text: [Themes: fantasy, war]
  
  You sprint back towards the garrison quicker than your retreat. The prodding of a war party heading in your direction isn't as much as your leader, perhaps a friend, bleeding out. Your side aches. Your legs feel as if running on sand. But still, they are small nuisances compared to the feeling Redding has. It's not a day's journey by any means. However, you're acutely aware of possible complications upon arriving back to the garrison. Returning without your scout escorts--possibly labeled a deserter. You wonder if Alexander's protection will still fall on you without the former corporal. Benjamin, for instance, probably wouldn't mind another crack at you. First, you've got to arrive at the garrison. The complications come second.
  
  Halfway there, you realize that you never re-holstered your flintlock. It's probably ruined by water damage by now, not that you need it any longer. The artifact seems to fulfill that category, and more. You briefly entertain dumping your longsword as well as it's unnecessary weight. Surely, the artifact can become one.
  
  (I can.)
  Thanks for your input.
  
  The voice can hear your thoughts somehow. You're bonded in a manner you can't explain. Even when it's silent, you can feel its presence, a low humming of energy ready to be unleashed. After Redding is taken care of, you plan to have a long conversation with the voice inside your head, not a comforting thought in the least. Redding mentioned ale. Yes, you imagine there will be plenty of that when the time comes. You arrive back to the edge of the treeline. The garrison lies ahead. The soldiers that occupy the former battlefield are not of Magda. They are not Blackbirds. They wear long blue overcoats, buttons of gold. Their boots rise nearly up to their knees.
  
  The Alteran battalion.
  
  A grin comes across your face as you step forward, but then stop. You glance down, taking a double glance at your attire. Sure enough, it's the one issued by the Magda quartermaster. A thousand soldiers of your allegiance stand in front of you, and yet you cannot draw upon them for help. You wear the colors of the enemy. You've hurried here, only taking a fraction of time. Patience will serve you now. There's no sense in rushing in. Let the scene play out before you, then act accordingly. If only you weren't wearing red while trying to hide in the forest. Oh well. The battalion stands in formation just outside the gate, which still boasts a sizable hole in the center, although the fire's long been put out.
  
  We've got some time. Speak.
  (Another mortal who thinks me his pet. Cute.)
  You possess sentience. Is that of your own doing?
  (How refreshing of a question. I'm used to 'can you do this? Can you do that?' difficult question to answer there.)
  It's straightforward enough.
  (You possess sentience. Is it of your own doing?)
  ...fair enough. Was there a time that you did not occupy the artifact?
  (That, is a better question. Once upon a time, I had a body of my own.)
  What happened?
  (A story for another time. I believe your attention is needed elsewhere.)
  
  Crouched under the cover of trees, you see Alexander emerge from the fort, two soldiers at his side. Surrendering? It's hard to tell with his back turned towards you, but the commanding officer leading the Alteran battalion appears to be Briggs. Same height. Same build. Strange that the Alterans are content to stand outside of the gate when the Magda garrison is in obvious poor condition. The rules of war don't state anything against taking advantage of an opponent. In fact, it encourages it as long as they are treated humanely.
  
  "The two tribes are now one."
  
  A woman's voice speaks behind you, heavily accented. As such, each word bears deliberate articulation, similar to the way the Blackbird warrior spoke not hours before. The voice sounds familiar. You turn to find the same Blackbird woman that you encountered days ago. You're starting to think it may not be a coincidence. She's dressed in the same tanned leather, feet bare, displaying tattoos around her wrists and ankles. Long black hair flows down her back, a single braid running down the side of her face. Unarmed, just as before.
  
  You suppress your initial questions for now. "No. They're bitter enemies. They'd never join as allies."
  
  "What is that then?"
  
  Glancing back at the fort, you catch Alexander and Briggs clasping hands. Partnership? No, it still could be conquest. Terms of surrender must have been met, and the two leaders are shaking in agreement, like the way a merchant would to a supplier. "That could mean many things," you say.
  
  "Axes greet enemy. Words greet friends."
  
  It's a strange take on a well-known saying. In common, save your words for friends, enemies deserve only the sword. The quote is old. If you paid more attention to your studies as a youth you might remember how old or who it's attributed to, not that it would really make a difference in the present moment.
  
