"Yet another reason we so adore our amiable monarch," commented the Phantom, the sarcasm almost visible as a fog in the air as it left his lips. Once again he scanned what they could see of the camp, sprawled beneath clouded skies with only the occasional star.

One night in a jail cell was all they needed. Then it was out, and into the palace, and - well, they'd hashed it out in the Keep, and the Phantom saw no value in voicing the plan once again, especially with soldiers uncomfortably near.

He settled for idly letting his eyes wander over to the violet tent, lit within by torchlight. To be marched through Y'rydha's streets might not be all bad. "We are heroes," he pointed out. "You know, champions of the less fortunate. Maybe they'll cheer. Except for the hanging part."

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Dante had drifted off from their little group for a bit, and was putting every word he remembered from diplomacy studies into use, trying to mask his obvious motives to the poor young soldier who he was arguing with.

"Look, do I look like the young, fighting type to you?" he said. "No. I swear, I'm not <i>really</i> a rebel! I'm a cartographer... I would never get involved in political mayhem by choice! Can't you just put in a good word-"

The young man passed a hand over his aching forehead, swore mildly, and turning on his heel, walked off.

Pacing back to the group, Dante caught just the last part of the Phantom's words. "Heroes? Champions? Somehow I've never imagine those terms synonymous with <i>criminals</i>, which is what we're being treated like... only worse."

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<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

"I don't know if it's escaped your notice, but we are criminals," Kjan pointed out. "A criminal is someone who breaks the law, which we knowingly and willingly do. Stealing, killing, breaking people out of prison - they're all illegal, regardless of who's in charge. The fact that a selfish, immoral, murdering, vile dictator is presently the one enforcing such laws has no bearing on the fact that we are, ultimately, breaking them. We always knew we'd be criminals if we did this. We just happen to have a reason for it."

"And this 'reason' is worth facing the death sentence?" a passing soldier stopped to inquire. His armor bore the markings of only a lieutenant, though he was at least ten years older than the Phantom. He didn't move on when his query was met with stony silence, apparently content to wait until someone did answer.

Kjan appraised the man narrowly for a moment, then slowly replied, "Yes."

"But you have accomplised virtually nothing. The man whom you oppose is still in power, you are in chains, and your entire force is soon to be executed. You would still choose this over simply enduring a ruler with whom you don't fully agree?"

"Do you see anyone else disagreeing?" interjected the Phantom. He sat up from where he'd been half-sprawled in the dirt, unconcerned for his clothes. "S'all it takes, sometimes. The power of disagreement. I disagree, therefore others feel that it is not unprecedented and that they, too, can hold a differing opinion from our, ah, beloved monarch."

He tapped a finger on his temple. "It's all in the thinking. If I die for it, obviously it's worth dying for." His logic was marred slightly due to this, perhaps, being a reflection upon the Phantom's slightly inflated opinion of his own influence. Oblivious, he sprawled once more in the dirt and yawned elaborately. "Any more questions?"

_________________

"And what makes your verdict absolute?" the soldier persisted. "You disagree with the Regent - that's your right as a citizen. But what of those who are perfectly content to continue living under his rule? What right do you have to force your ideals upon them?"

"You'll notice," Kjan interjected, "that those in favor of the Regent are seldom those presently being taxed far beyond their means. No doubt many peasants would be content to live under him, if they could actually afford to live."

"It's clear enough that you aren't all peasants. No one actually believes that you're doing this solely for the benefit of the lower class. And the fact that you're willing to die for your cause isn't sufficient explanation of what your cause is. Many soldiers here would consider it an honor to die for the Regent, but it's clear that you aren't on the same side. So I'll ask again: What reason is worth the death sentence?"

"Look, Lieutenant..."

"Bren Caedon."

"Lieutenant Caedon, we're tired and sore and hungry - can't the interrogation wait? You're not going to get anything out of us tonight, obviously. Whoever sent you for information will just have to be disappointed."

"I swear on pain of death, I'm here solely of my own accord," Caedon replied, slowly lowering himself to the ground. "In fact, I could land myself in serious trouble for speaking to you at all. It's just that I've lost quite a few good friends to this fight, and I'd like to at least know that there's something more behind it than the whim of a couple of nobles."

Jate reclined on his elbow, watching the discussion between the soldier and the leaders. The words the man said echoed in his mind, bringing up words from what seemed another lifetime. At once he was back in the capital city, facing the Phantom from across iron bars, challenging his right to rebel. The Phantom had been insufferably self-possessed then, too, Jate thought with an inward chuckle. The passion he spoke with then never completely left the young man's memory. To want something so much....

