Written for Tales of Secret Santa 2016.

Sergei still remembered the look in her eyes.

She'd lay sprawled on the stairs in front of the church, fringed in deep red, her hands clutching her side. As Sergei ran to her, the chilly night air made his breath puff, wispy white. She was cold to the touch but did not shiver, and as he knelt by her, murmuring, unable to keep the panic from his voice, she'd raised her head. Her eyes were already clouding over, but as her gaze fixed on his face, they changed.

The woman had opened her mouth to speak, but no words came; she could only choke. But her eyes, her lucid grey eyes. They'd said all her mouth couldn't.

Contempt. Murderous, murderous contempt.

This is your fault, they told him. You let me slip through your fingers.

She died.

As of late, Sergei was frequently reminded of that night: the night he'd arrested Father Amethor, the serial killer priest. It was only natural, he supposed, that his second encounter with a serial killer would remind him of his first.

In truth, he hadn't been the one to arrest Rose. Until they'd hauled her before him, he'd never even suspected she was that Rose, the Rose who had murdered Prince Konan. A pair of knights had recognized her in the plaza, selling wares with the Scattered Bones disguised as the Sparrowfeathers, and had summoned their entire squad to arrest her. In the ensuing clash between the knights and the Scattered Bones, Rose was the only one they managed to take in. The rest of her comrades had fled.

Sergei sat in his office at Pendrago Castle, waiting. Rich and ritzy, the room gave an aristocratic air that put him on edge, and although its furnishings were undeniably cushier than those in his barracks office, the room felt somehow more austere. He much preferred the barracks, with his own furniture—shabby and worn, but familiar. The old oak chair which had belonged to his father would creak whenever he eased himself into it, and his favourite spot in the entire city was his office window. It overlooked the marketplace, and he would often stand in front of it, watching the hustle and bustle below.

But in his castle dwellings, the overstuffed velvet cushion on Sergei's chair put his back up, and the window overlooked the castle gardens—beautiful, to be sure, but not particularly lively. Most of the furniture had belonged to Sebastian Welch, Sergei's predecessor, and as such, every time he saw the cozy armchairs near the fireplace, the elegant jewel-encrusted mantelpiece, or the gilded coat-of-arms behind his desk, he was reminded of the man. Perhaps that was the reason he'd never gotten any of it replaced; it would do him well to be periodically reminded of the lessons taught to him by his former leader.

A knock at the door. "You may enter," Sergei called.

A young knight came in. Sergei recognized him as Simon, one of the newest recruits. "Sir. I-I've brought the files you asked for," he stammered. The lad always seemed to be nervous in Sergei's presence, perhaps because of Sergei's rank.

"Thank you, Simon," Sergei said, taking them. "I trust all is well with our newest prisoner?"

He nodded. "The guards say she talks to herself a lot. Guess it's 'cause she's all alone down there, or ..." He trailed off, his face reddening.

"I see. You are dismissed, Simon."

He gave the Knight's Salute and left.

Sergei turned his attention to the files given to him. Rose's file, the one on top, had a musty odour to it, lingering from when it had been miskept before Sergei's days as captain. Back then case files had been kept in a damp, dilapidated basement, and it was a lucky thing that most of them could be saved.

Her file had two parts—the first, from the investigation of Prince Konan's murder five years ago, and the second, from the current investigation regarding her and the Scattered Bones. Sergei had only requested the first part be brought to him, as he'd read the second so many times, he'd nearly memorized its contents.

Written in little more than a scrawl:

Primary suspect in the murder of Prince Konan.

Name: Rose

Height: approx. 5 ft

Build: slender

Eyes: blue

Hair: red, shoulder length

Member of Windriders, a mercenary group formerly hired by the Crown, found to have committed treason against Rolance

Alone with victim just before or during time of his death; disappeared immediately afterward

Relation to victim: betrothed

Possible motive: revenge for informing authorities of Windriders' treason

And that was all.

Sergei had vague memories of the ensuing investigation, even though Welch hadn't assigned him to it. Prince Konan's distraught mother, Princess Demelza, practically threw money at a Welch, demanding justice for her son. The Knights were only supposed to be paid by the Crown, but in those days, how much money common people contributed decided how seriously Welch took any given case.

They'd never found a trace of Rose nor the Windriders, though not for lack of trying. As time wore on Princess Demelza grew more hysterical, and proportionally, so did Welch's contempt for her. She hounded him for results, charging into his office and harassing him weekly. Sergei remembered those arguments well, with Princess Demelza's shrieking, and Welch speaking in a low, calm, disdainful voice, at once placating and provoking her. Everyone tried to steer clear of his office on those days.

