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Chapter Text

Sérène’s prison was truly a miserable place.

Petrus found himself deciding that very fact the moment he crossed the threshold, carefully descending down a flight of steep stairs. His footsteps echoed down what seemed like an endless hall, unspeakably loud against the silence. His eyes trailed over the thick stone walls, noting the way small bits of light reflected off trickles of water that leaked down from unseen cracks in the ceiling; the only sign of the torrential downpour taking place above.

Immediately, Petrus tensed, breathing a little harder and his knuckles whitening as his grip on his lantern tightened and fear bubbled up in his chest. 

What was he doing here? 

Supposedly, he’d come here to minister, to try to bring some small fraction of light into these otherwise forsaken lives. That’s what he’d told everyone. That’s what he’d told himself. It was his duty as a follower of the Enlightened to bring as many people he could into that light. But now, actually being here…

He felt like a trespasser. The deep sense of foreboding that had permeated this place since the moment he arrived had well and truly seen to that. Telling him in no uncertain terms that despite having permission, he was still far from welcome.

He swallowed uncomfortably in an effort to calm his fraying nerves and rolled his shoulders back, trying whatever he could to steel himself and make a false show of confidence in the hope that it would somehow become genuine, if he could just delude himself into thinking so. Reminding himself that despite how he felt, despite this place, despite the fact that he had been hissed at and insulted by the few prisoners he’d already tried speaking to at almost every turn; he was, in fact, allowed to be here.

The guards didn’t want him here. The prisoners didn’t want him here. It was coming to a point where he wondered if it was truly even worth continuing. The only people who seemed to populate this place were those Prince d’Orsay wanted forgotten.

A sudden shuffling broke Petrus out of his thoughts, the harsh sound of metal scraping across stone as a shape in one of the nearby cells pulled away at the first sign of light. He stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face the source of the noise, just in time to see a figure disappear from his view. 

“Hello?” he called out softly, doing his best to hide the distinct edge of fear in his voice as he stepped forwards. 

There was no response. No words at all, simply the sound of rapid, panicked breathing from the dark shadows the prisoner was now trying to hide in. 

He made his way to the bars of the cell, kneeling down and carefully placing his lantern on the floor, peering through the gloom in an effort to actually see who he was trying to speak to. All that greeted him was the vague impression of a person that was largely obscured in shadow, curled up and shoved as far into the corner as the stone walls would allow. 

“It’s alright,” he assured softly, straightening a little and stepping back one single step. “I’m a minister. I’m not here to hurt you.”

That didn’t earn him a response, either. Though the breathing that had once verged on hyper-ventilation seemed to be slowing, calming. 

Some progress, at least.

He crouched down right there in the middle of the hall, beside where he’d placed the lantern. Hoping that if he made himself seem smaller, he wouldn’t appear so threatening. This was the first person in this place he’d met who hadn’t immediately thrown some kind of vitriol his way – he would be remiss not to seize the opportunity. For the sake of the Enlightened, for the sake of these poor souls, he had to at least try.

Slowly, carefully, he placed his small pack down before him, pulling a small piece of unleavened bread from it, and gingerly leaning forwards to offer it to his silent companion. 

“Here,” he said quietly, reaching through the bars with the bread in hand, hoping his intentions were clear. He was supposed to say something like, accept this gift in the name of the Enlightened, but he instead opted for silence, waiting patiently for a response, of any kind. No one should have to grovel and beg for scraps. He wouldn’t demand thanks for providing the bare minimum.

There was a moment.

Then two.

Then a quiet rustling as they finally pulled away from the corner, slowly crawling the length of the cell back towards the bars. Petrus caught a brief glimpse of what appeared to be a woman’s face behind the mess of tangled, matted hair and a smattering of dirt, two bright eyes making contact with his and never breaking away, even as she snatched the bread from his hand and immediately retreated once more. 

He was careful not to make too much noise as he pulled away, his hand retreating back through the bars gradually out of some effort not startle her. 

Almost like he was dealing with a wild animal, part of him thought a little scathingly. That was what this place had reduced these prisoners to. No wonder so many of them preferred to simply spit and hiss at him rather than engage. Their humanity had already been largely stripped from them. 

This wasn’t much. But it was something. Did he dare push his luck and ask for more?

Before he could even think to make a decision, she was back, hands closing around the bars between them and watching him curiously. Now that she had finally entered the light, Petrus found he could actually see her, he couldn’t stop a soft gasp from escaping him.

She looked utterly wild. Emaciated, overgrown hair, cracked lips, small scabs on her knuckles. What he had initially mistaken for dirt smeared across the left side of her face turned out to be something altogether different – an odd patch of mottled green, crawling over her cheek and down her neck. Almost as if she’d stayed very still for a very long time; long enough for something like moss to begin to grow there. But the longer he looked, the more he realised that this wasn’t a plant growth at all, but rather just a texture and colour to her skin. 

It was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

And then it came, a sudden rapid-fire of words Petrus could barely catch, in what appeared to be a language he couldn’t recognise.

His head snapped up at the sound of it, eyes wide with confusion. He liked to think of himself as a cultured man, and yet nothing about the language she was speaking sounded familiar to him. 

Nothing about this woman made sense.

“I don’t- I don’t understand you,” he tried, framing his words slowly and carefully. “I don’t know what language you’re speaking.”

She immediately cut off, blinking owlishly at him. Then repeated what Petrus supposed sounded like a question, slowly and carefully enunciating each word as if it would somehow help him understand.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly – this was getting him nowhere.

This frankly bizarre woman was clearly a foreigner; certainly not from anywhere he’d ever heard of. She didn’t even seem to speak the language. So what could she have possibly done to warrant being imprisoned here, in this place? How long had she been here?

“Petrus,” he told her softly, placing a hand over his chest. “My name is Petrus.”

She cocked her head to one side, watching him warily, eyes darting from his hand, to his face, and back again several times. There was something there, in her expression. A sort of sharpness, as she took barely a moment to realise what he was trying to tell her.

“Petrus,” she repeated in a low, somewhat raspy voice, reaching out towards him. “Petrus.”

“Yes. My name,” he said with a nod, before gesturing back at her. “And you?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, considering for a moment. Watching him like a hawk as what seemed like a thousand thoughts passed through her mind. 

“Name?” she asked as she placed her own hand over her own chest, mirroring his previous gesture. 

“Yes. Your name,” he clarified, reaching back out in her direction once again. “What are you called?”