Sitting up and edging closer, Jate joined in the discourse. "You know, I once thought as you did. Once. The nice stone walls of the city helped keep people in need at bay. But, circumstances being what they were," he gave a wry grin, "I got to experience them firsthand. Seeing people struggle everyday.....well, it changes your perspective." He shrugged. The man may not believe that helping people was the heart of the matter, but there wasn't really much Jate could do about it.

_________________
going on a journey through my old claims

The Phantom considered. Motivation? Personally, he found it excellently motivating when the constant threat of a painful death at the hands of some sadistic elf was hanging over his head, but that was perhaps not quite what Lieutenant Caedon was looking for. Also, he didn't get the feeling that the soldier would be particularly impressed at the revelation that the whole rebellion had its roots in the fact that the Phantom had been bored.

"If most of a country is under the thumb of the rest of the country, I figure," he began, wishing he could stretch out with his hands behind his head and settling for a cramped half-sitting, half-lying position, "then if the country gets into trouble, that resentful most of the country isn't in much of a position to be enthusiastic about defending it."

He sat up again, concluding that it was more comfortable, and offered the older man a sardonic grin. "You could call it my own self-preservation."

_________________

The lieutenant looked prepared to say something in response, but Kjan cut him off. "If you're trying to find a logical reason that we're doing this, then you're going to be searching for quite a long time. Really, it's not a question of why, but why not. No one in his right mind would dare defy the standing monarch like we have, but it needed to happen eventually. And since we're obviously mad enough to do it, why not?"

He leaned back as well as he could with his hands restricted as they were. The lieutenant had no idea just how close he was to the truth of it. "We do have a reason, but yeah, I think you could ultimately say this was just the product of a noble's whim."

Whether Lieutenant Caedon was satisfied (unlikely) or simply resigned to the fact that he'd get nothing more specific out of the rebels, he'd clearly had enough for one night. "There'll be trouble if I delay much longer," he muttered, shaking the Phantom's hand and standing up. "A word of advice: try to refrain from acting on any whims in the near future. The commander's only orders are to keep you alive, and he's known to get inventive."

He saluted - an act that Kjan somehow managed to mirror without looking entirely foolish - and disappeared once more into the night.

<center>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</center>

There was an atmosphere of growing uneasiness among the rebels as they waited for the messengers to return. As predicted, it had taken them nearly two more days to reach the capital, coming into sight of the gates just as the bright daylight was starting to be replaced by the golden glow of evening. A small detachment of soldiers had been sent ahead to inform the Regent of the victory and receive his instructions concerning the prisoners, while everyone else stayed behind and waited. That had been more than an hour ago.

Kjan shifted his weight impatiently, fighting the urge to groan out loud. It was unsettling to be this close and yet doing nothing. If the intent behind the long delay was to make the prisoners even more on edge, then it was working. Thus far, Kjan was at least managing to remain mostly composed on the exterior, but on the interior thoughts were flying so fast that he wasn't even sure where one ended and another began.

This was it. This was their last possible chance to turn the fight in their favor. They'd either come out of this with the last ally any of them had ever expected, or dead. Kjan personally preferred the first option, but he was also keenly aware of just how difficult it would be to make happen. And if even one little thing went wrong....

There was stirring throughout the company as the returning messengers were finally spotted. As soon as they had reached the clearing where the rest waited, a newcomer - ostensibly some servant of the Regent's - made his way over to Commander Sorian. They made no attempt at being quiet, and they were standing just near enough that most of the rebels could overhear.

"His Excellency commends you on this great victory, commander," the servant said, bowing. "However, he feels that it is impractical to admit so many rebels into the capital, prisoners or no. I have been instructed to inform you that he is interested only in half."

The Phantom had long ago given up sitting, cramped, unable to find a comfortable position due to his bound hands. With every changing angle of the setting sun, time stretched inexorably onward, until he almost longed to be within the walls of Y'rydha and past this agonizing wait.

He was standing, looking at the silhouette of the city, which was dark on the delicate gold-leaf clouds, when the messengers returned. The soldiers, many still standing at attention among the clustered rebels, looked as relievedas he felt.