Her tantrums had continued on like that for months, up until just after Sergei's appointment as captain. That first evening she'd come to his barracks office, dressed in fine silk, two servants carrying an ornate chest filled with gold—more gold than he'd ever seen in his life. But of course, he had refused to take any of it. He understood her plight, and sympathized with her, but he could never accept bribery. She'd shrieked at him, pleaded with him, even descended to her knees and begged, but he hadn't budged. She'd spit in his face and left.

He was sure if she were still alive today, to see her son's murderer arrested, she'd be back in his office begging for Rose's head.

After that, he'd closed the investigation, because after months without a single lead, continuing seemed pointless. And since Sergei had so much to do, the entire matter had completely escaped his mind.

Until now.

One thing he could say for sure was that Rose, ever since getting caught, had not behaved the way in which he'd expected. Harding, one of the knights who'd recognized her, had reported that unlike any of her comrades, she'd come quietly. The rest of them had fought tooth and nail, but peculiarly, Rose hadn't approved; she'd shouted at them to leave her be. However, that hadn't stopped her comrades from stabbing three of his men, breaking the arm of one, and battering the rest. But the Knights had prevailed.

Having spoken no more than a few sentences to her, Sergei couldn't say he knew her particularly well. From what he could tell she was a lively, brash woman, never afraid to express herself, but at the same time, friendly. Though there had been something about her that had always rubbed Sergei the wrong way, something he couldn't quite place his finger on, something in her demeanour that had suggested there was something else going on under her cheerful façade. Perhaps it had something to with how easily lying had come to her, when they'd first met at the gate to Lastonbel.

Ever since she'd been arrested, however, she seemed subdued—wilfully so. Sergei had only caught glances of her since then, but she was always calm, always quiet, never speaking unless bidden.

But there were things he still wished to know—things that couldn't be spoken of in the presence of his subordinates, things that required privacy. In the years to come, he'd never truly know what had possessed him to go and see her—had it been mere curiosity, or something more, something profound?—but he would be eternally glad that he had.

A little after nightfall, he descended the steps to the lowest level of the dungeons. The heavy metal door grated loudly as he pushed it open with his forearm. In his other hand, he held a lit torch, since no one bothered to light any lamps this far into the dungeon.

He shut the door. The low murmur of a Rose's voice stopped.

"Him?" she said. Then nothing more.

Simon and the others may have thought that she was talking to herself, but Sergei knew better: the seraphim remained with her. Even now.

Sergei strode to her cell—the seventh one down, right in the middle. His boots clacked on the stone, echoing through the dungeon, and his torch made shadows dance on the cobbled stone wall. But other than that, stillness. Silence. A fusty stench pervaded his nostrils.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Rose said, squinting at him. A trail of cracked, dry blood ran from her temple down her cheek, and bags hung under her slightly bloodshot eyes. She sat cross-legged behind the knobbly iron bars, her back nearly touching the far wall. She spoke casually, despite her dire position. "What's up?"

Sergei stared at her for a moment. Now that he was down here, he didn't quite know how to phrase what he wanted to say. So, in lieu of something sensible, he blurted, "Your execution is set for tomorrow morning at dawn."

"Damn, so soon?" Somehow, she managed a small smile. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Just after dusk."

"Hmm. Guess that means you come to string me up on the wall."

Sergei shook his head. "Ah, no."

"But I thought you did that to all who've committed crimes against the empire. Unless you don't consider murdering countless nobles and officials as such?" She peered up at him, her wide eyes feigning innocence.

"You're a special case."

She nodded thoughtfully. "So you think my friends will try to rescue me."

"They've tried it the past two times we've arrested some of your own, after all." Truth be told, Sergei was glad they wouldn't be tying her up and hanging her from the wall—he disliked the practice. No one deserved to be humiliated like that, not even murderers. The most anyone deserved, for even the worst crime, was a clean death. Nothing more.

"Have they even tried, yet?" She looked at him intently, in anticipation of his answer.

"No."

He watched her just as closely for her reaction, and to his surprise, she looked relieved. "Good," she said. She turned her head a little, as if listening to someone—a seraph, Sergei realized. Not for the first time, he wished he too could hear their voices.

"I hear you told your comrades not to try to save you," Sergei said. "Why?"

She looked at him sharply. "Did you really come here to chat?"

"If you'd like me to leave—"

"I just wanna know why you're here." Her gaze was steady, unwavering. "If it were anyone but you, I'd assume it was to gloat, but ..."

Sergei took the time to grab a nearby wooden stool and sat atop it, facing her, placing his hands in his knees. He finally said, "We were both friends of the Shepherd, and you were his closest human companion. For that, at least, you deserve a listening ear during your final hours."

"That's assuming I want one."

"Do you?"

She paused. "S'pose I have nothing left to hide," she said. "And talking to you sure beats being harassed by these four." She turned and grinned, presumably at her seraph friends.