  (She's a priestess. Devoted to an older sect of the Raven by her markings.)
  
  "And which one are you?" you ask.
  
  She smiles, gesturing with her arms. It's like the sun peeking through a cloudy day. "Do you see an axe?"
  
  "Fair enough," you answer. "Listen, any other time I'd love to sit down and chat. Buy you an ale, maybe. But my...friend is wounded and needs help. I came to find a healer."
  
  "Which tribe?"
  
  "Good question..." you answer trailing off in thought.
  
  She's smart, this one. On your first encounter, you wore the long coat of Alteran. This time, however, you're in Magda crimson. There may be a peace brokered between nations, even if that's in the form of surrender, but spies, turncoats can still expect no mercy, especially those who traded their coat for the losing color. The Alteran arrival may complicate things more than you first expected. Magda won't stick their neck out for you. None but perhaps Alexander favors you, and that's only by association with Redding. Alteran hangs turncoats. Yes, the arrival of the battalion is problematic, indeed.
  
  "I have seen this before," the woman says. "Tribes becoming one with a single enemy in mind. It is happening now."
  
  "You think they're reuniting against the Blackbirds?" You don't mean to call her that. Hopefully it doesn't sound like an insult or slur. It just sort of slipped out.
  
  "We are the Harri'ar," she answers sharply, sunshine now hiding behind storm clouds. "Many tribes have been made one under the S'umbra, false priests." She spits on the ground, similarly to the way an Alteran soldier would after the mentioning of Fargrave, although that habit is likely vanished here.
  
  "And you do not agree with the S'umbra?"
  
  "No!" The outburst causes you to glance back to the soldiers. None seem to have heard. Mentally you take a note not to bring up the S'umbra again, at least if you can avoid it. She speaks again, more calmly. "They are poisoning the minds of the chieftains. They have twisted the Raven to their own pursuit." The woman doesn't exactly say "the Raven." You're aware the words from her mouth sounded different, yet the artifact somehow translated it in real time.
  
  "Listen," you say for a second time. "I really can't delay any longer. My friend."
  
  "We have healers," the woman states, the rest of her meaning is understood. She awaits your response. Could be easier than convincing two nations that you're not a turncoat. Could be a trap. Could be both solutions are not ideal. Could be that you need to make a decision, fast. Could be that Redding doesn't have much time.
  
  > Garrison field surgeon
  You shake your head towards the woman. "I'm sorry. I need the aid of these men." What you don't mention is your skeptical feelings towards Blackbird medicine. Perhaps they're capable of treating Redding by natural means, but you're not willing to take the chance, not when you know several experienced field surgeons lie a few hundred feet in front of you, despite your circumstance.
  
  (Way to let her down easy.)
  Shush.
  
  "Fine," she says. "Unfurl your black wings and wait..."
  
  "...Let the wind carry you home," you complete the farewell in her native tongue. (You're welcome.) She looks surprised at first, just barely more than yourself. Then the smile appears, flashing quickly, before turning stoic again as if remembering something grim. She says a final thing before disappearing in the forest in a blur of tanned leather and black beautiful hair. You find yourself hoping there'll be a third meeting. Only time will tell.
  
  "The Raven wills it. Amir'sshan will guide you."
  
  Any thoughts of youth depart. You're required to be a soldier. You harden your mind for the task at hand. Damn! If you had known the Alteran battalion would be here, you would have traveled through the hidden tunnel into the garrison dungeon. The artifact would be able to unlock any door along the way. It's too risky now. Hours there, more hours back as stealth is slow going, and then more hours there. Nothing is ever easy.
  
  If you're being honest with yourself, there's only one way to approach. Whatever deal is made between Alteran and Magda doesn't negate the fact that there are wounded soldiers to attend to. Redding may be a distance away, but he falls into that category, just as long as it's a Magda doc treating him and not an Alteran. As you know, turncoats aren't well thought of.
  
  You step out from the treeline into the open clearing. Almost instantly you're flagged down by two Alteran soldiers wearing navy blues. They rush over to you, swords in hand.
  
  "Stop! Hands up" one of them shouts.
  
