You put enough wine in your belly, and sooner or later: your belly runs out of room, Lautrec thought, recalling old words of warning from one forgotten friend in Carim or another. Was that Devon? Rose, perhaps? He couldn't recall and, supposed, it didn't matter. His stomach lurched and he doubled over the balcony again to send a fresh fall of wine-colored vomit down alongside the rain. It splattered the wooden top of the awning that had been built below, and as Lautrec stared down at it, a mad thought crept into his head. That's wasted wine.

He laughed-though the sound of it was neither joyous nor humorous in his ears-and pushed himself away from the railing, hoping he had spewed his last; for the night, at least.

The table where he and the rest of them had met at earlier in the night stood empty and dark beneath the extinguished candle resting at its center. Tarkus and Domhnall had taken his offer up on finishing the wine after everyone else had departed. Lautrec decided he liked the two of them as they sat there, getting drunk, telling old battle stories, telling old bedroom stories. Lautrec though, as usual, had out-paced the other two men in the cups, slumped back in his chair at a point, and the next time he'd opened his eyes, he was alone, the night had settled deeper into the skies outside, and his stomach had decided it was full.

He crossed to the chair Tarkus had been sitting at, peeked into the man's chalice, and found a bit of wine left to chase off his ill feeling. Best cure for a boozy stomach is to convince your body you aren't through drinking. Whose words had those been? Some old knight of Carim, most likely; a few words that suck with him from his boyhood, as most things he'd heard the knights say did. They certainly weren't his father's words. A drink in that man's hand would have looked as foreign as a shield in Lautrec's own.

He downed the wine and, after a moment's consideration, finished off what was left in the skin lying beside it as well. It wasn't much, but it was enough to awaken that pleasant heat in his stomach and throat, and when he closed his eyes, the floor took on a familiar sway underfoot.

He staggered into the hall outside, where the moonlight could not as easily reach into without the balcony's aid. Lautrec squinted into the darkness. At the very end of the hall, he could see torchlight bathing a small circle outside a doorway. Not just a doorway, he thought. The doorway to the attic. And the cell. Your old cell. As he pictured it, another remembrance from the night's meeting lolled into his head. They put Ben in there. He killed a child.

With nothing else to do at that moment, and sleep, likely, a damned near impossibility after his booze-nap, Lautrec headed off to see the boy.

The twist of stairs was more difficult than he remembered, and once, after taking the turn at the midway point that led up to the cell, his heel slipped on an edge, and Lautrec nearly tumbled down and broke his neck. And what a comical end that would be for the drunken knight, he thought. Would you cry for brother dearest, Ana?

The barred door filled with a dark figure upon the noise of Lautrec's stumble. He lifted his gaze to see Ben, his gloved hands gripped tightly around the bars, staring out at him. His face twisted into what might have been contempt and he shook his head. "No. Not you. Anyone but you."

"There's no one else but me," Lautrec told him. "Sad, sure, but true. I am your only visitor."

"I'll kill you for doing this to me, Lautrec," Ben said. His voice was quiet and controlled, but his fingers moved against the bars uncertainly and he kept shifting from foot to foot. "I'll kill you for everything you've done to me, in fact."

"Hate to spoil your little 'vengeance' fantasy, boy, especially because I know how delightful vengeance can feel when its cooking your blood and numbing your mind, but I did not do this to you. People say a lot of rather unkind things about me. Most all of them are true. But, alas, I am no child murderer."

"And neither am I!" Ben shouted. "Get me out of here and I'll… I'll forget you abandoned me at the Burg and at Sen's! I'll set my hatred for you aside! Just-" He jerked at the bars, as if his rage alone could pull them loose. "Get me out! I'm the Chosen Undead! This is ridiculous to be treated in such a way!"

"You think they'd trust me with a key?" Lautrec asked. "I get the leftover, cold, stew when everyone else has had their fill. Believe me, I'm the furthest thing from 'in charge' around here, boy."

"Don't call me 'boy'," Ben growled. "I won't stand here and listen to that. Not anymore. I am your Chosen Undead and I demand your respect."