He didn’t know why he bothered rephrasing the question – it wasn’t going to help either of them. But she looked at him with what appeared to be understanding.

“Arelwin,” she said slowly, her hand tapping her chest several times as she spoke.

“Arrel-win?”

“Arelwin,” she corrected him, a hint of impatience in her tone, though it was gone awfully quickly as she spied his pack on the floor, and gestured towards it. 

Petrus looked over at it too, before glancing back at her. “You want more?”

Her brow creased. “More?”

He smiled slightly himself, pulling out everything he’d brought – a few small pieces of a flatbread that would typically be used as part of his ministry. He gathered them all together and reached back through the bars to her, stack in hand. 

“Here. Have it.”

Slowly, her hand met his, gently taking the entire lot, save for one piece which she left abandoned in his grip. Petrus looked at it for a moment.

“No, I don’t need any. You can take all of it.”

She simply shook her head and pushed his hand back, before retreating further back in her cell before he could do anything to argue. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the bread she’d left him, utterly dumbfounded. She didn’t respond to him in the slightest, content to simply sit in the back corner of that tiny cell, watching him carefully. Testing him? He couldn’t say.

Realising this was not an argument he was going to win, Petrus let out a quiet sigh and shifted slightly so he was leaning against the bars, and tore the bread into a couple different pieces, giving a quiet blessing over it before popping each piece into his mouth. 

A little ways behind him, he heard her saying something in her own strange language, almost too quietly to hear. Like a little blessing of her own. 

A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips at the thought. Sometimes, kinship could be found in the oddest of ways, and in the most unlikely of places.

Thank the Enlightened for that.

Chapter Text

In time, he came to know the way to her cell by memory. And as they became more able to communicate, he found himself there with a frequency that surprised him. 

She learned faster than he did; seemingly able to grasp the intricacies of his language much easier than he could with hers. But she appeared to have a prior familiarity, which gave her an advantage he couldn’t hope to match. It all pointed towards something Petrus wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with – that she had been there for a very long time. 

As words became easier, they spoke more. Or, more accurately, he spoke and she listened. As she grasped more of what he was telling her, she would begin to ask questions with a real, genuine curiosity and desire to learn that honestly surprised him. 

He ministered, at first. Or he tried to. At some point, he couldn’t say exactly when, it became about simply seeing her rather than anything else. He looked forward to his meetings with her, more and more. He found himself coming to her last when he did his rounds in the prison, content to simply sit by the bars of her cell with her for hours, quietly sharing what food he was able to smuggle in. 

It was just a little thing. Sharing food with someone who actually appreciated it. But in comparison to the cutthroat politics of Sérène, he found himself desperately longing for the simple, little things. And as much as he didn’t want to – couldn’t – admit it, he routinely found himself simply glad for her company.

“Arelwin?” he called out her name as he approached, his footsteps echoing down that appallingly dark hall. 

She was already sitting against the bars as he came upon her cell, patiently waiting for him. She seemed to always know when he was there, but Petrus couldn’t help but announce himself anyway. Maybe because the guards never did.

“Petrus,” she replied almost fondly, in that bizarre accent he was still getting used to. “You are here.”

“Of course,” he said, rummaging around in his pack and producing an apple and offering it to her. “I promised, didn’t I?”

He beamed at her and she gave a small, sly smile in return, gingerly plucking the apple from his grasp. For a moment, she just held it cupped in her hands, like she was savouring it. It didn’t surprise him – things like fresh fruit were unheard of in this place. The fact that she probably hadn’t had one in who even knew how long was part of the reason he’d decided to bring one, after all. Anything to see her smile, even if for just a moment.

There was a silence as she seemed to focus entirely on the apple, and he found himself left with nothing else to say. Rather than force any conversation, Petrus simply accepted the silence and eased himself down to sit on the floor. 

“It is sweet.”

“Hm?”

Behind him, Arelwin shifted slightly, a soft crunch sounding out as she bit into the apple. 

“It is sweet,” she repeated, her voice so low he almost didn’t hear it. “Like…”

She paused for a moment, seemingly gathering her thoughts and trying to find the right word to say. Going through what she knew of the language in an effort to find the best description. And Petrus just sat there and waited patiently, trusting she would find the words on her own. As she usually did.

“Like home,” she finished finally. “Adlorhedar. Thank you for bringing me this.”

“What is it like? Your home?”

Arelwin didn’t answer at first. And then;

“It is… home,” she said, somehow avoiding the question even as she tried to answer it. “People. Family.”

Petrus chewed his lip a little uncomfortably, debating with himself. Curiosity clawed at him, but at the same time, Arelwin seemed extremely reluctant to go any further into it. But she had never come this close to speaking about her origins – however mysterious they were – before. 

Ultimately, however, when he twisted around and saw the tortured expression on her face, he elected not to push it. Whether she told him was her choice. He didn’t want to push her if she wasn’t ready. 

“Tell me about your family,” he said instead.

And almost immediately regretted it.

Arelwin inhaled shakily, curling tightly in on herself and pulling her knees to her chest. Her breath seemed to hitch in her throat and for a moment it seemed as though she was about to simply burst into tears. 

“You don’t have to,” he insisted frantically, horrified at the idea he’d upset her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it might-”

“He was-” she rasped through the growing effort to withhold tears, completely ignoring Petrus, and his attempt to backtrack. “They took him from me.”

Petrus blinked in surprise and shock, fully turning around to face her properly. “What? Who was taken from you?”

She just shook her head, and began to rock back and forth, hugging herself tightly. Suddenly too distressed to even begin to answer. Petrus found himself pulling in closer to her, as close to the bars as possible. Not knowing what else to do but be near her, close enough to provide some small amount of comfort. 

“Monisinaiga,” she hissed with a venom that honestly surprised him, still shaking her head. “They took him. They took him from me.”

“Arelwin,” he called her name gently, reassuringly, reaching through the bars to place a hand on her shoulder. “What are you talking about? Who did they take?”

“My baby,” she wailed, inconsolable now as her breath hitched in her throat and she struggled to get words out in between frantic breaths. “They took him! I ask, but they will not tell me!”

Petrus felt his stomach drop as he finally realised what exactly she was referring to. 

“You mean…” he began softly, the horror of what precisely she was describing still dawning on him, “you have a child?” 