  You instantly comply, throwing up two open palms. You don't recognize the two Alterans, and they don't seem to either. One of them, the same who spoke, grabs your shoulder rather forcefully and draws you toward the battalion like the way a mother would scold a son. The other pulls the longsword from your back. The artifact!
  
  (Please. I've been disguising myself from mortals long before your precious High King was even a high babe. Look to your arm.)
  
  Your inner arm, close to your wrist, displays a black marking. The tattoo is similar to the ones the Blackbird woman possesses, a crown-like band wrapping around the entire limb.
  
  Not bad. Little suspicious for a random tattoo to appear, wouldn't you think?
  
  Tingling runs through your arm. It's as if a blade of grass were blowing against your skin in the wind. As you look down, the tattoo is gone. Instead a small dark ring, ravenblack, encompasses your pointer finger.
  
  Better. Just as long as there aren't any jewelry thieves around.
  (You better hope not. They'd find it easier to take the finger than pry me from my perch.)
  Great.
  
  You give the equivalent of a mental groan.
  
  "Sergeant. We found him wandering the outskirts." As expected, the two soldiers bring you to their commanding officer. The High King loves his chain of command, after all. You already know how this story goes. The sergeant will pass you to his superior, who will do the exact same thing until a certain rank is reached, one that has actual decision-making authority. Until then, it's puff, puff, pass.
  
  "Put him with the others," comes the grizzled voice of the sergeant. Interesting. His superiors must be busy with more important things. Well, there's a first for everything. Wait. The others? The two soldiers, your escorts, take you past the rows of Alteran soldiers, neatly arranged in formation. There doesn't appear to be any signs of battle, save for the one with the Blackbird war party. The garrison must have surrendered upon seeing the Alterans approaching. Their fort couldn't stand otherwise.
  
  They lead you into the garrison through the hole in the gate. Inside the fort for the second time, things look very different. To be more accurate, it looks as if it were set on flame. Many of the square buildings display blackened burn marks, some burned down completely, large piles of ash. All the fires appear to be put out now, save for the one near the eastern wall, using logs built from fallen bodies, sending the scent of charred skin and hair into the air. Up on the ramparts, you spot Captain Briggs and Alexander. A table's been brought out, and they occupy opposite sides. The captains sip small cups of tea from the spotless white table cloth, the tiny clinking of tea cups sounding out of place for the chaos before you. Rules of war. The surrendering party must host their conqueror.
  
  (Time's running out.)
  You think I don't know that?
  
  To the western wall you finally see where your escorts are taking you. A few hundred, if you had to guess, Magda soldiers are grouped there, some seated on the dirt, others leaning against the wall. They're nothing like the well-armored soldiers that fought previously. Most don't wear their steel breastplates--actually, none of them do. Terms of surrender. Like you, their weapons have been taken, although none of them likely have an ancient artifact at their disposal. The Alterans don't take your leather armor from you, so the removal of the steel breastplates must be a slight at the Supreme Leader, exposing the Magdan's hearts vulnerable. A shove, and you're just another conquered soldier in the crowd.
  
  It's a shame they didn't throw you in the dungeon. Then there would be a direct tunnel to Redding, and no locked door would stand in your way. Damn! Instead you're in the open for all to see. True, you're not locked up, but constant surveillance dampens your attempts far greater than any prison cell could. Already, you're scanning the fort for areas of escape. You've already noted the dungeon. Perhaps you could cause some commotion to get you and another locked up...a field surgeon perhaps. Though it would need to be the right amount of disruption. Nothing too excessive, otherwise you risk the noose.
  
  "Still making friends, I see."
  
  Before you can respond, a punch lands in your gut. Instinctively, you retreat a few steps in the case of follow up blows. Safely away, your eyes find your attacker. Benjamin, sharp features, thin nose and chin. Without his steel breastplate and buckler, you see his body type matches his features.
  
  "I seem to remember you already paid me back," you say.
  
  "I did," Benjamin says with a smile. "That one was because I wanted to."
  
  "Oftly good spirits for a soldier who just surrendered his fort."
  
  The smile disappears instantly, like sandy footprints washed away with the tide. "And who's the blame for that? Interesting coincidence that not shortly after you 'defect,' the Alterans show up in full force. I wonder who led them here."
  
