why gangs were allowed to exist within the Jewel, but now that guns were fired and reports made, actions needed to be taken. Nobles would not want to hear about gunfire near their precious homes and streets.

 

Ousting all the bandits from Ul’dah would be a task all its own, and was likely to incite more violence since the bandit gangs were often armed. But since this last group had been armed with Vylbrand guns, the Immortal Flames would also want to turn their eyes to the source of such weapons...and that is when their attention would undoubtedly turn toward Deneith and her Limsan merchant--the one Broken Nose had met moons ago. An angry man full of hate for the Brass Blades and all the things wrong with Ul’dah. It couldn't end well.

 

I hope you know what you are doing, Deneith. The Hellsguard shook his head as he exited the gaol, the heavy door closing behind him.

[Roen]

What am I doing?

 

Roen sat on the beach watching the slow descent of the sun, its reflection on the waters setting the horizon ablaze with golden ripples. The night air was growing chillier; goosebumps ran up along her arms, but the paladin did not notice. The distant whispers of the foaming waves did little to sooth her troubled thoughts as she recalled the conversation just a bell ago.

 

She had confronted Nero, asked him directly about the bandits and their Vylbrand-made guns. She at first thought he would dodge the subject, he had not even deigned to face her, so intent was he on his task--carving a filigree onto an elaborate silver plate. He spoke to her, but his eyes were hidden behind his magnifiers, his form bent over his workstation. But when she asked, his answers came direct and clear.

 

He admitted that he sold weapons to the bandits in Ul’dah--that he sold weapons in many places, as others of his profession did as well. He also confirmed that there were guns along with the refugee supplies, those that she had helped him retrieve from the Brass Blades so many moons ago. That was the primary reason he wanted that shipment back. It had started all the way back then.

 

"From the very start I never knew the whole truth. How much do you not tell me?" she asked him.

 

"I did not know you very well back then. If I had told you that there were weapons, what would you have done? Had me arrested, perhaps. Insisted the weapons be thrown away or destroyed. What reason could I have possibly had to tell you that I was carrying weapons? If nothing else, our little spat at Lost Hope cemented the notion that you would never tolerate that kind of information, and lo was I correct.” His calm tone never wavered, and he did not turn his attention away from his work; his hands never stopped in their moving of the tools as he inlaid thin strands of metal and ceramic beads into the engravings.

 

"Have things truly changed since then? Do you only tell me what you want me to know? Because I am starting to wonder." She scowled.

 

"Roen, I've learned to trust you. I trust you to be honest to a fault, and ever the idealist. I also trust that you will never understand the concept of doing bad things for a good cause, much in the same way that I will never understand how you think this world can operate entirely without bloodshed." He only paused for a moment. "No, that's not fair. I should say that I will never understand how you think bloodshed is not necessary."

 

The paladin squinted but said nothing in answer.

 

"I am curious. Are you angry because of the weapons in Ul'dah, or because you did not know about them?"

 

Roen paused. She had come to him wanting answers, but...was her anger because she felt that she was betrayed that he had not told her? Or was it because he was selling weapons in Ul’dah? The latter was something his kind had always done. Had she expected that all his criminal activities would end when he agreed to work with her? Nero went onto to add that the shooting in Pearl Lane was in retribution for the killings and the violence that the Hammerbeaks had already committed against others. But that did not justify adding more fuel to the fire.

 

“I suppose both,” she muttered with a hint of indignation. She turned away from him. “Sometimes I feel as though I am supporting something that I have yet to realize what it will exactly do. That I am hoping for a result without knowing the full extent of all that will be broken and all the suffering that will be incurred along the way. I fear that I am on a path that will exact all the things that I once swore to protect people against. I fear that I am losing my way. And I have been defending you, to so many people and yet I know not what you are doing."

 

"Perhaps you do not want to know.” His quiet tone remained neutral, as ever. “Perhaps knowing exactly what I am doing will drive you to stop me. You weren't prepared to kill me before. Do you think, if you had to stop me, you'd be prepared to kill me now?"

 

Roen felt a chill run down her spine. She could naught but stand frozen still and stare at the wall ahead of her.

 

"I see.”

 

The paladin bowed her head with a pained expression, as if struck through the chest. "I gave my heart to you,” she whispered. “The very thought of you coming to harm..." She paused, shaking her head. “I do not know what I would do."

 

The sounds of tools and beads came to a pause. "I do what I must, Roen. That is all I have ever done,” he said quietly. She could hear him turn in his seat, perhaps to look at her. It was her turn to keep her back to him. "The weapons, the deception…do you believe that I would have done any of that, if I did not believe it to be absolutely necessary?"

 

Roen’s gaze drifted toward some burning coals nearby, the small sparks of ember taking flight only to be extinguished moments later. “Nay,” she rasped. “You told me that you considered all the options. And that you only choose violence if you believe there is no other choice. I believe you."

 

A sigh could be heard behind her and she heard him turn back to his work again. "In any case, this should turn the focus towards the Monetarists. If the bandits are expelled from the city, then so much the better."

 

Roen glanced over her shoulder to the back of his head once more. "One of the bandits, an Elezen, he implicated you through me. The Immortal Flames, the Sultansworns, and the Brass Blades. They will turn their attention to you."

 

She could hear the wry smile in his response. “Trust the authority figures to completely miss the purpose of the message. But then, I suppose that's not a surprise.” His hands resumed their work, maneuvering tools over the silver plate. “The one thing a man with power fears is losing that power. Maintaining that farce of 'law' is the only way they can think of to keep their power. The second I can turn the Flames and the Sworns against the Monetarists, when they stop chasing their tails and look up to see the bigger picture…that is when we win. Raubahn bears no love for the Monetarists, but he hesitates. The only thing required to be in power is for you to be willing to do what your opponent won't."

 

Nero let out a quiet sigh. "There is always some destruction before creation. Some demolition before rebuilding. As soon as people understand that…things can change for the better."

 

Roen did not give voice to her own doubts. That she too feared this destruction he spoke of. This process of tearing things down so that a better future can emerge, like a seed sown beneath the barren ground. She feared for the deaths that may come. She already woke in cold sweat at times, thinking of those who had already lost their lives in this struggle, both innocent and not. And yet hope remained deep within, that Nero’s dream of fixing the tainted Jewel could still come true. And in that, she could help Nero find his own redemption. That the streets need not flow with blood. That countless lives need not be lost. And yet, in holding on to that hope, she had already seen an entire family's bloodline die. Even though he had promised to become a better man since, there were times when Roen still battled her own apprehensions, despite the love she held for the man. Had she not come to find him this day, fearing him to have betrayed her?

 

Was her heart blinding her to the truth? Or was it giving strength to her faith in the man who truly needed it? Who would not be saved otherwise? And the city that would be left to rot as others turned a blind eye? She had to believe in the latter.

 

“Perhaps if I can talk to Ser Crofte and Broken Nose, to see where they stand on this…”

 

"I think you should avoid them for now,” Nero said matter-of-factly. "Despite your good opinions of them, all they can see is the status quo. That order is maintained. Good people as they are, both are incapable of seeing beyond that image."

 

Roen felt a her chest tighten with dread. "I had hoped to enlist their help. I had hoped that others would see what needed to be done. That we were not alone in trying to do this." She realized then, it was not dread. It was loneliness.

 

"But we are."

 

"No one seems to see it," she whispered. "Or want it."

 

"They've turned a blind eye to it. Can you blame them?"

 

Roen turned fully then, facing his back once more. Her voice shook. "What we are doing. Is it so extreme? Is it worth it?"

 

"Is it worth it..." Nero echoed the question, pausing in his work. "To be honest, I don't know. Perhaps all of this will be for naught. Perhaps the city will be even worse off when we're done." He sighed. "I do not know if it will be worth it. But I do know that things cannot stay as they are."

 

The paladin shook her head, slowly at first, then the gesture grew emphatically. "I have to believe it will be worth it. It has to be. Else all that has happened, all the deaths and suffering for even a chance at changing something..."

 

"If none of it is worth it…if nothing changes..." the smuggler seemed to falter, he stopped again. "Then I suppose the only thing left for me to do would be to atone for those I have harmed."

 

Roen scowled deeply at the implication. "I meant what I said. That after all this is over…I wish for some peace and happiness for you."

 

"You are too kind,” Nero said quietly. “I know what I've done. How loudly will the dead howl at me, if after taking their lives all I end up doing is living a life of content satisfaction?"

 

"Then call it a selfish thing,” Roen snapped, stepping forward. "I do not wish to imagine the end you see for yourself." She exhaled sharply, her words turning into a plea. “It is never too late to choose to do the right thing. To show mercy. To spare lives. To atone."

 

Nero set the tools down and leaned back as he took the magnifiers off his face. "Perhaps not. But what form will that atonement take, if I fail?"

 

Those words haunted her even now. Roen had no answers for him then. And as the darkness began to descend with the arrival of dusk, the sun having fully retreated from the sky, the paladin still had no answers to give.

[Nero]

"You are looking well." It was a flat greeting, made more out of habitual politeness than any sort of genuine concern. Said greeting was meaningless anyway: the Duskwight's attention was fully occupied by the large schematic on his desk, a slender blue-gray hand gracefully piloting a quill across the sheet. Despite the speed with which the Elezen wrote, there was no chaos in the movements. The motions were swift but contained a controlled complexity, like a ballroom dance.

 

"This is the first time we've seen each other face-to-face in moons, and that cold observation is all I receive?" Nero's trademark smirk accompanied his response as he leaned against the wall. Outside the secluded office, the blows of hammers and the shouting of workers could be heard.

 

"In all of our previous encounters, your initiation of contact was an action brought forth by practicality. An expectation of courteous pleasantries at this juncture is both superfluous and asinine." The chilly response was punctuated by the soft scratching of the quill on parchment.

 

Nero clicked his tongue. "I can't tell if you're blunt because of who you are or if it's because of my flippant attitude. A mixture of both, perhaps." The Duskwight did not deign to respond, merely brushing a hand past snow-white locks in a fashion suggesting that Nero's comment was not worth remarking upon.

 

The smuggler counted what lucky stars he felt he had left for having secured the cooperation of Arturieaux Bellamont. The pair of them had known each other during Nero's studies of thaumaturgy; the Elezen arcanist had spent a number of moons in Ul'dah studying the intricacies of thaumaturgy, and had been courteously escorted through the city by Nero when the latter was still an acolyte. To call them friends would be going rather far--the Duskwight's harsh rebuke, though masked in grandiloquent loquaciousness, was a sure indication of that--but they shared some measure of mutual respect between them. The arcanist was a certified expert in his field of aetherial flow and the principles of energy utilisation and conversion, and the smuggler even back then had a certain talent for obtaining rare and valuable materials without most people knowing. Given the Duskwight's rather ruthless nature in his scientific endeavours, the pair were a simple match. 

 

"In any case, I had a rare moment of free time, and so I wanted to inspect construction for myself," the smuggler said nonchalantly. "Take a look at my investment, as it were." 

 

The truth was far more petty and whimsical, and both men in the office knew it. Nero had traveled across Vylbrand to the hidden cove to distract himself. In the smuggler's mind, seeing the direct effects of his influence would help quell his wavering doubts. Roen had confronted him about the weapons shipment he'd brought to Scythe and brought to the forefront how often Nero had deceived others, including her. In typical Roen fashion, she'd managed to throw all of his thoughts and conviction into disarray. That was not to imply that it was purely her fault, but Nero deliberately tried to ignore her during their conversation and he knew it.

 

Speaking to Arturieaux was a subconscious effort as well, a silent cry for help. While Nero took pleasure in deconstructing the motivations and personalities of others--mostly to stroke his own ego--the Duskwight viewed people as puzzles to be solved. Speaking to Arturieaux was a way for the smuggler to unravel the mess that was his own psyche, and it was not the first time the former had done so.

 

"I fail to see the point. It is not as if you are qualified to properly judge such a monumental undertaking," Arturieaux responded, sniffing disdainfully. Nero raised an eyebrow. The Duskwight's phlegmatic disposition was not something that was easily adjusted to. Arturieaux was not being arrogant or insulting in his comment: in the arcanist's mind, he was merely pointing out an accurate observation. 

 

Still, it wouldn't hurt him to adopt at least some measure of social grace.

 

"Even so, mayhaps it would be prudent for us to move again," Nero said, gazing out the office's small window. 

 

The tone of the Duskwight's response was encompassed by a disdainful snort. "The foundation has already been laid out and we finally have set up the facilities to manufacture the necessary parts. Attempting to shift the location of construction now would merely throw everything into disarray."

 

"I realise that you don't like it when we make you walk--only the Twelve knows why they bothered to give you legs--but recent events have turned some heat on our activities."

 

"Your activities. And are you not the one who is used to evading the law? If you were less foolish then 'heat' is not something we need to be worried about." Their conversation was akin to a duel. The smuggler would broach a topic, the Duskwight would rebuke him with "foolish" this and "nonsensical" that, to which the smuggler would return with his characteristic sarcastic quips, only to be met with another cold, calculated response. 

 

Nero put on an indignant expression. "In my defense, that was because Scythe had decided to strain against his leash."

 

"And you are the handler who put that boorish man on a leash in the first place. Is it not your responsibility to control him?"

 

"Controlling him is different from supervising him. I'm not a fussy mother who can afford to ensure that the children behave in school. If he decides to throw chalk and kick another child in the face, then--"

 

"Then it is still your responsibility, even within the contexts of this idiotic analogy."

 

The smuggler turned, leaning his back against the small window and folding his arms. "Worry not, I've spoken to him about it. Nothing has changed. In fact, he'll be able to buy us some time."

 

Arturieaux turned his head somewhat to shoot Nero an irritated glare. "I distinctly recall your statement saying that the 'heat' was on us. That is the opposite of what you are saying now, if you are unaware." 

 

The smuggler merely smirked--a hollow gesture--and shrugged. "What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes. But yes, we had a little discussion and I took care of a problem of his. He'll behave how I want him to and cause some sporadic chaos. That'll be enough to turn the attention to domestic issues, so to speak."

 

"And yet, you are the one who supplied him with weaponry, so logically the focus of authorities will be on you." Arturieaux turned his attention back to editing the schematic as he spoke.

 

"The inherent problem with violence in Ul'dah is never the weaponry, it's who uses it. Even if I didn't supply them, someone else who is trying to make a profit would. If the Blades were at all competent, bandit gangs would never be a problem."

 

The Duskwight waved an idle hand. "Spare me your political ramblings. They are irrelevant. What is stopping you from having your paladin friend take care of it?"

 

Now it was Nero's turn to snort. "Roen is reliably competent but won't be able to take care of a problem like this. She has no authority. If what my contact in the Blades said was true, she can barely show her face in the city."

 

"And whose doing is that, I am forced to wonder," the Duskwight observed dryly. "Evidently this is becoming a running theme. Are you even aware of how capable you are of crippling your own allies?"