That was-

Why would they take her child? What purpose could that possibly serve? And who, exactly, would have taken the boy? The guards, he assumed. But at whose order? What could possibly be gained from such a thing? He couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Couldn’t see the point, in any of it. None of this made any sense. 

Arelwin didn’t say anything more, too overcome. She curled up until she was small as she could physically make herself, gasping for air as she tried to keep herself from openly sobbing. Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head almost violently, as if she was trying to rid herself of whatever thoughts she was being plagued with by force. One hand balled into a fist as she hit herself in the thigh, over and over again. As if pain was the only way she was able to ground herself. 

It seemed to take everything in her power not to simply scream, right there and then. 

And all Petrus could do was watch it happen, as his heart absolutely broke for her. Reaching through the bars in an effort to hold her, to comfort her, to do something. Anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, not knowing what else to say. “I am so sorry.”

It was such cold comfort, he knew that. But there was nothing else he could do. Sitting there and being with her in that moment was all he had in his power to give. 

It didn’t seem like enough.

Part of him was convinced it would never seem like enough.

“Do you know what happened to him?” he asked finally, after what felt like far too long, after she had finally managed to calm herself. “If he’s alive?”

Arelwin shook her head, chewing her lip and keeping her eyes solely focused on the far wall of her cell. “They will not tell me. I do not know what they want with him. I fear…”

She trailed off, unable to say anything more.

Petrus didn’t need to hear the rest. He could guess her fear well enough for himself. She feared she would never see him again. She feared the boy was dead. She feared never knowing the truth of what happened to him.

“I could ask,” he offered. “Try to find out. Someone must know.”

He didn’t really know why he was saying that. He wouldn’t know where to start. Maybe one of the courtiers he frequently found himself associating with would know, but he had no guarantee. And even if someone did know, he was a somewhat low-ranking Thélème diplomat. He didn’t have anything close to the political leverage required to actually get answers from Congregation aristocrats. He’d simply be dismissed out of hand. 

But he had to do something, surely? At least find out why someone would call for the kidnapping of a child? Answers, in the very least, might actually grant Arelwin some peace; and was that not his mission here? His duty as a missionary? To bring the light of Enlightened, to bring peace, to those who had been left behind?

Arelwin didn’t respond to his offer. Her expression had grown distant; too caught up in painful memories she was unwilling to deal with. At first, Petrus waited, hoping for a response. But as the minutes crawled by, it became increasingly clear that she was beyond giving one. 

Perhaps she didn’t want to consider it. Didn’t want to risk learning the truth, in case it turned out to be something terrible. 

But he had to.

He did have to.

He should. 

He had to at least try.  

For her sake.

Chapter Text

The palace of Sérène was a place that always felt cold and foreboding, despite how much time he spent there, though perhaps that was by design. It towered over the rest of the city, silhouetted against the sky, its sheer size putting many of the cathedrals back home to shame. It was some kind of power play, he was sure. An almost obnoxious show of wealth just through the intricate architecture alone. No expense had been spared. 

It was intimidating.

And fascinating.

Petrus found himself marvelling at it each and every time he came here, at the power in these halls, at the culture of the aristocracy. The Congregation of Merchants controlled just about all major trade, and Sérène was the greatest of their cities; the decisions made here could come to affect the entire continent, one way or another. There was something so powerful about it, and something incredibly alluring about that power. 

And here he was, amongst it. 

There was something empowering about the court. He wouldn’t ever tire of it.

He wandered the palace gardens, taking in the absurd amount of lush greenery that surely required an army to maintain it, noting all the various plants that must have come from all over the continent. Even in this, in these meticulously kept gardens, there was an obvious display of wealth and power. A clear and concentrated effort to reinforce the already established power structure. 

He was so taken with it all that he almost didn’t notice the footsteps running up behind him. Almost didn’t turn in time to see a flash of a very small person, or hear a crash as that person dived into the nearby bushes, disappearing from view.

Petrus blinked several times, completely taken aback by the whole commotion.

“Hello?” he called out, peering into the shrubbery, unsure if he’d hallucinated the past few seconds. “What’s going on here?”

He didn’t get a response, but could see the faint impression of a child hiding in a small gap in the branches, wedged in amongst the leaves. 

“Are you hiding?” he pressed when he was met with silence.

He still couldn’t quite see the boy properly as he all but disappeared into the foliage, but made out enough of a rough silhouette to see him nod. 

“Why-?”

“Shh,” came the insistent response, cutting right across him. “She’ll hear you.”

“Oh, of course,” Petrus said with a growing smile, stepping back and immediately turning his back towards the bushes the boy had dived into. “My apologies.”

And so he stood there, acting as casually as he could manage, pretending to absently pick at his nails and take in the garden as a harried woman – a maid of some kind, he was sure – rushed past, barely paying Petrus any mind. 

There was a moment.

Then two.

Slowly, Petrus leaned out, peering around the corner to check his surroundings.

“Danger’s over,” he called softly over his shoulder when he found nothing, before turning back around. “Here, let me help you out of there.”

But before he could do much of anything, the boy crawled out of his hiding place on his own; on his hands and knees, twigs and leaves in his hair, what had once been very fine clothes now ripped and soiled with dirt. Despite his hiding place of choice, he surely couldn’t have done all of this to himself in the past few minutes. 

“Young man,” Petrus called disapprovingly as he saw this, kneeling down as the boy picked himself up, “you are filthy. What on earth have you been doing?”

If the boy gave him an answer, Petrus didn’t hear it. The instant he looked up, the instant he revealed his face, Petrus felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. 

He thought he’d imagined it, at first. Misinterpreted what must have been leaves or a small branch stuck in the boy’s hair. But when he looked again, it was still there. Exactly what he’d thought. A horrifyingly familiar patch of green, plastered across the left side of his jawline. Just like hers. Exactly like hers. 

He was here. Arelwin’s son. In the palace. Acting like he belonged. Like any child of the aristocracy would.

How?

There wasn’t anyone else this could be. He knew that face – knew her face – far too well not to recognise it. 

Of all the people to run into-

How? How was this possible?  

A baby, Arelwin had described. A baby, taken just a few weeks after he’d been born. Petrus had thought maybe she’d been there for a year. Possibly two. Already, too long.

But this boy-

This was a child.  

It was Arelwin’s boy. It had to be. He’d never seen that facial marking on anyone else. And even ignoring that, he looked so much like her. Fuller, perhaps. Better looked after, certainly. But similar. Far too much for it to be a coincidence. 

How old was this boy? How long had he been here? In the palace? In the court? 