Lautrec laughed. "If you think respect is something that can be 'demanded', you neither understand it nor deserve it."

Ben's arms shook behind the bars as his fists squeezed tighter around them. His jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth down to nubs. "I'm going to kill you, Lautrec," he said, nodding. "Before this all comes to an end… I'm going to kill you."

Lautrec shrugged. "Hard thing to do when I'm on this side of the bars and your on that side, no?"

Ben glared at him for a moment. A grin rose up his face. "Before I kill you, though, I'm going to kill your sister. And I'm going to do it in front of you. I promise you that."

"You sound like a child. Stomping your feet and making empty threats. You want to rouse my anger, boy? You'v got a lifetime of learning ahead of you before you're clever enough to do so."

Ben's grin faded at once.

Lautrec pointed his way. "Regardless of what you might think, it actually wasn't my intention to come up here and rile you all up. I, too, was locked in that cell, once. Longer than you can imagine. I know what it's like to be in there." He thought of dark nights and whispers-which, later, he learned were the mad sorcerer Logan's-and suffocating feelings of helplessness and hopelessness and dread that spun around his mind for what felt like an eternity of suffering. The thoughts were stealing away all the work the winehad done for him, though, and he cast them aside. "Those walls will close around you if you let them. My advice-"

"I don't care what your advice is!?" Ben shouted.

Lautrec nodded. "And I know anger, too. Anger and I… we're old friends. If there's one thing that can destroy and control even the best of men… it's anger. Get it under control, boy, or the world will start to look like the inside of that cage, and, trust me, when that happens… madness isn't far behind." He studied the lines of the boy's face. "Your father was a hard man, wasn't he?"

Ben said nothing.

Lautrec nodded. The kid's expression was confirmation enough. "My father was a hard man, too. Makes us pricks sometime, doesn't it?"

"You don't know me. And you're not smarter than me," Ben said. "I don't have to listen to you."

"Smarter? Maybe not. I'm a knight. I kill pretty well, but my skills start falling off quite quickly after that. I am wiser, though, and if you intend for this little 'story' of yours you've built up to end in triumph and not tragedy… you'd listen to me."

Ben's lips quivered, as if the things were ready to leap from his face, but he only fumed in silence.

Lautrec nodded. "I don't know what they're going to do with you. You'd be best served keeping your mouth shut and your head down and hope they take pity." He turned and prepared for the dangerous walk down the stairs (a handful of stairs could be a boozers worst enemy) when Ben's voice halted him.

"Lautrec…"

He turned.

Ben peeled the glove from his hand and stuck his arm between the bars, extending it out between them. "We're never going to be friends. And one day, sooner or later, you and I are going to settle things between us. Let us shake. And let the best man win when that day comes."

Lautrec's eyes moved from the boy's bare hand to his dark eyes. There was a queer eagerness housed within that look. "I only shake the hand of men I respect," he told him. "And you've got a long way to go… boy."

He left with the sound of Ben's furious shouts trailing along behind him.

Downstairs (and the climb there went maddeningly slow as Lautrec laid careful boot after careful boot upon the steps) the church was a serene and silent painting of night. Shadowed lumps lined the walls between makeshift tents of drapery, only the pale moon's glow upon the stained glass illuminating them, and Lautrec found himself wondering which, exactly, of those lumps might be Anastacia, and how many he would have to drive a sword into before he found the right one.

An image flashed across his vision, as clear as if painted by the Gods above, of the ponds outside Carim, sparkling beneath the day's mighty sun, where a little blond boy and a little blond girl sat giggling and skipping stones and not housing a single concern in their little blond heads because they were young and they were free and that was all there was then.

The image fled as quickly as it had arrived, and Lautrec found himself leaned against a pew, his arms trembling as furiously as Ben's had in the attic. He pulled a deep breath, steadying himself, and lurched to the chapel's alter. He dug through Andre's cooking supplies and utensils, nearly overturning ever damned last one of them until he found what he so desperately required. A skin of wine.