 

"Even so, you are still cooperating with me," Nero shot back in an attempt to divert the flow of the conversation. But Arturieaux had sensed the former's discomfort and had locked on to the target, ignoring the bait the smuggler had laid out.

 

"Ul'dah is her home and yet her association with you has made her a fugitive, and now you complain that she is unable to fix your problems for you. An exceptionally incompetent man you are, Nero Lazarov." On the one hand, Arturieaux's ability to not give a damn made the Duskwight incredibly capable of gaining the upper hand in a conversation, which is why Nero hated speaking to him at times. On the other hand, said "not give a damn" ability was what enabled Arturieaux to ignore all social etiquette and bring certain indisputable problems to the forefront, which is why Nero needed to speak to him at times.

 

The smuggler paused in his response, but the Duskwight did not relent.

 

"Do you love her?"

 

Nero's head whipped around at that. He was prepared for that line of questioning to come forth as soon as the topic of Roen arrived, but he was not prepared for it to be that blunt, even considering who he was speaking to. What was most surprising was that while Nero had mentioned Roen and her involvement to him, never had he mentioned any sort of affection or intimacy to Arturieaux.

 

"Why do you ask?" Nero responded carefully.

 

"Responding to a question with a question is a sure sign of an incompetent man, doubtful in his motives and flawed in his reasoning, and the most infallible downfall to most men is their shallow desire for a woman. She lacks the power to do what you wish to be accomplished, yet you keep her as an agent. You have told me that she insists on her idealism which clashes with your own principles and yet you remain involved with one another, to which I repeat my query. Do you love her?"

 

The smuggler folded his arms, turning his gaze down to the floor to gather his thoughts. "I...trust her. I value her. She is--"

 

"Why?" Arturieaux had put the quill down and ceased his work, turning his attention to Nero. The Duskwight's elegant white robe shifted as he too folded his arms, mirroring Nero's defensive posture. At this point, Arturieaux had evidently decided that he would not accomplish any meaningful work so long as he was forced to serve as the Hyur's emotional adviser. "You claim to trust and value her, and yet those ideas are different from love. She most assuredly has some manner of affection for you if she is willing to forsake herself from her home, but you yourself are not willing to make such a sacrifice for her sake."

 

"What I--"

 

"Would you throw away your plan for her?"

 

"No." The response was immediate, and accompanied by some sense of immediate regret.

 

"Then you do not love her. You are merely using her, and I've yet to decide which is more despicable: the idea that you are using her without being aware of it, or the idea that you are fully aware and simply do not want to admit it."

 

A long silence expanded in the room, with Arturieaux staring at Nero and Nero staring at the floor, his thoughts in turmoil. After several minutes of this stillness, the Duskwight loosed an exasperated sigh and turned back to the schematic on his desk.

 

"Do me the favour of vacating this premise, and take your emotional baggage with you."

 

Nero glanced at the Duskwight's back before wordlessly leaving the office.

[Roen]

Dreams were supposed to be visions of what could be, where one could get lost in their slumber to a world of unimagined possibilities. But this night, as it had been for many nights, Roen’s own sleep was restless, her dreams full of turmoil.

 

Many faces, those she loved and held dear, now looked upon her with outrage.

 

"Here ye are tellin' me yer workin' with a murderer,” Gharen said, his expression twisted with disbelief.

 

Roen could not lie to him. She had always told her brother the truth. So when he had asked about Yoyorano, she told him. She told him about the bloodbath of an entire noble bloodline that Nero had orchestrated. She tried to explain that it was after Nero had learned that Daegsatz had been executed without a trial--when he was driven with cold blind rage. That he had set aside his promise to allow justice to work, instead setting in motion his deadly plans. But Gharen did not want to understand. And a part of her could not blame him.

 

"An' tha's okay!?" he growled at her. "What part o' women an' children was fine with ye if'n ye knew this!?"

 

She remembered those words made something snapped within her. "It is not fine!” Her voice rose to match his, shaking with indignation. “It has NEVER been fine with me! I wake with visions of dead bodies, faceless women and children, laying in a broken manse! They haunt my dreams! It is not fine! NONE of this is FINE!" She had hoped that her brother would give her guidance in this mire of guilt and doubt she was sinking in, rather than face his fury. It was too much to hope for.

 

His anger never abated. He did not want to believe that she saw any good in Nero or that there were any to begin with. She tried to make him see that Gharen too had forgiven others--Hornet and Delial after the foul deeds that both of them had committed. But he did not want to see. Where as he had the benefit of crossing their paths after they had begun their road to redemption, Nero had yet to prove himself in her brother’s eyes. Despite the fact that the pirate’s actions were all driven by a desire to end suffering for so many, Gharen did not want to believe that there was a possibility of atonement. Even for someone she loved.

 

When Roen tried to argue for the sake of saving Ul’dah, her brother uttered the words that she did not want to hear. The same words that everyone else had told her: Ul’dah was fine. That it would change itself in time. Her insistence that people had suffered enough, even going as far as to accuse him that he too had turned a blind eye to it, it only sparked his ire. When he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and hissed in her face through gritted teeth, she felt her heart plummeting through her chest. She knew then that there would be no understanding between them. Not in this.

 

“Don' ye talk te me about livin' in squalor, especially when ye've never walked a mile in my shoes,” he seethed.

 

“I do not want to oppose you, Gharen,” she pleaded desperately, one last time. “Please do not make me choose. Give me more time. I know I can do this right. Else all this will be for naught.”

 

Gharen’s muscles were taut with barely controlled temper, and his expression remained dark. "Well, it's goin' te be fer nothin' I guess. Cause I'm goin' te be workin on puttin' him away. This ends now.”

 

Her brother’s voice rang harshly through her memory like a hammer striking an anvil, before his face faded in her mind’s eye. Roen found herself staring at the calm collected countenance of Gideon North instead. Only, his usually placid facade was cold as he looked upon her, shaded with a tinge of sadness.

 

“Do you believe, Miss, that even if we had the materials, I should bring the young master back into the world alongside the man who shattered him? Who exchanged his parents for coin?”

 

Mister Bellveil had betrayed her confidence and had told Gideon that she was hiding the truth about those who had been responsible for his master’s death. Roen had not wanted to reveal it just yet, she wanted to give Mister North another path of closure first. But when the valet was made aware, she had no choice but to tell him the truth. He did not deserved to be lied to.

 

Gideon received the news that it was Nero who sunk his master’s ship off the coast of Limsa Lominsa with a chill to his demeanor. He bid her farewell and bid happiness in her future with the pirate, but there was only resentment behind his words. Roen could not let him go, she kept stepping in front of him as he tried to leave.

 

"How do you expect me to answer that..?" Roen stared at him with her eyes wide. "That he should be punished for his crimes? A part of me knows this. For I would argue the same for all the other murderers. I would argue it for those who ordered and paid for that ship to be sunk." The paladin paused, bowing her head in sadness. "But another part of me… believes there is a remorseful side to him."

 

“Belief, Miss.” Gideon said distastefully.

 

“Aye. Faith in someone." She peered back up at him. "Sometimes that is all that we are left with."

 

The valet met her gaze cooly. “I made clear my position on faith at the Ball.” He held it for a moment longer, before his shoulder sagged, his expression falling. ‘I…I do not wish to argue any more with Miss.”

 

When she saw his frame falter with exhaustion, she too sighed. “My apologies,” she whispered. "Do as you will, Mister North."

 

“I…” Gideon began, searching her eyes. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Roen. Work for the man who killed my family? Or work for the man who bade me to murder my friends?” A pause fell between them before he spoke again. “It feels like I've come to an...an end.”

 

"At...an end..?"

 

“I've no more way to move forward. I can't hurt him, because you love him, and I can't serve him, because I hate him.”

 

Gideon seemed so lost. A man without a purpose. She found herself speechless, there were no words to comfort him.

 

The butler’s forlorn expression washed away, leaving the familiar visage of a Duskwight merchant. His expression was one of stern reproach.

 

“I don't know if your pirate is a good man or a bad one. But a good man can make a plan that causes terrible suffering all the same, can they not?"

 

Roen was desperate to defend Nero, to make Mister Bellveil understand why she stood by him. "Why are you absolutely certain that he will bring just not your death but suffering to all?"

 

"Because that is what you implied!" Verad pointed at her with an accusatory finger. "When you spoke of the necessity of sacrifices!”

 

Those were Nero’s words. Sacrifices. Necessary destruction. Words that justified the bloodshed and the violence that he had orchestrated. All for just the glimpse of a chance that Ul’dah could be saved. She had repeated them to Verad Bellveil many moons ago in desperate hope that the merchant who had always soothed her doubts would do so again. But this time, he was throwing it back at her to question her plans.

 

"I confided in you my fears!” Roen could not help but feel wounded. Betrayed. “My absolute worst nightmares come to life!"

 

"Confidant I may have been - mayhaps I will be so blessed that I will remain so in the future - but why do you only confide terrors in me? Why do you only confide fears and agonies?”

 

"Because you found me when I was in the darkest of places, Mister Bellveil,” she whispered sadly. “You were supposed to be my point in aether. That one person I could trust and turn to. Instead you took it upon yourself to lead me toward a path you saw fit." She slowly shook her head. "I did not ask for that."

 

"There are a few types of love, Miss Deneith. I won't bore you with the other ones. But one of them involves helping a person become the best they possibly can be. Even at the cost of the relationship, whatever that may be."

 

Roen stared at him, long and hard.

 

"If that has happened - if you are a better person for this - then I can only apologize for doing it in such a manner. If that has failed, then I can only offer apologies even more humbly."

 

"I know the line I am walking, Mister Bellveil. I am painfully becoming more aware of it, every sun. And I want to do the right thing. I…I have to do the right thing. Else all that I am doing is for naught."

 

The Duskwight looked to her with a frown. His tone held a hint of patience, but also rebuke. "Why do you think you have time to choose for yourself? What vanity do you hold that you must decide the right path when hesitation causes more harm?"

 

His words made her falter. Again, she had no answer. Was her attempt in trying to save Nero only costing more lives?

 

The Duskwight’s face was suddenly swallowed up by the darkness, as screams rang from the depthless void behind him. The black curtain then lifted to reveal a broken manse, bloodstains on the walls, and dead bodies littering the floor. Men, women, and children alike, eyes opened along with their mouths in a silent scream, crimson stains beneath their bodies.

 

With a gasp, Roen’s eyes shot open and she found herself in her bed. The ending was the same, the visions of the violence visited upon the Yoyorano family, the scene would often return to her dreams whenever she was troubled. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, trying to shake off the shivers that had nothing to do with the cool ocean breeze. Even now, the angry words from her dreams haunted her thoughts.

 

Gharen would stand against Nero. She had no choice but to oppose him, her own brother.

 

Gideon hated the man she loved. There was nothing she could do to fix that. She knew he would never look upon her the same way again.

 

And Mister Bellveil...

 

She had walked away from him for his own sake. It was something that she should have done when he was attacked by the Brass Blades. His love for her and his loyalty to her were undeniable. But it was obvious that confiding her deepest fears in him was taking its toll. He felt compelled to help her in however way possible. In the end, she believed that it would only hurt them both.

 

Roen wrapped herself in her blankets as she curled in upon herself. Sitting alone in a starless night, surrounded by naught but sounds of crickets and distant ocean waves, the loneliness suddenly seemed all the more palpable.

[Roen]

Brynnalia Callae crossed her arms tighter, overlooking the railing in the Goblet, frowning with annoyance as another snowflake landed on her eyelashes.

 

Snowfall in the desert. Gods and their whims...

 

What was the point to a snowflake in the desert anyway? Small tiny elaborate thing, all of its intricacies never to be noticed by the casual eye, and only to melt into nothing the instant it handed on the warm stones. It all seemed pointless, to be so beautiful and unique, but only for the lifespan of its drifting descent from the skies.

 

Brynn remembered reveling in such things as a child. Traveling about the lands with her nomadic mother, one of her favorite places had been the high mountain regions in the winter. Only Coerthas reminded her of those old landscapes now, with its pristine white slopes and the chilly embrace that would seep through the thickest wool coats. She had found the soft snowy mounds forgiving and the beautiful shapes of each snowflake fascinating.

 

Sometimes, the bard found it hard to recall such memories, and when she did, it always brought about a moment of wistful melancholy.

 

But such days were gone, and her life now in Ul'dah would lend no leisurely moment for reflective musings.

 

She had told Gideon North differently though. She told him that all moments of happiness should be pursued relentlessly. That his life of meek contentment was no way to live, and that there was no point to draw a breath if one did not mean to fill the day with some amount of pleasure.

 

Such were her hedonistic views for as long as she could remember. Before she became employed with Taeros, or even before she became involved with the Ala Mhigan Resistance, her days were filled with pursuit of wine, men, and beautiful things, and not always in that order. It was always easier not to have a purpose, drifting about without care.

 

But now, the only thing that occupied her days were thoughts on how to stay ahead of everyone else in this rat-infested backstabbing city that was Ul'dah. Brynn glanced back at the Mandercrown estate behind her, and reflected on the night’s events.

 

She had used Verad Bellveil’s standing invitation to Shaelen for a card game, to draw the Highlander smuggler out of hiding. Brynn had to know if her old friend from her days in the Resistance had used their past acquaintance to plant Gideon North as an employee under Jameson Taeros. The bard thought nothing of the favor she did for Shaelen at first, the smuggler had brought the valet to her stating that he was an old friend in need of a job. Since Brynn had just become employed with one of the wealthier noble in Ul’dah, she was in a generous mood and offered to find him a job as well.

 

Since then questions had risen. Gharen Wolfsong, another old acquaintance from her days with the Resistance, approached asking both her and Gideon specifically, about turning on their employer. He had mentioned that both her and Gideon’s names were given to him as possible weak links within Taeros’ chain of command.

 

This she did not like.

 

At first she thought it was Crofte. The Sultansworn had gotten herself into what she can only imagine as a temporary dalliance with her employer, but still had the strange compunction to try and stay honorable in all things. She even had the gall to insinuate that Brynn was likely better off finding a new line of employment. A part of her wondered if the Sworn herself was working in secret against Taeros, except there were also hints, looks that Brynn would pick up or certain things that Crofte would inadvertently say, that made her suspect that the Sworn was actually developing genuine feelings for the Monetarist noble.

 

Crofte also had admitted to Brynn that she did direct Wolfsong to the bard, but not North. So then whom? After the Moraby Drydock warehouse raid, Brynnalia discovered that Shaelen had been involved with the owner of the warehouse, Sebastian Redgrave--a name that was suspected as one of Lazarov’s alias. Brynn then began to wonder if there were ulterior motives for bringing North to her to be employed under Taeros.

 

So she orchestrated the card game to lure both Shaelen and North under the same roof, then brought in a couple of mercenaries that held hard grudges against the Highlander smuggler to pressure her for the truth. Brynn should have known better though. The woman was full of anger and pride, and threatening her only made her dig her heels in deeper. Even with her ear being half blown off by her own gunblade, Shael refused to say anything about Gideon.

