Female MUx Chrom, takes place after the defeat of Grima.

More than people had been lost in the war, Amos was testimony to that. Every day he went out and combed the beach back and forth for any equipment and weapons that might have washed up from the sunken ships to sell on the black market. Hey, a man's gotta make a living once the army drops him like dragon dung. Sometimes a bloated carcass washed up, only distinguishable as something that was once human because of the clothes they wore. Usually, he steered well clear, afraid he'd catch some disease off the dead, but today he stopped, stared at the matted brown hair smothering the face of the washed up body, its lower half gently gyrating in the waves, and wavered. He recognised the cloak, that embroidery. It was really worth something, so he crouched down and pushed back the hair with a stick to see whether it really was dead. He promptly stumbled back, falling onto his back, watching the neck pulse, one, two, three.

For a moment he wasn't sure what on earth he was meant to do. He couldn't go and fetch one of the local patrol of shepherds, especially seeing as the reason he was down here was technically stealing. He thought about getting someone anyway, possibly one of his mates, but the purple hue on the young woman's lips terrified him. She'd be dead before he could get anyone else to help him, so he tentatively shook her shoulder.

"Can yer hear me? Milady?" Looking up at the sky, he hoped Naga would forgive him for what he was about to do, and pulled the unconscious soldier onto his lap, "I'm going to strike between yer shoulders, get the water out, eh?"

He was pretty sure she couldn't hear him, nor would ever remember this, but his militia training had taught him the correct methods of reviving someone, just in case they could hear you, and habits were hard to break.

He angled her head towards the ground more than her torso, watched as a little water trickled out from between her cold lips, and slammed the palm of his hand straight between her shoulder blades. He felt water trickling through the material of his pantaloons and onto his left calf, and smacked her once more. Still nothing happened; he blew into her mouth a couple times, rolled her back onto her side and hit her.

Eventually she coughed, spraying the fluid that had collected in her lungs across the sand, and then promptly threw up the water that had seeped into her stomach. The reaction was immediate, she started sobbing between coughs, out of shock, Amos guessed, and wailed a couple of times. He couldn't guess how long she'd been drowning in those waves, how long she had to think that she was going to die.

"Shhhh," he said, rubbing her back gently, "yer alrite now. Yer alrite."

"Oh Gods!" She shook in his arms, whether from the shock or cold he couldn't tell.

"Listen, we need to get yer somewhere warm, find yer garrison, eh? They'll get yer all okay proper and home again, eh?"

"I-I... what?" She peered up at him through bloodshot eyes.

"Yer garrison? Yer were on a ship, yeh? Out there," he pointed to the sea, and she followed his line of sight, "yer were attacked by other soldiers, and yer washed up here. Can yer stand?"

Amos held her to him fast, pulling her arm around his neck and supporting most of her weight on his right shoulder. They walked back across the beach, led by Amos' previous footsteps, and onto a moor-like flat land.

"S'not far. I can carry yer though?"

"No, thanks, I can manage."

His house was tucked away amongst a patch of trees that had seemingly sprouted up on the land, there were others, but Amos' wood was the closest to the beach, but ten minutes away, although it took them a little longer at the pace they were going. He watched her expression; a little apprehensive of someone of such obviously high birth being brought to what was, essentially, a shack. Her eyes were glazed, though, and kept going in and out of focus, as if she was still threatening to throw herself over the border between consciousness and oblivion. Fatigue, was what came to his mind. He needed to get her out of those sopping clothes, into something warm, and let her rest. He could think about getting a physician after, but getting her somewhere near stable was paramount.

Getting her inside, he sat her down on a wooden-backed stool in front of the unlit fire, and promptly pulled at the fastener of her cloak.

"No."

Staring her in the eye, bending down to her level, he said, "We need to get this off. Yer soaked, if we don't this'll kill yer."

"I'm... I'm married."

He hesitated, seeing the ring on her left ring finger, and understanding her concern. Yet he was torn between the need to retain her dignity and the fact that her life was still at risk, "Can yer manage yerself? Yer need to get it all off, all of it."

She nodded.

"Here." He dug out his spare clothes and pulled the rough, woollen blanket from the straw bed, "Put these on instead, get yer warm."

Amos stood outside, leaving her to get undressed and dressed by herself. He felt the strength of the cold breeze on his left cheek, rolling in off the tides from some distant land, smelt the salt in his nose, breathed deeper, and closed his eyes. He wondered if Miriam was still lingering about the house, out on the beach – if she was the reason why he had found this young woman today, at the right time, in the right place. He'd thought of walking down the beaches closer to Fallstaff, and debated whether he should go out later, as he could see the darkened clouds of a storm forming on the horizon. Maybe it was just dumb luck, or maybe the soul of his dead wife had some part in it, making him decide to brave the weather, to search the less fruitless beach closest to home. He found a great deal of solitude in the latter. His wife had been unconditionally compassionate; it felt like her, to lead him to save the life of this stranger.

After a few more minutes, he felt the stranger's soft call, telling him she was decent. Immediately he went in and started on a fire.

"Yer felling bettah?"

"Yes, thank you." She smiled, stretching her thin lips into a cold, bluish line, though she didn't have to. He saw the gratitude, the relief, in her dark eyes.

Once the fire was going, he handed her stick to stoke it with, and took her clothes out to dry on the fence. He searched the pockets, and brought everything he found back into her, lest some rouge bandits should steal her clothes.

"Here." He placed what he'd found on the small table at her elbow, "Hopin' everything yer own's here, it's not fallen out or nothin', eh?"

She looked through the items, flipping the tome he'd found stuffed in a large, outside pocket open and peeling the pages apart.

"I er... I think so. I don't know."

"Yer don't know?"

She looked at him, furrowing her brow slightly, "I er... I don't remember much."

"Oh." He said, "Really? Yer gotta name?"

She sat and thought about it, for longer than she should have done, and then met his gaze again, "I don't remember."

"What do yer remember?"

He watched a frown darken her face in concentration.

"I remember a face. A man's face. I was staring at him, and I felt fear. Nearly nothing but fear, fear and a bit of pain. I think I loved him. I think we were married. I didn't want to leave, but I didn't have a choice. Beyond that, I'm not sure."

Amos nodded, "Yer probably still in shock. I'll get the physician tomorrow, fer now yer need to rest up. I'll think yer'll be okay but it's better safe than sorry, eh?"

She nodded as he turned the sodden book around to face him and flicked it to the front.

"Hey, look, it says: 'To Carter, happy birthday, from C.' Yer think yer Carter?" He flipped a page over, read the smudged ink, and said, "Says this belongs to Robin J. Carter."

"I remember that's what they called me, Carter."

"They?"

She shrugged, "I don't know."

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GPR