The bitter stuff was medicine in his mouth and in his mind, and after a long, long, drink, the trembling stopped, and the sway replaced it. He'd come to love that sway. As much, perhaps, as he'd once loved that little blond girl. He rubbed his fingers against his eyes and stumbled out of the chapel, wineskin in hand. He refused his eyes to fall upon those nameless lumps littering the church floor, lest a hand of madness reach into his head again. Instead, he simply staggered towards the church's front entrance with the intention of putting fresh air in his lungs and cold rain in his face.

The pyromancer, Laurentius, was leaned in the entrance when he came upon it, though, and he halted, watching the man. Laurentius himself appeared to be watching something too. Lautrec squinted into the rainy night scene beyond the arched passage and found a dark figure standing at the bottom of the steps. The witch, he thought. Of course it's the witch. What else does that man ever watch? He moved up behind the pyro and rattled his skin of wine to sound an alert.

Laurentius spun on him, gasping, and when the man's eyes found his own, they narrowed with a contemptuous glare not entirely dissimilar from the one Ben had set upon him in the attic. It's a good thing I'm leaving this place, Lautrec thought. Half of the men in it seem to want my head.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Lautrec had a drink.

"Will you allow me to speak with you on a… rather serious subject, knight," the pyro broke the silence.

"You're doing well enough so far," Lautrec said. "Go on."

"I am in love with Quelana."

"Shocking," Lautrec said dryly.

"No, you don't understand. I… I love her. More deeply and more truly than any man, perhaps, has ever loved anything." He stepped forward, so that his bearded face came aglow with moonlight. The man's eyes were red beneath his hood, whether from crying or lack of sleep or something else, though, Lautrec did not know. "Please don't take her from me."

"Take her?" Lautrec questioned.

"You may desire what's between her legs, knight, but I desire her heart. And I will give her a life of love and servitude unlike any you could ever hope to aspire to."

Lautrec frowned. "Don't assume to know what I desire, pyromancer."

"You know its true. You lust. I love. Please don't attempt to complicate things for me! I beg of you!"

Lautrec shook his head and pulled another swig off his wineskin. "Have you ever considered, my friend, that the witch might not love you in return, and that I have nothing to do with that?"

"She'll learn to," Laurentius said; he carried the tone and pace of a man desperate for approval.

"Learn to?" Lautrec laughed. "If you think the witch can be 'tamed' you've got a lot to learn yourself, pyro."

Laurentius' face twisted up. "It's not fair that you should get her when I've done nothing but worship the ground she walks upon! It's just not fair!"

"Few things in life are. You'll get over it." When the pyromancer's eyes widened, and the man took on the look of one who might burst into tears at any moment, Lautrec sighed and said, "Look, the witch is going to Izalith. As it stand, for now, I'm going with her. If you wish to accompany her instead, ask her. If she chooses you instead of me I will, respectfully, bow out. Is that good enough for you?"

Laurentius shook his head. "She'll choose you. I know it."

"Well," Lautrec said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Looks like you've solved your own dilemma then, haven't you? Best of luck finding a woman who actually wants to be found." He turned to head outside, but halted after one step and spun back to lay his hand on the pyromancer's arm once more. "Oh, and if you bring this subject up to me again, I'll break your jaw. If you lay a hand on the witch without her sayso? I'll cut off what's between your legs and youwon't desire anything anymore. Understood?"

Laurentius' mouth fell agape.

Lautrec grimaced. "And don't make that face at your next potential love interest. Try a smile. That usually worked for me in Carim. Good luck."

With that, he left the man standing there and sauntered off into the storm; the wine working its way through him quite nicely by then.

The sky was a black blanket, dotted only by the occasional flash of yellow from some faraway bolt of lightning, and the Parish streets below were so slicked with rain, Lautrec knew the things would be traps beneath his feet if he stepped out atop them. He, thankfully, didn't have to. Quelana was standing at the very edge of the church's final step, the rain falling just shy of her as it rolled from the awning overhead.

