Sparrow stared numbly at the empty space Theresa and Garth had so recently occupied— nothing but the sounds of water lapping against the docks and the faint, oddly metallic scent of spent willpower remained. The wind was cool, with evening painting the sky in orange and pink, and the only thing keeping her tethered to the last gossamer thread of her sanity was the comforting warmth of Mutt pressing against her leg.
She was still desperately clutching the rucksack Theresa had given her, knuckles aching, and with one long, steadying breath, Sparrow unlocked her shaky knees. She'd had the entire journey from the Spire to acclimatize to freedom once again, a feeling she'd all but forgotten, but it hadn't seemed real until the Oakfield dock was solid under her boots. Even the open, endless ocean and the fresh salt air hadn't prepared her for this.
Speaking of her boots, and more generally the thrice-damned, vile uniform she was still kitted in… With a cry that made Mutt yelp in surprise, Sparrow yanked the coarse leather band from her head and hurled it violently out into the sea. The rucksack hit the dock with a dull thud and her gloves went down in the deep next, stained from years of horror and more recently the blood of her fellow officers, then the heavy, stifling prison of a coat. She was stripping down to her skivvies in the middle of a public dock, but nothing could possibly matter more than ridding herself of the stink of that nightmare.
Panting by the end, Sparrow rubbed her hands over the bare skin of her arms and reached deep inside until the blue glow of her own will began to pulse. She looked every inch a dangerous madwoman, she had no doubt, and she spared a brief, grateful thought for the absence of villagers.
How long had it been? Theresa hadn't said. Years, at least. A lifetime.
Yes, it had been a lifetime.
Finally, Mutt's tongue wetting her fingers snapped her back into reality. She'd been lost in the Spire again, just for a moment, but she managed to shake off the dark tendrils clinging to her heart and gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ear.
"You're a good lad," she said quietly, earning herself a few pleased thumps of his tail. Getting her wits back in order, Sparrow knelt and quickly unlaced the rucksack, her breath hitching at the familiar contents. Her pistol sat gleaming on top of all the rest, exactly as she remembered it: a master flintlock, the same make and model that still haunted the oldest of her nightmares. It was the gun she'd first blooded in the Crucible, the finest weapon she'd ever purchased, and it had proved it worth a hundred times over in countless battles. It was the gun Lucien would die by, if she had any say in the matter.
Setting the pistol aside for the moment, Sparrow pulled out the clothes Theresa had provided and began to dress. A simple shirt and trousers, nothing spectacular, but the hefty purse clinking around at the bottom of the sack meant that she'd be replacing her good togs in the near future. Her coat was there, though, wrinkled but still sharp with its shiny buttons and dark embroidery. It had been a lucky break that day in Bowerstone Market, darting inside the tailor's shop to escape a lovesick shag who'd become a bit too attached, and she'd walked out wrapped in the beautiful, finely made thing at half-cost. James, the tailor, had even dyed it special, dried it and pressed it while she'd waited— no extra charge except a flirty smile.
That crisp winter afternoon… it felt like a hundred years ago.
The coat still fit, thank the Light, though she'd have to get the cuffs let down a little. Time in the Spire had robbed her of any trace of baby-fat she might have had, trimming her muscles down into lean cord and sinew, and she'd managed to get a bit taller as well. She'd already been a head above most folk before she first boarded that accursed ship, but the way her wrists peeked out of the coat's sleeves meant she might have to start ducking through doorways.
Pulling on the simple boots, Sparrow buckled her belt and baldric before sliding her longsword into its sheath and her pistol into its holster. Her weapons were a comforting presence, Mutt was watching her patiently with his warm brown eyes, and she felt just a little bit more human.
She'd been many things in the Spire. A prisoner… no more than a number. A spy and a dissenter. A fool.
A murderer.
A monster.
Humanity was one of the first things they began to take, but it was an insidious thing. Dignity was snatched away with brutal efficiency; free will was stolen when the collar snapped in place. Humanity, though, was worn down and picked away like the flesh of a rotting corpse.