“What’s your name?” he asked instead, desperate not to consider the implications any longer. 

“Adélard.”

“Adélard,” Petrus repeated softly, all while frantically biting his lip so he wouldn’t say anything he regretted. “That’s a fine name. Mine is Petrus. Mind telling me what’s going on here, exactly?”

“Don’t want a bath,” came the somewhat sullen reply. “She can’t make me.”

“Oh, I see.”

“My lord!” a voice called out, slicing right across Petrus before he could say anything more. 

He looked up, just in time to see the woman from before running towards them at a full pelt, her face flushed and her expression twisted up into one of frantic relief. 

“My lord!” she called again, rushing up to them. “Your mother has been looking everywhere for you!”

His mother?

She wasn’t referring to Arelwin, surely. She couldn’t be.

Adélard didn’t say anything at all in response, instead keeping his head down and his gaze trained solely in the ground immediately before him as Petrus straightened, and the woman seemed to finally notice his presence. 

“Thank you, sir,” she managed, in between rapid gasps for air from the exertion of running. “For finding him.”

Petrus nodded, forcing a smile even as cold dread clawed at his insides. “Of course.”

“Come now, little lord,” she called out to the boy, gently taking his hand, even as Adélard seemed inches away from throwing a tantrum. “I must get you cleaned up. Your mother will have a fit if she sees you in this state. Don’t want that, do we?”

They turned to go, the maid ushering Adélard ahead of her, never quite letting go of his hand. As if she, perhaps rightly, feared he would bolt the instant she did. 

“Excuse me,” Petrus called out one final time, taking a step towards them. “But who is his mother?”

She stopped for a moment, twisting around just enough to see him. “Ah… my apologies, sir. His mother would be the Princess de Sardet, and she has been worried sick. Thank you again.”

“I understand. In that case, you’re very welcome.”

With one final nod, he watched them both go, staring off after them even long after they both disappeared around a corner and out of view. 

And then he stayed there, rooted to that spot by shock, mind reeling.

He-

He was-

Princess de Sardet’s boy. The princess’ boy was actually Arelwin’s. 

Petrus shook his head, almost violently. That didn’t make sense. He’d not seen the lad before – evidently – but he’d heard that story. How the woman doted on her son, as he was the last surviving remnant she had of her late husband. How the pregnancy had nearly taken her life. 

But that boy wasn’t hers. Couldn’t be hers.

Did she know? Who he was, where he came from? Surely she did. She would have to. And yet he was still passed off as hers? Why? 

Was that why Arelwin had been imprisoned? Locked away so no one would discover the truth? Left to rot so she could never dispute the boy’s parentage? Was that why no one told her anything about her son, why they refused to even let her know if he was alive?

Why? Why all of this? Why any of it?

He didn’t want to think about what he’d potentially stumbled into. Didn’t want to think about the implications. About what it would all mean. At that moment, only one thing really mattered.

Arelwin had to know. He had to tell her. It wasn’t up for debate. 

He could worry about the politics later.

Chapter Text

The familiar deathly quiet of the prison was broken with the sound of frantic footsteps, growing louder and louder as Petrus practically ran at full pelt down the hall, his breathing growing ragged but never slowing. His mind reeled with a million thoughts; what had just happened, the political implications, how exactly he planned on explaining any of it to Arelwin. 

“Arelwin!” he shouted her name as her cell came into view, skidding to a clumsy halt just outside the bars as she drew close, appearing to simply materialise out of the dark. “I- I met him.”

That was all he could say, all the words he could get out in between frantic gasps for air. He almost immediately doubled over, unable to say anything more as the exertion from running all the way from the palace became overwhelming. 

“I met him,” he said again, forcing the words out despite his wheezing. “I met your son. He’s alive.”

There was silence.

For so long, that was all there was.

Petrus finally straightened, just in time to see Arelwin’s eyes go wide and her lips parted slightly in shock, not saying anything. Her brow creased and her eyes began to dart around, as if looking for some missing context. Unsure if she’d truly understood what he’d said. Second guessing herself. Trying to decide if she believed him. 

Then, after far too long, after what felt like an absolute eternity, she took a step back. Then another, and another, until she had backed herself as far as her cell would allow, wrapping her arms tightly around her painfully thin body and pressing herself into the far wall. 

“He’s alive,” Petrus said, pulling in close to the bars, one hand wrapping around the cold metal as he did. “He’s in the court. Livie de Sardet has him. He’s alive, Arelwin. He’s alive.”

She didn’t respond.

All Petrus could do was stand there as Arelwin’s hand flew to cover her mouth, and her knees seemed to buckle beneath her, sending her slowly sliding to the floor, shaking. All he could do was wait and watch, desperately wishing he could open the cell door and be in there with her, put his arms around her and hold her close. 

Instead, he remained there, and the silence – that horrible, agonising, brutal silence – went on.

And on.

And on.

It kept going until he couldn’t stand it, and then, because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to break it, it continued on. 

“His name. I want… to know his name.”

Petrus’ head snapped up at the sound of Arelwin’s low, hoarse voice, blinking several times in surprise. “His name? It- …it’s Adélard.”

It wasn’t the boy’s real name, of course. How could it be? Arelwin certainly hadn’t given it to him. It screamed the sort of thing that was fashionable within Sérène’s aristocracy. Uncommon, and a little over the top. Flowery names with flowery meanings, when they weren’t simply naming their children after relatives.

Arelwin didn’t seem to react. She glanced away, turning her gaze to the side, lips parting slightly as she seemed to mouth her son’s name to herself, over and over again. Committing it to memory, Petrus assumed, though her mind seemed to be a thousand miles away. 

“A… dey… lar?” she tried, loud enough for him to hear her. “Adalard? Adalhard?”

Slowly, Petrus crouched down on the other side of the bars. “Adélard,” he corrected her, as gently as possible. 

Her eyes flicked back to him. “…Adélard?”

He nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

For the first time, Arelwin smiled back at him. 

“Adélard,” she repeated, before growing pensive.

“It’s an uncommon name,” Petrus said softly. “But from what I understand, it means noble, hardy, and brave.” 

He paused for a moment, as a memory of a filthy little boy crawling out of the bushes abruptly came back to him. 

“It… suits him quite well, I think,” he added quietly. 

Arelwin considered that for a moment. 

“Adélard,” she repeated one more time, still somewhat distant. “It… it is a good name. Strong. I am… glad.”

