Chapter 31
White Foxes
Part 1
Lighthouse

Though coveted in the desert, the baker never did like water— especially bodies of it in any shape.

Her dream was a series of interconnected tide pools; each one similar in expression yet teeming with different organisms. However, her barefoot trek across the pools—her goal to reach a distant and sandy stretch of land— was precarious.

For it was a well-known conception in Outworld, that every resident and animal meant you harm— especially its aquatic ones. Each step into a different pool provided separate challenges and new foes, though their goal was the same.

Norah grimaced and cried through each one, her feet cutting open as she stepped on coral and felt crustaceans and fanged-toothed fish bite and pinch at the flesh of her calves and feet.

Something clammy wrapped around her ankle suddenly, halting her in place when she reached the edge of one of the pools.

The baker tried not to look down, for she knew it wasn't crabs or octopi that were holding her.

Each pool she treaded through had its own meal, one made of flesh and not scales or aquatic armor. On the shores of Outworld, dead bodies nearly always accompanied the seaweed during the low swell, and their presence in the deep, hazardous tide pools were no different.

Norah looked down, her countenance one of trepidation; she hated water—abhorred it—because she never learned how to swim. Greeting her, his hand peeled and rotted, was a man she recognized all too well holding her.

Bert's eyes stared up from under the rippled water, crabs and fish swimming and nibbling around him. The deceased man stared at her ironically with lively eyes considering his decomposed state, and she shivered with fear as the girl reached down and did her best to uncurl his finger from her skin. Bert's mouth opened under water, his jaw wide enough to allow the crab that had been inside to scuttle across his face, before she released his hand from her with a grunt.

A small distressed whimper escaped her as she rolled on her side in Black's bed…

The baker ran haphazardly through the ankle-deep water, her arms outstretched as her panicked stride caused her to splash water around from her. The woman finally grasped the edge of the tide pool, swinging her legs over and cutting her flesh on coral as she made her way to the next pool— this one deeper than the other one.

Norah felt something, or rather, someone push her face forward into the water and she disappeared under the surface. But as soon as she rose, standing now waist-deep, she realized it wasn't water anymore.

The new tide pool had changed, formed into a different vessel and filled with something that was hot and dense on her skin. The rust colored liquid was thick and choked her like syrupy, warm mud. It entered her mouth, coating the inside and despite that it was repulsive in texture, it tasted remarkably savory and filling; delicious.

The baker spat it from her mouth as soon as it hit her tongue, nearly to the point of vomiting when it went down her throat. She gasped for air as it covered her head, hair, face, and torso without regard if she could breathe or not. Her hands wiped over her face, pulling the liquid from her eyes so she could see.

Norah looked down and screamed.

Bobbing around her were detached body parts from a singular woman. They floated and bumped into her; legs, a half-severed torso, arms and feet. All of them buoyant as if they were vegetables in a macabre soup. The baker fled through the pool, her feet pushing against the dense weight of the liquid's resistance as she pumped her arms for momentum.

Tears pricked out of the corner of her eyes in her sleep and she whined audibly enough to catch the gunslinger's attention from the balcony…

The baker let out a frightened yelp when her feet connected to nothing, hitting a deep socket, and sinking into it. Her feet touched the bottom the same time her chin connected to the surface of the pool and on instinct, the woman raised her chin up; trying her best to stay above.

Norah tiptoed delicately along the bottom, wary for other unexpected holes that would suck her under the surface completely and drown her. She was close…almost to the edge until she halted in her tracks…

A woman's head slid to the surface, as if her presence had caused it to detach from the bottom. It bounced lightly before it came to a pause, but it still rotated towards her…

The baker screamed mournfully as she stared into Abigail's face…

… at the same time, she felt someone grab her by the shoulders.

Norah thrashed, bawling loudly as tears spilled over her closed lids, while her palms came up and attacked blindly. Her fists hit hard muscle while the hands that grasped her shoulders held her just enough to grab her attention. She thought she heard her name called, despite the shrill volume of her scream, and it eased her gradually like a balm; her scream tapering off from startled caterwauls, to whimpers and then finally to gasping inhales. The baker worked to collect her breath first, her palms resting against the pectorals of a man's clothed chest…

She opened her eyes immediately, still brimmed with tears, and made out the foggy outline of Erron Black hovering over her, holding her upright in a bed with him grabbing her shoulders in each hand.

