Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A warm wind from the coast whispered through Lakeland that night like an answered prayer, the exhalation of a tense breath long held. Word had come ahead; under the gentle revelation of starlight, they'd gathered at the bridge, those good folk of the Crystarium, to welcome the weary wanderers home.

At the head of the fellowship was the Warrior of Darkness, but she did not lead the way into the city. Pausing a half-step, she left that honour for the one it belonged to, walking at her side. Beholding him there, some of the folk gasped in disbelief; some wept; some only smiled, hearts full. Though his countenance was unfamiliar, his presence was unmistakable: their Exarch, come home to them. All of them, come home: stumbling, wounded, exhausted beyond measure, but whole. Against all odds, whole. The people of the Crystarium sighed with relief, and folded them carefully into the heart of the city.

Above the crowded plaza, from the balcony of the Mean, the Gatekeep looked down on the scene below with a warm smile. It was a job, not a title, and others beside him discharged the duty - but when anyone mentioned 'the Gatekeep', all knew of whom they spoke. He had left his immutable post to augment the guard keeping watch out by the generators - the Tower mournfully vacant, after all, these last days, and none like to wish to pass - and had been the first to raise the call when the bedraggled group had crested the hill up from the garrison. By rights he should have returned immediately to the outer perimeter to resume his watch, but he lingered, leaning on the railing, looking out at the crowd below. His instincts told him that no harm would come to the Crystarium on this night. The very bones of Norvrandt wouldn't stand for such an offence, he thought with a chuckle; not when the ones who'd brought back the night to her were finally come home, and the city could fair draw breath again.

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and the Gatekeep turned. It was a fellow he recognised, a young guardsman lately returned from rotation out at Ostall, who had been stationed farther round the perimeter. Tail lashing, he fidgeted, uncomfortable at having left his post - but his ears tilted with irresistible curiosity towards the gathering below. With a smile, the Gatekeep inclined his head in invitation. 'Come join me here, lad. It's a sight to warm the heart, it is; each and every one of them returned safe.'

‘Thank you, sir.’ Joining the Gatekeep at the railing, the young guardsman peered out over the plaza. The crowd was beginning to fragment into smaller knots and groups, offering aid or ear to one or other of the adventurers; a low susurrus of murmured comforts warmed the air, punctuated by occasional raucous laughter, the release of relief.

There was the girl Alisaie, who he'd sparred with when she'd first arrived in the city, before his rotation - she'd flattened his whole squad in her fury, before stalking off with an exasperated sigh to find some breakfast. Her brother stood close by her side, wilted at the shoulders some, but gamely relating their tale to the gathered folk of the Mean; he saw Katliss there; the new girl, Thiuna; the amaro tenders come down from the launch. Just beyond them, his ward at his side, was Thancred, wincing on the receiving end of a hefty welcoming clap on the shoulders from the Shai-Tistt, the arms seller. The Stranger, they’d dubbed him once - the guardsman had just reached his thirteenth summer when the first newcomer had arrived in the Crystarium, and the mysterious, rugged figure he cut had made quite the impression on he and his peers. Moren, the Archivist, stood with the elven fellow whose name the guardsman couldn't pronounce, and the other, the sorceress, who he'd heard of only in gossip.

Further in, at the heart of the crowd, was the Warrior of Darkness. He’d never been too sure what to make of her, though she’d spoken to him kindly enough when their paths had crossed. She seemed not to be taking part in the conversation around her, and her stance was familiar to him, one he took himself daily: alert, protective, on guard. And there, before her, in robes bloodied, torn and charred…

The Gatekeep grinned as he caught the younger man's sharp intake of breath, and knew where his gaze had fallen.

'Is - is that -' his voice was hushed, disbelieving.

'Aye, indeed. One of your very own folk, all this time.'

'Oh,' he breathed softly. 'Oh.'

The lad was awestruck, the Gatekeep thought, and it was little surprise. To see that familiar figure - that constant and unchanging presence in all of their lives since the days of their grandfolks - suddenly unglamoured? It was a strange, dizzying thing; momentous, like witnessing your father weeping for the first time and realising him to be fallible, and human as yourself.

For a long moment the younger man only gaped, silent, rearranging his worldview to accommodate this revelation.

'Is...is he all right?' he eventually stammered.

The Gatekeep smiled, sympathetic to the guardsman's struggle. 'Seems like ee's hale enough, Night be praised. And look, the Mistress is on hand there, she'll see him right if aught's amiss.'

'Aye,’ the younger man murmured, nodding; reassured by the Gatekeep’s calm certainty. ‘Aye.'

They lapsed back into silence; returning to their own thoughts, watching the crowd ebb and flow. It was only when the Gatekeep made a soft huffing sound, as one remembering a private joke, or coming to a realisation, that the young guardsman started from his reverie, and turned to look at his companion.