Lust, Lautrec thought as he moved up behind her, his eyes tracing the figure of her robes against the backdrop of buildings beyond. Did he lust after the witch? Sure, he'd told her as much in one drunken confession or another. When he looked upon the moon at night, did he find himself wondering if the pale curves of the thing looked like what pale curves might await his hands beneath the witch's robes? Sure, but she was quite beautiful and he was but a man. Thoughts like those came for every man sooner or later if he's been away from the bedroom for long enough. His interest in the witch ran deeper, though. In fact, other than his sister's lifeless face and skins of wine, Quelana had been the one thing he could focus on for longer than a few minutes since Abby had plunged him into ruin.

"I heard its dangerous out here at night," he said softly so as not to startle her. "Quite brave of you, witch, to stand alone."

Quelana turned to him and her face glowed beneath her hood with moonlight, casting it an ever more pallid shade than usual. "Are you drunk right now?"

He liked to watch her lips as they formed words. They were pink, smooth, things, and when they moved, he was helpless but to stare upon them. "I'm awake," he answered. "There's a very good chance I'm drunk anytime I'm awake."

Those lips set in hard lines; lines of reproach. "If you truly wish to accompany me to Izalith in two days time, you'd best start sobering yourself up. I won't take a drunk with me."

"Even a very talented drunk?"

"Even Lordran's most talented drunk."

"Harsh," he told her.

"This isn't a game to me," Quelana said. "In truth? I'm more frightened of returning to my home than anything I've feared in my entire life. If you think I intend to undertake such a task lightly-"

"Is that why you're out here?" He asked. "Trying to put some courage in you before the journey?"

"I… I don't know," she said, turning back to the storm (hiding her lips) and sighing. "I don't require much sleep anyway, but… I can't… I don't…"

He reached for her hand-

-and Quelana snatched it away. "I'm not looking to be comforted."

"I wasn't suggesting you were."

She faced him again, and Lautrec could not help but spot a rather large target on her cheek of pale flesh that looked ripe for kissing. Too much wine, he thought. I shouldn't have approached her. "Are you going to sober yourself for this journey or not? Tell me now, Lautrec, because if you're not…"

"First you answer this true," he said, prying his eyes from her face so that his thoughts could be his own again. "If I weren't a drunken, broken, man… what would you think of me? Tell it true, witch. I'm a grown man. I can handle it."

"What would I think of you?"

"That's right. I asked you if you desired after men the other night. You didn't give me a straight answer, but… I saw one clearly enough in your eyes." Pretty and as green as fresh summer grass, he almost added, but the small corner of his mind that remained sober got a hold of his tongue before he could.

Quelana took a deep breath. "I loved someone. You had the right of it."

"A man?"

"Yes, a man," she confirmed. "A kind, comely, man named Salaman. That was… a long time ago."

"But you did love before…"

She turned to him, her eyes narrowing and flicking across the feature's of his face. After a moment, her hand reached for his chin and held it firmly in place as she leaned near to him. "You want to know if I could ever love you? Is that what this drunken interrogation is about?"

Lautrec would have answered if he hadn't been lost in those emerald green pits of her's.

She sighed. "The truth is I don't know, because I don't know you. And honestly? I don't think you know yourself. If you want even a chance at finding that out? Stop the drinking, try to speak with your sister and put that mad matter between you two to rest, and take something seriously. Care about something! Then? Then we'll both discover who you really are, Lautrec… and we can determine if we like the man we find."

If you lean in and kiss her now, you will throw the whole damned thing away, a voice commanded him, preventing him from attacking those dancing lips of her's that shined beneath the moonlight, inviting him to-

No, that sober corner of his mind demanded.

"Well?" Quelana asked. "Can you do that, knight of Carim? Can you sober up long enough to figure out who you are?"

His words might betray him if he spoke, so Lautrec only nodded his head.

Quelana reached for the skin of wine clutched weakly in his hand and removed it. "If you have another drink… you'll never receive the answer to your question." She nodded, held his eyes, and turned to head back inside.

Lautrec watched her go, swaying in the moonlight, his feet wanting to follow behind her, and that sober corner of his not letting them.

The next day, for better or for worse, he did not have a drink of wine.

Not one drop.