 

But it was the valet himself that told her the truth. Gone were his mild manners, his subservient demeanor. After everyone had departed, he stepped right up to her face, no longer observing any courtesy.

 

“I hate Nero Lazarov, Brynnalia.” His voice was a low hiss. “I despise him. I hate him far more than Jameson Taeros does. My desire to see him dead outweighs my desire for myself to live. His destruction will be the day I am no longer necessary as a living being. He is responsible for taking everything from me. Because of him, I am a ghost. It is true that I may have ulterior motives in serving Taeros. But don't you fucking dare imagine...that they are anyone's but my own.”

 

Brynn had been stunned to silence at his admission. But now she no longer doubted that the valet was working for the pirate. So the goal of the night was achieved after all. She ensured that the butler she had brought to her employer was no spy for Lazarov. So what if she duped Crofte into coming without weapons to have a Sworn presence there? Or lured Shaelen into what seemed like a harmless card game only to ambush her? And the flirtations and the teasings exchanged with Gideon that led him to accept her invitation as well, it was all an act right? It was not as if she was starting to relax or trust the man. So why the bad taste in her mouth now that her plans had come to fruition and she had secured the safety of her own employment?

 

The bard snorted to herself, dismissing the doubts as a she did the annoying snowflakes. It was then that a moogle flew up to her and handed her a letter. Recognizing the penmanship, she opened it eagerly.

 

Miss Callae,

 

I’ve come across proof of the Redgrave/Lazarov link. I require those trade routes to find out what Lazarov is using them for.

 

-Gharen Wolfsong

 

 

Brynnalia curled a slow but wide grin. Not only did she confirm one of Lazarov’s aliases, but she also had managed to turn someone who would have undoubtedly caused trouble for her employer into an ally instead. She knew telling Wolfsong about the possible link between Redgrave and the Yoyorano massacre would turn him against the pirate. She even argued that putting him away would be the best thing for his sister’s well-being and safety.

 

The bard knew she was using Wolfsong’s compassion as well as his concern for his sister to twist his motivations to suit her own, but in the end, it would be the best thing. For Wolfsong to oppose Taeros and the Monetarists, it would not bode well for him. And this way, he had a chance to save his sister from uncertain misfortune as well. All in all, she knew she should be proud of herself at this turn of events.

 

Brynn lifted her chin and sauntered toward the gates of the Goblet. She found herself suddenly eager to find a beautiful man and a bottle of fine wine to celebrate her recent successes. She no longer even noticed the snow that were turning to a pitiful droplets on the stones.

[Nero]

"Clauremont is dead," the Brass Blade had said. Of course, it wasn't an actual Brass Blade but that damnable smuggler who had delivered the news. This wasn't much of a surprise, and everyone knew: the possibility that Clauremont could actually be broken out of the gaol was very close to none. Even if he managed to get outside of the cell, it was unlikely that the Blades had fed him much, if at all. Catching him again would have been like fighting a coeurl with no limbs or teeth. And yet, that knowledge did little to alleviate Scythe's sour mood.

 

The large Highlander idly sharpened his falchion, and the subbasement bustled with the eerie paradox of noisy silence. Men of various races and statures worked tirelessly, gathering the rifles, powder, and shot together into crates. Swords and spears clattered as they were shoved into crates or onto racks. No man spoke as he hauled his cargo, each focus intently on their task.

 

The news had been a surprisingly hard hit. Clauremont was Scythe's lieutenant and now he had died in the gaol. The Hammerbeaks had successfully been destroyed, but now the attention of the Brass Blades was on them for making a ruckus. Morale was low for now, but there was no doubt that the flames of anger would be sparked any second now. The smuggler's last visit involved another irritating set of specific, restricting instructions. Scythe's grip on the whetstone tightened somewhat, the memory of it incensing him somewhat. Even so, the smuggler at least understood what he and his men wanted.

 

So long as he and the other gang leaders paid off the Brass Blades, they cared not for what happened in Pearl Lane. They were content to ignore everyone who'd been thrown into that squalor. The nobles, fat on their ill-gotten gains would, upon hearing the news, laugh and laugh. But that would change soon. The tunnels were almost prepared. The weapons had been sent and paid for.  And though the men were spindly and undernourished, within them burned an inferno.

 

A storm was coming, one of blood and steel and fire and smoke, and Ul'dah would be right in the middle of it.

[Roen]

The dark wine swirled just below the rim of the glass, the gloved hand that held it by the neck tilting the glass with practiced ease, though there was a certain restless vigor underlying the habit that was unlike him.

 

Jameson Taeros stared at the various pieces on the chessboard in front of him as he reclined deeper into the large leather seat. A few pawns had already been moved off the board and cast aside. Crowe, Dyer, and Aapano had all been too vocal in their opposition of him, else panicked and wavered in their loyalties. So irresistible gifts were made--expensive wine usually worked well--to take them out of the game permanently. The void of wealth and power left behind was filled quickly enough, and most of the time it was to his advantage. Such were the ever-turning cogs of Ul’dah; when a wheel broke, it was replaced and the gears just continued to grind.

 

The noble mused with a measure of contempt that he himself was not exempt from this unforgiving game. He harbored no foolish arrogance to believe otherwise. But he had ingrained himself in the web of power long enough and deeply enough that he had learned to perceive early any pull or resistance in that entanglement. Just like the scales of Nald’thal, the balance could be tipped at any time; those who were good at the game knew how to maintain that precarious equilibrium while adding weight to his own side.

 

Jameson picked up one of the discarded pieces off the board, a Dragoon, and brought it before his apathetic gaze. It was a formidable piece whilst in play, though never subtle. He had lost it sometime ago.

 

Natalie, you could have been so much more, the noble reminisced as he took a long sip of the wine. Natalie’s zeal in protecting all interests of Ul’dah drove the single-minded Miqo’te to reckless actions and forsaking all other loyalties. She even forgave him for his Imperial connections when he had allowed her a glimpse into his past. He still did not want to admit that there was a sense of loss that still lingered inside him since her passing. But it was dismissed as soon as it was recognized, and the chess piece was dropped along with the rest of the pawns.

 

The noble eyed the Wyverns on the board still. Deadly yet somewhat unpredictable. Grimsong had been hesitant to act against Lazarov. She had been tasked to end the life of one Sebastian Redgrave over a moon ago, and yet nothing. Even at the Starlight Ball where the pirate had boldly shown his face and seemingly only with Roen as his obvious ally, Delial had not made a move against him. Nor had Zuka, one of the Lalafell enforcers that Lolorito had sent to assist him in these matters. Taeros wondered if the two were reliable pieces at all. Or if he was to merely use them as distractions against the pirate.

 

Lazarov. Why did you show up at the Ball? Jameson crooked an elbow against the armrest and rested his head against a curled hand. The Dragon piece the other side of the board seemed to stare back at him in silent defiance. For someone as pragmatic and meticulous as Lazarov to just show his face at such a public function…it had to have been a trap, and one that Jameson could not yet see in its entirety. So a passing smile was all that was exchanged with the man who had been causing so much trouble for his employer and his ilk. If it was a trap, Jameson was not going to spring it under such scrutiny, and he was fully aware of many eyes following his every move that night. It was best to let the pirate go, and strike at him another day.

 

But…if his Wyverns were no longer considered reliable, what pieces did he have left? He plucked the Temple Knight off the board, holding it between his fingertips like a fine jewel. My own knight. My Sultansworn.

 

Coatleque Crofte. She had once been a whore in a brothel, yet now she now served the Sultana and was arguably the best-known Sultansworn under Jenlyns. She was very much like himself in that she had clawed her way out of the pit of poverty--the worst sort of mortal obscurity--to rise in power.

 

He smiled. Coatleque could not have known that they were kindred spirits when she had thrown herself at him, offering herself as payment for a favor. It was simply a business arrangement at the start, and he could not deny the value of an alliance with a prominent Sultansworn. Even when Natalie was still alive, both of them had thought that recruiting Ser Crofte to their cause would only bolster their strength. But now…

 

Jameson did not quite know what they were. Coatleque had professed her love for him. It was after she had betrayed him and stolen from him. The fact that it was her, of all people...

 

He felt his anger rise up inside him before he even realized that she had affected him in such a way. The Sworn herself was wracked with guilt, and perhaps would have said anything to appease his anger, but she said she loved him nonetheless. He extinguished his rage quickly enough, but not before that calm facade that he had worked so hard to maintain faltered for a moment. He still doubted her integrity, even as he released his grip around her throat. The tears in her eyes convinced him that she spoke true, but he wondered if it would eclipse her sense of honor should the two ever came into conflict.

 

Would she accept him for all that he was?

 

The noble had assumed that Coatleque already suspected him of certain Garlean connections. She had inquired more than once, and ever so carefully, about his other employers. But when he had asked her frankly of her own loyalties, she had made it plainly known that above all things, Sultana’s safety would come first. It was obvious that any foreign connections would be seen as a threat. So Jameson had kept things vague if not dodged the topic altogether. Perhaps that is why she still acts devoted to me. To uncover more secrets.

 

The Temple Knight was set back down onto the board, directly in front of the oppositions’ Wyvern. Jameson’s took up his wine glass again, swirling it absently as he studied the opposing side. Melkire and his allies within the Immortal Flames. Limsan pirates on the seas that worked with Redgrave. Royalists and even other Monetarist nobles who sought to undermine him. Jameson was still trying to find the origin of the ripple being created by an unknown source--one that was also encouraging a shift in loyalties amongst the Monetarists. Someone was letting slip the tiniest of pebbles into the proverbial political waters; the noble heard the whispers when they thought he was not listening, and knew of the secreted meetings they held when he was away. While he was busy making agreements and gaining allies, his enemies were doing the same. Only now he suspected that someone was helping them.

 

Was it Deneith’s work? She had already done his reputation harm with the biased Lantern article, and then there were the warehouse raids. While he could not prove she was involved, he had his suspicions. Zuka was supposed to get to the bottom of things, but the Lalafell had been woefully unproductive.

 

His gaze settled on the Temple Knight on the opposite side of the board. And how far you’ve come. It would be easy to bring her in. Despite her never staying in one place and staying out of Ul’dah, Zuka’s men had slowly been able to track her movements. It would not be long before they could capture her. Natalie and Delial had both suggested torture to gain information from her. She would likely know much of Lazarov’s secrets and would be of great asset in bringing down the pirate. And if suspicions proved true, could they even use her to lure the smuggler out?

 

These were all obvious options, but neither the noble nor Zuka entertained them for too long. Zuka seemed more interested in using the paladin to track down his own target of interest. It was likely the reason that Jameson thought his efforts had been so far fruitless. And as for himself…

 

You have no idea what I want, do you Roen?

 

A touch of moisture drew his attention to his hand, where a stray drop of the wine had just managed to scale the rim of the glass and stained his pristine white velvet glove. Jameson frowned. He brought the glass to his lips and drained it of the remaining alcohol before rising. Methodically he pulled the gloves off, flexing his calloused hand as it greeted the cool night air. It still bore the scar that he had recently acquired during his trip to Gridania. The one where he had to cut some old ties…

 

More pieces needed to be moved. And there were measures being taken by players that were not even on the board, the ones that the noble had mistakenly failed to pay attention to. The frown upon his dark brows only deepened. This was not like him at all. He had let his distractions get the better of him.

 

Jameson set the gloves by the table where his butler was sure to find them, before turning and leaving the room. He had been idle too long.

[Banquo Viaquo]

"Did you set me up?"

 

http://i.imgur.com/MeCDwIZ.png[/img]

 

It would have been a stretch to say it sounded innocent. A poker game at the Mandercrown Manse, with Miss Crofte, Master Bellveil, Miss Shaelen Stormchild, and North himself - at the specific request of the evening's orchestrator and hostess... the ever-smiling Brynnalia Callae. Certainly, North had anticipated that she had other intentions for the game, but not that it would devolve into an armed standoff in the manse's sitting room. Thugs and vigilantes staring each other down, Miss Shaelen shot and wounded, and Mistress Callae furiously demanding to know North's true allegiance... to know whether Miss Stormchild had, in bringing North to Master Taeros's service, raised the blade over Mistress Callae's neck.

 

"Did you set me up?"

 

North had to wrinkle his nose at THAT particular memory; less so for the unpleasance of the moment, and more for the slapstick of it, in hindsight. It was something directly out of the young master's 1-gil thrillers (despite his admonishments, the young master Aerstorn had always been rather indiscriminate in his literature tastes. North treated them as he did fish left out in the sun). It was the sort of thing one imagined a burly thug in a suit saying; furiously gesturing with a cigar while their adversary was slowly lowered into a shark tank. But nevertheless, Brynnalia Callae had been the one to say it; demanding an answer from Miss Stormchild, desperately and viciously as her carefully-planned trap fell to pieces.

 

"Did you set me up"... Ah, but specifically - he recalled, stirring the pot with a smug sort of flourish - had he ever been set up specifically as an agent of Lazarov? Impossible. He hadn't even known the man's name until nearly a full season into his employment; both Miss Deneith and Master Taeros had danced around it like a peiste trap in a ballroom.

 

Miss Stormchild had been... anxious, after the chaos had settled and the aftermath cleaned up. She warned North that saying the wrong thing might result in harm for a great many people. However, he was armed only with the truth - no extravagant gambits required against one who had played the wrong defense. Mistress Callae had certainly been in control of the situation when the poker game devolved into a standoff - indeed, she had orchestrated it from the start - but regardless of the reason, she had failed to ask the correct question to eliminate him.

 

http://i.imgur.com/VulAPEm.png[/img]

 

Indeed, their encounter outside the manor afterwards, if anything, had given him a long-missed advantage over her. Assuming that he worked on behalf of Lazarov had initially been only a logistics concern, but as the aftermath of the clash had faded away, he had focused on it more and more until it had festered into an infernal rage. If he was going to clumsily express his own emotions, amplified or not, it would at least have to be in a way that proved useful... and it certainly had.

 

The venom in his words and the fire in his eyes as he spat his hatred of Lazarov had been genuine; omissive, but quite genuine. For the first time since the young master's death, he had stopped planning ahead, speaking only what came immediately to heart and masking neither his words nor his intentions. Mistress Callae seemed shaken by his words, and unless his eyes had mistaken him, she had darted a quick glance to the chasm directly beside them... either wary of his intentions, or questioning her own. The night had thankfully ended with both of them walking away in the snow, rather than still at the bottom of a canyon. But he had scared her off.

 

He stared vindictively into the pot, accusing gaze leveled at the marinara.

 

It was vexing to see that Mistress Callae's boundaries lay beyond his initial estimation. It was impossible to know how much, if any, of her previous talks with him had been genuine... and thus, it had been troubling when she waltzed up Ul'dah's plush red stairs to corner North and ask for... what? She had refused to clarify. Forgiveness? Acceptance? The whole thing had been a bit of a surprise, but even her expression had barely matched up with her words. It was impossible to divine which of them betrayed what.