The Gatekeep was older than he appeared; summer-blonde and blue-eyed he might be, but he'd stood his post for twenty-five years now, and was near as much a fixture as the master of the Tower he warded. Known for his unfailingly cheerful demeanour and readiness with a joke as much as his steady hand and dedication, he was well liked, and welcomed at every table in the Wandering Stair.

Yet such hadn’t always been the case. He'd been a sour youth; quick to anger, always scrapping, a troublemaker since the day he’d arrived up the road in a convoy of refugees from yet another ruined settlement in the outer reaches of Lakeland. It was either the Guard or the Gaol for him, so they'd said - but eventually the Captain had taken him on and given him a chance. She had put him where he was least like to cause trouble: full in the centre of the city, with the Tower looming at his back, and the whole Exedra spread out before him.

It was a position of nominal importance, but precious little else. The doors to the Tower were not so heavily trafficked in those days, and he’d chafed as he stood and stood, day after day, wondering viciously if he wouldn't have been better off striking out for Kholusia and the city of gold they'd built there, or turning his coat and taking his chances with the bandit gangs who'd preyed on his village in its final days.

Every morning, without exception, the Tower doors would open with the dull, metallic toll of ages, and from behind him would come a gentle salutation, in a voice sonorous and warm: 'Good morning, my good man. And how does this day find you?'

The Exarch never failed to greet him, to take a moment to exchange a friendly word, no matter how pressing the business of the day on Mean or Market. Over weeks and months, that daily greeting - ever polite, always considerate, but above all, genuine - wrought a change in him. He’d ponder it, as he stood his watch. That a man whose burdens outstripped his own a thousandfold, in ways he could hardly fathom, would take time each day for a mere guard in his employ - an ill-famed one at that - was something entirely outside his experience. He would turn the the idea around and around, seeking the trap, the manipulation, the underlying malice…and finding none. The tidal duress of that small, kind act wore away the rough edges of the boy he was, and the Gatekeep began to emerge.

Those who knew him well joked that all that time spent at the Exarch's side surely meant that their lord's own preternatural youthfulness had begun to rub off on him. He'd laugh, with his usual bluff cheerfulness, and correct them with a kind smile all his own: 'The only thing I've taken from the Exarch is his good example. 'Tis nowt to do with the Tower - 'tis kindness keeps you young!' That example had led him well over the years, and the coarse creature he'd once been would seem an unbelievable fiction to most. Nowadays he could have had his pick of roles in the Guard, the Captain herself had made that much clear - but he'd no sooner move on from his post than leave off breathing.

It had been a sore few days, stood aimlessly in his place at the Tower doors - feet planted in barely perceptible depressions worn in the flagstone - as the accustomed hour had come and gone without that familiar soft hail.

So it had been for everyone, since the Warrior and her companions had left from the Launch, bound for Kholusia and an uncertain fate. But the time for worry had passed, now: they were safely returned, sheltered in the arms of the people. The Gatekeep’s gaze followed one group in particular, as they untangled themselves from the centre of the crowd, and moved towards the Tower stairs with slow care.

'Well now,' he murmured under his breath, a slow smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 'Would ye look at that.'

The young guardsman was about to ask what had caught his attention, when another voice raised in quiet greeting from behind them: 'Well met, my friends.' He turned to hail the newcomer, though the Gatekeep's attention remained unwavering on whatever he'd spied below. The Manager of Suites, proprietor of the Pendants - the guardsman didn’t know his name - joined them at the railing. He was a longtime friend of the Gatekeep, who raised a hand in greeting, but still did not turn.

'Well met, sir,' the young guardsman offered politely. 'You've chosen not to join the crowd?'

'There are plenty hands at work below already; I believed I'd best serve by ensuring any additional needs our returning heroes might have from their accommodations were met, and everything has been duly taken care of. But I had the news of…shall we say…a change in the usual circumstances, and I believed it might be pertinent to come and observe the, ah, new state of things in a discreet manner.’ Folding his arms, he began his own survey. ‘I trust from the ambience that everyone has returned in good health?’

‘As far as we can tell, aye; bit battered and bloodied, but walking wounded all.’ The guardsman turned back to the crowd himself, but kept a sideways eye on the Manager, curious as to his reaction. If he expected an outburst like his own, he was doomed to disappointment. The man was a consummate professional, his stoic expression honed over long years of unflappable customer service; the moment his eyes found their mark was betrayed by only the barest pause, and nod; the faintest ghost of a smile, held firmly in check.

'Aye.' The Gatekeep, still locked in whatever epiphany had taken hold of him, continued musing quietly to himself as he looked down on the scene. 'Aye, it all makes sense now....'

'All right, all right, you’ve clearly something on your mind,’ the young guardsman laughed, emboldened by the air of pensive camaraderie that had sprung up between he and his seniors. ‘Share with the rest of us, then?'

Still leaning on the railing, the Gatekeep shifted an arm to point out the focus of his attention. Near the foot of the Tower stairs, the Warrior of Darkness stood with the Exarch, Guard Captain Lyna, and Mistress Chessamile, along with a handful of junior chirurgeons. The Exarch turned, and stumbled as he did so - the Warrior’s hand was out to steady him quicker than breath. He seemed to laugh at himself a little, and his hand lingered on her arm for a long moment after he had righted himself.