“What would you have called him?”

She shook her head. “Adélard. That is his name. It’s good. He does not need another.”

Petrus didn’t entirely know what to say to that. Arelwin didn’t meet his eye, but she did seem oddly… content, for the first time since he’d met her, so long ago now. 

“I only met him briefly,” he began a little awkwardly, “but if you’d like, I can tell you about him.”

Arelwin smiled and nodded. “I would like that very much.”

Petrus let out a small grunt as he settled himself on the floor, trying to make him as comfortable as the cold stone would allow. Letting out a long sigh as he tried to gather his thoughts. 

“He seems like a fine young man. You’d be proud, I think. A little bit of a troublemaker, though. He was perfectly content to ruin both his clothes and the garden by hiding in a hedge,” he began. “He’s… he looks like you. A lot like you, actually. He has this… he has a mark, like yours, on his left cheek, and-”

“He is on ol menawí?”

He blinked several times in surprise at Arelwin’s interruption. He twisted around to look at her, just in time to see her crawl over to him, pulling up on just the other side of the bars, eyes wide and full of… something. An emotion Petrus couldn’t quite discern. A strange mix of curiosity, elation, and abject fear. 

“I’m not sure what that means,” he said, rather than comment on it.

Arelwin exhaled slowly, leaning against the bars and glancing up at the ceiling as her hands reached up, fiddling with something near her neck. Petrus watched on curiously as she pulled a thin, tattered leather cord over her head and took a moment, staring at what looked like a sort of medallion in her hands. She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply, muttering something in her own language Petrus couldn’t quite catch. Then she twisted around, reaching through the bars and pressing the necklace in his hands. 

“For him,” she said, her eyes flicking up to meet his and never leaving, as if she was seeing straight into his very soul. “For Adélard.”

Gingerly, Petrus took the medallion, glancing over it, at the swirling design carved into it. 

“For Adélard,” Arelwin insisted one more time. “Promise me.”

Something in her looked almost wild. Seemed so incredibly desperate. She needed him to do this. She needed this more than anything. 

“Of course,” Petrus replied, tucking the necklace into his pocket. “I’ll make sure he gets it. I promise.”

And with that, she relaxed, settling back into as comfortable a position as was possible, leaning against the bars beside him. 

“Tell me more about him.”

A smile pulled at his lips as he sagged against the bars, feeling her weight pressed against him, and he told her every detail he could recall about the boy – describing the entire encounter in painstaking detail. Telling her everything he himself had been told when he’d gone poking around. And Arelwin listened intently, as she always did, interjecting with countless questions. 

For the first time since he’d met her, something seemed to shift. Like a strange sort of weight had been lifted from her. The relief that her son was alive and safe, he assumed. Just that knowledge alone seemed to do more for her than anything else ever had. 

So he told her everything he knew. Answered her questions as best he could. Happy that she was happy.

And all the while, the necklace weighed heavily in his pocket.

Chapter Text

Of course, finding one single little boy amidst the impossibly huge palace complex was easier said than done.

After his fourth, fifth, and sixth visits to the court with no sign of the De Sardet boy, Petrus found himself beginning to lose hope. Finding anyone reliably in this place was difficult enough – let alone a child with no discernible schedule. So he found himself wandering throughout the halls of the domestic wings of the palace, desperately relying on learned familiarity to avoid getting lost himself, silently cursing fate. 

After the sheer luck of their first encounter, he truly hadn’t expected finding him again to be this difficult.

Petrus let out a long, exhausted sigh and arched his head back, pressing his hands against the back of his neck and doing everything in his power to force himself to relax. He could do this. He just needed to be patient. He’d made a promise to Arelwin that he intended to keep, regardless of how long it would take.

And then, of course, like fate, he caught a glimpse of a familiar young boy crouched in the corner of the courtyard, completely taken with something he couldn’t quite see. 

Automatically, Petrus stopped in his tracks, swallowing uncomfortably as his fingertips once again traced Arelwin’s medallion – a nervous habit he’d picked up since it had taken up permanent residence in his pocket. Suddenly, the reality of being here hit him, and he realised that he had no idea what to say. Should he tell the truth? Should he say anything at all? How would he even begin to explain all of this? Was the boy even remotely old enough to understand if he did?

“It’s Petrus, isn’t it?” a new voice called suddenly as a woman smoothly stepped into view directly in front of him, her hands clasped behind her back and a mildly playful smile on her lips, leaning forwards slightly as her eyes carefully traced over his form.

Petrus startled, stopping in his tracks and blinking several times, all while shoving Arelwin’s medallion as far into his pocket as possible. Immediately, almost from habit, he found himself stiffening, and inclining his head in an automatic and unthinking show of respect. 

“I-” he began, almost choking on his words as his mind scrambled to think of the proper way to address a Congregation noblewoman. “…yes, madame. Ma’am. My lady.”

Her lips quirked with a soft smile and she stepped forwards, straightening as she did so. “I’ve seen you about rather a lot lately, searching in every corner of the palace with singular purpose. Might I ask what you’re looking for?”

Petrus exhaled, mostly out of some vain effort to calm his speeding heart, his eyes darting to the young boy he could still see in his peripheral vision. “I was just- …I was hoping to speak to the boy.”

He gestured vaguely to the side, and watched as she followed the movement, her eyes ultimately coming to rest on where Adélard crouched in the grass.

Her smile widened. “You may want to reconsider. My son is far from an engaging conversationalist.”

Petrus blinked.

Once. 

Twice.

Her son?  

But he wasn’t-

And then;

“Your Highness!” he spluttered, almost tripping over himself to give a hasty bow as the realisation of just who he was speaking to hit him like a battering ram. “Forgive me, I didn’t-”

Livie de Sardet held her hand up, trying to set him at ease. “Please, sir. We are not at court.”

“Even so,” he insisted, refusing to rise for another moment. “My sincerest apologies.”

She smiled again; a wide toothy grin that might’ve been unbecoming for the prince’s sister, but it was the most genuine show of emotion Petrus had seen from any member of the aristocracy since he arrived here, all that time ago. 

And then, of course, she carefully collected herself, and glanced away.

“You’ve been with us for some time now,” she observed, turning her gaze to the courtyard. “I would be interested to know your opinion of Sérène. How does it fare? A mite less austere than Thélème, I would hope.”

“I wouldn’t dare to compare them, Your Highness. They are of entirely different worlds.”

