I was walking through the streets into town when I overheard the gossip. I only heard some of it, I confess. But Artin. Something was wrong. Lei had attacked Artin. Lord… I needed to see him. Quickly.

I ran to the triage. Nearly punched through a Nursia.

The Morgue was cold. So were his hands. His eyes. His face. His chest. He was far too cold for life… That blank stare, the stare of death. Will it ever cease to gnaw at my soul? I fear it. I always have. What life shall he have, now? What death? His dull, decaying eyes keep fixed on my face.

We had fought, last we spoke. He was angry at me, in some ways, and I him. But Lord… Oh Lord. He’s gone.

He’s gone.

And the last words I told him were get out.

How shall I ever forgive myself?

A young man and woman speak in the gardens together. With one lame arm, he prepares his horse to leave. The woman is of Farin descent, but with piercing sapphire eyes that follow the man’s moves as he paces, slowly. She is on her knees beside a bed of flowers, weeding, as they talk. Worry and frustration etch her brow, and his face shows signs of hurt. The voices sound distant, just clips of their argument quietly overheard.

…Make a choice. You do not have time….

…don’t you -dare- say it. I care for you, and you know it. I cry for you, Artin. You bloody know I do… During the mass. I was there. I thought I’d lost you, and I cried. How can you say I didn’t care?…

..You hurt me, Nayiv. But I am used to hurt, so I do not mind… 

…Go. Just go. I need peace from this. Get out…

The Vandagan obliges. Once he rides off and the gates close, the young woman falls to her knees. Alone, with her head in her hands, she cries.

I still find it awfully strange, being back. Especially now that I am no longer a Reeve. Everything just feels… lost, without serving a greater purpose. I much enjoy the Physicians, that much is for certain. The medicine, the saving lives… it is all wonderful. However, I feel detached from what goes on throughout the city, and lost without the scales of justice upon my back.

Saving lives is different from serving them, I suppose. I have always taken medicine as a way to balance out the scales of my soul. For some reason, it eases the sting of death, knowing that, just as you take, you can also give. But without the taking, for some strange reason, I also feel lost. Without the purpose, without all the training and survival, the bloodshed and drive, I feel alone.

I cannot go back though. Not without good reason. It’s too hard, going from leader to watching their struggles from a backseat. I must let Max take his turn. But… I suppose I shall still be here. If the city needs me once more.

The last time that you were arrested, I played nice. I took a finger, questioned nicely, and when you escaped, I hated myself on the inside. This month has been pure abyss, plain and simple. All that magery, all those letters and messengers and strange dreams? And I now know that it was you. You even dared admit it to me, sitting in that interrogation chair, with a smile on your face. And I hate you for it.

We had tea today, the tea you always wanted us to have. It was delicious. Torture and tea, that’s the relationship between us, hm? I learned so much about you, and we had such a lovely time. Our last time, before I see you burn. But I was still angry.

So I gave you a present, this time around. Something to remember me by. So that even if you escape, even if you manage to get away from me again, you’ll -never- be able to walk through this city without hiding your face from the Urth. It’s right on your cheeks, carved with my own knife. The eye of Justice, and the letters ‘N.R.’ My initials, so that even when you burn, I’ll know it was my handiwork that brought you up in flames.

Sweet dreams, dear friend of mine. Sweet dreams.

When I was young, playing in the gardens, I found a dying baby bird. It was too young and small, and someone or something in the course of their lives had knocked it from it’s place in the trees. I wanted it to live, so I rushed inside to bring it to my father, a strong, tall Farin man with the fair, rounded belly of an old soldier and a laugh so deep and merry none could help but smile to.

I remember him like that, the aroma of his pipe in a warm, comforting aroma around him, medical bag sitting by his foot while I sat on his knee. The only time he was stern with me was when I disturbed his patients or when I had made mother worry. He sat behind his desk then, reading papers and looking through his logs, ink stains on his sleeves.

“Papa!” I called to him, holding the little thing in my hands like it were a doll, wrapped in one of mother’s handkerchiefs. I run to the side of the desk and held it up to him. My best child’s attempt at a pleading gaze was given, paired with a trembling lower lip.