'You were both there that day - you remember up at the amaro launch, just before they set off, how I said I'd been on duty the day the Exarch summoned the Warrior?'

‘You’d hardly have been anywhere else, my friend.’ The Manager observed wryly. The Gatekeep grinned in concession, and went on, the three of them resuming their audience.

'The way he tore out o' the Tower that day, barely bothering to make excuses for behaviour that was very out o' character...even then, I thought so; that wasn't a man merely gettin’ a job done, no matter how long and hard he’d toiled at it. An’ now, as I look here…nay, what I saw of him that day was more like to a…a drownin' man, who'd sighted blessed land at his last breath.’

The Warrior was speaking directly to the Exarch now, though they could only guess at the was being exchanged; he looked fixedly up at her, lips parted, his eyes huge, astonishingly crimson.

‘Friends, look at him.’ The Gatekeep’s faint smile had strengthened into a delighted grin as his hypothesis solidified with every word he spoke. He nodded firmly, and with utter conviction, as he declared: ‘Ee's been in love with her for a hundred years.'

'...You think so?' The flat look with which the young guardsman met this ringing pronunciation had the Manager coughing a laugh into his fist; it was barely a question, so arid with doubt.

His skepticism went utterly unheeded, as the Gatekeep crossed his arms with a confident nod. 'It'll be plain to all within a week, mark my words. I'll wager a round in the Stairs on it.'

The Manager of Suites chuckled despite himself. ‘I never knew you were so astute in matters of the heart, my friend. Very well, o sage - in the interests of competition, I'll take your wager.'

'Aye, and myself too,’ the young guardsman chimed in. ‘I'll look forward to the drinks!'

The Manager arched an eyebrow in the younger man's direction. 'You are wholly unconvinced by our friend's assessment?'

'Well, I say this with all due respect, sirs, but I don't think the Exarch is that kind of person.'

The Gatekeep snorted. 'Everyone's that kind of person, my boy, where the right other person is concerned. And full right it is too.'

They paused in contemplation, considering the players below in this new light. The Exarch, now clearly flagging a little, was being supported up the stairs to the Tower by Captain Lyna and one of the junior Spagyrics folk; the Warrior remained below on the promenade, flinching a little on the receiving end of what they all recognised as signature lecture from Mistress Chessamile. As one, they shuddered in sympathy.

'And anyway, she’s…well, a bit on the tall side for him, isn’t she?' the younger man said thoughtfully.

The Gatekeep chuckled; the idea had taken root. 'Don't think it makes much difference when yer flat on yer back.'

The Manager managed once more to stifle a laugh, but found himself helpless to resist subtly joining in, out of character though it was. 'Indeed, it seems to me our lord Exarch is the perfect height for a, shall we say, pleasant view at least.'

That was a step too far for the young guardsman, who blushed, scandalized. The Gatekeep grinned at him and went on relentlessly: 'Aye, and there's much and more to be said for a partner who can properly wrap you, throw you around a bit if that’s yer wont. Strong thighs save lives and all that…'

Realising then that he was being teased, the guardsman rose to the challenge. 'And where might you find such a one, eh? You’d have to go courting among the bloody wolverines!' All three roared with laughter at that, which earned them some glances from the crowd below, thinning some now as the people began to retire.

'Ahh, my friends,’ the Gatekeep sighed, catching his breath, ‘I mean them no disrespect. And in the event that I'm right - which I am - I wish them joy o’ one another. We've had lifetimes of nowt but fear and affliction, and if we're finally to be afforded a respite, then let's all of us grasp it, and make hay while we may. But there's none among us more deserving of it than 'im.'

The Gatekeep nodded over to where the Exarch stood. He had turned at the top of the stairs, and was looking back at the Warrior as she walked away towards the Pendants. It was obvious to them, even at this distance, that he was trembling a little now; yet for all his exhaustion, his ears were pricked and alert and fairly straining in her direction, his spoken arm raised just a little, as though reaching for her. Just as it seemed certain that he would call out to her, the Captain placed a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him inside. He looked set to protest - but turned, and followed her. The Warrior had seen none of it.

The Manager sighed inwardly. He made a mental note to set side the gil for that round, realising the wager was doomed almost as soon as made.

The Exarch cast a last glance over his shoulder at the city, and for a moment, offered up that old, kind smile to the night sky. He could never have seen, but the three watchers nevertheless inclined their heads to him instinctively, as the Tower doors closed behind him with unusual softness.

'Handsome bugger, ain't he?'

'Wicked white, man, that's the Exarch you're talking about!' the young guardsman man hissed at the Gatekeep, dissolving into a nervous laugh. 'Still…’ he confessed, shaking his head as if to cleanse a blasphemy, ‘he’s not what I'd expected. I don't know as I know what I expected - definitely didn’t take him as a fellow mystel. I was...a bit scared of him when I was a lad, truth be told.'

