Evening found the caravan on a calm, leeward slope peppered with wildflowers. The solitary sentinels of copses dotted the untamed grass. A sun like the eye of a dragon lit the western ridges and set the valley below ablaze in scarlet. A river wove its silver path through the valley, and T'mor sent a few boys down to fetch water while the others made camp.

They risked a few campfires. Temperatures would plunge with nightfall, and the youngest children needed the warmth. Though it'd been hours since they'd hidden from the last Meiltha patrol, by communal consent they decided to take minimum chances. They sheltered the campfires under the branches of the few scattered conifers, where their flames tossed sputtering flickers into the dim twilight.

Darkness deepened. Infants wailed. Mothers warned youngsters away from imagined peril. In the distance, lonely howls of wolves echoed into the night, driving children back into their mothers' arms.

Kendath helped unload food and bedrolls, then wandered off in search of Merrin. He passed Garthag conferring with Adeila and offered the two a curt nod before continuing on his way. Snatches of scoldings - "if you explore too much, a bear will eat you" or "finish your chicken or you'll turn into one just like Cousin Nettie" - drifted by as he circumvented the campfires. When was the last time he'd heard those threats in that same, familiar country lilt? It sparked memories of thatched roofs and roaring bonfires. Villagers everywhere weren't so different.

A small distance off, T'mor's broad shoulders towered over a crowd of refugees - women, mostly, with a few older children scattered among them. He seemed to be answering questions. Kendath approached from the side, waited a few minutes, and cleared his throat as T'mor turned his way.

"Have you seen Merrin?"

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"Last I saw her -" T'mor nodded down the grassy slope, to where a cluster of pines sheltered a pair of rough tents and a bravely struggling campfire. He lifted the last bundle of bedrolls, sweeping a brief glance over the darkening sky. "Someone's doll got dropped under a wheel."

He stopped, meeting Kendath's gaze frankly. "I don't know what happened, but tell her to rest. She's tired." A moment, and the grin was back. "She likes playing mother. Used to drive me out of my mind."

---

"There. Your baby's better now?" Merrin handed the doll back to its owner. The girl's name was Dia, as far as she could tell past the endearing lisp, and she was four. Her doll, which she referred to as her baby, had had a nasty encounter with the wagon wheel that had ripped its threadbare midsection and allowed straw stuffing to spill out in a most distressing manner. Merrin had substituted grass, and hunted up a needle and thread.

The girl nodded silently. Merrin sat back on her heels. "What do you say?" came the parental prompt from across the campfire.

Dutifully the small mother turned. "T'ank you."

"You're welcome. I hope he's all right." Merrin watched the small family begin to pass around what food was available, and gave a shake of her head and a smile when offered some as well.

Drifting away, she stopped to lean against a pine and look at the valley below and its background of silhouetted mountain peaks against the sky, whose pink and orange was fading. Automatically, her eyes drifted to the darkening vault above. It was silent, devoid of draconic shapes - only the whisper and occasional squeak of bats in the trees and sky hinted at anything that flew.

Merrin let out a sigh, dropping her head against the tree. Fixing dolls. When they'd all lost those dear to them. By all rights they should never want her near them again. So like those at home. If Riversmeet were ever in danger...

She shook her head and found that the motion, along with being sore from the wagon, made her temples ache. Turning, hoping Kendath wasn't busy with one of the many tasks that seemed to need doing, she started back up the slope.

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"Tsk, tsk. Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

Kendath approached Merrin from behind. He threw furtive glances over his shoulder before, satisfied that no one was watching, he spun her around and swept her lips with a kiss. He lingered, reveling in the feel of her in his arms, then drew back to appraise her at arm's length.

A pause.

Then, "You are a nightmare." And he wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

Merrin looked cheerful enough, but flickering ghosts from the campfire haunted her cheeks and widened her eyes, which seemed too large for her thin face. Kendath unslung his satchel and handed her a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. "You're eating that. I've filled some canteens at the river, too - should be enough for both of us." He slung his satchel back over his shoulder and started toward an unoccupied copse of junipers. "Come on. These brats are making my head hurt."

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Merrin couldn't help but grin, warmth rippling to the tips of her toes. She shivered once from the pure alien delight of his touch, and caught up to find his fingers and entwine them with her own, loaf of bread still in hand. She was hungry.