"I ... see," he said. He'd never heard the seraphim spoken of so disrespectfully before, but he did not think it was a mark of Rose not valuing them—on the contrary, it was surely a sign of how close she was to them. "So the seraphim remain with you."

She nodded. "They've kept me sane, spending the past two weeks in this place." She certainly looked saner than most prisoners who'd even spent a day down here. "For the most part. When they're not being annoying."

"You are fortunate."

"Am I?" She tilted her head back against the wall. "When I'm about to die? When I'm stuck in some dark dungeon, sleeping on cold stone, eating but gruel, having nothing to do but think?"

Sergei grimaced. "If it were my choice, I wouldn't have you stay in a place like this."

"What, you'd rather keep an evil serial killer like me at a five-star hotel?" Despite her sarcasm, there was no bitterness in her tone. She smiled wryly at him, and Sergei couldn't help but tentatively smile back. She's accepted her fate, he realized.

"You were the one who killed Cardinal Forton, weren't you," he said. Ever since learning of her true identity, it had stuck in his mind that she'd been the one to tell him the Scattered Bines had killed the cardinal.

She nodded. "Guilty as charged."

Sergei swallowed. Forton had killed his brother—not to mention countless others. If she had been properly arrested and tried, she surely would have been executed for her crimes. But that was for the empire, for the Knights, to enforce—not an individual, or group of individuals. "May I ask who commissioned you to kill her?"

"No one."

"Then why did you kill her?"

"Because if I hadn't, Sorey would've."

His brow furrowed. "Sorey would never—"

"Forton was a hellion."

Sergei opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he said, "Oh."

"Explains a lot, doesn't it?" She looked wistful. "Sorey tried to purify her, but she refused to let him. Too set in her ways, I guess." She closed her eyes. "A powerful hellion like her, we couldn't just leave her to her own devices. So there was only one thing to do. Sorey was ready to do it, sword in hand, but I couldn't let him. Didn't want him to get blood on his hands, it would've destroyed him."

"Still, couldn't you have at least waited until the knights came, so we could properly apprehend her ourselves?"

She glanced at him. "The knights had already tried to apprehend her, remember? That didn't work out too well."

Boris. He realized his shoulders were hunched, so he relaxed them. "I suppose," he said quietly.

"None of our options were nice. But killing her—that was the only option that guaranteed she'd never hurt anyone again."

Sergei frowned and said nothing.

"Konan was a hellion too," she murmured, almost as if to herself. "That's not much of an excuse, though, considering I hadn't known it at the time."

"How do you know now?"

"A friend told me," she said. "A seraph. He'd been there, with me. He was my—" She stopped, and her pained expression cracking her mask, if only just a little. "There's no point in talking about the past like this. What's done is done, and I'll pay the price." She stayed silent for a moment, then whirled around to look at the other end of the cell. "I will, Edna. I'm tired of running."

It occurred to Sergei that the seraphim wished to help her escape, yet she did not she it. Strange. "According to my subordinates' reports, you told your comrades not to try to rescue you. Why is that?"

"Simple," she said. "Because it'd be pointless—you'd just come after me again and again, as many times as it took. And they'd get caught up in it, too."

"You must know we're still looking for the rest of the Scattered Bones. Arresting you will doubtless put a damper on their activity, but nothing could ever negate what they've already done." Not that the knights had found even a trace of them since capturing Rose. Like all assassins, they were slippery, evaporating just when you thought you had them in your grasp.

"You're welcome to try," she said. "But the Scattered Bones are no more, or at least they are if they've listened to what I've had to say."

"Which is?"

"To stop killing. Live honest lives."

Sergei leaned forward. "You've had a change of heart, then."

"I guess you could put it that way," she said, rubbing her arm. "I don't regret anything I've done—I mean, I'd probably do it all the same way again. But ..."

"But?"

"It's nothing," she said, shaking her head.

It most certainly is not. "If we had never captured you, what would you have done with the rest of your life?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of question is that?"

His cheeks burned. "I'm sorry," he said, looking away. "I forgot myself."

"No, it's fine," she said, and after a short pause, added, "I don't really like thinking about what-ifs."

"But you must have at least considered it, surely."

She smiled faintly. "Okay, fine, I have. It'd be stupid not to, really."

"And?"

"It's embarrassing."

"I thought you said you have nothing left to hide."

"Throwing my own words back at me? That's just cruel." Her laugh betrayed the harshness of her words. "Fine, I'll tell you. I wanted to try my hand at being a Shepherd. The world still needs one, after all."

There was no doubt about that. Ever since Sorey had prevailed against the Lord of Calamity the world had been considerably less hectic, but all was not yet perfect—nor would it ever be. Humanity would always need a Shepherd to guide them.