The Gatekeep scoffed exaggeratedly. 'Scared? Really?'

'Well…you know!’ The guardsman fidgeted, blushing. ‘I remember my grandma - who got to a ripe age for these times - tellin’ me she remembered him teaching them their numbers and letters sometimes when their teacher was ill - it was harder in them days to fit schooling in with a crisis every two minutes, and the Crystarium wasn't as it is now, but she said he saw to it they never missed a lesson so long as it was safe enough to give it.’ He frowned. ‘That wasn't what I took out of the tale, though - I just thought he was unnatural old, a damn sight too mysterious, and he always seemed to turn up silently where you wouldn't expect. Always watching. It were…unnerving.’

Most of the folk had moved off to the Pendants, the Stairs, or back to their own homes, and the observers now looked out over the empty expanse of the Exedra, flagstones shining like fish-scales, pristine and beautiful in the moonlight. If the atmosphere around the plaza had been intoxicating before, awash with relief and the release of tensions days and decades old, now it had settled into something else; the last companionable drink of the evening, when the heady rush had come and gone and left only wistful reflection in its wake.

'Of course that all went away the first time I actually spoke with him, proper like. Must've been ten, or eleven - me and a crowd of mates had gotten into trouble for chasing the amaro colts round the pens, and we'd been put to work mending fences to make up for it. It were a gorgeous day, first time I'd a hammer in my hand, and even though it were punishment, it didn't feel like it - it was good to learn something new and feel a bit useful, restless children that we were.

'And then up comes the Exarch - out of nowhere, as usual - to see how we were getting on. "I hear there was an incident with some of our young amaro," he says, all serious like, and we were ab-so-lutely bricking it…’

His companions chortled, no doubt reminded of their own youthful exploits, as the guardsman went on. ‘But he didn't make us stew for long. He laughed a bit, and just said “Not to worry, young ones, there was no real harm done." And then he said something like: "I expect you and the colts both wish you could roam far from here on some grand adventure" - I might have that a bit wrong, but he definitely said something about adventuring; it always stuck in my mind, ‘cus I remember thinking he sounded sad.

‘An' I don't know what came over me then, but out of nowhere I was saying to him, I said: "No, sir, that is, uhh…no, my Lord" - I was nervous, like, you know - “Of course it would be good if people didn't have to be afraid so much, especially going outside, but this is our home, an' we love it here. We're sorry about the amaro, we know better than to cause trouble when everyone's already working so hard, but we've learned good things today, useful things, so maybe we can keep helping instead of messing things up all the time."

‘And he smiled then, and it made me wonder how I could ever have been wary of him. He said back to me, "Have no fear. As long as you own your mistakes and work to make up for them, the Crystarium will always look out for you, and will always thank you for your efforts. And I promise you that one day you won't be penned in by these walls." He sounded a lot better then, almost like he was proud of us…and I remember thinking he seemed like someone who had chased a few amaros himself in his day, whenever that might have been.’

They were silent, then, caught in their own reflections. Whatever they knew or did not know of the Exarch, the irrefutable truth was that he had given lifetimes to their care, and to the work, unfathomably costly, that had brought them to this moment of peace at last. They would not be here without him, none of them, and not a soul in the Crystarium would fall short in thanks for his sacrifice; full glad they were that they might rest soundly this night, knowing that he was home, and might hear those words from them in the days to come.

'Aye, well.’ The Gatekeep stretched, and turned to face his fellows at last. ‘Mayhaps we'll have those tales from the man 'imself, now, if the need for secrecy has finally passed. Who knows…mayhap we’ll even be able to call 'im by his name.' They each smiled at that - and with the night's tableau ended, turned in accord to retire. ‘Remember, my friends….within a week!’

The Manager of Suites headed off via the Mean stairs, intending to replenish some first aid supplies down at Spagyrics; the young guardsman walked with the Gatekeep as far as his post, where the older man left him to his thoughts with a comradely clap on his shoulder.

The Gatekeep might have gone home, then, and turned in for the night; he’d no assigned duties awaiting him, but he had something else in mind. As he turned to make his way to the lower levels, he caught sight of the Warrior of Darkness. She’d not gone straight to her suite after all, then; she stood on the far side of the balcony level from where they’d held their council, staring across at the Tower gates. Doubtless, he thought with a smile, she had a lot on her mind.

‘Leave it to us,’ she’d said, ‘We’ll see the Exarch home safe and sound.’ And so they had; so she had. Aye, he wished her well. Wished them both very well indeed.

One of the children had approached her, and she knelt to speak to them. They’d remember that always, he thought, a new little hero in the making. Reassured by the sight of the mother not far off, he left them to their exchange.

