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It's the rain that does it.
Seeping through her clothes, her skin, sinking into her heart and thickening, lathering, waterlogging the wretched thing until it's just as treacherous as the warren of slick streets before her. That's what it feels like, at least, as her breath comes shallowly, eerily slow. As she feels her chest ache with the realization that even someone as terrible as her isn't merciless enough for the Assembly. As she ducks into an alley, underneath the overhang of a dilapidated roof, and stands there, arms crossed, voice stiffly measured as she says, "We can't go back."
Eodwulf's presence is familiar, but has grown less comfortable over the years, like a raven you used to feed that now follows you everywhere. It's not a bad thing, necessarily, and she still… cares for him, but that unshakable trust and loyalty and affection they had when they were younger has crumbled into something less solid. No matter how much she wants to build it back up again.
"You know we can't just leave the—"
"We have to." She leans against the alley wall, squeezing her eyes shut as cold water presses against her back. On some level, it feels nice.
Astrid can tell he's looking at her, even as she stares at the opposite wall. That he's regarding her with concern. Like he does so often now, like he has since she told him that Bren was back, like he's afraid she's going to throw her life's work away because of some sudden delusion of hope.
Like he's afraid she'll become a stranger to him too.
After a few moments, Eodwulf asks softly, "Where is this coming from?"
She smiles bitterly. "You know."
And she knows he's just looking at her, with those dark, gentle eyes, waiting, and she drops her gaze from the wall to the ground. "I thought we…" she sighs. "Do you remember what it was to feel invincible, Wulf? When we were children, playing at righteousness, being so very good for our glorious Empire?"
"Oh, definitely not," he says, laughing sadly. "I mean, the righteous part, absolutely, but the invincibility, not so much." His voice quiets, ever so slightly. "But you were always the strongest among us."
"Yes, but most ruthless is more like it. Maybe the highest pain tolerance."
Eodwulf doesn't disagree, but says, "You don't give yourself nearly enough credit."
She watches a raven land on the roof across from her. "For someone who's going to overthrow Ikithon?"
"For someone."
Astrid hesitates. "I know I'm a strong wizard, okay? I know I could probably beat you in a fight. And I intend to kill our—" she almost smirks, "—lord and savior. I don't need you to pep talk me."
"That's not what I meant and you know it." He pauses, gauging her carefully empty stare. "You're not evil, Astrid."
She makes the mistake of looking at him. But he is nothing, they are both but vengeful ghosts, their one purpose is to protect the innocent, but they were innocent once too and he's so encouraging and he's so kind and all three of them fall in love too easily and he didn't deserve it and why didn't she listen to him and gods her neck is burning and—
"Hey, woah, it's okay," and there's a hand on her shoulder and she jerks away—
And focuses on the cobblestone. She's here. She's here, and she's not anywhere else, and she's here.
She looks at him again, and it's fine. He's exactly as she had expected (maybe she knows him too well) and he is her partner in crime and her closest colleague and not anything else. "Anyway—"
"Astrid, you can't just go blank on me and then act like nothing happened."
Another wave crashes in her drowning heart. "This isn't the time to get sentimental. You know we aren't friends anymore."
And oh, wow, she really should've just kept staring at that wall, because his face just… gods, it's not like she stabbed him. He shouldn't look so hurt, he… they've grown so far apart. They go on all the missions together, sure, but they rarely talk of anything but business, so why is he suddenly trying to make it work? She shows any kind of vulnerability, and he just puts acid on the wound, doesn't he? She doesn't need his help, she doesn't want it, because things will never be like they were and he shouldn't make a mockery of what he used to be, and why does everyone keep trying to get to her? Why do they both try to get her to love them again when she won't but she does but she can't? She has to make this place better and she can't fucking do that if she has them trying to redeem her, whether she takes Trent down from the inside or not.
"Don't look at me like that," she says, and it's sharper than she meant, if she cared. And she doesn’t. Forget that crumbling sentiment, forget wanting Bren to come back, forget everything, actually, except the injustice and the anger. If the Assembly is getting ripped out from under her because of him, because she made the mistake of giving him that map, holding that counterspell, because nostalgia, of all things, made her have to run. Because of them.
"I would go anywhere with you," Eodwulf says quietly. "You can think I'm too loyal or too unambitious all you like, but I care about you. I really do. And I'm sorry I can't throw that sentiment away like you can."
"I can't, actually, and that's the gods-damned problem," she replies coldly.
She stops as she looks away. At the entrance of the alley. Where amber street lights outline a tired silhouette and...no. No way. She blinks, and the figure is gone.
“Astrid…”
An empty, polite smile affixes itself to her face, and she almost wishes her default was to yell at him instead. That would certainly be more cathartic. But if her years in the assembly have taught her anything, it’s that the key to survival is being blank. Emotionless. Perfectly calm and calculating. And it’s never been hard for her.
Well.
It’s never been hard for her to pretend.
“You can come with me if you want. I’ll never be able to fend off whomever they send after me alone, after all.”
Eodwulf doesn’t respond for a moment. A slow, gelid breeze floats down the alleyway, coming to languish in a grimy puddle.
“Why do you always do this?”
Her jaw tightens. “We’re done talking about—”
“Listen to me,” he says, taking a step towards her. “I’m not trying to condemn you, I just… I just want to help you.”
Tilting her head up against the wall, she stares at the underside of the rotting mosaic of tiles above her. It’s interesting. It keeps the tears in her eyes. “Wulf, please.”
His posture slackens a bit, but a smoldering shard of disappointment doesn’t disappear from his eyes. “Fine.” And then, softer, again. “Fine.”
She stays for a moment. A mess of something pounds in her chest, of anger and self-loathing and grief and everything striking, so very perfectly convinced that it is under control and not raw in the slightest, and it compels her to abruptly push herself off the shoddy cobblestone wall and leave. Walk away, because he will not, he cannot see her cry. And maybe, just maybe, a stab of worry weaves itself into the chaos. That he won’t come with her, that she’ll be well and truly alone, that she pushed him too far away and she really fucked up this time.
So maybe, when she hears quiet footsteps behind her, a sense of bittersweet relief slows the endless crash of water in her heart.