Disclaimer: I do not own Guild Wars, Arenanet, or anything of the like. However, though I don't know how one may claim to 'own' a character or personality, I claim ownership to the characters' personalities.

It was Sermo's shift to act as watch. He paced the ruined walkway set before the walls of Nolani Academy, his mind clouded and unfocused with a lack of sleep. Had he been better rested, he would not have kept his cane alight lest it draw unwanted eyes hidden in the darkness.

The portal had led to the main atrium of the academy, similar in design to its northeastern counterpart, though its unlit murals and lights were less gauche. It was a pity that neither Rurik nor any of the other magi could remember the key word to ignite the crystals set into the walls for light and warmth. Instead, they were left to camp out in the main courtyard, and use the remains of desks and podiums as the fuel for a small fire.

Once they had a reliable source of heat, Rurik had split the party up into different watches, with Sermo given the predawn shift. Though they were now behind their own lines, they were still cautious, and right to be so: few Ascalons went out into the night, even if it was by their homesteads. The country had simply grown too dangerous.

Sermo's cane made a staccato burst of hard sound whenever it hit the stone of the floor. He was aware that this might wake up his fellow party members, but he could not find it in himself to care. He paced the upper walkway, glancing out over the stone parapet every once in a while. To keep himself awake, he pondered over his situation: specifically, whether or not he could count Prince Rurik as a benefactor after this past night's events. He had shown a callous, cruel, though utterly pragmatic, side of himself. The Prince, ever the idealist – though this was showing signs of changing – may not accept this.

He panned the realm of possibility. At one end of the spectrum lay the notion of swaying the Prince over to his point of view. Rather, as some might call it, corrupting him. But he dismissed that: bend a sapling too far and it broke. And who knows who might suffer in the aftermath of that result. At the other end of the spectrum: change himself? It was laughable. But he could appear to change, and it would be easy to maintain the illusion. But last night's lesson taught him that times of great stress break even the best of illusions.

No. The more Sermo thought about it, the more he realized that there was no way to maintain the Prince's goodwill in his current situation. Before the Searing, it would have been child's play. He cursed under his breath: better to have remained in Adelbern's camp! There he could be both honest and protected.

But the Prince needed him, and his support. For now, he consoled himself with that knowledge.

Lost in such thoughts, the Mesmer nearly unleashed a Chaos Storm when he swung himself about, cane at the ready, after hearing a voice through the darkness, "Lord Malum?"

Asperia stood, one unmanacled hand resting on the thick, heavy stone buttress that doubled as a handrail and a support for the staircase, the other hanging at her side like an icicle. The Mesmer could barely see her in the darkness, yet the glimmer of his cane etched her outline against the stygian background.

Sermo rebuked himself for being so on edge. Then he addressed her in a tired voice, "What is it?"

Asperia gingerly surmounted the final step, and asked, quietly, "Throughout the day we did not have the chance to speak, understandable given the circumstances."

He interrupted, "What is your point, woman?"

She appeared hesitant for a moment, and then continued, "My name is Lady Asperia Crilis, daughter of Lord Crilis. Since my imprisonment, I have not been able to learn any news of him, and I was wondering what you could tell me."

"This could not wait until morning light?"

"I could not sleep. I am unused to being idle during the night." Her voice shimmered, and carried an innocent quality, like moonlight on the hoary northern steppes.

Sermo sighed, and turned around. He began to patrol, and said, "Walk with me while I complete my rounds." He waited until she had caught up with him before continuing, "Your father is dead, your fortune evaporated, and your house broken." There was a moment of uncomfortable, and improper, silence. "Your father, upon learning of your disappearance, spent what little remained after Adelbern passed the Reclamation Laws hiring mercenary bands, and bribing generals to direct their campaigns northward in an attempt to determine what had happened to you.

"Though seen as a maudlin old man by most of the aristocracy, King included, he was allowed his obsession, until it was discovered that he had made deals with the Charr – an exchange, information for information. He was brought up on charges of treason, and executed. Adelbern used the opportunity to dissolve House Crilis as part of his ongoing covert war against the aristocracy."

