Even five years down the line, Tanith Low's still not sure she had made the right decision in continuing this job.
That's all it is, of course. A line of work. A chosen career path. The daily grind, though unlike any other mortal desk job that would blow anyone's brains to banality and boredom. At least, that's what she tells herself, every time she slumps down onto some makeshift bed to grab a precious few hours of slumber. Not usually especially restful, but sleep nonetheless. Every time she straps her sword onto her shoulder in the morning and heads back out into a world that wants to kill her. Every time she remembers her friends - a select few names from the list in particular - and a lump forms in her throat that she just can't swallow down.
She's compensating, of course.
Trying to make up for what she did for those two years before she had run away, although all memory of it was an utter blank slate.
People deal with horror and guilt in different ways, Tanith's noted. Valkyrie, for example, she immediately fled the scene. Fled from her friends, from the city she'd effectively destroyed, from the family she'd alienated. Tanith, though, she's always been a practical girl, and ignoring any of it having happened would just drive her insane.
She still ran. Hopped on her bike and hightailed it right out of Ireland, away from the terror and the chaos and the grief of Roarhaven, thankful to leave it all behind.
Working for the Irish Sanctuary had had its perks in its time, and Tanith - lost, bewildered and with over two years of memories missing from her mind - was relieved to find that at least her Remnant-self hadn't drained her entire bank account of quite all her hard-earned funds. She used it to rent a fairly standard London apartment near the outskirts, and chose to absorb herself in her hometown for three months, all while trying to get her head around what she'd been an unwitting part of.
She's been one of the good guys.
That's what the name Tanith Low meant, after all. A name chosen as a promise. Fighting for the greater good, protecting her friends, occasionally retaining life-threatening injuries and doing her level best to shrug them off - that was what she stood for. Had, anyway.
She didn't really know what she valued any more.
Tanith had never had any love for the backstabbing politics of the English Sanctuary, so when she finally emerged from her head - having wandered around London streets breathing familiar fumes and doing all she could to distract herself, at least for the shortest of time - she figured she might as well go freelance again. Like the old days, a lithe, witty sixty-year-old using her Adept skills to put villains behind bars. It was really only another form of distraction, but it worked better than endless musing, locked away in her apartment. Tanith took to the roofs of London, leaping down into a maze of backstreets that she had memorised like the back of her hand, sword a'blazing, and caught crooks left, right and centre. The Sanctuary offered her a job. She refused it with a polite nod.
But every so often, one of these villains would seem to recognise her and give her a friendly smile or greeting, mistakenly assuming that she's still her Remnant self. That she's still on their side. Tanith should be able to laugh it off by now, because it's not exactly her fault, is it? Not exactly her fault that she was possessed by a horrible little slimy black demon that slivered down her throat over two years ago and cut out any morality she may have had previously.
Nah. She'd never been convinced by that argument either, even if it's just in her own head.
Tanith poured that resentment into it too, relishing the surprise on their faces even more when she lunged and plunged the hilt of her sword into their heads, clicking shackles onto their wrists before they knew what was wrong or right. Gave an angelic smile and a toss of the hair to any questioning mortals who witnessed her standing over an unconscious body. Drinking too much, she'd mouth apologetically with the appropriate mime, and they'd sigh understandingly and head on. Mortals were so easy to convince.
But none of it helped her forget.
Still, if she's feeling this guilty about her name being tarnished with immorality and criminality, she's still not exactly Darquesse standard, is she? However much her Remnant self may apparently have adored the concept. She thinks about Valkyrie every day and wonders how she's ever going to recover, how either of them will ever be able to move on.
Hiya, Val, it's Tanith. Just wanted to see how you were doing these days...
She deletes the text.
The guilt intensifies sometimes. Without warning. She throws herself into life harder. Chases enemy after enemy across London, across England. Avoids any mention of Ireland like the plague, though. Tries to force it from her thoughts.
Tanith hates that she can't even remember the first thing about those two lost years. When some sorcerer out of the loop recognises her and panics, she has to give the same old tired spiel. You'd think, even five years on, people would give it up. Again, she's nowhere near as eminently familiar as Darquesse, but sorcerers do tend to have long memories. And do tend to be instinctively wary of anyone with the means and possible intention to kill you.
Hey, Val, it's Tanith. I hope you're okay. I mean, that might be a bit of a stupid thing to say. Of course you're not okay. But nor am I, really, so...
She deletes the text.
She could still give it all up, if she wanted. She's only ninety. Maybe not as young and wide-eyed as she'd been forty years ago, but she still has options. A capable Adept, fortes in lock-picking, sword-fighting and wall-walking. She can imagine the resume now. What couldn't she do, if she wanted to?
Val, it's Tanith. Please don't push us out. I'm sorry my insane Remnant self adored your insane alter ago. I'm sorry we both lost a best friend. But if I still know my friend, you're beating yourself up about what happened five years ago. Don't. I need you. Just talk to me. Please.