She needed to move, to get going and do something, but she was in no proper state to trek down to Rookridge. Night was falling, and the only place in the world she was sure would be precisely the same as she'd left it was so nearby she could taste it. Serenity Farm, her refuge, and if her luck held at all she might even make it to the portal before anyone saw her. Slinging the rucksack over one shoulder, still half-full of potions, coin, and a little bit of food, Sparrow rose to her feet and jerked her thumb up towards the beach.
"Come on, Mutt," she said, and the dog was gone and bounding forth in an instant. His enthusiasm was heartening, enough that Sparrow blinked back some gritty heat that bloomed in her eyes. It was… incredible that they were together again. The one purely good, purely joyous thing left in her life.
She clicked her tongue when he made for the road, then motioned to the woods when he looked back questioningly. "Stealthy, love. We're headed home. Your master needs a rest."
The fields were different, the houses she could see were larger, but the path was the same. Keeping an eye out for nosy farmers, Sparrow stayed beyond the tree line whenever possible and vaulted a few fences as she winged around the centre of town.
It wasn't the first time she'd snuck off to her private little farm, but hopefully something better would be waiting for her this time. The Spire had managed to give her some perspective, along with a few new scars, but the memory of coming home to a surprisingly empty cottage still stung.
She'd been little more than a kid, she knew now— stupid and a bit cruel, and Alex hadn't really deserved any of it. He'd wanted a wife who didn't disappear for weeks on end, she'd chafed at the responsibility, but both of them had been a little too caught up in the romance of it to realise the truth. The bubble popped when she'd finally made it back to Oakfield, with her Crucible trophy tucked safely in her pack. It had been a few hours before dawn, the town had been silent and still, and Sparrow had been bursting at the seams to tell her husband all about her victory.
There'd been no warm, sleepy man waiting for her, however. Just a cold, empty bed and a note that cut her as brutally as balverine claws.
As far as she knew, that note was still tucked away in a cupboard along with her wedding ring and a shirt Alex must have forgotten, though she'd strongly considered tossing the lot in the stove. If it hadn't been for the stack of warrants she found waiting for her at the Sandgoose when she'd stormed in to get utterly piss-faced drunk, she'd have hoofed it back to Westcliff straight away. She'd never been one to turn down a bounty, though, which was probably for the best. A few weeks slogging around Albion, slaughtering bandits and hobbes and all other nasty sorts, had done her head a bit of good. Who knows what might have happened at that hellish Spire if she'd gone in still so torn apart and raw inside.
The cottage was empty again, but this time it wasn't unanticipated. Legs moving automatically, pushing forward, Sparrow found herself collapsing into bed before her mind truly caught up with her body. Then, blessedly, there was nothing but darkness.
Sun was filtering in through the window when she woke, though she guessed from the ache in her muscles and the foul dryness in her mouth that she'd been asleep for some time. She felt groggy, filthy and sticky in her clothes, and she spared Mutt a brief, absent pet on the muzzle before stumbling down the stairs and out into the warm, peaceful air. Shucking her clothes with fumbling, heedless fingers, Sparrow hissed when her bare foot first touched the water of her tiny creek, but the shock didn't deter her. If anything, the cold, clean feeling was precisely what she craved, and if it wasn't for Mutt's concerned barking she might have ducked her head under until she drowned.
Instead, she splashed her skin and scrubbed herself scarlet, tearing the half-healed scabs from her cheek and forehead. Bloody, loathsome Commandant— she'd never be able to get that bastard's voice out of her head.
Mutt barked again, pacing in the grass, and Sparrow stood from the water with an annoyed grunt. Naked, sopping wet, and awash in gooseflesh, she rubbed her hand roughly across her eyes and up over her shorn head. "Mercy, dog, when'd you become such a mother hen?" Leaning down, she pressed a kiss against his nose in apology for her terse tone, then snatched up her clothes and gave them a quick scrub in the water before laying them out to dry on the rocks.