  "Oh please," you start. "That's right. And after leading the Alterans to victory they took my sword and rewarded me with your company."
  
  "That's because you can't be trusted. You and that Redding. Where is he, by the way, deciding which army to betray next?"
  
  "He's..." you trail off, realizing that you're getting sidetracked with the bickering. "What are they planning to do with us?"
  
  "Us? We're probably going to be sent back to Magda under the terms of never setting foot on the 'High King's New World' ever again. Rules of war, you know. The Supreme Leader will be furious, but I suppose, technically, no bloodshed actually took place, breaking the peace. You?" Benjamin motions a finger across his throat.
  
  "Great," you utter. You silently wonder how difficult it would be to kidnap a field surgeon in front of two armies, that is if none will accompany you freely. If they are marching you through the forest, it's not a bad idea. The more seconds that go by, the more you're starting to think none will go freely. And why would they? Their life is currently not at risk. Rather than tromping through the overgrowth to save a turncoat's life, they get to go home. An Alteran surgeon could fix Redding up, but you have doubts on how convincing you'll be. They believe you betrayed them, after all. People tend not to listen to defectors, not that it's your fault your coat turned colors. Unfortunate, indeed.
  
  > The dungeon
  There's no telling how soon the garrison will be sent packing to the Old World. You don't have time to find out either. You need to act, and fast. You scan the crowd of Magda soldiers, looking for a doc. Off in the distance, you hear a laugh echo from the ramparts, followed by clinking of tea cups. Rules of war, you know. Still, it seems a tad insensitive for the garrison's leader to show such obvious enjoyment while his men are herded like farm animals.
  
  Finally your eyes land on a man near the edge of the soldiers. His build is thin. Like Benjamin, and a lot of the Magda soldiers, his features are sharp, a thin pair of spectacles sitting at the edge of his pointy nose. One look and you know he's not a soldier like the rest. Arms are too frail for a sword. Better suited for a scalpel. He's the small puppy barking directions at war horses. Just what you need.
  
  (I've seen that look in many mortals before. You're about to get us into trouble, aren't you?)
  No more than usual.
  
  You hear the sound of Benjamin spitting as you walk away from the man. At least he's content to stay put. You don't need him following you around and causing problems. You imagine you'll have enough problems of your own, by your own making no less. Through the crowd of Magda soldiers you go, taking notice that you are the only one in motion. The rest simply stand around, waiting. They're about to have a hell of another show.
  
  The man's hair is in the process of becoming more silver than brown, straight and combed back. Not long enough to be tied, but close. He notices you approach as most of the soldiers do. "A man could get nervous with a fellow approaching like that," he says lightly. The good-natured voice likely has calmed more than a few "excited" patients in his day.
  
  "Perhaps in the dark of night. Here, however..." you display your arms out towards the hundreds of eyes upon you.
  
  "What is it you want." The doc abandons his friendly opening.
  
  "Spear wound under the arm. Clean, but deep. Very deep. Marginal loss of blood. How long can a man last?" you ask.
  
  The sudden question relating to his expertise draws the doc from his antagonist demeanor. He scratches his chin. "For a soldier in good health, assuming that's what you mean. Hmm. Oh I'd not give the man more than a day unless treated properly."
  
  "Good. That's all I needed to know." You fumble with your hands a bit to draw the doc's eyes downward.
  
  Now comes the fun part.
  (Comparatively, I sense.)
  
  You move quickly, far quicker than the doc can react to. You slide your body forward, while still keeping proper posture, the only movement a slight shifting of your feet, without long, winding motions of your body. The doc's gaze still down, he doesn't register it until it's too late. The bridge of your nose rams straight into the doc's forehead. By all intents and purposes, without the eyes deft enough to catch the entirety of the motion, it appears that the field surgeon headbutted you, a cheap shot.
  
  You withdraw with, perhaps, too much of a dramatic flair, but it's attention you seek. And attention is damn well what you receive.
  
  "Bastard!" you shout, clutching at your nose.
  