"Relax," he told her, his tone as composed as smoothed stone.

Norah breathed greedily for air, sucking it down despite her throat felt twisted and dry. Eventually air entered her lungs and her tears dissipated to see the mask-less gunfighter clearly.

But, despite that she knew she was awake, the baker felt as if she was in yet another lucid dream; where she woke up was unfamiliar, yet so familiar to her. She didn't believe she was in his room, only because the last place she had recalled was Ferra/Torr's barren garden that served as their room in the palace. She fell asleep against the tree, her nerves fried to the point of exhaustion…

And now she was here…

His body was firm under her palms and she used them to brace against his chest lightly— not to throw him off her because she was repulsed by his presence, but because she needed to make sure he was real and that she really was in his room.

Her eyes narrowed in abrupt confusion.

WHY was she in Erron Black's room?

Her brow then furrowed into a hard line.

And on his BED?

Her fingers flexed against his chest and she pulled her palms straight back from him slowly. Her breath shuddered as she looked around his room with abashment; from the balcony, to his table and to the door of his washroom— everywhere but looking directly into his face.

"How… how did I get here?" she finally breathed out, her voice trembling with discomfiture.

Norah swallowed, finally noting how much her nightmare made her perspire as sweat rolled from her forehead and into her eyes; stinging her as she blinked and lifted her hands to wipe them away.

Suddenly she grimaced, her head pounding like a hammer had batted at her skull the day before. Her eyes squeezed shut, forgetting about Black as she used the other arm to keep herself propped on the bed as she rubbed her palm over her aching forehead. By the Gods, she felt horrible, and it wasn't just her head. Her whole body felt stiff and achy, though she made the internal argument most of it was from the Vaults. The woman shuddered involuntarily, anger brimming up at the memory. She had never seen a Naknada before and hoped never to again…

She didn't open her eyes again until Black's hands lifted from her the same time he rose from the bed; she had not even noticed he had been sitting on the edge until he had gotten up and the mattress had shifted slightly.

The woman stared at him, simply watching his slow retreating form that went towards his desk while she sat on his bed. The baker looked down at the mattress, to the sheets and even to the pillows with awkward befuddlement, feeling improper and alien to be sitting on them. It almost felt like a transgression, one that made her skin crawl anxiously. For the main reason being that she had no idea how she had gotten there in the first place and why.

He walked back to her, turning from the desk with a water goblet. The mercenary carried it, his demeanor unreadable but not harsh, and held it out to her when he got close enough to reach her. She swallowed, her throat feeling like dry leather, and paused long enough for him to have to say something.

"Take it. You need it more than I do," he offered evenly.

She exhaled and rose her hand, and as soon as he handed it over, she looked at him pointedly. "You have not answered my question," she asserted, her voice a stern whisper. "Why am I here?"

Air exhaled out his nostrils, the sound barely a light gust, as he eyed his desk and walked towards it; addressing her as soon as he flopped down in his wooden chair.

"Ferra brought ya by," he explained dryly. "Torr and her had business elsewhere."

Black picked up one of his revolvers, his back leaning into the frame, and dusted over it with a clean red rag. Meanwhile, the baker tapped a single finger on the outside of the copper colored cup, her eyes slanted at his back. "So they carried me— when Torr can barely fit in some hallways—and through the palace to your room when they could have left me by their tree…all of this while I was asleep?"

The Kahn's guards hand stilled over the barrel for a brief second, his head turning minutely towards her direction before he sighed and looked back to cleaning his revolver. "Nobody ever said they were smart."

Norah tilted her chin in his direction, an incredulous eyebrow raised. "And you just…said yes?"

"You rather I leave you sleepin' in the hallway?" he asked her rhetorically.

No. She answered silently in a brief thought, but her eyes still stayed narrowed in suspicion towards him.

"I am a light sleeper and this all seems a bit…odd."

She finally took a sip of her water, inviting it finally to ease her ragged throat, while she contemplated the seemingly innocent, yet outlandish explanation.

He said nothing, his hand holding the rag moving over the gun with slowed strokes; almost as if he was mulling over it as well.

She would have accepted his explanation, if there was not one thing she could not wrap her mind around. It being why Ferra/Torr would choose to bring her to Black's room.

Although her single night stay had been acceptable, albeit nerve-wracking considering the quick-change temper of the symbiotes, they had told her with serious assuredness that she could stay with them as long as she wanted.