He took the curved stairs down to the aetheryte plaza, running his hands over the elegant housing of the lamps along the way. Many had been surprised when they powered on flawlessly, that first astonishing night they’d been called into use - but he had always believed. He struck out across the Exedra, as he did every day; he jogged up the stairs leading to the Tower gate, as he did every day. He was tired, but content, as though he’d been at a day-long handfast revel; but he’d see the shift through to the morning, and ensure the gate was kept. As he planted his feet in those faintly worn grooves, and donned his helmet, he murmured to himself:

‘The day finds me well indeed, my Lord. Aye. All’s well.’

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It was dark, blessed dark as the small procession made its way, footsore and weary, across the bridge from the Exarch Gate. Word had come ahead from Kholusia, and the people of the Crystarium had gathered to greet them; the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and the Warrior of Darkness, bringing their beloved leader home to them. They hadn’t reckoned to find him changed. Why would they? They paused as one at the sight: this unfamiliar mystel, wearing their lord’s customary robes. It was Guard Captain Lyna, of course, who first broke ranks, and ran to embrace him; the beloved grandfather whose face she had never seen. As she folded him into her arms, the city itself seemed to relax. It was him, and he was home.

Certainly, as his chirurgeon - or as much of a one as he would permit, at any rate - Chessamile had come closer to him than most. Nevertheless it was startling to see the mysterious and venerable Crystal Exarch, that figure who had been such an unchanging constant in all of their lives - that of their parents, their grandparents - finally unmasked and unglamoured. That he appeared younger than his charted years had ever been obvious, but she was taken aback at how…boyish he looked. Exhausted, of course, and careworn, but not a day over thirty-five at the utmost, and most of that age was in his silvered hair and saddened eyes. At the moment, though, that was not her primary concern.

'My Lord,’ she shouldered in to the knot of people around him abruptly, her business brooking no delay. ‘I know you received some healing when you arrived back in Kholusia, but I'm also given to understand that you've been shot, subjected to torture and almost drowned, among other things. Pray let us attend you.' It was not a request.

Still, as expected, her words were met with resistance. The Exarch turned to her, and she was caught off guard momentarily; his eyes were huge, blood-red, and shone with an intensity hinting at burgeoning fever.

'Mistress Chessamile. I thank you for your concern, but I assure you I will be quite well given some rest - I simply need to return to the Tower.' His voice was as composed as ever, but his ears were sadly wilted. She was already aware as only a physician could be that he was a poor liar, even under circumstances condign to concealment; now, though, the unsteady tilt of those ears and the limp carriage of the tail visible through the torn skirts of his robes gave him away utterly.

Sure enough, no sooner had the reassurance left his lips than he swooned. The Captain cried out in alarm, lunging forward - but before she, Chessamile, or the gathered juniors besides had so much as moved, the Warrior of Darkness was already there, heartbeat swift, catching him up with a steadying hand. The Exarch exhaled raggedly, braced against her; the woman murmured something to him that Chessamile couldn’t quite catch.

‘My thanks, Warrior,’ he responded quietly, looking up at her with gratitude as he regained his footing. Louder, meant for all their ears, he repeated, ‘I am quite all right.’

The healer made to protest. Her entire career she had fought with the man to take better care of himself. Now, having so nearly lost him, she would be damned if she would allow him to handwave this away as readily as he did the pitched headaches that had plagued him as long as she had known him; as he had the violent sickness and nervous exhaustion which had seized him after each summoning. She would seize him herself, and drag him bodily back to Spagyrics if she had to. ‘My Lord, for once, I must insist-’

'You can do both.' Still with a hand on their lord’s arm, the Warrior of Darkness spoke; usually a woman of few words, her voice was quiet, yet unexpectedly commanding. The junior healers looked up at her blankly, uncomprehending. Frowning at their confusion - confounded by it herself - she elaborated, as though to a group of children. 'Get your things, take him to the Tower and tend to him there.'

That was impossible. They weren’t permitted access to the Tower, and certainly not to the chambers beyond the Ocular. It was the one request the Exarch had ever made of them in such matters, the one inviolable rule; it was a kind of blasphemy to consider it, and the juniors were aghast at her suggestion. Chessamile turned to explain as much, but the Warrior had not finished. Now, though, her words were for the Exarch alone.

'There's nothing to hide anymore. No more need for secrets.'

His eyes were full as he looked up at her; the expression of a man only just realising that he was still alive.

'You don't need to be alone.'

To say the Exarch’s personal quarters were sparse was putting it politely. A desk; a low, small bed with a pithy excuse for a blanket; a tumble of books more unshelved than shelved, and nothing more of note. At Chessamile’s request he had led her instead to the washroom, which was in fact a long room with a large mirror running the length of one wall, over a unit of five or six individual sinks. The walls were crystal, uniform but ungilded; the floor was tiled in simple blue, and several shower heads emerged from the wall. Communal. Servant’s quarters, she realised. No doubt there is untold luxury in the spire above us, yet he keeps himself to the servant’s quarters.