She deletes the text.
Tanith's making herself her morning cup of strong coffee when Fletcher Renn tumbles into the flat, breathing hard and excitedly.
She adds too much milk to the mug, curses under her breath as she spits out the sip and pours it away. Offers her friend one with a small smile and a couple of words of greeting. She's used to him popping in every now and then. It's a Teleporter thing.
"Val's back," he rushes before the second kettle has even begun to boil. "Not back as in back back, fighting crime and such. But back in Ireland, thinking of visiting Roarhaven. Skulduggery just told me. Apparently she's already been around for the last five months, but wanted to keep it quiet. Typical Val, right? But it's only a matter of time before she's dragged back into some harebrained adventure, like the ones we all used to have together. The old gang. Remember?"
She hesitates for a long time before replying. "That's - great, Fletcher," she says carefully. "That's really great."
Her young friend is halfway through his next bout of enthusiastic babbling before he registers the lack of enthusiasm behind the words. "Wait..." he says, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You and Valkyrie - did keep in touch, didn't you? Like we did?"
"Yes," she replies defensively, though without much conviction. Twenty-three texts written. Four sent. One replied. "Did she you?"
"A bit, yeah. Not for a while, but I figured she's still hurting. Cut herself off." A rueful chuckle. "You know Valkyrie. Could do with a friend, though."
Staring at the young Teleporter's outstretched hand, extended across the kitchen counter, Tanith allows herself to consider it. And when the kettle pings, it's just in time to witness Fletcher's disappearance, probably to go and blurt the news at someone else, someone who isn't such a coward, scared of meeting her own former best friend.
She had made a promise before he had left, though. To him as well as herself. Soon. Not now, but... soon.
Tanith gives herself a week. Shuts her sword in a cupboard. Makes for the streets of London, loses herself once more in the crowds. Goes and cuts her hair. It feels better, somehow. She had already discarded all the leather that she had preferred in her eighties, what used to be her trademark look and now just reminded her of the Darquesse-fanatic Remnant-possessed ghost she had been. A cruel, terrible smile with black lips, and tangles of blond hair tumbling around her toned shoulders. She feels much more comfortable this way, as if the inky demon that had stolen her body had also taken the old Tanith with it. Used it against her.
Left her a 'remnant' of her former self, ironically. Haha.
And finally, with her hair cut strikingly short up around her ears, and now clad in simple apparel of leggings and a dark green hoodie purchased recently from a London designer shop - much more cosy than leather, she had to admit - Tanith shoots off a text to Fletcher, hops back on her motorbike and books the first to Ireland she can get a hold of.
She's not dreading being back on Irish soil, she realises once she's speeding down a Dublin motorway, new hairstyle streaming behind her, tickling the nape of her neck. Maybe it's the luxury of time, maybe it's just happy ignorance of what fun Roarhaven's likely to have in store for her these days, but Tanith finds herself pressing her foot a little harder down on the pedal, even throwing a wink to a startled-looking bearded motorcyclist who she passes. Maybe she is feeling better. Maybe five years - although to her extended lifespan it feels more like five minutes - is long enough to find herself again. To forgive herself for whatever the hell she'd done in those two missing years of her life, beside the basics that she'd asked to be filled in on.
She slides the bike into a bay in a multi-storey car park a couple of miles from where she estimates Roarhaven to be, decides to take the stairs just in case of unsuspecting mortal eyes witnessing her walking right down the exterior wall like the old Tanith would have done. Tanith enjoys the walk towards the hidden city, almost feeling like a normal girl jut out on a stroll across what looks like a network of isolated country roads, not leading anywhere in particular. The silence is a nice change from the city. Although that 'girl' is now in her early nineties, so doesn't exactly qualify as youth any more in most people's books. And the relative normality is probably helped by the fact she had left her sword back in the car, which would normally hang in a sheath around her shoulders. Still.
Tanith only realises where she's going when she's in the suburbs of Roarhaven, choosing to ignore the unfamiliar cathedral-looking buildings on the horizon and staring at the house she has visualised so many times over the last five years. Perfectly preserved, of course; she guesses Skulduggery had something to do with that. The house and the face.
She sits on the roof of Ghastly's tailor shop and cries for a few minutes.
Fletcher's text is enthusiastic. He picks up the phone on the second ring and instantly advises her to avoid the High Sanctuary for at least the next few hours, something about a betrayal and everyone being on high alert, including the Supreme Mage. Tanith recalls smirking at the rather imperious title when Fletch' had filled her in on the status of Roarhaven a while back. Trust China. He asks whereabouts she is, whether she wants him to come pick her up. "I'm teaching right now, but it'll take two seconds - I'm a Teleporter, Tanith, two seconds is all I'll need!" She's deliberately vague about her location, although from where she stands she can see a road sign fairly clearly. She turns her back firmly on it. Can't see it any more. She's content to just wander, get her bearings. Fletcher relents, offers to meet at his flat later, which Tanith gratefully accepts. It'll be good to see a friendly face, however stupid his hair may persist in being. No-one so far has paid her a second glance here, but Tanith's still paranoid all the same.