She had a few decent things still in her wardrobe, surely. Something that didn't stink of sour sweat would be a leg up, at any rate, and with that in mind she padded back towards the house. Daylight was burning away, and she had to stop dallying about. Taking the stairs three at a time, she began riffling through drawers and tossing what she needed onto the bed. Smallclothes were simple, but finding other clothing that might still fit proved a bit challenging.
Finally, after sorting through the small collection of garments she'd acquired through her travels, Sparrow found some old trousers that would tuck comfortably into the boots Theresa had provided. All her shirts were too loose, billowing under her arms and gaping at the neck, but a few weeks of decent food again would likely sort that out. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sparrow tugged the boots up over her calves before rubbing her hand over her scalp again.
It hadn't meant much in the Spire. Looking pretty wasn't a concern she'd had for years, but now that she wasn't surrounded by incredible ugliness, she felt a hint of long forgotten pride well up. It was only hair, it would grow back in no time, but it was a very physical reminder of all the Commandant had taken from her. She had no doubt the torn skin on her face would scar at least a little as well, but somehow, foolishly, that bothered her less.
"I'm being silly," she murmured, and Mutt whined softly in response. Slapping her hands against her thighs, Sparrow stood abruptly and pulled open one of the drawers she'd already dug through. "No, I'm being stupid."
The headscarf was mottled in shades of dark red— a colour that didn't do lovely things for the rough state of her skin, she was sure— but anything was better than showing off the soft bristles sprouting from her skull. A hat she'd taken off a dead highwayman followed, something she'd never considered as more than a small trophy, and soon Sparrow was fully rigged and eager to be gone.
With Mutt close at her heels, Sparrow slung her freshly packed bag over one shoulder and strode back out into reality. Beyond the swirling portal of the Demon Door, the wind held a distinct chill, but it was more brisk than unpleasant. Damp, mouldering leaves squished under her boots as she made her way towards the centre of Oakfield, and she managed to contain her flinch as the first farmer caught sight of her. There was recognition and shock ringing in his voice as he called out to anyone who would listen, and the townsfolk began to crowd before she'd made it to the Sandgoose. Still, there was a wary tension in the air that kept all but the bravest skittering around her like nervous hares, and she was bitterly glad of it. She wasn't their Hero, not as she had been.
Buying some food from the stalls was her first stop, and she considered indulging in a pie before thinking better of it. Greasy meat and pastry was not what her abused gut needed, but some fresh vegetables and bread sounded divine. Her hat, which was still perched somewhat self-consciously over her brow, actually blocked the glare of the autumn sun quite nicely, and kept her eyes from straying over to the staring yokels. A few days— that was all she'd need to get used to ordinary people again. She'd be all right once she got to Rookridge.
Leaving the peaceful little hamlet had never held such appeal, not even after Alex had scarpered. She felt like a bloody wolf among lambs.
Spire guards were trained hard and brutally, so at the very least she hadn't spent an eternity of damnation with her combat skills going to pot. Blasting her way through the bandits scattered along the road to the Lucky Heather wasn't satisfying, however— she couldn't seem to shake the numbness lingering around her edges.
Becoming so mechanical about killing people was something that should have bothered her. Certainly, taking great joy in killing was also bad, but she didn't feel anything at all.
It wasn't something she was prepared to mull over, at least not yet.
Seeing Hammer again was jarring, but perhaps in a good way. The woman had looked at her with real care twisted up in the face and dampness in her soft eyes, and Sparrow hadn't known what to do except allow herself to be dragged up into a crushing hug. It was affection and friendship, and it made some small, wounded animal deep in Sparrow's chest cry out with the pain of it.
No, she did not wish to speak of what had happened, of the past decade, and Hammer didn't pry. That was truly a blessing; Sparrow did not look forward to the day when the filthy truth was shoved blinking into the light. On that day, Hammer would be full of disgust and fury, and it might very well end in blood.
No, it was better to forget. Better for them all.