The first stars were winking in the velvet of the eastern sky. Merrin let go his hand - lingering just a moment over the reassuring warmth on hers - and sat down to eagerly begin what would pass as dinner. "Do you think Adeila would let me ride some, tomorrow?" she asked as he sat too. "I...missed you. Today."

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Kendath lowered himself onto the bed of coarse grass. He kicked his boots off - his feet felt swollen from walking - and reached into his satchel for another loaf of bread. He broke off a piece, then eyed her as he chewed. The tangled branches overhead obscured what little light the moon shed, but even in the darkness her cheeks were pale.

"How do you feel?" he asked bluntly.

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Merrin opened her mouth to tell him she was fine. She looked up, bread crumbling in her fingers, and found that looking - being caught in the intensity of his gaze on her - rendered her mute. She dropped her eyes. "I...I don't know."

It was the truth. She felt exhausted, spent, frightened of even her dreams. And then there was the delight, the elation, the surprise every time she turned around and he was there. The feeling of not wanting to let go, even sleeping, even dreaming. Merrin dared to look up again, sucking in a deep breath.

"I just need to...sleep," she said. "I just - dreaming - I'm...scared."

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Something about the way Merrin said that - the tremor in her voice, perhaps - sent a chill crawling down his spine. Kendath glanced sharply at her. He'd barely understood her words, but through the halting hesitation he registered... she was scared? Of what? The Lich was gone. The Shard was theirs. She was alive.

She was alive.

With a yank Kendath uncorked the water canteen and pushed it into her hands. "Drink. You haven't finished your bread yet. Do you want something else? There's cheese and salted goat on the wagon. I can get some for you, if you like."

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Merrin managed to laugh down at where the loaf of bread, broken in half, lay on the cloth it'd been wrapped in. She shook her head emphatically. "No. Stay."

To prove that she meant it, she gulped a mouthful of chill water from the mountain stream and took a bite of bread. "I'm fine, I am," she said when she next looked up and found his eyes still on her, trying to infuse the words with as much confidence as possible. "Just...don't go. Stay here."

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Kendath shrugged and sat back down. A gust of wind tumbled down the mountainside, rattling the treetops, and he shivered and leaned back against the thin trunk. He continued to watch Merrin in the corner of his eye. She'd taken another bite of bread, which for some reason failed to reassure him. I'm fine, she'd said. He didn't believe her.

"There's nothing to be scared of," he said, and fell silent. What more could he say? He'd never comforted anyone before, much less... Merrin was still gazing at him, waiting. Curse it, he was a miserable failure. "You can't... Merrin..." He forced it out. Bluntly, again. "What are you afraid of?"

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Merrin stared at him, the food in her fingers instantly forgotten. What was she afraid of - oh, gods, everything. Everything. "The dark," she said, barely above a whisper. Like one of the children, huddled around a campfire. Scared of the dark, of monsters. She bit her lip hard, trying to stem the tide of tears that seemed ever-threatening. The words, too, that would spill from her lips if she let them. "The dark. And falling, forever. And...and being...alone."

Her voice broke on the last word and Merrin dropped the fragments of bread that she still held to raise her hands to her face. "I didn't do it," she said, through the tears that would not be kept back any longer. "I tried - so hard - but I didn't, and it hurt, and I was so scared. I was so scared."

The words couldn't begin to describe it. Merrin raised her head, wiping her eyes, trying to smile. "And then it was all right," she whispered. "Everything was all right - and if I'm too happy maybe it'll all disappear. Like the dreams."

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I was so scared.

Another chill rippled through Kendath, though from the wind or from her words he couldn't know. He knew he should look away - knew he should say something, do something - but he could only stare at her, frozen, as the first of the tears glistened in her eyes. Merrin had been scared. Merrin, the Chosen of the Gods, who had held her head high and driven their enemies back with white fire, had been terrified.

What was she saying? Could she hear herself talk? Kendath's own fear chilled his veins as he moved toward her to cup her cheeks in his hands. He found her skin damp with tears. He leaned forward to kiss her, long and deeply. "You're alive," he said, breathing the words against her lips. "The gods... they gave you a second chance. They have faith in you, Merrin. I..." I have faith in you. He'd spoken it, that long ago night, right before his hand had found the haft of his dagger.