Seated on a long, low bench, his robes stripped down to his waist, the Exarch had the faraway, dream-bound look often seen on those recently returned from the field of battle, or snatched, all unlikely, from the jaws of a gruesome fate. Such detachment was a matter of concern, but for the moment she was glad of it; it rendered him amiable and compliant, and he peaceably followed her instructions, and submitted to her examinations without complaint. After a hundred years of withdrawal and concealment from the gaze and the touch of others, Chessamile had expected much more resistance, and it was not a challenge she had relished.

Treating him as she would any alarmed or nervous patient, the chirurgeon kept contact to the minimum necessary, explaining all her actions as she made them. Checking his breathing, she was relieved to note no tell-tale sounds of fluid on his lungs, as his fever-bright eyes had led her to fear. The gunshot wound on his back had pierced crystal, rather than flesh, and that had likely saved his life; there was a hollow there, but no fracturing, and nothing she could recognise as infection, though she was wont to keep a close eye on it.

He had sustained deep cuts, abrasions and bruises aplenty, but nothing warranting more than a thorough clean and a change of dressing, save one particularly vicious slash across his left shoulder blade. It emerged from a plane of crystal, and although she could see the wound had been closed by the healers in Kholusia, it had torn wide again at the seam, and gaped painfully. ‘There is one wound here I would prefer to stitch, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ He shifted slightly on the bench to allow her better access, and the chirurgeon went to work. As she settled to her task, a fleck of dark red on his arm just below the seam of crystal drew her eye. She took it for blood, and moved to dab it clean and examine for further injury - but no, she realised; it was ink. The remnants of a tattoo, obliterated by the Tower’s claim. A faint suggestion of a life before.

‘I assume you were not born thus marked, my Lord?’

It was close to prying, she knew, but she was keen to keep him talking; to hold him present in the moment, and distract him while she worked. And besides, her chirurgeon’s curiosity was afire. The crystal did not cover his skin, as she had once speculated, but rather was the flesh itself, transmuted. Its composition was inconsistent; his claimed arm seemed firm as rock, but the seams and planes elsewhere on his body ran hard, yet malleable, almost like chain mail. She had never conceived the like.

He shook his head in response to her question. ‘An initiation, then? In childhood, or when you took on the Stewardship of the Tower?’

Again, he shook his head. 'My destiny has always been bound to the Tower, 'tis true, but this…' He held up his claimed hand, regarding it thoughtfully. 'This was not something which was inflicted upon me. I chose this. It was necessary…to see the work done.'

Over his shoulder, he gave her a rueful look. 'I'm afraid I must confess I have little understanding of the mechanics of the thing. If I pull too much upon the Tower, it spreads, and it does not recede. It causes some few symptoms, which are minor, and easily managed. I require less food, and less sleep, but can go wholly without neither. I have had no sickness - of the flesh, at least.’ Wincing, perhaps at the tug of her needle, perhaps at his own words, he went on quickly. ‘I stray too far, and I weaken and tire. I return and am restored.’

Crystal or no, she felt the tension spread across his shoulders as the habit of ages reasserted itself, and he recoiled from his own sudden loquaciousness. ‘I need not do anything save rest here awhile…and I shall be quite myself again in no time.' He smiled at her then, that familiar, amiable smile, and for a moment it was almost as if he were hooded again.

That smile stabbed through years and layers of professional detachment, straight to her heart. To have subjected himself to something so clearly invasive, so debilitating, and with such unknowable consequences as a means to an end? To seek no aid nor counsel, though he’d visited the ward near daily all the years since she was a girl - and no doubt long before that - to bring comfort to others sequestered there? It beggared belief.

'It would be greatly beneficial to our work at Spagyrics if you would share some of those symptoms with us.’ Her matter-of-fact tone betrayed nothing as she tied off the last stitch.

He chuckled softly. 'I don't expect you shall ever meet another with my particular affliction.'

'Nay, my Lord, that's as may be,' she replied, faintly exasperated in her healer's way, 'But we would greatly appreciate the opportunity to learn how to better care for you in the future, should you need it.'

'That's very kind of you, but I doubt I shall require such…' He trailed off, that faraway expression hardening into something panicked; something awed.

Again, Chessamile recognised that look. It was the look of a soldier, returned against all reason from a long and doomed campaign. This man had not expected to come home, and had made his peace with the fact. He had let go of his life, and the concept of a future. Now, he grappled with this new reality, where there was hope, and possibility. It must be terrifying, she thought.

'Come now, my Lord,' she snapped, her brisk, impatient tone precisely pitched to call him out of his reverie. 'I'm sure there are plenty among the folk who equate your longevity with invulnerability, but those of us who know how hard you work, how long you've laboured…'

She softened, despite herself, and laid a gentle hand on his spoken wrist. 'We have seen it tell on you, and wished desperately that we could help beyond the meager requests you would make of us.' The last of the exasperation in her tone gave way to heartfelt care, as she declared: 'I can only hope that now, as the Warrior of Darkness said, the need for secrecy and deception is passed, and you will allow us to care for you as you have always deserved. All of us, the Crystarium entire. For we are your people, and we love you dearly.'