Albeit they were somewhat dull-minded, they were fiercely determined about their promise. They wanted her with them— seeing her as their friend. And as they had demonstrated, they protected their friends tooth and nail.

Honestly, she had been surprised by their attack on Hulin, but Ferra had related to them they thought he was 'Icky and Creepy' and that 'Bread Lady' could stay with them in their room until Hulin changed his mind. It was all sweet, and she was humbled by their help, but she knew that Hulin would never leave her alone.

The baker remembered the first thing the girl had done, after they had dismounted from Torr, was Ferra grabbing Norah by the hand and guiding her to their trunk.

They spent the rest of the night showing her their exotic collection: everything from eyeballs, to skeletal limbs of Tarkatan arm blades, to Shokan shields and various knick-knacks collected from bounties; most of them small and mundane. Torr had hovered over them, sitting right above Norah, and she could still feel and smell his breath ghosting down upon her smaller form behind her like hot air from a towering dormant, sulfuric volcano, all the while Ferra told her each and every story related to each item.

Norah had been patient, letting the girl relate their adventures to them—some of them genuinely interesting—but had fought tiredness. It had taken Ferra a bit to notice, but eventually, she had barked at Norah, asking why 'Bread Lady bored' until the baker explained she was listening but just very tired. In all honesty, the ex-cupbearer had expected the girl to reprimand her harshly, but Norah had been surprised by her understanding; simply nodding bluntly and saying 'Go sleep. Tell more tomorrow'. The woman had fallen asleep faster against the tree than she realized she was capable of doing, especially with the hulking behemoth and its rider nearby playing catch with a bare Tarkatan skull; passing it back and forth between them with glee.

With what had occurred, and Ferra being adamant that she would speak more with her in the morning, Norah had a hard time believing anything that Black was saying.

Also, there was something off about him. He seemed more reserved—quieter— in tone and body language as if he were stepping across coals. It was strange, and even though they were on better terms since the Coliseum—after he had taken her place and she had helped him with the bugs in his back—they still did not trust each other.

In a way, she pictured their feelings now towards each other the same as the day they met; back at the tavern. There was mistrust, but a sense of brusque cordiality; only saying what needed to be said. There was still one difference from that first day however, and it being they had history. They knew each other more, were able to read more of what the other was thinking and not willing to leave it a mystery…

And it had been no mystery to her that he had been keeping certain things from her.

It had started with their trek back to the palace and their conversation on the outside of the building where he had taken her to get food, which had been a nice gesture, up until she had been outside with him. He withheld an explanation as to how she had gotten there and why there was a wound on her back.

Norah took another sip of her water, her eyes still on the back of his head. She wasn't stupid, and although she told him she accepted his story, the baker still believed it to be nothing more than a lie.

Ever since the Coliseum, he had shown another side of himself and the cupbearer was able to tell with more clarity when he was lying to her— he had done it twice now—and she had caught on to the same mannerisms each time. His tone was the biggest giveaway. It was if he didn't even believe what he told her. It almost felt strained on the way out, as if he had regret despite it was hidden well under his usual stoic baritone. On top of it all, his explanations were just hard to swallow in general.

"You tripped and hit your head. Knocked ya out cold and a lit candle fell on ya from the bar."

Was that really the best he could come up with?

The baker sipped her water once more, the sound echoing about his room.

Norah's eyes drifted over his back, the mercenary donning one of his dark sleeveless undershirts, and frowned when she noticed the tip of one of his wounds from the whip peak out from his shoulder and stop where it connected to the top of his arm. It was darkly scabbed—fading away— but was still ugly as if someone had painted tar with a slender brush on him. The woman cleared her throat uncomfortably, her eyes blinking as she stared down at the water in her cup.

It was all still an enigma to her; one that she knew would always be unsolved despite he had given her a simple enough answer to the riddle. He had taken her place… and her chest felt tight— gnarled with uneasiness— remembering his looks to her… his back peeling open… and the look of pain on his face he endured… just so she would finally believe his apology.

It made her feel as if she was cruel; letting him take the whip and not objecting to it. But he had been so adamant—so willing to forgo the luxury of his own self-preservation and his name… just so she knew he was really and genuinely apologizing to her.

The ex-cupbearer traced a dirty thumb along the rim of the goblet, remembering something Abigail had written to her as soon as they had gotten settled with Guang and his wife—after her old lamp-lighting friend had been caught up on her stay in the palace.