She smirked, clearly taking note of his effort to avoid directly answering her question. “Such a diplomatic response. But perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I imagine you’ve seen the worst of both our nations.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve all heard countless tales of the Ordo Luminis and its inquisitors. Horrific, truly. And of course, you’ve seen how my brother treats his own undesirables. You minister to them, correct?”

The words were not unkind, though they still managed to send shivers down Petrus’ spine as he finally realised what was going on. All of a sudden, he couldn’t help but be keenly aware that this was the sister of the prince, and someone who had lived and breathed the court and all its intricacies all her life. He swallowed uncomfortably, while Livie de Sardet simply smiled a perfectly innocent smile, and he inexplicably couldn’t quite rid himself of the notion that this supposedly chance encounter was, in fact, quite deliberate. 

“That’s true,” he hedged carefully, his fingers tracing the medallion in his pocket as his eyes frantically scanned his surroundings for a potential escape. 

“It must be fascinating work,” she continued, her tone kept carefully light, betraying no hint of the deeper implication Petrus was now certain she was making. “I’d love to hear more. And then afterwards, perhaps, we could speak of my son.”

Her son.

Petrus felt a little sick as he heard it, even as he allowed her to guide him towards what he knew by now to be her own private wing of the palace. Her son. Like Arelwin’s existence was nothing more than an inconvenience to be ignored. Arelwin had been kidnapped from her home, her son torn from her almost the moment he was born, and simply left to rot in a prison cell for years. And for what? So Livie de Sardet could pretend to play happy families? So she didn’t have to live with the shame of being a childless widow?

It was sick. It was twisted and vile and sick. All of it.

He was gently directed through the princess’ private chambers, eventually ushered into a lavishly furnished smaller room that still would’ve been much too large anywhere other than the palace, and was left standing there as Livie quickly and quietly eased the door shut behind them. 

Then there was silence. 

And then;

“Given your obvious interest in Adélard, am I correct in assuming you’ve managed to dig up some… unpleasantness better left forgotten?”

Petrus whirled around at the question, eyebrows raised out in incredulity and an almost feral rage that roiled within him. Unpleasantness. That’s all Arelwin was to these people. She had been made to suffer, horrifically, for years, all because of what they called unpleasantness. Left to rot in the dark because she was an inconvenient truth. 

“Are you going to ensure my silence?”

The question came out with far more hostility than he’d meant, but Petrus didn’t bother to apologise. He had no sympathy to give anymore. 

“That rather depends on you,” Livie responded quietly, pushing herself away from where she had been leaning against the door. 

That was a thinly veiled threat if he’d ever heard one.

“Do you know where he comes from?” he demanded, struggling to keep himself from shouting as he watched her cross the room to the window, gesturing angrily at the door as if it wasn’t inescapably clear who he was referring to. “Who he comes from?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Simply stood there, closing her eyes and inhaling slowly, reaching out to press her palms against the windowsill and take in the somewhat muted afternoon light. 

“I was six months along when we received the news that my husband was dead,” she murmured, her eyes snapping back open, though her expression remained distant. “Killed on an expedition. I never learned the specifics. I never cared to. It was unbearable to think that he was gone at all. I was loath to put an image to it.”

He didn’t grace that with a reply. He didn’t even bother to try. 

“What had already proven a difficult pregnancy became rife with complications,” she continued, paying Petrus no mind as he folded his arms a little impatiently, wondering what this story had to do with anything. “Not long after, I gave birth.”

She pulled back a step before falling back to lean on the windowsill, her hands balling up into tight fists and shaking her head. 

“Too early,” she whispered, her voice cracking and threatening to break. “Far too early.”

Finally, she turned to face him, standing tall and composed and yet something about her felt so incredibly vulnerable. Suddenly, this woman looked like the most fragile thing in the world, like the slightest push would cause her to simply break into pieces. 

“I survived, through some miracle. The work of the divine, I’m sure your people would say. But my son…” she gave one long, shuddering breath as she tried to collect herself, “he never drew breath.”

And-

And-

Damn it all, Petrus swore silently to himself, suddenly hyper aware of just how easily she’d gotten to him. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it. So instead he stood there in silence and let her continue her story, trying his utmost to appear as unimpressed as humanly possible. 

Meanwhile, Livie’s eyes glanced up to meet his. 

“I was beside myself,” she murmured, her voice soft and low and barely audible. “My husband was gone. And then the last remaining shred I had of him was gone, too. You cannot imagine the pain I was in. You could lose everything and everyone in this world, and you would not begin to fathom it.”

No. He couldn’t. She was right; he doubted he would ever truly understand what she’d been through. To lose everything in that way. 

But he had to imagine that Arelwin could.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Petrus managed finally. “But I don’t see how this relates to the boy.”

The corners of her lips twitched for a fraction of a second; a ghost of a smile that was gone all too quickly as her eyes flicked up, glancing over the room they were standing in. 

“I locked myself in here. For almost half a year, I didn’t leave this room. Then, my brother came to me.” She raised her shaking hands in front of her, as if she were miming holding something. “He had this tiny, crying bundle in his arms.” 

“Adélard,” Petrus breathed, suddenly realising. 

Livie nodded. “He was such a little thing. Born on a ship where no one had known how to care for him, so of course he’d fallen ill. Claude planned to take him in as a ward, and thought I might be able to help him. The Nauts were certainly no help. So I did. I took him in and he recovered so quickly. It was a sign he was meant to be mine, I know it. I begged my brother to let me keep him. I begged him for days. And when Claude finally agreed, I gave that boy the name I would have given to my son. By the time everyone who knew the truth was silenced and he was presented to the court, he was my son.”

Petrus didn’t say anything. His mouth ran completely dry and in all honesty, there wasn’t anything he could say. Not to that. He didn’t know what he expected to hear. Just… not that. Not any of this.

He didn’t know what to think anymore.

It was selfish. It was so completely and utterly, abominably selfish. Livie de Sardet had absolutely no regard for the people she had hurt in trying to assuage her own grief, but… he would be lying to himself if he tried to say that part of him didn’t understand, on some level. Because she was right. He could not even begin to imagine the pain she must have been in, and the sheer desperation she must have felt. 

What she had been through was horrible. But tearing someone’s child away and leaving them to rot in a miserable dark hole was unforgivable. 

It wasn’t right. None of it was right. But it was, at least a little bit, understandable.

He hated that.

How many people? How many people had already suffered or died to keep this secret? How many more would it take?