 

He had sent her away in the end, but... something had made him hand over a Starlight gift for her, intended for a better occasion before the ill-fated Poker Night. That, more than anything, had shaken her, and she had left immediately after. It had been a moment of whim... or perhaps just formality and obligation, to deliver a gift intended at a better time. North had to wonder precisely what effect it had had.

 

Nevertheless, the truth was out, such as it was. Gideon North was not, and would never be, the man of Nero Lazarov. Satisfied, he adroitly shifted between pots, three different ones on the verge of boil.

 

...So why, then, had nothing changed?

 

North was still in charge of Taeros's shipments... and indeed, there had still been some minor switches. Certainly nothing overly drastic, or notable enough for the families to bring to Taeros's attention; besides, most of the articles and gifts had been small enough for it to be a simple error in delivery. Master Taeros certainly knew his own power, but even he wouldn't dare to try punishing a Delivery Moogle. And yet, he had seen the subtle ripples.

 

Lord Rezhenne had been something of an experiment - an Elezen, and Gridanian expatriate, North estimated that he already faced some prejudices and exclusion as he tried to fit his family into Ul'dahn life. Besides, most of Master Taeros's gifts and exchanges to him were obligations of his position moreso than his schema. At the operetta all those weeks ago, Gideon had only been forced to scan a single expression, and he was rewarded with a slight glassiness to the angular smile.

 

In shortchanging the Elezen, North was soon able to oversupply the Quillburns; academic Highlanders whose candid opinions had earned them few friends among the Monetarists. Taeros would not find himself short on praise, but coming from those with such stringent personal standards (and grudging enemies), who knows what effect it could have? A spoon in each hand, he stirred multiple pots at a time - keeping an eye on both, careful to ensure everything was prepared according to the exact recipe.

 

Finally, there was House Mumuqaru. Ul'dahn through and through, they had suffered quite a financial loss in the past couple moons, by falling out of favor with the mining concerns... and so North had included one, two, three grimy chunks of iron ore in the supplied gifts. A calculated insult, or a mistake in shipment? Certainly, nobody would know. Regardless of the true reason, however, he knew that damage would be done. The relationship would be soured, even if it had been a genuine, honest accident. Nobles did not like to be reminded of their mistakes.

 

But he was not doing it for Lazarov. He held onto that above all else. He would say he was doing it for Miss Deneith, but... her faith had always been less in the plan, and moreso in the fact that her lover had been devising it. Thick gloves slipped on, he carried his work to cooler placements, face bathed in steam.

 

Perhaps he had been more truthful than he thought to Mistress Callae regarding his own intentions. Using the nobles' allegiances and petty grudges against them, even if it would not reveal his young master's murderer, felt grimly satisfying. There was something poetically just about it. A pawn moves in subtle, barely noticeable motions compared to other players on the board.

 

Only three questions remained, as the pinch of spices fluttered down from his fingers. One: at what point would his efforts no longer be required? Two: Would both Miss Deneith and Mistress Callae remain safe to and beyond that point?

 

He hesitated, hand stopping just short of the near-scalding pot handle.

 

Three: Who was the woman in black on Scholar's Walk?

[Coatleque]

Jameson's office was quiet still as it had been these past few days while he was away. Everything had been kept the way it was as he left it. Mister North had seen to that. Doubly so today when his Master was expected to return. Coatleque had guessed the man was quite used to seeing her around the estate by now. Or if not, he at least made no show of concern at her coming and goings. She had let herself into the office as the man himself was leaving. They exchanged little more than polite greetings.

 

His diligence was something Coatleque was careful to only notice now when Jameson was not present. He may prefer to lord his station over those beneath him, but she was still not used to being waited on hand and foot. Being a servant of the Sultansworn herself, she knew the meaning of servitude and did her best not to get in Gideon's way. She would even go so far as to clean up after herself if she was able to get to it before he did. He was often too quick for her though.

 

He had tended the fire before leaving and so she was greeted to the warm glow and light smell of smoked wood from the hearth in the corner. She crossed the room and disappeared behind the wall to change in the back half. Once finished she sat at the small desk by the bed to use the mirror. Pulling her hair back she noticed the glint of the silver key on a chain around her neck. It gave her pause as she considered it for the moment.

 

Jameson had given her this key to his room out of trust. She had won him over to the extent that he would allow her to freely access his personal room, office, effects. This was the very thing she had wanted from the start. What she had told herself those few moons ago during dinner at the Bismark. Get as close as you can, find what you need, and get out. Yet something had caused her to hesitate. Words they had spoken at dinner one evening came back to her now.

"If you've a confession that would force me to detain you as a threat... then no, I do not want to know."

"Then I know where the line must be drawn."

"And that is one line I shall never cross."

"Do not fear, my dear. I would not put you in such a position,...

... in all else, I shall be truthful as I can."

There was something. Some dark secret that she knew would ruin him. Something that would force her hand. She should have used the key ten times over by now. She should have ransacked his office the first night and merely played him for a fool. Yet something made her hesitate.

 

 

She examined herself in the mirror, eyes trailing up to her neckline. Was she afraid of him? The bruise around her throat where he had nearly strangled her in anger had long since faded. Her hand slowly rose and gripped the same place he had before she turned away from the mirror. No. Despite his anger, she did not fear him in that way. She was no simpering farm girl either - the choice not to fight him was hers alone.

 

Looking across the room she noticed the suit of armor on its stand. Examining the wear marks on it she knew it was not just for show. The man's strength belied his true station. This, she told herself, is what she was so enamored with. This hidden side to the arrogant noble that everyone was used to seeing. Behind all of his pretense there was a strong, proud man struggling to survive under a weight he was too stubborn to ask help to lift.

"Does not Jameson Taeros also deserve a chance at redemption?"

Words she had spoken to Roen some days ago. Despite all Roen's ire for the man, even she could not disagree. Coatleque could find the evidence she needed at any time now, but locking the man away was a temporary solution. No, she wanted to help him if she could. She would uncover his secrets, but without reverting to stealing them. It would not do for her to look like an enemy now. Especially knowing at how quickly his temper could turn again.

 

She finished tying up her hair and put her things away into a drawer that she had managed to claim. Jameson's business was done mostly in the front-half of the office, so the rear desk was typically unused and empty. She went back to the front then and to the liquor cabinet in the opposite corner to the hearth. Procuring two glasses she also retrieved the brandy she knew he most often enjoyed at work. Whether it was his favorite or just one cheap enough that he was content to use it most often she could not say.

 

Arranging the bottle and glasses on the desk she then took her place at he front corner to wait. He would be back at any time now and they had matters to discuss. After the arrest of Captain Anduron, she had a feeling he would be in need of an albeit temporary distraction.

 

[Gharen]

I should have listened to my instincts.

 

Acrid smoke filled the air and billowed around the caravan, panicked shouts echoing into the night as its defenders attempted to discern the threat. The attackers moved in silence using the shadows as cover, attempting to disarm and incapacitate their targets. Gharen moved as quickly as he was able, his eyes squinting to peer through the smoke; his goal had been to simply stop the caravan with as little bloodshed as possible on both sides, and search for the manifests and ultimately the contents. He specifically stated to his accomplices, his newest pupil Evangeline Primrose and his longtime friend U'roh, that they were to avoid casualties at all costs. They had all agreed that innocents should not be harmed.

 

Even the best laid plans never truly survive contact with the enemy.

 

He was following the trail that had been given to him previously by Brynnalia Callae. He’d scouted it, learned the trail, and looked for signs that it was actually in use. He’d spotted this caravan bells before, and it was smaller than he had anticipated, a single cart. Perhaps it was the presence of the Immortal Flames guarding the caravan, but something didn’t sit right with him. But it was a feeling he would regretfully choose to ignore, suspecting that it all could have still been a ruse on Lazarov's part.

 

I gambled that it was the right one... and lost.

 

Gharen moved for the wagon driver, ignoring opposition almost entirely, hoping to end this as quickly as possible. He was even willing to risk harm to himself as long as he could just get them to surrender. He had come dressed in all black armor and had set his mind to lie and play the part of the villain. He bee lined for the drivers perch, his eyes set on the Lalafell driver. The man could never have known that Gharen truly meant him no harm, and it was obvious in his wide eyes filled with fear. He frantically scrambled out of the Gharen's reach, and to the Highlander's dismay, the Lalafell drew a knife.

 

That was when everything spiraled out of control.

 

A small explosive planted upon the rear axle by Evangeline--meant to only cripple the wagon--went off with greater force than he had anticipated, rocking the cart violently. It threw everyone on the wagon off balance, Gharen himself included. He had to grab onto the seat to prevent himself from falling off the side. It was almost in slow motion that he watched the driver fumble for balance with his knife in hand, and as he fell forward, the blade disappeared beneath him. But Gharen had no time to react to the injured Lalafell. One of the Immortal Flame guards was upon him by then, another Highlander, his longsword drawn. Gharen managed to raise his his shield, leaving his own sword by his hip, instead demanding that weapons be dropped. He still had hope to tend to the injured driver.

 

But his kinsmen proved notoriously stubborn and hard headed. 

 

Gharen blocked a sword blow, noting peripherally that U'roh and Evangeline were taking care of the other guards. He launched an attack of his own, but to his kinsman's credit, the Flame was skilled enough to turn and absorbed the shield bash with his off arm. He landed a glancing cut near Gharen's shoulder, but at the cost of his own broken arm.

 

It was then that the other Immortal Flame thankfully shouted their surrender. The rest of the guards had been defeated.

 

Gharen ran to the driver hoping to tend to his wound, while ordering Eva and U’Roh to get the guards down on the side of the road and search the cargo and manifests. It had all been for naught, the cargo was legitimate, the manifests indicated it did not belong to Redgrave, and the driver laid dead. To make matters worse, Evangeline accidentally called out his name in frustration.

 

Ordering his friends to leave, Gharen was set to turn himself over to the Flames then and there, but loyalty much like love, made people stubborn, stupid, and blind to the larger picture at hand. U'roh and Evangeline would not let him surrender. They refused to leave his side. So instead, Gharen spoke the officer in charge, a Midlander who had declared their surrender earlier. He removed his helm and explained himself, who he was and why he attacked the caravan. Gharen was not looking for forgiveness nor absolution, he knew he would find none here. He simply wished them to know why, and after doing so, gave his word that he would turn himself over to Sergeant Osric Melkire.

 

We had already done enough.

 

Gharen leaned back against the stone wall of the Thanalan cavern, his attention returning to the present as he looked over his camp. He had already spoken with Miss Crofte and left word with Miss Jakkya, and now waited to hear from Sergeant Melkire who had been strangely silent. He replayed the events of that night in his head again, as he had been for the last few bells. He would turn himself in, that much given, but until then he would plan his next move.

[Coatleque]

"People are coming after Taeros. Do not be in their way."

 

A peal of thunder seemed to shake the estate to its foundation. Two glasses barely touching rang out as the vibrations knocked them together momentarily. Coatleque spared no glance from the fire in front of her where she stood. The hearth was beginning to die down and the hour had grown late.

 

The words were spoken to her earlier that evening as the rain had fallen around them outside the Sancrarium. Since then the hours had slowly crawled into the late of night. She had returned to Jameson's estate after her shift. In truth she found most of her nights were spent there of late, not that she could complain. It was quieter than the Hourglass, more private than the barracks, and more personal than the Still Shore.

 

The rain had let up only briefly before the bulk of the storm arrived, and the pattering of drops against the windows was interrupted by the crack of thunder infrequently at first. They had grown much louder now, and she was certain the storm itself was just overhead if not close to it.

 

Looking down from the hearth to the smeared ink of the article in her hand, she pressed her lips together in anger with narrowed eyes. It was easy for her to simply shrug off such libel. That was part of her job, after all. She could not, however, ignore the damage this may do to so many others. Jameson may suspect her - she was sure he would, in fact - but she had given him no reason to do so. After he himself was the target of so many other similar articles, would he even pay this one any mind?

 

Jameson. She had gone so far as to defend the man to Roen this evening. He was no saint, to be sure, but she had yet to discover damning evidence to convict him as opposed to Nero Lazarov who was confirmed now to have ordered the elimination of innocent women and children.

 

"Does it matter...?"

"... yes. Yes it does."

 

"Roen." She said her friend's name out loud just then. The realization that she would defend the man who committed such atrocities was almost too much to bear. Coatleque had sacrificed her own freedom to help Roen with her vengeance against Taeros. Yet it was clear that Roen had lost sight of that goal. What now did she sacrifice for? Was she even sure it was still a sacrifice?

 

"I believe we are close in bringing everything to light. Taeros' allies and their power are diminishing..."

 

Coatleque could see how tired Jameson was becoming. He was clearly losing ground as he himself confessed - as Roen had also confirmed. She wanted nothing more than to applaud Roen's efforts. To encourage her to strike now while she could. When the opportunity presented itself she could not do it. Coatleque turned away and held her tongue. Between the two men it was now clear which one was a danger to the city. Jameson may have his personal ambitions and bloody rivalries, but there was a line he had yet to cross.

 

"... you are asking me to believe he will not again only on your word."

 

She blinked away another tear as the conversation replayed in her mind once more. Another peal of thunder shook her back to the present and prompted her to look over her shoulder towards the back of the room. The suit of armor Jameson kept on its stand seemed to glare balefully at her as lightning reflected off its surface from the window. She shivered and turned back to the fire.

 

Her hand rose slowly to bring the article into view once more. She stared at it before releasing it into the fireplace. It laid across the smouldering coals before slowly blackening from the middle and spreading outwardly in a calm orange glow. With that she pushed Spahro's empty threats out of her mind. Miss Llorn can make all the noise she wanted, but Coatleque would not be bullied into compromising her investigations.

 

She stood there a good while longer as she watched the paper turn to a blackened and twisted crumple, and then an unrecognisable grey ash over top the softening glow of the embers. She did not know what time it was when Jameson finally returned. She was only suddenly aware of his presence next to hers.

 

Turning, she embraced him, quietly pressing her head to his chest. Things were now set in motion that could not be stopped. Decisions were made for her, it seemed, whether she would consent or not. She would defend him against Roen's growing madness, yes, but not only because she loved him. It was the lives of those who would be further caught in the wake of Nero's wrath that now weighed heaviest upon her heart.

[Nero]

The confident captain's face was pale. Gone was his smirk, his mirth, his mask of composure.

 

"A...mutiny?" he whispered, more to himself than to the assembled men before him. His back was to the railing behind the helm of the ship, the crew standing in front of the wheel in a neat formation.