The Phantom's mind began to tumble over itself. Once inside Y'rydha, they must escape the cell, and infiltrate the palace. It could all be done in a night, and the evening was too late to garner the crowd the Regent no doubt desired for hangings. Might there be a riot? Not if the citizens of Y'rydha had sense. Besides, the Phantom was -

He was jerked from his single-minded mental rehearsal when a huddled group of ragged young men near him was prodded to their feet. All throughout the gathered rebels, the same was happening, but some were left, shifting nervously and looking uncomprehendingly at their fellow rebels. There seemed to be a strange randomness to the proceedings; a detached, thin-lipped endurance on the part of the soldiers.

Setting sun flashed on a blade, half unsheathed. Sorian waved an arm at one last group of rebels. The Phantom's uneasiness began to mount.

"What's going on?" he demanded, seizing the arm of the nearest sentry.

The man's eyes flicked from him and spun over the rebels, and with a mounting sense of dread he let go as the soldier backed away. His eyes were flat. "His Excellency desires only half," he said, and fled.

The Phantom whirled. Now the two groups were being divided in half. More sparks of brilliance, golden sun on silver steel, and rasps of metal in their sheaths. Some of the rebels were resisting, only half-knowing why, twisting to look at the place where the Phantom stood, lone and upright against the sky.

Only half.

"Leave my men alone!" he roared, launching himself at the group. The words, the two words, pounded against his skull. Only half. Only half. Only half.

Too quickly to have been caught by surprise, he felt his arms seized and bent behind him. He lashed out, vision clouding with the crimson of the sunset. Noise faded.

Sun flashed on the first blade.

_________________

No sooner had Kjan moved to back up the Phantom than he was met with equal resistance. The blow to the side of his head from a hilt was enough to send him reeling, though he didn't black out entirely. At any rate, fighting was out of the question for the moment. Curse it! They should have anticipated this. It had been foolish to assume that the Regent would just automatically believe that they were surrendering without a fight and toss them all into cozy little cells until he could get around to executing. He was smart - of course he'd expect a ruse of some sort and do what he could to thwart it!

No further attempt at defiance was permitted as the soldiers quickly began prodding the remaining prisoners along. Kjan winced as his already bruised side received a sharper-than-necessary jab from the blunt end of someone's spear. Glancing once over at the Phantom to make sure the man wasn't contemplating anything stupid, Kjan muttered something rather explicit to the offending soldier and started to walk.

It was absolutely silent as they approached the capital. Even many of the soldiers appeared unsettled by what had just occurred, despite their best attempts at stoicism. Kjan didn't dare look back, still too shocked to fully process it all. So many! He had lost men in battle before, many of whom he'd even considered friends. It never got easier, but by now he considered himself something of an expert when it came to coping with loss. Death was part of war, obviously, and he knew that - but so many!

He found himself scanning the crowd of men - they were on the road now, and the soldiers had packed in more tightly to accommodate the more narrow space - for familiar faces. It was with great relief that he caught a glimpse of Jate at one point. He valued every man's life, of course, but if the last heir had been killed....

Kjan didn't care to contemplate it at the present. He continued his search, though it was difficult to make out many distinct faces, the way everyone was moving. Some individuals he was able to pick out; others were conspicuous by their absence. He knew he'd seen Galen taken away by the soldiers, and Aden, and-

The sunset really was quite pretty. Delicate clouds tinted with gold and orange outlined the city in a radiant glow. The faintest streaks of scarlet were just beginning to form –bold red, smeared across the gold, overlaying it, tainting all in its path, flowing freely….They were going to have to tell wives, sweethearts, parents, siblings, children. Explain to all of them why yes, they had been victorious, but their loved ones still would not be returning. Assuming they were victorious. The men had volunteered, had known that there was a great risk in doing this – had they told their families of this risk? Nearly forty men, some of them hardly even old enough to be called that. The soldiers hadn’t discriminated, just pulled random rebels out until they’d met the Regent’s quota. And now they were all-

They’d reached the gates of the capital. There was a brief pause as the soldiers reorganized yet again to form a solid perimeter around the prisoners. No doubt the rest would be seeing to crowd control, preventing any potential attempts at rescue. Kjan looked to the Phantom again, gauging his friend’s mood. In other circumstances, he might have made some offhand comment in an attempt to lighten the mood, or offered words of encouragement. But jokes hardly seemed appropriate at the moment, and the only encouragement that he could think of couldn’t be mentioned within the hearing of the soldiers. So instead, he settled for clasping the man’s arm briefly and evincing as much of a wry smile as he could manage at the present.

“Time to go be heroes.”

Red clouded his vision, turning the scene to one blur of crimson and gold from the setting sun. The Phantom could hear nothing but his own roar in his ears.