The Exarch was staring at her openly, tears welling in his huge, crimson eyes. Realising then quite how far her outburst had taken her, the healer stopped abruptly, re-establishing propriety with a stiff 'My Lord.' He looked away sharply, and she turned and busied herself with her bag, giving him a measure of privacy to collect himself.

'I…I thank you for your candour, Mistress Chessamile,' he said eventually. 'I shall keep your words in mind.'

She smiled at the faint tremor in his voice, glad to have reached him for all her breach of etiquette; it would serve to anchor him in the here and now. ‘It is part of the chirurgeon’s code to maintain veracity towards a patient at all times, whether or not the news is like to be well received.’ She smiled. ‘I hope the revelation of the regard in which the citizenry hold you has not caused you undue distress.'

For both their sakes, Chessamile returned to business. 'The bullet wound seems clean enough, though I will be back to check on you on the morrow, if only for the opportunity to observe how the crystal heals. Your other injuries are no great cause for concern; I've cleaned and dressed those as needed. Do you have clean clothes to hand?'

She cast about for anything resembling a wardrobe, and he gestured to a set of drawers in the corner. Grateful for that professional detachment which protected her, of course, from any embarrassment at the prospect of rifling through the Exarch's things, she failed with the top drawer - towels - but found her mark on the second, recovering a baggy white shirt in a soft material, and matching trousers. Wicked white, she thought, I spent years thinking the Exarch did not sleep at all, and now I find he owns…pyjamas.

Veracity, indeed. It was its own kind of difficult truth to realise: that this man had lived a life here within this Tower; solitary, and grave, but human...and for all that they loved him, they had, by and large, left him to it. It was a thought she wouldn't soon put aside.

She left the clothing beside him on the bench. 'If you've strength enough to shower when you wake, all the better, but avoid having a bath until I've taken a look at that wound again.'

He went about gingerly pulling the shirt over his head, and she turned again to give him privacy, returning her tools and tinctures to her bag. She hadn't needed many of them. Truth be told, he was right about healing quickly. The wounds about his face which, though shallow, had stubbornly refused to close had finally ceased bleeding, and the dark bruises across his ribs, lurid purple arrested by crystal, seemed to be fading before her eyes.

The Exarch turned to her, half changed; the loose white shirt gave him the look of some innocent thing, reborn.

'My thanks to you, for all your care.’ He hesitated. ‘Before you go, Mistress...might I beg a boon of you?'

'Certainly, my Lord. You have but to ask.'

'Might I entreat you to call upon the Warrior of Darkness? She will not welcome your visit, I fear, but…full often she has been left alone to tend to herself in the wake of battle, and I would fain see her properly cared for, regardless of her own inclinations.'

His ears flicked hard, as if flybitten, though he seemed unaware of it. It was a tell she knew well from countless embarrassed mystel who she’d attended to over the years. She recalled suddenly the exchange between the two on the Exedra, before the Warrior had retired to her room at the Pendants, leaving Chessamile to tend to the Exarch. Recalled that lingering grasp on his arm; recalled his long pause at the top of the Tower stairs.

The chirurgeon smiled. 'I've already had words with her. I'll be heading there now, my Lord, worry not.'

'Thank you, Chessamile. Give her my, ah…ah, nevermind.'

There were many aspects of the Exarch's current condition which might give rise to sudden rushes of blood to the head; exhaustion, stress, sudden pain from a wound. One of those, she thought wryly, surely ought to account for his sudden furious blush.

'Rest well, my Lord Exarch,' the healer said softly from the doorway as she took her leave. 'And welcome home.'

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He had a name, to be sure, but most knew him only as the Manager of Suites. He did not object. It was an appellation which suited him, his purpose, and his character. He came from a long line of actors, players for the Voeburtite nobility in ages past; he'd had the tales from his parents as a boy, though they were long dead, now, and he the last.

He liked to think he upheld the family traditions in the flair he brought to his work at the Crystarium's signature hostelry. Over the years he had perfected the part of the consummate host: a guest at the Pendants was as royalty, their needs met before they were realised, let alone uttered. Calm in a crisis, an expert solver of problems obscure or mundane; legendary for his discretion, unruffled in the face of the most unruly customer. There was no finer actor in all of Norvrandt, he often joked when caught off guard, or in his cups; but if he had any competition, it was the man standing before him now. Or at least...so he had been.

The Crystal Exarch was a consummate professional, turning an expert hand to every role. Statesman, civic leader, mediator, strategist; all these and more he modulated between with the subtlest changes in inflection, the neatest attention to pose and poise designed to perfectly inhabit the part required of him at the time. The Manager had even seen him turn his hand to teaching the children, on odd days when a tutor might be indisposed, and admired the ease with which he had slipped into the role of wise old storyteller, roaring at the younglings in mock of some fell beast, making them squeal with terror and delight. It had moved him in a way he couldn't fully grasp, stirring memories of his own youth.