 

It was all Nero could do to keep himself from collapsing to his knees. I'm...losing the Forte? He stumbled backwards, his arms clasping the railing, his mind spinning. Even as he struggled to react, a part of his mind was racing. This was Taeros. The Monetarists. They've turned them against me. Garalt...R'tyaka...Baenmann...all of them refused to look at their former captain. R'tyaka's tail was slack, her shoulder slump, her ears drooping beneath the fancifully decorated tricorne she spent so much time working on. Baenmann's broad shoulders were tightened as he clasped his hands together, his sea-green skin pale and his nose piercing silent, even as the tiny bell attached to it waved. Garalt's expression was chiseled from a deep pain and an incredible sorrow, but so too was it built from stony resolve. The shirtless Highlander's arms were crossed, and the rest of the men kept their heads bowed down in equal amounts of shame and solid, forlorn determination. The men were solemn, even as the gulls called to one another and the evening sun turned the horizon into a brilliant orange hue, providing a sharp and jarring backdrop to the scene taking place on the deck of the Second Forte. 

 

A thousand possibilities spun. How did they reach him? His crew? How did the Monetarists find his ship, and manage to turn his entire crew against him? It was impossible. Utterly impossible. There was just no way that they could have managed this. Not at all. Nero had been perfectly discrete. He'd kept all of his assets hidden, his trail dusted. No paper could be linked to him. No crime could be properly linked to him. There was...just...no way this could..

 

"W...why? How did they do it?" Nero asked, dazed from the revelation. His crew. His family. They wouldn't turn against him. Not like this. "What did they say? They were lying. They're not..paying..you?" His questions were less of questions and more of near-gibbering fragments. "They lied to you. Whatever they said.."There was no way this could happen. It was impossible. His crew was loyal. Garalt was loyal, his brother, his guardian. He and Daegsatz were equal, the closest thing to a father Nero had when Vail had gone. "I don't know what they did, but they're lying."

 

"Are they lying about this, lad?" Garalt withdrew from behind him an opened letter. Nero froze at the sight of it. Kendrick must have...no, the boy was too weak-willed for that. Someone must have gotten their hands on it, and then exposed it to his crew. "An entire house of people. Men. Women. Children. The extended family. The elders." The Highlander's expression added deep disappointment to his sorrow. "You ordered their deaths. All of their deaths. With a pen, you murdered more people in a day than your father did in two entire decades of piracy with a galleon." How...how did they..but.. No. No, no, this wasn't right. This shouldn't be. It shouldn't matter. The Forte and he were one. They'd done some unsavory things in the past, but this was..

 

"I...that was for..Daegsatz!" Nero choked out. "They killed him. I didn't want them to die, but I--"

 

"Ye always said that in good or evil, a man must be takin' responsibility," Baenmann rumbled quietly. Nero looked at him incredulously. Baenmann was a shy Roegadyn, if ever was one. He kept to himself, rarely spoke, nearly died daily of anxiety of attacks. "We be seein' now...that yer just a boy." The Sea Wolf sniffed. "An'....no longer fit...ta cap'n this vessel."

 

"But that doesn't mean--" This shouldn't be happening. He'd lost control, of himself and his crew. Where was his composure? His smirk? His confidence? It was melting away under the withering gaze of pity emitted by his crew, his friends. This shouldn't be happening so easily. Not like this. Not like this. He'd talked his way out of everything before. Everything. When someone was trying to murder him, when someone was stealing from him, when he was stealing from someone.

 

"There always bein' a line no man be crossin'," R'tyaka said, tugging on the corner of her elaborate tricorne hat, her gaze focused squarely on the plank to the right of her foot. "We may be pirates, an' scoundr'ls, an' thieves an' beggars, and aye, som' o' us bein' bloody murderers s'well...but that don't mean we be lackin' lines we refuse ta cross. Ye be killin' women and children, cap--mate. We ain't bein' part o' that."

 

"And this is one line we cannot cross with you...Nero," Garalt said quietly. "This is something that we cannot, in good conscience, be complicit in."

 

Even as he reeled, a tiny voice of clarity spoke in the smuggler's mind. All I've done, all I have ever done is try to save people from their despair. Their poverty. And this.. No. No. He would not stoop that low. He would not blame his crew. Nero knew, the instant he began attacking Ul'dahn ships, the instant he sold the guns, the instant he offered his knife for Roen to kill him, he knew. This was one story that would have no happy ending.

 

Garalt seemed to notice his reaction, and he let out a deep, pained sigh. "Lad, there is no difference between an evil man, and a good man who stands by and lets evil deeds happen. All of us here..." he briefly unfolded an arm to gesture at the assembled crew. "We refuse to be that evil man. We kill...but not innocent women, and not innocent children."

 

The Hyur blearily gazed at the crew, aware that some manner of liquid had begun to slightly blur his vision. "But...where's Luther? And Norman? Lohtta?" They were pirates.

 

"They couldn't care less about your deeds...but with the rest of us refusing to serve, they went to seek greener pastures."

 

Garalt's words didn't even reach Nero. The Hyur had sunk beneath memories, his own voice and the past voices of others rising to the surface.

 

"Of course, this isn't just any other pirate ship. More like a party ship, really. With occasional loot and plundering." He leaned back behind the desk, boots propped on the surface. "I'm not convinced you'd be a good fit for our crew."

 

"Ye diggin' at me height, laddie?" The Lalafell violently swung a hand axe onto the desk. Nero quickly moved his feet from being sliced.

 

"No, no...but you better have some decent moral character, is all I'm saying." The pirate captain smirked.

 

"Since when'n pirates be needin' that mural whatsit?" The Lalafell bellowed, waving the hand axe again. The Hyur behind the desk stood up and leaned forward, staring the would-be pirate straight in the eye, his expression one of absolute smugness...and more than a little bit of arrogance.

 

"Since they started wanting to join my crew."

 

Several similar scenes arrived, flashing themselves in instants in his mind's eye. He slumped down, no longer holding in to the railing. The sorrow that filled Garalt's expression could only be described as infallible. The Highlander stepped forward and leaned down in a half-embrace of his former captain. The Midlander was near catatonic, unable to react. The women and children. I killed women and children. I killed Liam. And Martin. Daegsatz. I killed..

 

Why didn't they just understand? Everything he was doing he was trying to do for Ul'dah. Rebuild the system. A new future. A better tomorrow. No more pain, no more poverty, no more hunger, no more beatings. A better place. 

 

Another side of him was laughing maniacally, incredulously. Since when did pirates ever balk at murder? They've murdered hundreds of people and sent them right down to Llymlaen's embrace. What made the Yoyorano houses so special? The crew of the Forte didn't just murder, but they stole, too. All of those raids, those screams as the ship broke apart from the cannons and the fire, the crew taking up swords only to be killed by the boarding party. Pirates objecting to this? Pirates? Since when? What kind of pirates didn't revel in that? The raids, the bloodshed. Women and children? How many women and children were on those ships? 

 

Why did Vail take him in? What reason did that raider have? A shivering, skinny child who had pickpocketed his way out of starvation in Limsa Lominsa. He had nothing of value. Nothing to contribute. Why had he learned thaumaturgy? Why was he with Roen?

 

Where did I err?, he asked himself, bringing his gaze skyward, his eyes dull and glazed over.

 

His inner voice did not respond, but the answer he saw was his own face, sunken just beneath the surface of a roiling sea of regret.

[Nero]

((A brief note: because the narrative and internal monologues in the below post tend to get rambly and just a tad insane, be aware that an omniscient narrator only exists in very few, select passages. 

 

Otherwise, unless explicitly stated, all events and internal thoughts are seen and described from a single character's perspective and decidedly unstable state of mind.

 

No, I don't know why I feel that that'd be an issue, but you're weird, RPC, so it's safer for me to clarify this now, lest I be OOCly accused of grossly misinterpreting people's characters.

 

Don't ask. It's happened before.

 

Also, this is a monster of a post. If you're planning on reading through the whole thing in one sitting, bring a sandwich or something.))

 

---

 

A week had passed since then, and the now-former pirate had nothing to respond with but to throw himself into his work. He had stumbled off of the Second Forte in a daze, having somehow made it back to his estate intact. Upon closing the doors, they had promptly been locked. Even as he regained control of his senses, he lost his sense of time, and focused only on writing page after page. His thoughts were naught but a murky swirl of conflict and doubt, his hand mechanically piloting the quill across page after page, barely registering what he was writing.

 

The corners of his mind knew that what he was devising now was nothing more than a pipe dream. A hypothetical exercise. It had no possible chance of coming true, now more than ever, and yet he devoted himself fully to its conception out of subconscious desperation. 

 

There is no difference between an evil man, and a good man who allows evil to happen.

 

That couldn't possibly be true. There was such thing as goodness, compassion, mercy. That was why Roen objected to his killing innocents. She so steadfastly believed in such a thing. Something like that could not have any veracity whatsoever, because if it did, if it held the slightest bit of water, then it would mean that that city was utterly irredeemable. And Nero did not want to believe that. It was why he had fought and bled, sacrificed and forfeited, murdered and stole.

 

Surely there were others. Others who saw what he saw. And if they saw what he saw, and if they too were good people, then they would not simply stand by and allow it to happen. They would try to change it, like he and Roen. Beneath the veneer of prosperity and wealth was a festering cesspit of deception, corruption, violence, and despair. He was not so egotistical as to think that he was the only one who saw it.

 

Bribes, lies, assassination, extortion, blackmail. Nothing was beneath him. Deposing the Monetarists from power required the support of the people, but he had quickly learned that any "legal" attempt at doing so was swiftly stifled. People are unwilling to act, so long as their daily lives are unaffected. And so, he put his plan into motion. A long, extended plan. Affect their daily lives by cutting off their supplies. Affect their daily lives by having the bandits inside the walls grow more violent, more greedy. Affect their daily lives by having the poor, the scorned, the destitute strike back. Show them that apathy was a choice, and that it was the wrong one. 

 

There is no such thing as innocence, only varying degrees of guilt.

 

It was this veritable conflagration of jumbled, confusing thoughts that burned in Nero's psyche. Constantly did those contradict one another, his mind raising new ideas in the blink of an eye and tearing them down just as quickly. It was as if someone had written down every thought he'd ever on a sheet of paper before tearing it apart and picking at the bits at random. Gone was the decisive thought, the cohesive plan. Even as his turmoil threatened to rip his sanity apart, however, the Hyur found that he'd regained some composure over the past seven suns. It became much easier to slip into his usual mask, to pretend like nothing had happened.

 

By the time Roen had arrived at his estate, his mind had not settled much, but that mask had remained intact, and if nothing else was stronger than before, even as internally he ridiculed himself as he read through the sheaf of papers before him. Nero was seated in his study, a small crackling fireplace presenting itself as he continually flipped through the packet searching for typos and other minor technical errors. Something like this was impossible. It was not even worth attempting. He'd composed it purely as an intellectual exercise.

 

Still, being the kind of blind and exasperating woman she was, Roen would likely find it intriguing.

 

Nero put aside the sheaf as she stepped into his study, a neutral and relaxed expression on his face. "Glad you could make it." The paladin came to stand by next to a nearby chair, leaning against it with the crook of her arm. "It is rare to see you have some time to spare," Roen noted casually. 

 

The smuggler smirked lightly. "Trust me, it only looks like I'm not working. There's no rest for the wicked, after all." It was so easy, to lie, to appear composed, to seem normal. It was almost disconcerting how easy it was. "In any case, I did call you here for a reasosn. I wanted your opinion on this." He tapped the sheaf of papers with his index finger. "I understand you may feel unqualified--and I don't mean to be condescending, mind--but it was important to me to have your thoughts on it anyway."

 

Nero had called Roen here for many more reasons other than that banal statement. Her presence calmed him somewhat--arrogant in her self-righteousness as she was, she held a certain measure of decisiveness at times that he lacked. Though he would never consciously admit it, knowing that the paladin was backing him was his only stabilising element of recent times.

 

He pulled several pages from the back of the packet and put them together to form another sheaf of papers that was considerably thinner than the one that lay next to him, and passed it to her. A small sigh, Roen's voice softened. "Well, still. You seem a little more relaxed than usual." She arched a brow at the papers and settled to a seat next to him. "What is this?"

 

Nero made a sweeping gesture towards the fireplace. "The plan outline for the reconstruction of Ul'dah."

 

At that, she arched both brows. "Reconstruction?"

 

His smirk returned. "Well, go ahead and read it." Roen nodded slowly and picked up the packet to read over the documents.

 

The plan itself was detailed in several short, succinct bullet points accompanying a rough timeline of events. It was a to-the-point, but still extensive summary of what would happen to Ul'dah after the Monetarist power base had collapsed. Though he'd composed it as little more than a distraction, Nero still felt some small measure of pride in its thoroughness. It detailed how to integrate the poor and destitute into society with a livable wage, how to handle the aristocracy, how to reorganise the Brass Blades and the Sultansworn, and a veritable litany of legislative suggestions ranging from new government bureaus to financial regulatory laws. Also mentioned was the participation of various Limsa Lominsan companies in the reconstruction and on the last page was a theoretical bill of citizenship rights.

 

Roen set the sheaf of papers back upon her lap, a considerably softer and more relaxed expression on her face. "You drafted...all of this?" she asked with a mild hint of incredulity.

 

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not really trying to destroy Ul'dah," Nero responded with a wry smile as he gestured for her to continue reading. The smile the paladin gave him was a small but genuine one. "Aye. Contrary to popular belief," she echoed. Her voice dipped at the end.

 

Upon completing her inspection of the last sheet, she lifted it closer to her eyes, staring at the words before letting out a long exhale.

 

Nero patted the much thicker stack of papers next to him as he noticed her eyes reach the bottom of the page. "You're reading the short version of this."

 

"That is....quite the plan," Roen finally said after a long pause. She was trying to take it all in, passing a glance between the taller stack next to him and the man himself.

 

The smuggler flashed a confident, crooked grin. "Why not give me a quick test, then? Try to think of one thing I haven't thought of in this plan." Not that there was any point. An intellectual exercise, he continually reminded himself. Still, this diversion was proving effective from distracting him from everything else that had happened.

 

Roen shook her head slightly although her expression was brighter than it had been when she had first sat down. "The logistics of it all...I am still trying to believe that it canwork, but the ideas here..." she tapped the sheaf of papers as she laid it back down upon her life.

 

"Well," the paladin canted her head in thought. "You are allocating the poor to the repair and reconstruction efforts. What of those whose homes and businesses are affected by the shift in power? Can they take part? They too will be left without a home, or a source of income."

 

Nero frowned. "Ah. I know what you mean, but the proposed employment is not exclusive to the poor or the refugees. Of course, the government should properly compensate those negatively affected and be permitted to participate should they choose." He sighed, rubbing his head in contemplation. "I realise that for some, the collateral damage will be irreparable, whether it be buildings, goods, or people. Still, this is the decision that will benefit Ul'dah as a whole and secure her future."

 

Did he really believe that any more? "You ordered their deaths. All of their deaths. With a pen, you murdered more people in a day than your father did in two entire decades of piracy with a galleon." All of that...was for the greater result in the end, that would benefit the most people. But did he believe that?