“So, to your question,” Livie said, startling him slightly, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what he is, or where he’s really from. He’s here. Happy. Healthy. Loved. He is my son, regardless of how that came to be. I saved him. And he saved me.”

“That boy is someone else’s son,” he argued quietly. “Someone else who loves him, and has fought tooth and nail for him. He isn’t some abandoned child you swooped in to save. He was stolen.”

She didn’t even flinch at his words. “Be that as it may, I can’t give him back. I can only ensure that he thrives in the life he has been given.”

“You can’t give him back? Or you won’t?” 

“Either. Both. Does it matter? No one will ever be the parent to him that I am.”

Petrus didn’t move. “She was never given the chance to try.”

For a moment, it really seemed as though Livie didn’t have anything to say to that. She just watched him carefully, studying him. Trying to figure out where to go from here, as it was becoming painfully clear that neither of them were willing to back down. 

“Perhaps it’s selfish,” she said finally, seemingly accepting that. “But that boy matters more to me than life itself. I won’t give him up. Not for anything.”

“So, what? That’s it?”

“What, exactly, do you want from me?” she asked – demanded, really. 

“Free her!” Petrus had to stop himself from shouting. “Let her see her son. Let her go home. You owe her at least that.”

“That isn’t within my power,” she told him sharply as she turned towards the door. “Take it up with my brother.”

Almost immediately, Petrus reached out, his hand wrapping around her upper arm gently but firmly pulling her to a halt as he leaned in.

“I could go out there right now, and tell everyone the truth,” he hissed. “What then?”

She didn’t move, perfectly composed and her expression not betraying a hint of emotion. “I would urge you to reconsider.”

His lip curled. “To save your reputation? I’ve little reason to care.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled herself out of his grip, turning around to face him, now uncomfortably close. “Not my reputation, sir. Adélard’s. What do you suppose will happen to him should any of this be revealed?”

Immediately, Petrus pulled back several steps, horrified. “He is a child.”

She nodded almost sagely, all too aware of the implications. “And the court is cruel.”

And there was the inescapable truth of it. The court was cruel, and he was not naïve enough to think they would spare a child. Falsifying titles was an offence they were not ready to forgive, from anyone. They couldn’t touch the prince or his sister, but Adélard would no longer have that protection. He was the only one truly at risk here. 

He didn’t even belong here. He shouldn’t be here, in the first place. This was not a threat he should have to deal with. 

He was a child.

“I understand if you’ve no love lost for me,” Livie said softly, placing her hand on his in what he assumed was supposed to be some sort of gesture of reassurance, but it was far from comforting. “But this isn’t about me. So, please. Don’t destroy his life over this.”

“He’ll find out the truth eventually. He has to.”

“Then let me be the one to tell him. When he’s ready. That’s all I ask.”

His jaw clenched, and his hand was once more shoved back into his pocket, gripping Arelwin’s medallion tightly. He should give it to the boy. Right now. He should just do it. He promised he would. He should walk outside right now and find the boy and tell him…

Tell him what, exactly? Everything? Nothing? What would that make him? Was it even his place to say? He wasn’t anything to the boy. 

With a sigh, he pulled the medallion out of his pocket, holding it in his palm as Livie stood there, her eyes darting from his outstretched hand, to his face, and back again.

“You asked me what I wanted from you,” he said, standing stock still and unmoving as he held out the medallion to her. “When you tell him – when you tell him – give him this. Tell him what it is, and where it comes from. Who it comes from. Don’t deny him the chance to know his heritage.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him, not quite sure how to respond. Then slowly, gingerly, with a slightly shaking hand, she plucked the medallion from his hand and held it, looking over it intently. 

“I will,” she murmured, still never quite meeting his gaze. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Each step felt weightier than the last, as Petrus slowly descended into the dark pit of a prison that had become so intimately familiar to him since first arriving in Sérène all that time ago. It felt almost as if another lifetime entirely at this point. Sometimes he couldn’t help but think about the naïve young man who left Thélème and found he couldn’t even recognise himself. 

Sérène wasn’t concerned with salvation, the eternal soul, or spirituality of any kind. It cared about the one thing everywhere in the world had in common – politics. Everything was a manipulation of some kind. He’d been good enough at this kind of thing to survive just fine in Thélème. But here? He had fewer weapons, and was playing with people who were both far more experienced, and far more dangerous, than anything he’d seen before. He’d have to learn. 

He shouldn’t have directly confronted Livie de Sardet. He knew that now. He’d overplayed his hand. He was lucky to have left unscathed, and he was determined not to be caught out like that again.

He had to do better. Be better.

Arelwin was, as usual, sitting next to the bars of her cell and patiently waiting for him. The instant she heard the sound of boots hitting the stone floor, her head snapped up, eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips as she saw him approach. 

He tried to ignore just how much his heart swelled at the sight.

“Did you find him?”

He let out a small sigh, knowing that was always her first question these days. Adélard was all she ever wanted to hear about. Her one and only concern. She must have asked a thousand questions about him by now, and likely had a thousand more. But he wasn’t about to blame her for focusing on her son, who she had assumed was dead for what must have been something like five years. 

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, I found him.”

“And?” she asked, her voice so low he almost didn’t hear it. “Did you give it to him?”

Petrus felt his gut clench slightly at the thought of Arelwin’s medallion, and what ultimately became of it. And once again, the irritation and shame of it all came rushing back, and he wanted to kick himself for letting his emotions get the better of him. For not stopping to think before rushing in to confront a woman he had no reason to think he could best, with all the grace of a raging bull in a china shop. 

“Yes,” he lied softly. “Yes, of course I did.”

It wouldn’t especially matter what the truth of it was. Livie would have to give it to Adélard eventually, he was sure. 

Right there, immediately before him, something in Arelwin seemed to shift. Like, as he’d seen before, a strange weight had suddenly been lifted and she sagged, letting a long, steady breath as she did. Then she twisted around until she was kneeling on the floor of her cell and facing him, her hands reaching up to grip the bars, the broken, bleeding scabs on her knuckles clearly visible as she did. 

“I need something,” she said.

Petrus blinked. “Of course. Anything.”

“A plant. Small black berries. Leaves shaped like…” she paused, brow creasing for a moment as she couldn’t seem to find the words she wanted, before drawing out what she meant in the air. “I… do not know what you call it here.”

Immediately, Petrus felt his stomach drop as he realised what she was describing. 