The mystel now facing him over the desk, on the other hand, was an open book. Everything about him was…red. Startlingly red. His eyes huge, and red. His long hair silvered, but for the most part, red. His cheeks, burning furiously red. He was an exclamation mark of a man at that moment, near impossible to reconcile with that subtle player several lifetimes on the stage with whom they were so familiar. Yet the only difference was a handful of days, and the merest alteration in costume.

It must be quite the ordeal, the Manager reflected, to go about thus exposed after a hundred years of concealment. The inevitable scrutiny, warm and friendly though it be, would no doubt take quite some getting used to.

Putting customers at ease, however, was his speciality; the defining trait of his own role. The Manager inclined his head politely in greeting, passing no comment, and addressed the man exactly as he would have a week or a month or a year before.

‘My Lord Exarch. How may I assist you at this late hour?’

The Exarch’s ears flicked nervously; another blatant tell. Clearly exasperated with himself, he set his feet, and assumed his customary commanding pose. The method was effective; when he spoke, his voice was as calm and assured as ever it had been at council meeting or city gathering.

'My good man, I was hoping to call on the Warrior of Darkness, but I've no wish to disturb her if she is still at her well-deserved rest. Do you happen to know if she…' he trailed off, as if suddenly drawing a blank.

Ah. Now this was an interesting twist in the plot, if not precisely unforeseen. The Manager had been out on the Mean when the Scions had returned to the city two days past, battered and bloodied, bringing their leader home to them. From that gallery above the plaza he had witnessed the scene as it played out: how the Exarch, upstage right, had turned at top of the stairs before the Tower gates, looking back at the Warrior of Darkness as she made her exit, walking away towards her own room at the Pendants. Ears straining towards her, arm raised as if reaching for her; simple movements, conveying much, and for all his was a face they were unaccustomed to seeing, the look writ upon it was plain enough.

The Manager had been accompanied that night by two friends among the Guard, one of whom thought himself rather an expert on matters of the heart. The fellow had made a wager of it there and then, crossing his arms with a confident nod. 'It'll be plain to all within a sevenday, mark my words. A round in the Stairs on it.' It had certainly been a tableau fit to stir the souls of the romantically inclined, and the Manager did, of course, count himself among that number - what artist wouldn't? Nevertheless, although he'd taken the bet in the name of good sportsmanship, he hadn't allowed himself to linger on it overlong. Gossip was, after all, the enemy of good service, especially where it concerned one of his patrons.

Yet now the Exarch arrives at his establishment, flushed of face and without his staff of office, intent on calling on the lady and paying no heed to the lateness of the hour. The Manager smiled inwardly, though his face, of course, betrayed not a whit of his delight. Perhaps it was more than a mere costume change that had so disordered their beloved principal, after all.

Pointedly closing the visitor's ledger and returning it to the shelf behind him, the Manager picked up where the Exarch had left off with his usual consummate professionalism. Smoothing over embarrassments and awkward requests was, after all, his forte.

'The lady did emerge from her rooms just over an hour ago to request a light meal, which we've not long served, so I expect she is still up. I'm not aware of her having had any other visitors except Mistress Chessamile, since your return from Kholusia.'

Had he allowed the faintest cast of mirth to ghost his smile, usually an exemplar of courtesy and discretion? Surely not.

'I shan't trouble her long, of course, at this hour; I…I merely wish to inquire after her well-being.' The Exarch fidgeted as he dissembled, fingers plucking nervously, artlessly at his wristbands. Oh, you poor man, the Manager thought with affection. All the armour of your craft gone, and yet you press ahead. This must be important to you indeed, to risk yourself so.

When a fellow actor struggled with their lines, it was only meet to prompt them until they could regain their balance, particularly when they found themselves in a new role all unprepared. This man had led their motley cast unfalteringly for so long now, through decades and decades of hardship; he deserved this, and every other courtesy the Crystarium entire could afford him. Besides, the Manager thought, this new character was rather endearing; he looked forward to seeing his development.

The Manager met the Exarch's gaze and nodded, firm and reassuring. He was owed no excuses or explanations for his patron's comings and goings; he was merely a humble servant, dedicated to the comfort and ease of his customers, and, where circumstances permitted, their happiness too.

'As you say, my Lord,' he said quietly, and gestured encouragingly towards the corridor which led to the Warrior's suite.

The Exarch braced his mismatched hands against the desk, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes for a beat; a ritual preparation. When he opened them again, he looked up at the Manager, their gaze meeting with the mutual respect of two master craftsmen.

'Thank you, my friend,' the Exarch murmured; then he turned, and went purposefully towards his mark.

There would be no mention of this in the ledger; no word would be left for the night shift, and the Manager himself would be back on the desk come sunrise, should there be the need for a delicate hand in matters of confidentiality. The curtain was drawing on his own evening, but he sensed another performance was about to begin, down the hall, stage left.

He smiled; optimistic. Break a leg, my Lord.

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