There was another moment of silence. Asperia spoke up once again, then, and asked in her most timid voice, "How do you know this?"

They rounded the northeastern corner of the Academy's walls. "Because it was the first instance of a Nobleman being tried by special tribunal: no jury, no defense, merely a listing of the charges, and an automatic sentence. It was a memorable case, to be certain." He did not mention how Adelbern was slowly undermining the Carta Ascalonia, and its guarantee of rights for the aristocracy, how tens of Houses, and their associated Guilds, were being dissolved on charges both fraudulent and factual. The most grating fact, for Sermo, was that the funds confiscated were not lining Adelbern's coffer, but used to fund the war effort against the Charr.

The two walked on in silence, along the edge of the eastern wall. They were just past its midpoint when Asperia allowed a quiet sob escape into the ether. Sermo glanced at her, noticed the tears trailing down her cheeks, leading his eyes ever downwards, past the scarred chin – whose deformities were half-hidden in the half-light of his cane – and even further, to the rags which covered her pale skin, her thin neck, and her barely hidden bosom, where the rags were positioned improperly enough so that he could see –

"Stop it," he commanded, and halted his gait.

"Pardon, Lord," she said, wretchedly.

"These crocodile tears, and this attempt at seduction." He glared at her, his lips tight with irritation beneath his goatee, his tired eyes overflowing with scorn.

She glanced at him, righted herself, and realized that this would not succeed. Her voice grew cold, as if it were the north wind, and she spat, "Clever, Malum."

"I will not be used by one such as you, wench." He was exhausted, and now irritated that this woman thought he was malleable enough to be used as a tool, a pawn with which to regain her place in the world, now found nonexistent after two years' exile. He vented, uncaring of his own words. "Were you planning to yield, and then blackmail me? Or protest at the last moment?" He spat.

"It hardly matters now, doesn't it? Apparently I chose the wrong target." She found she was slipping easily back into the politicking and manipulation required of her. Now that she was no longer a noble, it was no longer required, but it takes more than the undoing of a name to unmake carefully formed instincts. "But cool your temper. Now that I know you are a formidable opponent, I would have you as an ally."

"An ally?" Though he was still enraged, his voice never raised above the level used for polite conversation, it would not do for the Prince to awaken and hear this conversation. "What could you possibly offer me in return for my abilities?"

"My Elementalist abilities–"

"–can be replicated by any competent magus." He was growing smug, and had continued walking. Looking back, he felt like he could laugh at the entire situation.

"My wiles, my looks–"

"Can be easily found on the southern end of a horse traveling northwards. Two years in the company of the Charr have not been kind to your graces, no matter what you may think of yourself."

She was stunned, acting as one who, thinking they are incredibly wealthy, visit the bank to find that all their riches have inexplicably disappeared from the vault. She scrambled to come up with a single asset. "My intelligence–"

"–is easily matched, and even surpassed by my own, as was just demonstrated."

By now the repressive darkness marking an Ascalon night had begun to lighten. Onyx was beginning to fade to a drab gray as – beyond the pall of dust and clouds – the sun was beginning to rise. This true light – battered, bruised by its travel through the ever-present despondency, even nearly broken, but still triumphantly crying 'let there be light!' – was revealing her less noticeable flaws: the blackened teeth, the dullness of her malnourished hair.

When she had been silent for more than a few seconds, he started up, "You have nothing to offer, then." Smug in his victory, he added before increasing his pace and outstripping her, "Now be gone. Perhaps the Prince would be more susceptible to your Grawl-esque features if you cast Blurry Vision."

Asperia was left to lean against the southeastern cornerstone, and watched the Mesmer trail away from her. She fumed at the arrogant bastard, before she realized that he was right. She had nothing to offer him, nor anyone else. She would be forced to rely on pity, an obviously precious, and yet unwanted commodity at this time and place. How wretched.