Until the first yell, crystal clear, shattered his fog of fury. He gasped, flinging his head up and shaking his hear from his eyes, going still in an effort to see. It wasn't real. This was not happening. He did not see the gleaming blade of a swords raised, and he did not see another dripping with blood.

And yet their illusions persisted. He tried to convince himself. Then, as one of the younger men was forced to his knees, he jerked his head up and looked straight into the Phantom's eyes. He watched the spark of terror there freeze and dull, watched as another sword turned red.

The Phantom went numb.

For a short time - a long time? An eternity? - there was nothing except those eyes. When he was next aware of his surroundings, the gates were looming, and his arms were immobilized to the point of being numb and tingling from lack of blood circulation.

He sucked in a breath, hearing it rasp and feeling himself swell once more with rage. The field of slaughter was behind them, but he could clearly see the bloodied weapons.

Kjan's words were too calm. "If we were heroes," he rasped, feeling the soldiers beside him tighten their grips, "bloody thrice-cursed dark gods, if we were heroes -"

A treble voice pierced through the rumble of wagon wheels and the clatter of boots and the rattle of armor. A boy, standing stock-still with several packages in his hands, just inside the open gate of Y'rydha, had frozen in place despite being jostled by the crowd. The press of people cleared, leaving him standing there, a lone figure.

"Phantom Grey!" the child cried in dismay. "It's Phantom Grey!"

_________________

Driven, driven like goats or cattle. Dante couldn't shake the sensation of having his will completely taken away, and abstractedly thought, <i>So this is how captives feel.</i>

He couldn't resist the urge to turn and stare again, disbelievingly, searching out the faces of the Regent's men and officers, despising them suddenly with a sick, relentless feeling in his stomach that wouldn't let up. There had been reports, rumors, all sorts of stories he'd heard before, and brushed off as none of his affairs; but <i>this</i>. Dante's head throbbed endlessly, so that he could scarcely think clearly about what had just happened.

They'd all been so valiant, so earnest. And then, they'd just been killed. There was no glory to it. They weren't even allowed to fight to the end. Just killed.

Dante pushed his way forward through the remaining group of rebels. Bewildering thoughts and images filled his head so that a cohesive thought could scarcely survive the mayhem. He wondered distractedly about Ash and Jate, and then wondered at himself for even caring. But he'd seen so much; he'd seen life and death, and suddenly he knew he cared about both. The sensation was overwhelming.

Finally he spotted a familiar head in the crowd. "Kjan," he said, but his voice wasn't as strong as he intended, and got lost in the jostling of the tiny group of rebels that remained. He tried pushing his way forward, scarcely knowing why he wanted so badly to be near that man, the man months ago he would have rather liked to see dead. A shudder racked his frame; had he even understood death then?

There was a break between to bodies in front of him, and he pushed his way through it, trying to block the disturbing images that came involuntarily into his mind. At last he found himself behind Kjan, and wondered again why he'd fought to be here. He felt confused, overwhelmed, and only two words presented themselves to him at the moment. The very thought of them was distasteful, horrendous, and struck hard against his very nature. But they were all he had, and suddenly Dante realized that they might be the <i>last</i> two words he ever had. That alone gave him the courage to utter them.

"Kjan," he said, waiting until the younger man had craned enough to see him. "Kjan... I... I'm sorry."

And somehow, he knew that was enough, and allowed himself to be swallowed back into the group.

_________________
<center>
"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

Jate squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories would not leave. He could still see the young man's large brown eyes, terrified and bewildered, then empty as another blade stained itself red. It was sheer chance --that or fate taking part-- that the soldier brushed by Jate to choose another. The fact that he was alive and breathing did little to compensate for the knowledge that so many others no longer were. His legs moved mechanically as they were herded down the street. What horrors were to come?

_________________
going on a journey through my old claims

<i>Step. Step. Step. Step.</i>

Ash marched mechanically with the group, staring ahead blankly. The sight of so many rebels being chosen at random and slaughtered- it played itself in his mind, over and over again. A soldier had picked out one man, even younger than Ash himself, from right in front of him. Ash had been talking to the rebel- he had a younger brother and a sweetheart among the evacuees. He kept talking about how he would marry her, how he would find them all a good house after it was all over. Now…

“It’s Phantom Grey!” The child’s voice startled Ash out of his stunned movements, and he looked around, vaguely surprised to find they were already in the city. People gawked at the ragged group from a safe distance away, mothers hugging their children protectively. <i>As if we’re the ones to be scared of.</i> He thought. Searching the crowd, he tried to spot just one face that didn’t stare out with hostile or frightened eyes, but gave up. <i>What does it matter? If we die, we die no matter what they think of us.</i>

The child's cry was echoed quietly as it rapidly spread through the crowd. Some had apparently already heard news of the rebels' arrival and were lining the streets wherever there was room. The rest were hurrying to fill in the gaps, struggling for the spots with the best view. News had traveled quickly, and it seemed that at least half the town had dropped everything to come watch. Kjan idly wondered how many stories would one day be told to grandchildren about that time when the city stood still, just to catch a glimpse of the infamous Phantom Grey. Or for that matter, what sort of stories they would be. Had people dropped everything to see a hero, or a dangerous criminal?