“You’re talking about nightshade,” he breathed. “Arelwin, that’s a poison.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Why would you want poison?”

“Can you bring some to me?” she asked, ignoring his question.

Petrus didn’t answer. He couldn’t say anything at all. He wasn’t a fool – it didn’t take long to realise why she was asking. What she was asking for. Automatically, he leaned back, horror and revulsion plastered across his expression. 

No.

What?

No. No.

Absolutely not.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice low and hoarse and wavering ever so slightly as she reached through the bars to clutch at him before he could move away, tears silently streaming down her face. “Please.”

“Arelwin, I-” he started, still pulling back, ripping himself from her weak grip. “I can’t. I can’t. That isn’t something I can do.”

“It is,” she insisted softly, reaching through the bars towards him. “You can do it. Like an apple.”

An apple, something he had smuggled in so many times for her, since he realised they were the thing she seemed to enjoy most. Like all the different kinds of food he’d brought her since they’d met. To her, this wasn’t any different from that.

But it was. It was. He couldn’t. The guards wouldn’t notice a prisoner eating a little more. Wouldn’t care even if they did. But they would notice if one died from what was clearly self-poisoning. They would care about someone dying on their watch. They’d ask questions, and it wouldn’t take much to lead them to him. And then what? What would he do then?

He’d be sent back, surely. Back to Thélème, to live in disgrace. For causing a diplomatic incident. Forever branded the one who destroyed relations with the Congregation by aiding the death of a political prisoner. He would lose. Not just Arelwin. He’d lose everything. Everything, all of his life up to this point, would be gone. He’d have nothing left. 

And he-

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not that. Not for anyone. Not even for her. It was too much.

He just- he just had to explain, had to tell her, had to convince her that-

“You’re asking me to help kill you,” he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible.

“To go home,” she said softly, nodding as she did. “I want to go home.”

“That doesn’t make suicide an option!” he all but shouted, staggering away from her. 

Arelwin didn’t move. She didn’t react at all. Just stayed precisely where she was, kneeling on the floor of her cell, filled with a serene calm that made Petrus feel sick. 

“There is no other way,” she said simply. 

So quiet. So calm. Even the tears continued to fall.

“No,” he hissed, backing himself down the hall and even further away from her cell. “I won’t. I won’t do this.”

Arelwin’s eyes seemed to wide as she realised that he was leaving, and suddenly she was pushing herself as far as the bars of her cell would allow, frantically reaching through and out towards him, her expression suddenly wild and desperate.

“Petrus!” she screamed as he turned on his heels and all but fled, never looking back as her screams echoed down the hallway and his gut clenched. “Carants! Please!”

Petrus didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare.

“Petrus!”

Chapter Text

He tried not to think of her.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and Petrus threw himself into his work, doing absolutely everything he could think of to avoid even having to consider her. He stayed far away from the prison, unwilling to face her. Unable to stand the thought of going back there. He couldn’t do it. Not even to explain himself. He doubted she would understand even if he tried. 

That was what he told himself, at any rate.

But every so often, when he found himself visiting the palace for one reason or another, he would run into a young boy with her face. And suddenly, she was all he could think about. Her tears. The broken, bleeding scabs on her knuckles. The echoes of her screams still resonating in his mind. 

He tried not to think about it. He did everything he could. And the doubt continued to gnaw away at him.

Had he made the right choice? He wasn’t sure anymore. The diplomatic choice, certainly, but the right one? That was too difficult to say.

The doubt ate at him. Doubt like he’d never experienced before. 

He thought he knew doubt. Knew what it did, what it felt like. More than once in his life, he’d found himself doubting the Enlightened. Doubting his place. Doubting his purpose. Doubting who he was. He would have thought it was something of an old friend by this point. But this? This was new. This was utterly soul-crushing. And it would not leave him alone.

He just- 

He needed to explain. Needed her to understand. That it wasn’t just about her, but so much more. Maybe, if he got her to realise, got her to understand the truth of it, maybe if they talked about it, he could do something. Find another way to help. Do… well, anything.

That was why he’d come back here, after avoiding it for so long. Back to this horrible, dark, dingy hole in the ground that he’d once looked forward to. Back to this prison, lantern in hand, trying to ignore just how much he was shaking at the prospect of seeing her again, after how he left things. 

He still knew the way. Of course he did. He’d made this trip so many times, he didn’t think he would ever forget. 

Footsteps echoed throughout silent stone halls, loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. Loud enough to let her know someone was coming. Loud enough to keep from taking her by surprise. 

“…Arelwin?” he called her name shakily. “It’s… it’s me.”

Silence.

Petrus winced, but inhaled as he tried to steady himself, and made his way over to her cell. 

There was silence. Empty, cold, and completely dead. No sound of shuffling against stone as she moved. No sound of her breathing. No response. Just silence. 

Perhaps part of him knew what he was going to find, as he held the lantern up to shed light on that tiny space she’d been kept in for years. Perhaps that was why he was shaking, his eyes widening ever so slightly as the light touched stone, then the wall, then nothing at all.

He stood there. He didn’t know how long for. He just stood there, his hand frozen in place holding the lantern above his head, staring at the bare, crushingly empty space she had once occupied, his mind reeling. He stood there, for far too long, before he finally was able to bring himself to move. To slowly return up those stairs, through the seemingly endless halls and passageways, back up to the surface, back to where the guards he’d come to know so intimately well kept watch. 

He kept walking, for a moment.

Then he stopped.

“Excuse me,” he called, turning on his heels to face the men he’d passed by countless times, but never spoken to. “There used to be a prisoner down there. A woman, with an odd accent. What happened to her?”

There was a pause.

A painfully long pause as the guards exchanged a look. 

And then;

“Ah, right,” the man who stood closest to Petrus said, rolling his shoulders back tiredly. “Her. She’s dead, sir.”

Petrus blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“What? How?”

“She stopped eating,” came the largely disinterested response. “Just up and starved herself.”

“Nasty way to go,” the other guard supplied unhelpfully, nodding. “But there wasn’t much left of her to burn. Take what you can get, right?”

There might have been more to the exchange, but Petrus didn’t hear it. Suddenly, his heart was pounding in his ears, too loudly for him to focus on anything else. He took a step back, then another, then a couple more. 

He left. Or perhaps he fled.

Then, not too long after, he quietly gathered his things, and left Sérène.

He didn’t look back.

He would not ever look back.