 

"Those who had nothing, given a chance at comfort and security, they will take it up gladly. Those who had homes and businesses will want recompense." Roen exhaled, a small crease to her brows. "And aye, some losses cannot be replaced." She glanced back down at the papers again. "I fear there may not be enough wealth to make all of this possible." She paused as she glanced back at Nero. "Do you think there will be enough? Not just to repair, but build, employ, pay. You are also offering to give new entrepreneurs supplies to sell at a discounted rate."

 

"True," the smuggler said sighing again. "It'll be problematic for us if the Monetarists end up being much less affluent than I had initially projected. In that case, it would likely require selling assets such as mineral rights or trade routes, since the wealth of the Syndicate is in goods as well as coin. But even so," he leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Can you honestly look at all of those nobles and think that there's not enough money in the city?"

 

Roen glanced at the papers on her lap again. "People of Ul'dah will have to accept this new regime. After the Syndicate falls, they will have to find faith in the new government." She paused in thought for a moment. "We are making Ul'dah very vulnerable. As all things are when it is made to change. We need to see that the new influence that is allowed is still somewhat controlled. I would not replace Monetarists with Limsan nobles."

 

Nero snorted. "Limsan nobles? Have you been to Limsa Lominsa? That is not exactly the kind of environment that lends itself well to people like Taeros, you know."

 

"Just so, you are also putting a lot of faith in the Sultana to accept this plan."

 

The smuggler leaned his head against his fist. "It is rare of you to be more cynical than I am". And rather refreshing. "Though, I will not discount your point. The Sultana may very well be completely and utterly incompetent as a leader. In any case, Roen, bear in mind that this plan has never been about politics. I know it seems that way--considering a central element consists of deposing the current government for a new one--but that is only because removing the current government from power is the only way to ensure the birth of a new system that will provide for all of its people."

 

Roen nodded, her expression softening again. "Aye. But for this plan to work, we must have some ideas about the rulership that will be left in place. It is they who will maintain that new system. I do think that the Sultana and Raubahn are capable leaders, but they must accept this plan first." She exhaled and gave a small frown. "Do you blame me for being hesitant about allowing Limsan influence to leak into Ul'dah?"

 

"Limsa Lominsa may be full of rogues and scoundrels, and yes, Merlwyb is an iron-fisted tyrant, but they are not the wolves you think they are," Nero said confidently. "Limsa Lominsa will not threaten Ul'dah's sovereignty, so long as that sovereignty--or the lack thereof--doesn't threaten Limsa's own."

 

"I believe Ul'dah will be too busy licking its own wounds."

 

"Which is exactly why Limsa won't be a threat."

 

The frown evaporated from the paladin's face. "As you say. I will leave the details of the Limsan merchants in your hands."

 

Nero sighed again. "In any case, there is not much point to counting the chickens before they hatch. Before we can even seriously consider this, we need to change the power structure."

 

Roen nodded as she absentmindedly flipped through the pages. "About that. I suspect their hunt for you will intensify soon."

 

Nero sighed, standing up to stare at the fire as he scratched the back of his neck. "Yoyorano, is it? I heard that word of what happened at their estate leaked its way to the nobility. Of ocurse, very few know why they died, but a few more know only that they did."

 

Roen's tone lowered as her mood did, her thoughts returning to the conversation with Coatleque, and she nodded again. "Aye."

 

The smuggler remained silent for a very long time, what felt like hours, his mind gaining a sudden and inexplicable measure of clarity. He exhaled slowly, his arms folded and his gaze fixed solely on the fireplace.

 

"I have a question for you, Roen," he spoke suddenly. Without waiting for a response, he continued. "What is the worth of a life? Can one life be worth more than another?"

 

The paladin looked to the fire that crackled in front of them. She had no immediate answer.

 

"There is a reason I ask. Would you like to know it?"

 

"Aye."

 

Nero exhaled. "Ever since the nobility heard about it, I've only heard one phrase. 'Why the women and children?' That is all I have ever heard." He shifted from one leg to the other, noting the tiniest of sparks that would flicker as the embers danced on the firewood. "'Who would kill the women and children?' 'What monster does not spare the women and children?' The women and children, the women and children..."

 

Memories flashed to the forefront of his mind. Incoherent fragments, like sparks leaping from an open flame before vanishing beneath the invisible pressure of air. Like a firework, a brief second of colour and light was all that was needed to have an effect.

 

Roen gave him a strange look as he grew silent. He sat back down on the chair, leaning forward, his hands clasped together, the knuckles growing a pallid white as he grip intensified, his fingers straining against one another.

 

There is no difference between an evil man and a good man who allows evil to happen.

 

A cloud of emotions darkened the expression on his face as he spoke. "I never knew my mother." Roen blinked. "I never knew who gave birth to me. I never knew, and will never know what named she had intended to grant me." Nero inhaled and exhaled softly, in a controlled manner. "But even as a child, I did have...a sort of mother-figure. The men called her Ember, and she'd been reduced to prostituting herself to survive, but her real name was Fiora. She was from Ala Mhigo."

 

He inhaled and exhaled again, almost mechanically so. "I must have been...maybe eight years old." Nero's voice wavered. "And even though she made no money, though most of her day was spent bedding men who had coin, she still managed to show me some kindness, some affection, a hint of what I may have missed from not knowing my real mother."

 

"This is one line we cannot cross with you, Nero."

 

"And that city...repaid her by having some bandit try to drag her into an alley, and her neck being broken against a wall."

 

"We kill...but not innocent women, and not innocent children."

 

His chest was trembling, trying to keep his breathing controlled, the memory of the incident bringing forth something furious, something that seethed and boiled. The blood had drained from his hands, and his wrists were trembling as they sought to contain one another.

 

"Ye be killin' women and children. We ain't bein' part o' that."

 

"What..." he inhaled and exhaled again. "What right to they have..to judge me?"

 

"To kill families? Children? Simply because they share a bloodline to one noble? That was your plan?"

 

"What right do they have to judge me, when their precious women and children starve at their doorstep?" His fingernails dug into his hands, not enough to draw blood, but leaving visible, red indents.

 

"'The women and children'. 'Whoever did it killed women and children.'" His hands writhed in each other's grip, as if trying to prevent each other from tearing the other one straight off of his wrist. "Is it because they had money? Is that it? Is that why they're worth lamenting? Because they had status? What separates them from us? What makes some pampered brat dying in his estate worth more than the packs of urchins being ignored as they're left to rot?"

 

Roen was silent, her voice just above a whisper. "I cannot imagine the anger that must have burned in your heart."

 

Nero either didn't hear her or didn't acknowledge her statement. "Women and children, women and children..." He was repeating the phrase now like a mantra that would preserve his sanity. "Why won't anyone think of the women and children..."

 

There is no difference between an evil man and a good man who allows evil to happen.

 

"It is not that they hold the women and children of Yoyorano with any more import," Roen began quietly, carefully. "Harm coming to such innocents and often weak, it stirs rage. It screams of injustice. The same rage you felt against the man who killed Fiora. They...did not want to see you in the same light." A pause. "I...do not want to see you in the same light."

 

"Injustice...they fight against injustice, then..?" His tone was flat, neutral, questioning without being condescending.

 

"My brother. My friends. They cannot abide by the thought that you would prey upon the weak. The innocent." A pause fell between them as Roen looked at him questioningly. "You do feel remose? For those lives that you have taken?"

 

"Remorse..." Nero repeated.

 

His mind was a chamber of echoes, filled with hateful shouts and quiet whispers both. No such thing as innocence. No difference. Good man who allows evil to happen. Injustice. Remorse. Women. Children.

 

"What shall you do when faced with an evil you cannot defeat through just means? Will you commit an injustice to correct one? Or will you remain steadfast and righteous, even if that means surrendering to injustice?"

 

Daegsatz died alone, in a gaol. His crew abandoned him, abhorring the thought of the harm that had fallen on women and children. There were no allies. None who saw. None who tried.

 

"The lives I have taken..." Nero said slowly, his thoughts ceasing to become comprehensible even to himself. "I mourn them. I shed tears for them. But I do not regret taking them. I wish that I did not have to kill. I am stifled by the grief that is felt for them." His hands tightened again.

 

"But no, I do not regret taking them. Because this is a war, and war is cruelty. And the crueler a war is, the sooner it's over." Those were Vail's words, words of a veteran of Garlemald's first invasion of Eorzea. 

 

Roen turned her gaze away from him, forcing her gaze back into the fire as she was trying to hide a frown. "They fear you would do it again. Kill more children. And women. The helpless. The weak. The innocents. Would you?"

 

Inhale. Exhale. Controlling one's breathing was essential to controlling one's emotions. The more rapidly one took in breath, the more heated and emotional one would be. Instead of focusing on feelings, one should focus precisely on controlling their lungs. "For every child I kill, there are fifty souls buried in the depths of Ul'dah, unable to comprehend why they cannot obtain food." Inhale. Exhale. "For every woman I killed, there are a hundred forced into whoring themselves to survive. Forced to become playthings for men who are richer, men who are more important, but not men who are better." Inhale. Exhale. "For every helpless man I killed, there are five hundred with no option but to go into banditry and murder, driven by absolute poverty and destitution to preserve themselves." Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

 

"And for all of those souls suffering within it, the city does nothing....but watch."

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

"There is no such thing as innocence. Not there. Not in Ul'dah." 

 

inhale

 

exhale

 

no difference 

 

Inhale. 

 

between an evil man 

 

Exhale.

 

and a good man

 

inhale

 

who allows 

 

exhale

 

evil to happen

 

"There is no difference between those who are evil, and those who are good but do nothing."

 

He turned his head, practically able to hear the creaking of gears as he did so, forcing his steely gaze to bore into her face. "So yes. If it means ending the suffering of the many, I will kill the few. If it means preserving the hopes of those who are ignored, I will destroy the dreams of those who aren't. Kill one to save ten. Ten to save one hundred. One hundred to save one thousand. I believe all lives are equal, and all lives have value. Therefore, for the scorned many, I will kill, even torture, the affluent few. If I have to."

 

Roen's head snapped back at him. "To those that died, they care not whether they were killed by an evil man or a man with good intentions. Only that their lives were ended." She stiffened. "Tell me, Nero. Tell me that there are no more plans to kill innocents."

 

His gaze became a glare, though Nero was visibly attempting to suppress it. His expression was one of frustration as he turned away, staring balefully at the flames that reflected the incoherent inferno swirling beneath his eyes.

 

Roen's own gaze lowered back to the sheaf of papers on her lap, as she carefully set it on the table. "We do this often, do we not?" she said quietly.

 

He said nothing in response for a long time, slumping back on to his seat, his head in his hands. To be born wealthy. That was all he had wanted for a long, long time. It would mean never being hungry, never fearing the chill of night, never wanting. But fate has never been kind to one who has erred so much.

 

"I believe in this dream. And I believe in you. I believe in the hope that I know you still hold deep within."

 

Silence.

 

A thought rang like a bell.

 

No, you do not.

 

And now the woman who claimed to support him was now opposing him at every turn.

 

Was she?

 

Was he?

 

"You are merely using her."

 

Was he?

 

"And I've yet to decide which is more despicable: the idea that you are using her without being aware of it, or the idea that you are fully aware and simply do not want to admit it."

 

Nero leaned his head in his hand, one clasped to the left side of his face. For the first time since Daegsatz, a sliver of a stream escaped from beneath his hand. Was he truly so deplorable? So worth abhorring? All I wanted was for things to be better. But was that not the excuse that every tyrant and despot used? All I wanted was for things to change. What separated a well-intentioned revolution and a vengeful rebellion? All I wanted was for others like me to hope. What purpose was there in climbing to the heights of hope, if it meant naught but tumbling off of the cliffs of despair?

 

"Why don't..." he breathed, his voice wavering, shaking. "Why don't they just drown us as infants? Why give us those illusions of hope if not to torture us?" His chest heaved as again he focused on controlling his breathing, though he was gradually growing aware of that control slipping through his fingers.

 

"If all that matters is the 'how'...then that means I can change nothing? What possible chance could I have had of saving Ul'dah?"

 

"Bright, pure, innocent hope," Roen said softly. "I was told that is what was hidden behind all the rage. The anger." She reached over to brush the moisture from his cheek. "I believe in that hope."

 

The smuggler barked a bitter, scornful laugh, even as he held his head in his hands. "You believe in it. Hah....ahaha...what does that even mean, you believe? You cannot grant that belief to others. You cannot force them to see your delusions. You...you..." 

 

Inhale.

 

Pause.

 

Exhale.

 

Focus on control.

 

Breathing.

 

"Try as you might, there is no peace to be had, no hope to be gained. No answers to these questions." He slowly managed to raise his head from his hands.

 

"If there were answers, none of us would be struggling so much. And we do. Every day."

 

"And that justifies it?" Nero snapped.

 

"I...do not know," the paladin responded quietly, looking back at the flames. "But the 'how' matters just as much as the end. Because I believe that how it is carved determines the shape the end will take. Hope is only an illusion until it is made real. Until then, it is an intangible thing."

 

It was something small, so infinitesimally small that clicked. All of this talk of "hope" and "believing". It pulled a trigger of explosions. In that instant, he wanted to scream at her. You have no idea what you are even saying any more, do you!? Every time she opened her mouth, it was nothing but utter nonsense, metaphysical and meaningless, idealistic garbage. "Believe" in "hope". You're satisfied with that, just believing in it? From the corner of his eye he stared at her face. Always so pure, always so self-righteous, always so arrogant. It made him nauseous....and angry. So, so very angry. 

 

He stood up again, staggering towards the fireplace, holding out one arm to lean against the mantle as he stared directly into the flames licking the last of the firewood. "So...that's it then."

 

The more he thought about it, the more he made sense.

 

Believing in hope. 

 

What a farce.

 

What a worthless idea.

 

"That's it. That is all I need to do."

 

Inhale.

 

"All I need to do...is stare those tormented souls in the eye."

 

Exhale.

 

"And tell them...'your suffering is noble as long as you believe in hope.'"

 

a good man

 

"I will proclaim in all of my righteousness, 'your pain will sustain my ideals if you believe in hope."

 

an evil man

 

"I will look at them and say, 'I know how to save you.'"

 

Kill one to save ten.

 

"And they will reach for me as their savior..."

 

Kill ten to save one hundred.

 

"And I will slap their hands away."

 

is life equal?

 

"I will tell them, 'but saving you like this is not the right way.'"

 

What makes one life worth more than another?

 

"So I will command them. To suffer, and starve, and despair until their graves, for my ideals."

 

Strangely enough, a memory of one of their many, many arguments floated to his mind. It was after their raid on Nanawa Mines.

 

"Why do you fight, Roen? What do you consider worth killing for? At what point will you commit evil to destroy it? Or will you spend your whole life in the twilight, surrendering to injustice after injustice, paralyzed by your ideals and your conscience, despite the power you wield to change things?"

 

That was what he had asked.