  The doc doesn't seem to realize what is happening, and why should he? Who asks a medical question and then rams the soft part of their face into another's skull? He certainly doesn't realize you're firing "back" a shot of your own until your fist slams into his gut, doubling him over. You avoid his head for obvious reasons. He still needs his wits about him to heal Redding. Also, nine times out of ten an opponent doubled over will--
  
  --his body tackles yours to the ground. The odds land true. His shoulder lands in your stomach, sending an audible groan along with your air from your lungs. You eat a punch. And another. You take one more before hooking the doc's arm, trapping it, before reversing the position. Any time now... They don't break you up right away so you take the opportunity to place both hands around the man's throat, not tight enough to choke him completely, but just enough to make him squirm. Finally, you're pulled up by an Alteran under each arm.
  
  "Did you see that? He headbutted me for no reason!" you yell, playing the part of the righteously wronged. The blood pouring from your nostril adds a nice effect.
  
  "The boy is mad," the doc spits back.
  
  "It doesn't matter who started it," an Alteran soldier says, dressed in navy blue. The statement flows with the ease of a father. "You're soldiers. Act like it. Now I want you to sit quietly until the meeting is over. Or else." He gestures towards the two captains sharing a pot of tea on the ramparts.
  
  "No! I won't let this...poor excuse for a surgeon get away with it! He let three of my friends die, and then attacked me when I brought it up."
  
  (Ease back, fellow.)
  
  "I have no idea what he's talking about!" the doc exclaims. "I have never seen him before in my life."
  
  "ENOUGH," the Alteran's voice booms across the garrison. In the corner of your eye, you see the tea party casually glance your way. "You two give me no choice." The soldier motions to a few others, who wander over. A group of them huddle together, deciding your fate. It seems they will collectively decide to lock you in the dungeon as none possess the rank to decide it by themselves. After a few moments of whispering and head nodding, your favorite Alteran soldier returns.
  
  "You're going in a place where you can't cause any more disruption. Your uncivilized behavior, the both of yours, means you're a danger to others. If you're going to behave like animals, you'll be locked up like animals."
  
  Then he says a few words that wipe the internal grin from your mind.
  
  "The hanging cages for you two."
  
  Your actions have gotten you locked up alright. Locked up in a single cage suspended from the top of the fort for all to see. The lock is not troubling. The constant supervision of a thousand soldiers, is. You doubt the artifact gives the ability to fight an entire battalion. The cage is irrelevant. But still, you're not going anywhere for a while.
  
  > Hanging cage
  They suspend you from the ramparts after the tea party finishes. Your cage, little more than the size of a coffin, is hung by a single chain. All in all, it's not a far drop to the ground. Meaning, if you get a moment to yourself, then the artifact could let you out, and broken legs wouldn't be waiting for you at the bottom. There's still a chance though. There always is. The drop, while not fatal, isn't exactly something you're looking forward to. It's probably been two hours since the "fight." The doc ignores you with silent hatred, learning to hold off engaging with you. Since another incident likely has you hanging from a noose rather than in a cage, you understand. Alteran soldiers guard the ramparts above and patrol the ground below. Yep, this isn't exactly how you imagined things would go.
  
  They stripped you of your armor and weapon sheaths, not noticing a lone black ring on your finger. They're soldiers after all, not scavs. The cage offers just enough space for you to sit with your knees pulled in tightly to your chest, as long as you don't mind steel digging into your back and toes. There's a decent breeze, one you never noticed being inside the garrison or in the overgrowth. Exposed in the air, however, it brings a chill, increasingly so, as the cage slowly drops in temperature.
  
  Any ideas, voice?
  (Yes, but I'm more interested to see what you come up with.)
  Lotta help you are.
  (More than you are. I'd like to see you become a key.)
  
  Time passes as you try to think of possible solutions. If the Alterans were somehow distracted, then you could escape into the trees. Problem is, the only distraction you could cause would draw attention towards you rather than away.
  
  Do you have the ability to move on your own?
  (Apart from you? Not in this state.)
  
  As you're thinking, a voice carries from below. It's one you recognize almost instantly, one that you hoped wouldn't notice your presence. "Your deeds have finally caught up to you. Where's that traitor of a corporal?"
  
  Bastus. He looks better than when you saw him in the dungeon. More color appears to be in his skin, the difference a few hours of sunlight and stretching can do. But still, he's more frail than you're used to seeing.
  