"There's nothing embarrassing about that," he said. "It's a beautiful dream."

"Of course you'd say that," she said, rolling her eyes.

"No, really. I mean it, from the bottom of my heart." Sergei was seeing her in a whole new light. His earlier comparisons of her to Father Amethor now felt unjustified. They may have been guilty of the same crime, but that was where any similarity between them ended. Father Amethor had retained his absurd sense of self-righteousness until the very end, raving about his cause even as he'd been led up the steps to the gallows. But Rose was different—conscientious. She knew precisely the ramifications of what she'd done, and now she was in full acceptance of them. She always had been.

Before, Sergei had wondered why Sorey had chosen an assassin as a companion for his journey as Shepherd, but now, he knew. Sorey had seen her strength of character.

The law decreed that all who murdered must die. Many thought of such a law as being based in vengeance, but Sergei disagreed. The law balanced wrongdoing; by giving up their own life, the murderer balanced out the one they had taken. That applied tenfold for Rose, as she'd taken the lives of countless others: one death to make up for the deaths of dozens, if not hundreds. A pathetic atonement, to tell the truth.

But the life of a Shepherd was to save those mired in malevolence—to take up one's cross, day after day, and work tirelessly for the prosperity of mankind. Even if mankind didn't necessarily appreciate it. The life of a Shepherd was to save the lives of humans, both literally and figuratively. No human knew that better than Rose.

Sergei made his decision.

"In a few hours," he said, standing, "a man will come to your cell, bearing knight's armour. You will put it on, helmet and all."

Her eyes widened. "You can't mean—"

"You still have the power to do good. Dying now would be a terrible waste."

"There's gotta be at least one person who saw you coming down here," she said. "They'll suspect you."

"Me?" he asked, chuckling. "Who would suspect upright, uptight Captain Sergei Strelka of aiding an assassin? Perish the thought."

"Still—"

"I'll be fine," he said. "You worry about yourself. Worry about how you'll make the life you envision for yourself a reality."

She looked unsure. "You ... you really think I should?"

He turned away from her. "Just promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"That you will never kill again. No matter what."

There was such a long pause, Sergei nearly turned around to face her again. But just before he did, he heard her sigh.

"All right," she said. "I promise. I'll never kill again—no mater what."

"Good," Sergei said. "Then in a short while, I'll send someone to—"

"Hold it." Sergei turned to look at her. She was standing, now, and wore a mischievous smile. "Your plan's awfully devious, especially for you, but I've got a better one. Hephsin Yulind."

She said those final two words with such authority, Sergei was sure something was going to happen, but nothing did. Rose drew her hand into a fist, and, after a moment's hesitation, punched an iron bar.

The resounding screech made Sergei's head pound all the more for its unexpectedness. "How did you do that?" he asked, rubbing his temples.

"It's just the power of the seraphim, no biggie." She stepped out, ostentatiously dusting herself off. "Hope nobody heard that."

"I doubt it." The thick stone floors and walls could muffle anything. "So you had the power to escape this entire time?"

"The power, sure. But not the desire. Thank you for that."

Sergei inclined his head at her. "Fare thee well, Rose. I'm sure your late husband is watching over you right now."

"My wha—? Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no. Sorey and I weren't married."

He stared at her. "You weren't? But ... I thought ..."

"It was all part of our act in getting into Lastonbel," she said. "Sorry."

"Oh." Sergei felt a profound sense of unease, as if his understanding of the universe was fundamentally flawed. "I see."

"Awkward."

"Very."

"Anyway," she said, clapping her hands, "this is goodbye! I'll make sure to stay away from Pendrago, maybe even Rolance entirely for the time being, so you won't be able to arrest me and stuff."

"That would be best, I suppose. But don't stay away for too long—Rolance needs you just as much as Hyland does."

She nodded. "Bye, then."

"Farewell, Rose."

She ran down the corridor, into the darkness, her footsteps nearly silent. Sergei didn't even hear the prison door open or close, but he knew she was gone.

From murderer to Shepherd. May Maotelus have mercy on them all if she failed.

If she relapsed into her old ways Sergei would be just as culpable as her, if not more so. He knew how easily he could have another situation with a woman bleeding out on the stairs, her hateful stare and the knowledge of his failure piercing his soul. It was a gamble, but the potential reward outweighed the risks.

And when she returned to Rolance, he would eagerly monitor her progress.

Yup, I love the Commoner Knight Captain Who Clawed His Way Up the Ranks™ trope. Dunno how canonical it actually is, but I think it fits Sergei well. Like, he read stories about knights when he was a kid and decided he wanted to become one, and uses such stiff and formal language because that's how all the knights in the stories talked.

Also, for people wondering about WLtW: sorry for being a piece of shit! I'll get started on editing Chapter 6 pronto.