So basically I briefly stopped procrastinating. I was meaning to give this story a proper ending, but the ending you'll eventually have (at 20-some k) will be rather a cliffhanger

Feliks nodded, and continued sketching on the piece of paper in front of him. He wasn't that good at it, but he had time to improve. Might as well use it.

Animals were the hardest. They had so many different bits, and they never looked, you know, real. Horses and humans were the worst. Horses had those long, spindly legs, and humans had faces. And hands. But mostly faces.

He and Mei were sitting at a table. Well, to call it a table would be charitable, but it will serve for now. Like most other tables, it was covered in paper. Maps and lists predominated. Some days they changed, and a new set of maps and, accordingly, lists took their place.

Feliciano had been cartographer, having better hand-eye coordination than the rest of them put together. The maps depicted a different world from the one surrounding them. The world shown was much, much bigger. In fact, the maps only showed a really, really basic view. They weren't even accurate, as to geography. But they worked. The current maps showed an arrangement of armies, of camps. Two opposing sides met, making a rough line between them. For the most part, each army was matched with one of an equal strength. To the sides, there were vague circles labeled either 'hearts', 'diamonds', or 'swords'. Apparently this world showed how the fights in court would play out.

And, though the maps made the situation look like a peaceful one, the armies were constantly fighting. Not a full-on battle, but sniping and guerrilla tactics. Enough to keep everyone satisfied.

Who doesn't love a good war?

Matthew tried not to think about it. He had a feeling it may be important, so best not let it slip out. Otherwise, headaches. He didn't like the headaches. They were, hah, they were even worse than Alfred, who was a big enough one already.

He wondered how Francis was doing. Looking for answers to questions and questions for answers. If he'd taken much longer before going, Matthew would have given him a push. Thankfully, Alice had given him a far rougher one before that was necessary.

He took a sip of his tea, and returned to the conversation.

"...cherry red would be cherries. I don't know what purple would taste like. Suggestions?"

Jan appeared to be examining the bottom of his tea cup as he posed the question.

"Really sugary lemon frosting, maybe, if it was lilac," mused Matthew.

"And if it was dark blue purple, probably dark chocolate," added Emma, "Warm and spicy wine if it was dark red purple."

Jan nodded, and put his teacup down. The question might seem ridiculous, but for people with all the time in the world, it was perfectly sensible. He was glad Matthew could visit. He and Emma both liked him.

Mixing senses. Synesthesia. A good way to pass the time, and one that didn't give you headaches. Emma's mind was prone to wandering, but concentrating on something like this was both amusing and pain-free. Perfect, if you'll pardon the alliteration.

Lovino couldn't quite tell what he was feeling. He was angry. That never changed. Guilty, hell knew why. Happy, for obvious and less obvious reasons. He just felt like something was slipping out of his reach, something that he needed to know about. Something…

"You okay, Lovi?"

He shook himself, and scoffed, running a finger around the rim of his full tea cup.

"Yeah, fine. What were you talking about?"

"Alice. I think I remember her. Do you know anything about her? I asked Emma, but she didn't know."

True, Alice had seemed familiar, if female. She bore a curious resemblance to a friend - enemy - acquaintance of theirs. Lovino felt his hands ball up slightly. If she was who she might be, he'd really like to punch her one. On one hand, she seemed pretty nice as a girl, but on the other hand, Arthur had really been a bastard.

"Dunno. Probably she just looked a bit like Emma or something," he said absentmindedly.

"Mm-hm."

Lovino glanced at Antonio. He seemed almost supernaturally absent-minded these days. He would flit from one subject to the other without so much of a warning, and the permanent smile on his face seemed to be crystallized. It was as if whatever was inside him had drained out, and left a sort-of clockwork in its place, a reflection of what he used to be.

He winced at the sudden pain in his head. Tea. That was it. His cup was suddenly empty.

Ivan let out a small cry, but stifled it immediately. He had taken care of it. Lovino was now safely out of the dangerous zone. It was dangerous, after all, to think about that. Antonio hadn't taken well to banishment. Somehow, part of him had stayed elsewhere, while part of him had gone into his head and Roderich's, like all the others. Ivan wondered where the rest of Antonio could be.

No, no. Antonio was far away, on a journey. He had to be.

Natalya reached up at the ceiling, watching her fingers flex, then release. She didn't know how long she had been staring. She just lay on her back arms spread out, looking at something no one else could see.

She could see everything.

When she was with Ivan, she could see the flickering images of maps and the outlines of armies, and the scarf-wearing ghost that followed him. She could see, if she could put her mind to it, the world beneath this one. It was chilly, without the irregular sunlight that was here. They had measured days, and measured nights. There were people. There were so very many people.

It was getting close to fear, now. Just an hour more, and she would be in the thick of it. She looked forward to it, now. The feeling that, though you were up against the wall and looking everywhere, there was still someone behind you, waiting to strike. The paralyzing shot of panic that made her breath short and ragged, that made tears spill out it she wasn't ready for it. There were two times of day when she felt that she was alive - the time of thrilling, and the time of fear.

Other times, she wondered if there was a difference between being dead and not being alive. She wasn't dead. She wasn't alive, either. She was going to die, but what happened in the intervening time was a mystery. Would she stay by her brother's side, until he saw fit to sacrifice her? Would she try to run away, but get held back in the process? Would her brother decide to let her near him? Would her sister try to talk to her?

Would she bleed out, have her internal organs torn, or have her head bashed in? Would she die by the rapier or the longsword or the iron bar? Would it be quick and ungainly, slow and ungainly, or glorious?

She watched the soldiers dying in front of her. This one - wearing the sleek symbols that covered her dress - he was shot in the stomach, and threw himself over a live comrade, staining her with blood and covering her open eyes. His killer marched over their bodies, and he died very slowly, but knowing he had saved a life.

Another, in the lumpier symbols of the clubs, was shot in the shoulder, in the leg, in the cheek. Her existence now was nothing more than pain, but she still flailed at the soldiers overwhelming her, beating them back with a rifle. Another shot hit her in the throat, and one in the head. She toppled over.

How was she going to die?

Ivan needed her. She was the ace - the most powerful, and yet most volatile of all the positions. He couldn't afford to throw her away just yet, despite what he threatened. He needed her, oh yes. She wasn't scared of him. Alone of the rest, she trusted him unconditionally - he wouldn't throw that away, just yet.

Would he?

When the time came, would it be Gilbert, or Elisaveta? Or would it be the reliable Ludwig, again? He was a favourite, now, wasn't he? Solid, reliable, unimaginative. Just like Katya. No, she'd prefer Elisaveta. Being killed by Gilbert would be…distasteful. He was too loud, too boastful. He had the gall to insult her brother, in plain view. It was a wonder she hadn't found the time to cross the line, yet. Elisaveta would kill her with some measure of style, though her natural kindheartedness might provide some embarrassment. Oh, but she didn't warrant much. Elisaveta, like the rest of them, was unaware of her. She had often wondered if that was why she could see the ghosts - that she herself was one of them. After consultation, the answer had appeared to be no, but there was still the potential for anything.

And then, what would it be? A slice, a stab, or a blow? Elisaveta favoured stabbing, though the blade of her longsword never dulled. But she was fast. She could dodge whatever Elisaveta gave her, and could carve her future into her throat before she had a chance to retaliate. Perhaps, then, Elisaveta would have to incapacitate her first. A blunt blow to the head, followed by one on the back, and then a skewer through the back. Probably aimed diagonally towards the head, cutting through the ribs, the lungs, and possibly the heart.

She could almost feel the shortness of breath, and the one last shot of adrenalin. Her drug of choice.