  "Bastus..." you start, not sure what to say. There are no words to right the wrong in his mind. A betrayal, as sudden and unexpected as they come, is all he sees, deepened by years of shared battle and living. The bond forged between soldiers is not easily broken, yet when it is, it's damaged beyond all repair. A soldier must learn to deal with loss. There's no redemption for a liar. Cut ties and move on. You could tell him how your actions saved the life of the company. How you had no choice in the matter. That your actions brought about the greater good. Shit, now you're starting to sound like Redding.
  
  "You always did fancy yourself smarter than the rest of us, didn't you?" Bastus starts. "Not smart enough to trade uniforms for the losing team, though huh?"
  
  "You have to understand, it was all to--"
  
  "All to betray your company? Your friends? Your family? Redding was always an odd one. There's less of a surprise when an unconventional man makes an irrational decision. But you, you were supposed to be the opposite. It pains me to say so, but your death is well-deserved. You've taught me--the entire company--a valuable lesson: you never truly know who your friends are."
  
  There's no response to that. Shame builds inside, not because of events that occurred, but because you're unable to formulate thoughts and words to accurately convey your side of the story. A man that you've lived closely with over the last few years thinks you are the most despicable of people, and you're unable to convince otherwise. Bastus' words hurt, a small sliver of what he probably felt seeing you in Magda crimson. For the greater good, you tell yourself. It's a burden that you have to bear, even if the company doesn't realize you're bearing it for them.
  
  Bastus speaks again. "I'll be there during your hanging. Though I won't be as joyful as the others."
  
  He leaves you alone, his words hanging heavy on your heart. Not the most immediate problem, however. Redding still needs you. If there's any redemption to be had, it's in saving his life. The company thinks you a traitor. You are, technically, and it's that fact which keeps them still breathing.
  
  One member of the company still needs your help. Let Bastus and the others think what they want; you can't control that. You only control your own actions. You've made peace with them so far. After all you've been through, the story can't end with Redding bleeding out, alone, and you facing the gallows. The possibility of a premature ending, a quiet death after the firestorm you've endured, brings a tinge of rage within your bones. LIke that of your battle flow state, it comes, a persistence, the inability to quit while you still can act. True, your options are rather limited, but damn if you won't do something about it.
  
  > wait patiently
  Time is short, yes. But acting too hastily would not only be condemning your fate, but Redding's as well. Yours are both aligned; the heart pumping in your chest might as well be pumping blood through his veins. You had hoped the company wouldn't discover your presence until you're long gone. That's the tricky thing about fate, huh? She's a cyclone upon the sea, going where she damn-well pleases, no matter the destruction left in her wake.
  
  "All makes sense now. No true Magdan would act like you."
  
  The doc, listening to Bastus, seems to have put things together. Alexander's "two friends" weren't exactly meant to be secret. If anything, it was a strong inspirational message to kickstart praise for the Supreme Leader. If two Alterans decided the join the Supreme Leader, what can you do? Eerily similar to the posters placed on the billboard all those weeks ago before departing from Alteran. True creativity is hard to find. Most everything is imitation, colored and presented differently.
  
  "Guilty as charged," you utter, not exactly in the mood to start a verbal debate with the man hanging next to you, which causes your next words to flow. "And yet you've received the same treatment. Surely, no true Magdan would act in such a way to find themselves here."
  
  "Ah, piss off," is the reply. So much for the argument.
  
  No, there's nothing more to do than wait for an opportunity of escape. One that normally is low odds, lowest of the low, but the artifact changes everything. It's the winning card up your sleeve, the dagger (quite literally) in a fist fight. Now if there is just a way to remove the eyes that stare at your cage...
  
  Hours pass. You find yourself growing increasingly anxious watching the sun travel across the sky. You had a level of comfortability before, the knowledge of having minutes to spare; they grow smaller and smaller, the window of opportunity quickly closing upon itself. There's a small measure of reassurance in the fact that causing your own scene would likely bring a premature end.
  
  And that's just it. The end is here, premature or otherwise.
  