She had cared not for her father, seeing in him little to respect or take advantage of. She even cursed his death, and the loss of her fortune that had come with it. She cursed fate for delivering her to the Charr. She cursed the Prince for rescuing her, and returning her to her old life, without the necessary tools to flourish within it. But she cursed herself for being so foolish. As she took herself to task, she rearranged the rags that drapped over her body, undoing what she had done earlier. It was easier, now, in the growing light. She looked up at the sky, and saw its growing cerise. Twenty four hours ago, she reflected, she had seen this same sky on returning to her cage after a night of work. Today, she saw it as a free woman. It was still the same damn sky; it looked no different.

Sermo allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, before catching himself. He had been cruel without reason, he recognized. He was not concerned with the moral implications, but rather with the knowledge that it was all useless. The appearance of kindness is always important, and should not be abandoned unless necessary, as he had done earlier yesterday, in the Prince's company. He had served to alienate a potential ally with no gain; granted she was an ally without assets, but the fact remained there was no point in gaining her ire. He cursed his foolishness. He had been slipping up more and more recently. If he did not remain on guard, this lackadaisical acting could lead to his death.

In the growing light, he looked to his left, towards the inner sanctum of the academy. Bodies were still strewn about the charred remains of the fire, heavy and unmoving with sleep. He did a quick count, and saw that two were missing. Asperia was an obvious candidate, but what about the other? He rounded another corner, and heard a hushed conversation below him:

"Do not weep, beloved. It was painless." Sermo recognized the voice as belonging to Lady, though it was purer than it had ever been, having a more melodious, wispy quality to it.

"I understand." Rurik's voice cut through the air, suddenly weighed down. Sermo stopped walking to listen. He looked about for the source of the noise, and guessed that it came unseen from beyond the ruins of what was once a dormitory.

"I have but one request: tell my father. Let him know. I only have a few minutes' reward from Lyssa, and I would prefer to spend them with you."

"Tell me, then, beloved, how will I go about in this wasteland without you? The Gods are no source of strength to me anymore. You were my only proof of the goodness of this life. How will I stay true to my soul and people?" The Prince's voice sounded near its breaking point, like a violin string over-tightened, and then plucked.

"You will, my love. The strength to do so is in you. And, though it seems otherwise, the Gods have not abandoned you yet. Their tools may at times be cruel and fickle, but there will always be a better outcome, that I promise you." She spoke with ethereal certainty; her body was stripped from her, with all the uncertainties and doubts that come with its frame.

"I will take whatever consolation is offered, then. You speak it, and I find I can believe once again." There was a long moment of silence. Then, "All I ask is that you be near me. This world now makes it impossible to be just and righteous. If in its stead I can only have love, it will suffice. But be near me." He spoke this last sentence as to himself. Sermo could hear no reply from Althea's shade.

There was another moment of silence, and then the dry, listless sound of receding footsteps crept through the growing light. Sermo ran his tongue across his lips, in thought, and then cried as an arrow erupted through his left shoulderblade.

I live once more. The two-and-a-half month hiatus was unfortunate, but ultimately inconsequential. In terms of excuses, I have none, save that the general listlessness of the season, along with its unregimented nature influenced me to the point where I stopped writing in favor of other pastimes. And sorry the chapter's so short.

The dialogue between Althea's ghost and Rurik is heavily influenced by Andrew O'Hagan's Be Near Me, an incredible book. Specifically, when he discusses Connor's death with the lines "And I say: be near me. The world is rowdy and nothing is certain. Do not stray. None of us was meant to face the day and the night alone, though that is what we do and memory now is a place of fading togetherness. Be near me." (Everything in the immediately previous quotations belongs to Andrew O'Hagan, not me). Instead of having Rurik's concern be loneliness, however, it is with being good. I cannot but find that passage I've written hackneyed and mawkish, but it was the best I could do. I am, however, pleased with the quality of the dialogue. But it is no use having a rotten spirit embodied in a sound letter. Any thoughts?

I'll be updating a lot faster now. I want to get out of Ascalon before this story turns a year old.

Lowcal:
And this is to let you know I'm still writing this.

Almostinsane:
The connotations of the word 'Protagonist' would agree with you. Protagonists are good guys, while Sermo is not a good guy. But he is one of the leading characters in this little drama, though I will admit I've spent far too much time on him at the expense of all the others.

'Till next time.