 

"I do not believe that. I do not believe I have to compromise justice to fight injustice."

 

That was what she had answered.

 

I see your truth now, Roen Deneith.

 

In that moment, Nero understood. If there was truly no difference between one who was evil, and one who was good but did nothing...then what soul could be more selfish, more wicked than that of the paladin who claimed to support him? He could see it now, what she was trying to say. Allow those souls to suffer for ideals. Ignore their torment, deny them succor, so long as the 'how' was correct. In all of this time, Nero Lazarov was determined to believe that he would never understand such self-righteous people, and they would never understand him, but in that fleeting, brilliant moment...he saw what he could only describe as their truth.

 

What was the difference?

 

Between one who was evil.

 

And one who was good but did nothing.

 

Roen frowned, looking at him again, her expression darkening. "Am I not here? For all that I believe in, for all the people I wish to protect, am I still not here? Do you think I wish the suffering to continue? For people to continue to starve? Waste away?"

 

He remained quiet.

 

I see you now.

 

Nero turned away.

 

"Yes," he affirmed softly. "I do believe that."

 

The paladin's lips twisted downward, her grip on the chair tightening. "You know me not at all then, Nero Lazarov. After everything, after all that I hid from...everyone that trusted me, turning my back on friends and family to protect you, after you have killed women and children." 

 

Women and children.

 

"Ye be killin' women and children."

 

"To kill families? Children?"

 

Why do they not see?

 

Inhale.

 

It is either because they cannot...

 

Exhale.

 

Or they will not.

 

"I do not expect you to understand," Nero cut her off, his voice steely. "Given how self-centered you are."

 

She froze. "Self-centered. Now you are calling me--"

 

I can see your truth. "You are a slave to your ideals. To your conscience." I can understand now. "It doesn't matter how many are dying, or starving, or suffering." Kill one to save ten. "As long as your ideals are pure and your conscience clean..." Kill ten to save one hundred. "...you are perfectly content to allow that pain to continue."  Nero leaned both of his hands against the mantlepiece. Though she couldn't see it, his expression was one of smug depravity.

 

"If I am not wrong, then tell me how your righteousness and your nobility will save Ul'dah." He did not allow her time to object. "You can't, can you? Because doing so would mean breaking your ideals, staining your conscience. And you can't have that. You will leave them alone in their torment and despair, forever, so long as it means your precious ideals are intact." He sneered at the stonework. "You won't even try."

 

Roen buried her face in her hands as if to hide the expression that twisted her expression. She shook her head and she punched her cushion of her seat. "I have asked people, good people, to risk their lives to spy and spread lies, to weaken your enemies. Did you know that Mister North delivered poisoned wine to his friend who worked for a noble that Taeros was targeting? And Taeros ordered him to deliver the poison. He did it, because I asked him to go work for him, so he can start insinuating himself into that society. Why? Because I was trying to destabilize their alliances. For him to spy on a noble that was out for your blood. So he delivered poison, knowing very well that his friend would be made to taste it. Then the noble drank it. They both died."

 

So that's what you've resorted to. Laughable anecdotes to defend your selfishness, because you have no defense. You know I'm right. She was no longer even attempting to argue his point. She herself had never had to break her ideals. Even now, she was having other people break theirs for her sake. And so, like she always did, she would lecture, condemn, damn them, because they--he--was able to do what she could not. He was able to succeed where she could not.

 

That was it. That must have been it. Roen was jealous. She was jealous of his lack of fetters. He was not so devoted to something as hollow and worthless as ideals. He could obtain the results he wanted, and improve the lives of those around him, and she didn't want that. Because that would mean that she was no longer the savior, the people's beloved knight. And she couldn't have that. She wanted his dream to come true, but in her way. That was all that mattered to her. She was using him to get what she wanted without having to get her own hands dirty, her own conscience stained.

 

The only condition for victory is to be able to do what your opponent isn't.

 

"And now? Sergeant Melkire tells me there will be even more Monetarist blood. I told him to trust you. That you had Ul'dah's best interest at heart. The man who swore he would not cut, is sharpening his knife. Why? Because I believed in your dream. Despite my ideals. Despite what is right. Despite the fact that you killed women and children, I came back to you. Do you think my conscience still remains unstained?"

 

"Women and children..." That was always what it came down to. "Women and children, women and children!" Nero was suddenly shouting now. He raised his right fist and brought it smashing down onto the stonework of the mantlepiece, a sickening crack heard as his knuckle split open and rivulets of blood flowed from his hand. He did not even register the pain.

 

"Yes! Women and children!" Roen shouted back, rising herself. "Because even with everything, there is still a line!" Her breaths were coming in short gasps as she glared at him.

 

Nero whipped around. He was so close, so close to wrapping his broken fingers around her neck, so close to crushing that pretty, self-righteous little neck of hers. The smuggler resisted, but only barely.

 

"Don't you dare," he gasped in fury, drawing himself up to his full height, his hands closing into fists even as blood seeped from the hint of exposed knuckle. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare lecture me, you arrogant, ungrateful bitch! You, who've never had to experience that kind of guilt, that kind of hardship! You've never had to sacrifice! You've always had other people, people like me, people like your brother, people like North, who have always shielded you from the truths you refuse to learn! People who have always broken themselves, their ideals, their conscience, for your sake!"

 

He would make her understand. He would make her understand, and if understanding broke her, then so be it.

 

"You, who are content to let hundreds of your precious women and children suffer, just to save your own conscience! Just because...." his breathing grew heavy, his hand numb. "Just because you're afraid. Because you're so afraid of guilt. That's why. You're afraid, so terrified of responsibility! You're unwilling to become the evils that are necessary, even if that means saving them and their future generations! And when push comes to shove, you just sit back and condemn those who are willing to do what is necessary!"

 

"Content!? You think I am...I am not content!" Roen's voice and her emotion were rising to meet his. "I have those nightmares! Of those killed and those still dying!" Her voice broke. "You say my ideals mean more than those lives? If I was saving my own conscience, I would have stayed far away from you. Why...why do think I keep...I keep coming back here? To you? Despite this twisting pain that grows inside? This dread, this pit in my stomach… It is because I want to stop the suffering that I am still here!"

 

The difference between one who was evil, and one who was good and did nothing. There was a difference, and the difference was that the one who was evil never felt the need to lie to himself about what he was doing. He never felt the need to console himself, because time spent wallowing in self-pity was time that could be spent obtaining results.

 

She had ceased listening to him. Of course she did. She wasn't even going to try to argue his point. All she was doing was trying to start some emotional pity party with herself as the center. What an incredible hypocrite. To claim that all she wanted was to stop suffering, while allowing it to continue all the same.

 

"I've considered everything. Tried everything." He staggered back, his voice growing hoarse from shouting. "I don't want to kill! But this is the only way that is left, the only option remaining!" He paused to catch his breath, taking in air in gulps, a sharp contrast to the overly controlled breathing he had exercised before. "I wanted to believe...for so long, I wanted to believe that there was a way to save everyone without killing anyone! But your righteousness cannot save anyone, much less everyone!"

 

“You said that you hoped for so long that there was a way to save everyone. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I still believe it so?! You said you thought of every possibility, you exhausted every option to come to believe that you had to kill. Well I have not come to that! I do not want to believe it! I have only your word that all the options have been considered! That only killing is left! That it is the only way to save them!”

 

"You may not have come to that, but I have!" Nero roared. "I know it is the only way because I have tried everything else, with every onze of my being and every drop of my blood! And because you have never been forced into that corner, never been reduced to that level, you will never understand. You never did! You could never see that some death is necessary. Your precious conscience prevents you from seeing even that! It's not possible to save everyone, Roen, and if we try, then all that will mean is that the ones we could save will continue to be forced to endure that much more hardship!" His fists tightened. "If I can save them from their despair by killing..then I will kill! I'll kill as many as I have to!"

 

"Stop saying that." Roen's determination seemed to waver somewhat before his eyes, even as it rose to match his. "Stop throwing your conscience, your ideals away! Don't you see that the easier that act becomes, the more your dream turns to ash? Do you truly fail to see how much more suffering your bloodshed will create!?"

 

"Then why don't you tell me what to do!? You have always insisted on your own righteousness! How will your exclusive justice save Ul'dah!?"

 

"I cannot tell you because I do not know! If I knew, I would have done it by now! I would have shouted it from the top of my lungs! All I know is, I am trying the best I can to help you without more killings! There has to be a way.”

 

Nero weakened, feeling the pain from his right hand begin to register in his mind. He staggered backwards, leaning heavily against the stonework of the fireplace. "That's what you always say," he muttered, exasperated, exhausted, still a hint of fury in his tired voice. "That's what you always say. That there has to be a way. By who's word does there have to be the perfect way?" He laughed bitterly. "The Twelve's? If they're here, they've abandoned us long ago. Crawling around in that cesspool of a city. Gods and hope were always sold out whenever I went looking. But no, you and your damning, idiotic faith! There has to be a way!" He leaned backwards heavily. "And you, and others like you, you'll scramble around looking for the right way, refusing to see the dirty but surefire option standing before you. You'll leave the problem alone for months, years, decades, all for some hollow notion of there being a right way!"

 

The desperate man raised his pained and bloodied hand, pointing at her. "Have you ever considered that just because you demand that there be a way, doesn't mean there is? This is a cruel world! You know what they call people like you, people always insisting that there has to be a way? Deluded fools! Naive children! Because you refuse to grow up from your image of a perfect world that always works the way you want it to!"

 

He slumped down against the fireplace, clutching his right hand with his left. The paladin only looked at him with her usual infuriating combination of sorrow and pity as she spoke. "I have told your line, that sacrifices must be made to bring about change, believing that those losses would come from those involved in this political war. I have told those lines to many, and they have all looked upon me with horror. Dread. And only few still stand by me, even if in silence protest. The rest, they believe I have discarded my ideals and beliefs. For you."

 

Nero laughed bitterly again, an expression of true, mirthful despair. "And the punchline to that joke is that you haven't. Not by a long shot."

 

A pained expression twisted Roen's face. "To them, I am like you. To you, I am just like them." She shook her head. "I am trying to help you, but trying to find a way to protect those I have sworn to protect."

 

The man only continued laughing. "Must be great, being in their shoes. Walking down a merry street, being able to just...turn a blind eye to everything. Won't you tell me, Roen?" His tone had shifted to one of anger to one of unstable, child-like wonder. "What's the difference between those who are evil, and those who are good and fail to act? They'll continue along, like that damnable knight Coatleque, who exists only for the law. She'd probably kill herself if the law said so, that stupid bint." Nero laughed again. "And that Flame Sergeant, Melkire...'think of the people', that moron would say. 'Don't kill the people, the people, the women and children!' Meanwhile, he gets to live on his life without even a passing godsdamned thought to those people in Pearl Lane."

 

A laugh, and he sunk down, sitting next to the last embers of the fireplace, seated on the bloodstains that the wound on his hand left on the rich carpet beneath him. "I have to be in the wrong, don't I? There's just...no way such fine, upstanding people like them would just ignore all of that, right? They have their own solution, right? One that I haven't seen. They'll fix the system, because they're good people, right?" He laughed again, a wide, cheshire-esque grin on his face.

 

"That has to be it, because if it's not, then really, this is pretty pointless, isn't it? Extreme poverty never really did anything to hurt anyone, after all!"

 

"The point..." Roen lowered herself in front of him, trying to draw out his gaze with her own. "Is that we have both crossed that line already. I have too," she whispered, a look of despair flitting across her face. "I see the suffering that you do. I see their pain. But I see your dreams too. And your hopes." She looked to his bleeding hand. "And now, I see your despair."

 

"Hee..hee hee!" A disturbing, infant-like giggle escaped from his lips, the Hyur's formerly sharp, ice-blue eyes now dull and glazed-over. "I...I had it wrong the whole time! That's why they abandoned me. They were...Garalt was just..waiting for me to come to my senses! But I can tell him that I understand now!"

 

Her eyes narrowed instantly, and she slapped him across the face. "Stop. You think no one understands you therefore you are alone in your anger. No one else sees the suffering. Just you."

 

The slap seemed to reinvigorate some of his senses, even as he nearly collapsed sideways on to the floor, his left hand barely arriving in time to prop his torso up. "If...heh..hee...if I'm not the only one who sees it....then why am I the only one trying to change it?" Still his voice held that dissonantly reverent tone, like a young boy asking why the sky was blue. "If I'm...if I am not the only one trying to change it, then why has nothing changed? Heh...heh...and if nothing has changed...if the efforts of all of those good, honest, law-abiding people adds up to nothing..then really, why bother?"

 

That slap seemed to deflate Roen's own flash of anger and she sat back onto her legs. "Because if no one tries, then truly nothing will ever change."

 

Nero, in his daze, either did not hear her or did not care. "But...oh, I think I get it! I just have to wait, right?"

 

The paladin shook her head. "You have to be strong."

 

"That's...that's the solution," the man continued idly. "If I just wait...then all of the good people will change things the right way. Maybe it'll take a year. Maybe ten! Maybe even a hundred! But sooner or later things will..change for the better!" He shifted so that his body leaned right instead of left. "I can't...take the shortcut. That's the bad way. But because they are good people, they are always trying to change things in the good way!" He let out another pained laugh, propping himself up with his back resting firmly on the stone of the fireplace. The blood on his right hand seemed to clot enough to stem the bleeding, and he did not seem to acknowledge the still-hot air that emerged from the last of the fireplace's embers.

 

Her nostrils flared again as his mocking words returned. She maintained control over her own tone. "You are not all bad. And they are not all right. I am just...desperately...trying to find a middle ground." Her head falls forward, she sounded more weary than ever before.

 

"Why not just...go get your friends back, huh?" Nero asked lazily. "Just go tell them that you've seen the error of my ways. Maybe even get me arrested or something for all of that atonement malarkey you lot are all so fond of."

 

That brought her to glare at him almost immediately. "Stop this. STOP THIS. That you would just assume I could wash my hands of everything now. After all that has happened. After all the--" 

 

"Ooh," his face lit up, cutting her off. "You can just put me on the same cell that Daegsatz was put in, right? Then that obnoxious...what was her...ah, Natalie Mcbeef. She'll come along and do that execution thing. That'd work just dandy for me, actually. Roegadyn have this belief about dying in the same spot as your family members. Or maybe not. I don't know."

 

They weren't statements or sentences any more so much as it was just Nero verbally vomiting whatever came to mind. His thoughts were incomprehensible, even to himself, such that there was no rhyme or reason to his statements. He lacked control over a filter, even his tone. If he was mocking Roen, he did not seem to know it.

 

"Ooooh," the broken man said, imitating a ghost. "Don't touch the innocents, the women and children, the women and children! Oh, unless it's those women and children. You know, poor types that don't matter. Just leave those ones alone. If I'm not the only one who sees the failed system, then why am I the only one trying to change it? If I'm not the only one trying to change it, then why has nothing changed?"