  If you had known both paths led to death, perhaps your decisions would have been different. The thought causes a small laugh within your body, the kind that occurs during inappropriate times, a lecture hall, when being scolded, when faced with the most unfortunate of circumstances that somehow the only reaction is to laugh. All paths lead to death. Ha ha ha. Here, in the forest of the New World, what does it matter? In a few hours the problem will solve itself, and your anxiousness, dispelled.
  
  Not ten minutes later, your cage begins to lower in height, the way a sailor would loose an anchor. A steady grinding of steel sounds in the air, complemented with the cranking of a pulley-system. The ground approaches, not quickly. It's the same speed as a man, knowingly, eating his last dinner before facing the gallows: it might be the same for you, minus the meal. An Alteran soldier fumbles with the lock, before swinging the cage door open. A pair of hands pull you out, more clasp on your shoulders in warning as if to say escape is futile!
  
  The voice is silent, perhaps in protest to your actions. You still feel its presence, however, the constant buzz of energy, which makes the silence even more impactful. It's letting you know of the power at your fingertips, yet denying you the use. It's as if you're dehydrated without coins in your pocket, staring through the window of an open tavern, its patrons spilling as many drinks on the ground as they manage to get down their throats.
  
  The artifact that will "turn the tide," isn't doing much turning currently. It might as well be a ring on your finger; at least in that case you could sell it for a sword (or a final meal). They march you right back up the switchback stairs to the top of the ramparts, where all traces of the previous tea party are gone. Captain Briggs stands, hands clasped behind his back. Bastus is next to him, and on the ground watching, you see Lionel and the rest of the company.
  
  "I think you know why you're here," Captain Briggs states. His eyes narrow at you, the way a teacher would look at a disobedient student.
  
  "Yeah, I do," you say, looking at the hands on your shoulder."
  
  "Quant. I'm sure you understand what has to happen next?"
  
  "Yeah, I do," you repeat with more sincerity.
  
  "Any last words?"
  
  It's a cliche question, but still, you find difficulty uncovering an answer. Last words. Whatever pours from your mouth will be the last, the words those in proximity will remember you by. Your life will be forgotten, a distant memory in others minds. Your thoughts, feelings, emotions--gone in an instant. Yet a remnant will remain, the areas in which those such things crossed, intertwined with others' thoughts, feelings, and emotions, not to mention experiences. Experiences like this one, the hanging of a man, noose tied around his throat. What you say now will echo long after you stop breathing, live on further than you.
  
  The same goes for your actions. Briefly, you entertain fighting your way out. To what purpose? That would be undoing all that you've done. The reason for going along with Redding's plan in the first place was to preserve the life of the company, of your fellow Alterans. And what now? You're thinking about killing Alterans to preserve your life, and that's assuming you can cut your way through a thousand men. No. The decision's already been made. You're already a turncoat in their mind. Better to die a turncoat than a turncoat and murderer.
  
  As you're thinking, they place a noose over your head. It rests on your shoulders for a moment before getting cinched tight. It's a lot heavier than you expected, tightly-bound rope. That's something you never hear, though to be fair the people actually having such thoughts rarely have another chance to voice it. And suddenly you have it, the words to speak, ones that have gone unspoken. You'll be the first. You'll not result to begging, pleading to save your life.
  
  All paths lead here. All decisions lead to death.
  
  Expecting a speech, you're a bit surprised how quiet it is. Standing at the top of the ramparts, again, you notice details that you didn't before. The gentle breeze upon your skin, the gentle sway of tree leaves signaling that the forest is experiencing the same. The nervous way in which men glance, unsure of themselves, a few such men stare at your boots rather than in your eyes. You wonder what they're thinking, if they're putting themselves in your place, pondering the final moments of their life and the final words they'll speak. Lastly, the quiet itself. It's nothing like the bustling cities of Alteran, overcrowded streets and population. The New World, yet as dangerous as they come, is somehow at peace with herself. It's not even the calm before the storm; it simply is to her nature, both peaceful and dangerous.
  
  "They never tell you how heavy these things are," you state, thinking of the noose, but then noticing how it applies to the execution itself.
  
  "Not to worry," Bastus says. "You won't carry the burden for much longer."
  
  He's right. Over the edge of the ramparts, you're falling. Then, silence, save for the steady sway of your body in the wind.