It was difficult to determine the public opinion from reactions alone. Most of the civilians were smart enough to be intimidated by the swarm of soldiers surrounding the rebels, and so very few opinions were expressed to either extreme. Abruptly, Kjan realized that he didn't have a clue what the general perception of them was, at the present. The increasing number of conflicts in recent months had resulted in his energy being mostly spent on planning fights and fighting in them, rather than diplomatic efforts. He couldn't recall the last time he'd actually sat down to talk to someone still living outside the Keep (Jate excluded). Were they heroes?

He thought he heard someone calling his name and belatedly realized that it was Dante. The man muttered something resembling an apology, then disappeared again, leaving a rather bemused Kjan. Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry that he'd been a royal pain for the past month? Sorry that half their force had just been slaughtered before their eyes? Sorry that they were all presently being led to their deaths? A not-so-gentle nudge informed Kjan that thinking made him move too slowly, and so he shoved the question aside for later consideration. He could ask while they were killing time in their lovely little cells.

He looked up, intending to check on the Phantom, and dodged just in time to avoid what looked to be a piece of fruit. Original, that. Only the fact that they were still technically supposed to be the good guys (and the soldiers' tightened grip on his arms) kept Kjan from rather colorfully expressing his opinion. As it turned out, the soldier behind him - who had been the unfortunate recipient of the dodged projectile - took care of that anyway, leaving Kjan free to resume his contemplation. He'd never known Phae to give up, but he'd also never known Phae to lose his stronghold, get arrested, have half his men slaughtered before his eyes, and be paraded through the streets like a mere war prize, all within the course of three days. It wouldn't hurt to-

Fifteen silvers. There was a poster hanging on the side of a building, and it gave his reward as fifteen silvers. Twenty had been low, but fifteen! They were practically mocking him, now! What did they imagine he'd been doing for the past five- One of the soldiers apparently had gotten tired of the random stops and gave Kjan a hard shove forward. The momentum, combined with the inability to stop himself with his arms, sent him crashing into the Phantom, which resulted in both of them only barely avoiding a rather undignfied fall to the ground.

Kjan turned to glare daggers at the offending soldier, then straightened and calmly continued as though nothing had happened. "Stupid poster," he muttered. "They severely undervalue me. Why are you the only one who ever gets a large price on your head?"

The Phantom didn't answer. He was absorbed in the silent faces lining the streets, individual expressions moving from the wide, shocked gazes of the poorer folk to the schooled apathy of some detached observers to the transparently disguised satisfaction of the nobles. For a moment, he forgot about the escape plan. He forgot about the secret passage. All the Phantom knew, glimpsing that disappointment, was guilt.

Fixing his eyes rigidly ahead, he spotted the silhouette of a gallows against the sunset sky before they were prodded around a bend and into the richer district of the city. The palace, its stones flushed crimson and orange, towered silently over every noble's spacious villa. Their denizens, called from their idle occupations by the clamor of the procession, floated onto balconies to sweep detached gazes over the ragged band of rebels, and disappear once again.

At least, thought the Phantom, there were no more haggard faces staring at what they thought was their hope dashed against the stones. He was only glad that they could not see the slaughter on the hills outside Y'rydha, or the thin plume of smoke from where they must be burning the bodies. Perhaps some of those dead had kinsmen in Y'rydha. Kinswomen. Widows, mothers, children -

A particularly violent jostle forced the Phantom from his guilt-ridden thoughts, and without thinking he turned on the unlucky soldier, expression contorted with fury. The man started back, eyes going wide, and the Phantom felt his arms hauled back with an intensity that spoke of paranoia. He shook off the unreasoning fog of anger, and fell back into step.

Solely to keep from sinking back into morbid contemplation, he glanced at Kjan sideways. Unable to force levity, and recalling a comment about wanted posters from somewhere in the crowd of faces, he merely said, "Just be glad they want me dead more than you."

_________________