There was nothing more to say.

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Merrin reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and press against him, finding solace in the warm, undeniable reality of his arms. The gods gave you a second chance. "Why is it me?" she asked, muffled, into his chest. Kendath couldn't answer, but the question asked itself, unheard and incessant, in her head, with pounding inescapable regularity. She had to voice it. "Why is it me? They could have had anyone else...anyone else but me. I didn't do it. I failed."

I failed.

Merrin shrank against him, feeling all at once the weight of the world. The weight she'd borne before, held even through everything. But she'd crumbled under it, there in the Citadel, in the void of the underworld so far from all she knew. What if she did it again? What if every time it was important, she would fall again into nothingness, hear again the laughter rebounding off the walls and the whispers of the shadows that told her how weak she was?

A sob tore through her. Merrin pulled away, looking up to find his face. Tears blurred the sight. She blinked them away and he was real, solid, looking down at her. "Promise you'll stay with me," she whispered. "Promise."

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Kendath almost laughed aloud at that. What was there to promise? Promises could be broken. Promises were nothing, but Merrin...

Stay with her? He couldn't leave her if he tried.

But she was looking up at him, waiting for him to speak. The silence was deafening. He met her gaze. "All right. I promise. Merrin..." He gripped her shoulders and pushed her back, studying her face. Tears still glistened in her eyes. He shook her. "You know full well that I can name a dozen reasons why the gods chose you above the rest. Why are you doubting? You never doubted before - you never asked why - " He fell silent, still watching her, trying to make her see. Curse it, she'd said it before! About the gods, about faith...

The bread lay forgotten in its tangle of cloth. Kendath snatched it up and pushed it back into her hands. "Eat. You're not eating. Do you want T'mor to pummel me?"

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Merrin sat back on her heels, casting her eyes down to the forgotten loaf of bread. She let out a long breath. Tears fell among the crumbs, and she raised a hand to wipe them away. They glistened faintly on her hands, lit by the barest pinpoints of starlight. Too early, yet, for the moon.

She raised her head to smile at him shakily, remembering. I want to see you smile again.

No, she'd never doubted before. Before Wyvern fell before her eyes, and her last sight of Vryngard was veiled by smoke. Before the world had grown so heavy that it felt crippling. She dared to reach for white fire and feel the brush on her consciousness, the reassurance. Why are you doubting now?

"I don't know," she said, half to herself. "I don't know."

A breath of night wind whirled the scent of pine needles through the cool air. Merrin let out a long sigh, and dutifully began to make a dent in her dinner while she knew he watched. All of them, T'mor and Kendath and Adeila, watching her as though she might expire from exhaustion at any moment. Merrin dared to smile at the thought.

There was silence, while she ate. Merrin paused halfway through, looking down at what was left. "All of it?"

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"Yes," Kendath said, and again offered Merrin the water canteen. The barest phantom of a smile still flitted about her features as she took another bite. He took this as a good sign.

Merrin looked intent on choking the rest of it down, so Kendath allowed himself to avert his gaze. Beyond the circle of trees, shadows moved back and forth before the last flickers of campfires, just beginning to sputter out. A single babe wailed into the darkness, then fell silent. Quiet cloaked the camp. He glanced back at Merrin in time to wave his finger at a few bulky crumbs she'd missed - she didn't want to waste food, did she? At last satisfied, he jerked his boots back on and helped her to her feet.

"T'mor and I think you should sleep." He began leading the way closer to the clustered wagons, where a few unclaimed bedrolls still lay scattered on the grass. "I can sleep beside you, if that'll help you... be less afraid."

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Relief blossomed in her breast before Merrin could think of the echoes that told her how childish she was, to be afraid of nightmares. The specters in the distant night faded, chased away. Tentatively she moved closer, to briefly put her arms around him and lean her head on his shoulder. "Yes," she said. "Please."

Burrowing down against the cooling night into even the thin bedroll made her realize how tired she was. Merrin turned over to look at the stars sprayed across the heavens, even as drowsiness drew her eyes closed. "Good night," she murmured. Safe. Safe here, where the shadows were harmless.

She closed her eyes.

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