The town is very much rebuilt from when she saw it last, in utter ruins with Darquesse standing over it all, laughing her head off. Now it's bright, polished. The sorcerers striding through it still wear that guarded expression of all hunted animals, but Tanith guesses that's pretty normal, for Roarhaven. Groups of children amble past in small groups, coloured ties and smart blazers marking them out as students. A new school? Oh, of course, the one Fletcher now works at. Tanith smiles as she rounds from the main street down a slightly quieter one, sees a cluster of boys in purple ties staring at her and whispering. She chuckles and indulges them by stepping sideways and walking a little way up the nearest brick wall, before strolling back down again and continuing on her way, back on solid ground. Gasps follow her, muted admiration, disbelief. "That was Tanith Low...?"
She's still smiling to herself as she hops on a tram at a station she comes across, buying a day ticket and pulling the hood up over her ears, figuring its as good a way as any to get accustomed to the new unfamiliar city she finds herself in.
The smile instantly fades when she's taken a seat in a busy carriage and recognises a voice in the crowd.
Valkyrie Cain's sitting by the window four rows back from the spot Tanith chose. She's talking quietly to another girl: younger, with bright red-ginger hair and a bright, enthusiastic, Scottish tone as she responds animatedly to something Valkyrie's just said. Tanith can't make out the words over the chatter of the carriage. They're friends, though. At least, they look like they're friends. That's good. Friends are good.
Tanith tries to breathe as she sneaks a proper look back at her best friend, trying not to be too obvious. To a girl that used to wear flaunting leather and flirt with every cute guy she saw over 100, trying to be subtle had never been one of her strong suits.
She had been practicing a lot over the last five years.
Valkyrie is in similar attire to her own: jeans and a thin jacket that does nothing to hide her toned arms. It's weird seeing her out of black. She's pale and Tanith can clearly see she looks exhausted, but then she did five years ago back when they last hugged each other, Tanith having just reentered the Sanctuary for the first time. Her eyes are sad, but Tanith is well familiar with that expression in the mirror. Still, she wears a faint smile, like she's opening up to this young woman. Like she's bringing out the old Valkyrie in her, the one Tanith doubts anyone's seen in a long time.
She nearly does it. Nearly stands up and walks over, just like she did twelve years ago when she first met an uncertain twelve-year-old in a library. Nearly pretends she's a fraction as brave as she likes to think she is, when she's punching bad guys in the face and reciting her catchphrase with a cheeky smile.
But, when the tram judders to a halt and Valkyrie stands, following the chatty girl from their seat and stepping out of the carriage, barely paying any other passengers more than a cursory glance, although thinking about it, they all seem to be wearing identical glares directed right at her... Tanith freezes and keeps perfectly still until the doors slide casually shut again. Suddenly intensely grateful for the hood disguising her persona. Grateful that Valkyrie has never been the most observant of people. Grateful that she hadn't just had to witness that faint smile disappearing from her best friend's face as she recognises Tanith... just another ghost back to haunt her from her convoluted past.
Skulduggery and Fletcher are one thing, of course. Valkyrie needs friends like them right now, that's what Fletcher didn't see when he contacted Tanith excited to bring the 'old gang' back together. Most of the old gang were on the right side where Darquesse was concerned, trying with all their power to bring Valkyrie back to them. They're still doing that particular job now. What most of the old gang were not was a Remnant-corrupted Londoner coercing Darquesse into destroying the entire world.
That's not the kind of friend Valkyrie needs. Not then, and not now. Not when she's as close to recovery as Fletcher guesses she would be after a five year break. Tanith doesn't know why she let herself forget that. Why she managed to delude herself into thinking anything otherwise, after only five years out. Why she let herself hope that they could ever be friends again.
She tries to call Fletcher, to explain why she won't be staying with him after all. Answerphone. Phone turned off. Maybe it's for the best. She doesn't need yet another voice telling her she's a coward, after all. Especially since the loudest voice is her own. Never mind that it's true.
Tanith gives up on the whole tram idea, makes a hasty retreat at the very next stop, walks straight up a wall and hides from the world on a roof. Gives up on the hoodie, too. Lets what's left of her hair fall over her face, strands getting in her eyes. Wishes she was back in London, on familiar tiles that she doesn't feel like she's a traitor to.
And when a bell chimes five pm, she's already gone, racing across the slates like her life depends on it, ignoring the burning shame heating up the back of her neck.
One of the good guys?
Yeah, right.