 

Roen could do naught but stare at him, finally some glistening in her eyes. "You do not even see..." she whispered. "You are right," she said, bitterness lacing her words. "You are the only one. You are the only one who sees the suffering. No one else cares. Nothing has changed." She stared at her hands, now laying limp on her lap. "This has all been an enormous exercise in futility."

 

Nero glanced at her with the first hint of clarity he held in the past bell. "Ah, now that's what I wanted to hear."

 

"This is what you wanted to hear. Do you feel better now?!" She spat out those words.

 

"That means it's okay, right? It's...okay for women and children to die, just as long as I don't kill them. I hear starvation's on the menu...heh...get it? Menu...maybe more bandits. Brass Blades?"

 

"Stop. Saying that," she growled through gritted teeth.

 

"I'll...have to give Scythe a call...make sure he doesn't do anything rash...can't have him killing women and children, after all, right..? That Hammerbeaks business was terrible, wasn't it? I mean, he wasted an awful lot of ammunition, and Clauremont got himself killed with that silly bravado." Nero let his arms go slack as he stared intently at the top of his boot. His thoughts were in an indescribable state, like a ball of yarn that had been unraveled and raveled again too many times.

 

"Guns, in the hands of the bandits. In Ul'dah. All to deliver a message. To turn the blame to the Monetarists." Roen glared at him darkly. "It will not just be the blood of bandits and rivals gangs that will be spilled. You said it would be best if the bandits were driven out. Did you even mean that?"

 

"That was the intention, you know?" The man said lazily, still staring at his boot. "Ul'dah has the skilled manpower and the training to drive out all of the bandits within its walls with minimal bloodshed. Could even get some of those adventurers to help out. But they let them stay. Because the Monetarists don't care. They even profit as long as the bandits pay their fees, or they just join the Brass Blades to be cannon fodder for the Amal'jaa. So bandits are fine, the Syndicate says! Prey on many people as you like! As long as you don't ruin the upholstery." He lolled his head to one side. "The problem was never the gangs having guns. It was that gangs were permitted in the first place."

 

"The gangs rise out of poverty! And you just gave them ways to escalate their discontent! Their proclivity to commit violence to get what they want." The paladin sighed and hung her head. "I cannot deny that they are a problem. But to give them deadly weapons..."

 

"Who do you think enforces that poverty?" Nero's voice still held that dreamlike tone but had taken on a familiar sharpness. "Who do you think ensures that the poor never rise above their station? Who do you think forces crime as their only option?"

 

"I know. I know. You speak as if I do not understand this problem!"

 

"Ah, but simply cleaning them out is the wrong way to go about it. Be sure to tell your Sultansworn friends where Scythe is...so they can stop that bloodshed. And then..." He raised a hand and closed it into a fist before spreading it, in a gesture of a puff of smoke vanishing into the sky. "Someone else will come along, someone who really knows how to save that city without spilling the blood of the women and children, the women and children..."

 

"So I am to sit back and watch the blood flow, and keep flowing until Raubahn decides there has been enough bloodshed? And blame the Monetarists?"

 

"No, no, you have it all wroooong," Nero drolled. "You're supposed to stop the bloodshed, then kind of just...sit back and let the city fester in itself. Like what the Sultansworn do now. Hey, I just realised, you never really stopped being a Sultansworn! Heh! Imagine that." He waved the hand to and fro. "I'm sure the Syndicate will be deposed of another way. Maybe Garlemald will come save us all."

 

"Why not simply level Ul'dah to the ground. Build your machine and level it. You eliminate everything that is wrong there. Then everything can be rebuilt." Her voice was tinged with bitterness.

 

"No, no, that won't be necessary. No dreadnought, no burning, no nothing. That would result in innocent people dying, and I really don't want that." Nero's voice relaxed somewhat from the tense, light tone he had been using. "I really, earnestly do not want people to die." 

 

A pause.

 

"You think I'm joking, don't you? I'm serious. I'll tell you how to stop Scythe so he won't kill innocents. I'll tell your friends about what I'm building. Truly, on my word as Vail Lazarov's son, with no sarcasm or mockery, I'll stop."

 

As little as one week ago, he would have thought speaking such words as absolute insanity.

 

Roen stared at him for a long time. "Why are you saying this?"

 

He exhaled, looking down at his bloodied, broken hand. "Because I think I give up," he exhaled. "Surrender. Forfeit. Let all my chocobos loose. Cash in my earnings. Cut my losses. Can't touch the women and children, the women and children..." He rubbed his head with his good hand. "I really did try. Thought about it. Consulted with a lot of very serious people with very serious jobs. And every route led me to the same conclusion: a few people dying so that the majority could live a better life. But every single person who could possibly care about Ul'dah..." another glance down to his hand. "Disagrees. So, I must be in the wrong." He chuckled helplessly. "All of this time...everything...all for naught. Still, someone will find a way to save Ul'dah. Find that precious middle ground. Maybe that someone will be you! And no, I'm not mocking you."

 

"Is that it? Because the rest have judged your actions to be wrong, you are now just...going to give up."

 

"The rest?" Nero cocked an eyebrow at the paladin. "You're part of that group, you know. Not that I blame you."

 

"I am the only one here who--"

 

"Believes in my dream? Pfffft." Nero dragged himself over to a vertical locker that stood to the right of the fireplace. With his good hand, even in his dazed state, he managed to spin the dial until a loud click was heard and the locker swung open. He dug around and pulled out the first bottle he could find, pulling out the cork with his teeth. "No you don't. Not my stupid dream. You believed in your dream, certainly. There has to be a way. But no, what you dreamed and what I dreamed were completely different. Yours is a fantasy world, see. A perfect paradise where everyone understands each other. Mine is a little bit more realistic." He spat the cork off to the side and took a long pull of the liquor, ignoring the incredible burning sensation as the liquid traveled down his throat.

 

Nero exhaled as he pulled the bottle away from his lips. "So which is it, Roen? Kill a few innocents to save Ul'dah, or give up and let Ul'dah save itself? Ah, don't bother answering, I know what you'll say. Results gained by contemptible means are worthless, after all, hah...hahah."

 

"Why is it always one or the other with you?"

 

The man took another short gulp from the bottle before glancing at her. "You know, you never did answer my question." A pause. "Is one life worth more than another?"

 

A long silence fell around them. "I swore to protect the lives of the innocent. The helpless," was the paladin's answer, it sounded recited. Roen exhaled. "But... all life is precious."

 

"So, no. A life is not worth more than another. All lives are equal. Good. I'm glad. I agree. But that's also bad. What a terrible dilemma we've fallen into..."

 

"So that is it?" Roen gestured to the pile of papers on the table. "What of that? What could be? Are you just giving up on hope?"

 

"Hah!" Nero scoffed, waving nonchalantly at the papers as if shooing away an annoying bird. "That was nothing. Just an exercise. The minute I put pen to paper to compose that farce of a pipe dream is the minute I surrendered. So yes, more or less, I'm giving up. Really, it makes my life much, much easier. Well, what little of it remains." He spun the bottle around in his hands. "I'm sure someone or other is coming along to collect my head. Good on them. Hope they spend that bounty well. Am I worth a lot in Ul'dah? I hope so. It'd be a little insulting if I weren't by now. After all," another pull from the bottle. "If I try to change Ul'dah, I lose. If I don't, I lose. It's a strange game. The only winning move is not to play. Oh, won't someone thinking of the women and children, the women and children..."

 

"You care about them too," she shot back.

 

"You're right. But all life is equal, so I also care about the women and children, the women and children...those who are out on the streets, you know? I can end the suffering of the women and children, the women and children, by killing a few of the other women and children, the women and children....really is a dilemma."

 

Roen eyed him oddly now. "You are a smart man. You can find a way without killing women and children."

 

"Hah!" Nero let out a baleful bark of a laugh. "I used to think that too. Spent nine years on those plans. Thinking. Testing. More than that, actually. Since I left Ul'dah. Ooh, must have been...maybe sixteen years now. Guess I'm not as smart as you think I am. You know, Vail once said that bullets and swords change governments more surely than words ever did. Guess the old fart was wrong. He clearly wasn't thinking of the women and children, the women and children..."

 

"Then tell me. Tell me why you need to, and maybe we can find a way around it. Maybe we could have find a way for you to get--" Roen paused again, her jaw set. "You keep saying that."

 

"Being a politician means getting assassinated." he continued idly. "Organising a protest means getting put down, or worse, the protesters stop being interested. Every single revolution has a giant, fatal flaw, a flaw that's one word long. And that flaw is people."

 

Another gulp from the bottle. "All it takes..to win a victory, is to be willing to do what your opponent won't. But we won't stoop to their level. So does that mean we lose? Probably. Maybe? No. Yes? Nah. Or not." He grinned easily, one of genuine, if mentally unstable, relaxation.

 

Roen stared at that grin. "I have no answers for you, Nero." Her shoulder sagged. "But to give up on this, after all that has happened..." She shook her head. "I cannot accept that either."

 

"Always the middle ground with you, eh? You'll get run down by a wagon, walking down the street like that. Must be awful crowded up on that fence you keep sitting on...." 

 

"And it is always extremes with you."

 

The smuggler offered the bottle towards her. "What a pair, eh? Sword and shield. I think I said that once."

 

The look the paladin gave him was full of sadness. Even though he was telling her he would kill no more. The only thing she felt was emptiness when she should have felt some measure of joy. "A pair of fools."

 

"To us!" Nero proclaimed loudly before bringing the bottle to his lips.

 

She watched him awhile longer, her jaw set. There was a steely edge when she spoke again. "Tell me where to find Scythe."

 

"What're you gonna do when you find him?" Nero asked lazily, slowly spinning the bottle in his hands.

 

"Whether you give up or not, there are still bandits with guns in Ul'dah."

 

"Pfffft. Let the Sworns take care of it. I'll tell'em later. Besides, Scythe wants you dead. You are directly responsible for killing his lieutenant, you know."

 

Roen let out a sharp exhale. "Is this it then? After everything? You are just...going to give up?"

 

"Have to make sure..." The broken man mumbled to himself, taking another brief drink from the bottle. "The women and children, the women and children..." He closed the locker shut and slumped against it, taking a deep sigh.

 

"Fine." The paladin said as she rose. "I am going to..." She could not continue. What would she do? But this could not be it. "....find a way. Somehow."

 

"Maybe ask that Osric fellow, huh? Good head on his shoulders. He'll know."

 

"I thought...Ul'dah was your one and only love. For you to give up on it so easily..." She shook her head. "I knew you not at all, Nero Lazarov."

 

"Looks like...I didn't know myself at all either. Not at all. Hmph. Guess this is what could be considered a happy ending though, huh? Considering things might have gone the other way."

 

"Happy ending for whom..?"

 

Nero proffered a wide grin. "Why, the women and children, of course, the women and children. I gotta tell you, after everything that had happened, my choices were to give up, or join up with Scythe in some of the killing. Help him with the revolution. Make the people look at the Monetarists like they're supposed to." A short pause, and he snorted. "You're right. I'm nothing but extremes."

 

She tensed where she stood, her hand closing into a fist. "Join him. In the killing," she repeated his words grimly, as if she was trying to confirm what she heard. Roen looked at him again, as if seeing him for the first time.

 

"That was what I was thinking...the people had to see. Most are content with turning and looking away. Most people don't care, as long as it doesn't affect their daily lives. But then, make the problem, the Monetarists, make it affect their daily lives...cripple them with shortages. Attack them with the Monetarist's bandits. Heap more and more pressure, until their anger removes...that which was in power."

 

Roen shook her head. "I have been the fool," she snorted bitterly. "All this time I thought...I thought I was having some effect..." She rubbed her eyes and her deeply creased brows. "And you would kill, women and children," she said those words again, and she was starting to hate the sound of them.

 

"I don't want to..I never wanted to kill..."

 

"But you would."

 

He stared at the bottle in his hands. "If it meant things improving in the long run, for the future...then yes. The people had to be made to see...that the system they lived under would never provide happiness. Never provide choice. Never provide opportunity or fairness or justice or equality. I never intended to join Scythe. Not initially. But then things...changed." The broken man sighed. "As they always do."

 

The paladin hid eyes behind her hand as it lingered there, but her lips were twisted into a pained expression. She turned to face away, and sniffed once. She only turned back when some veil of composure was in place. Her eyes glistened but it had been hastily dried. She nodded with her lips pressed tightly upon each other.

 

"I..I never wanted to kill. I never wanted this. I just..." Nero said weakly.

 

"You are a foolish...desperate man," she rasped.

 

He snorted. "Yeah...yes, I am. I'm...exactly what Ul'dah made me into. Nothing but the sum of my parts. Not that I'm blaming anyone else." 

 

Again Nero brought the bottle to his lips. "Fault's all mine. Thought I could be done what was needed for my goal...suppose I was just too weak for the task. Fed myself one too many lies. Blew away from me." His vision was beginning to darken, his body growing chilled. If this was the cold embrace of death...it wasn't that bad.

 

"Why. Why does that city own you so. That it destroyed your heart, blackened your soul, made you so desperate.”

 

"Oh, Roen. If I told you all of my reasons, you'd end up just like me." Nero wiggled the bottle in her direction. "And I don't want that."

 

She fell to her knees in front of him, her eyes full of sorrow. "I thought I was here to help you share in that. This loneliness. This pain you hide behind. I thought I could take some of that away from you. That I can help you in this." She gestured to the papers on the table. "And help you find your way. But you never let me in."

 

"Always have to be the savior, huh?" Nero snorted derisively even as his eyes blinked unevenly. "You always have to be the good one, the one who redeems the villain. You're...obsessed with it. Your messiah complex." He blinked. "To be honest, I'm not sure I ever knew where the door was in the first place."

 

"And now...is this you finally crippled by your regrets?"

 

"No...no..." he tried to force his trademark smirk to come to the surface. What arrived was an awkward, almost frightening amalgamation of a grin, a frown, and a scowl. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his heart weakening, the beat slowing down. Down, and down, and down.

 

"This is just me...without any masks." he whispered.

 

Roen's eyes flitted between his, as if to search for something. Then it lowered to his bloodied hand, one she took in her own. She grazed it tenderly with her fingers, her head bowed. She seemed to be studying it for a long time, her thumb lightly over the darkened dried blood. She then brought it up closer to her and placed a light kiss upon his wrist. "I am sorry," she whispered.

 

"No, I am," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

 

She shook her head, not looking back up at him. She just whispered against his hand. "For all that I could not do. And for all that you have suffered."

 

He said nothing, blearily bringing the bottle back up to him and tipping it downward, not carrying about the liquid that spilled onto his shirt and chest. His arms grew limp. Nero had never been on the brink of death before. Maybe it was the liquor. It certainly felt strong, too strong to be the kind to be gulping down by the mouthful. His eyelids sunk, the strength swimming away from every part of his body.

 

"Guess I win this bet...Satz.." his lips managed to allow those words to escape.

 

And then there was darkness.