A man like him apologizes differently.
The only way he can.
Through actions, not words.
You should have thanked him.
He didn't do it for me.
He did it for you.

It was hard to object to what Abigail had written to her, and she had been surprised by Black saving Abigail as well. She had asked him to—begging and crying— and he had done it. He had done something selfless…for her.

But she had been so angry with him for everything, still so trapped in her own turbulent mind, to even recognize that she hadn't even uttered a thank you to him in the street. Even if she did finally thank him for it back at the Coliseum—as well as thanking him for taking the whip—she still felt a clogged tension between them; thick and gritty.

She was beginning to wonder if it had something to do with them making new transgressions towards each other, written on the wall and pretending to be ignored. Norah wondered if he was disdainful about taking the whip, wishing he could recant his decision, even though he had accomplished his objective. Perhaps he didn't feel regretful about the action itself, but the consequences its aftermath brought on him— and possibly resenting her for it.

"Does… the…does the Emperor know?"— she cleared her throat— "About what happened?"

The gunslinger's hand stopped, his shoulders sagging from her question, as she heard him exhale through his nose slightly. He looked at the revolver, inspecting its sides before he placed it in on the table and uttered a blunt: "Yea. He knows."

Norah sighed as well, feeling despondent and anxious by his answer. The mercenary left his hand by his revolver, a single finger tapping the wood soundlessly; both of them encased in the uncomfortable mood that had blanketed when Norah had asked him.

"Are…"— the baker hung her head— "Are you… alright?"

Black suddenly stilled, his finger stopping as the pad rested on the wood, while he remained so immovable and quiet that she felt herself hold her breath. He sucked at his teeth, his shoulders sagging until he replied listlessly "Just peachy."

The baker blew air through her nostrils, her brows furrowing as she stared at her reflection in the water. Suddenly, she felt extremely uncomfortable sitting on his bed, feeling as if her presence had worn out its required stay, as she swung her legs over the side. But she didn't pick herself up from the mattress just yet, her feet feeling like cumbersome boulders she couldn't move.

She didn't know what to do or say, all she knew was that it was her fault for whatever the Emperor had done to him. She was supposed to be a nobody in the Kahn's eye, and yet she had made a mess of things even if Black's actions to her were awful.

The girl scratched the back of her neck with her fingernails. "I'm sorry."

The mercenary said nothing, his body hardly moving except for the gentle rise of his torso from his breathing; if not for that, she would have thought she was talking to a tombstone. She smoothed over the back of her neck, grimacing at how greasy her hair felt under her palm before she finally rose to her feet. The woman looked down at the water again, watching as it rippled from the fidgety movements of her fingers, before she finally felt control of her legs; as if the limbs themselves had been hesitant to approach him as well. She walked towards him, her feet shuffling soundlessly over the stone like the edge of curtains brushing against the floor before she stopped just slightly behind his chair.

Norah swallowed before she brought the goblet to sit on the edge of the table, returning it back to him. "Thank you…"

Honestly, as she turned to walk towards his door, she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for: for him giving her water or expressing her gratitude for facing the whip's repercussions. It seemed he didn't know either, and she felt his eyes on her back as she walked towards the door. She made it about halfway across the room before he addressed her with a doleful monotone: "I knew what was comin'…"

Now, it was Norah's turn to stand motionless. Even though his words were supposed to be a reassurance that what had happened to him was expected, it still didn't make her feel less guilty about it. In fact, it made her feel worse. He had agreed to it, knowing that his employer would be upset with him, and yet he still did it. Black had to be aware of the sacrifice, and his admission alone was enough for her to understand he truly did.

After the whip, she had heard other spectators laughing and mocking him as they dragged his unconscious body through the sand. How his blood ran down his back and how it was nice to see him 'get what he deserved.' It had stung her, hearing it. He was still being punished even after the initial beating—one that if she had taken, there would have been a resolute conclusion to and would have ended as soon as the last strike of the whip fell on her skin instead of his.

The gunslinger was still apologizing it seemed, whether he wanted it to progress or not. The knowledge of her own culpability burned and hollowed inside her chest at the thought and she felt it raze through all her pernicious feelings of him that she constantly harbored.

Despite the two lies he told her—and she knew they were—they were a pittance on the scale; outweighed by his good deed in the Coliseum for her. She always felt that she had never really thanked him quite properly; the spoken apology she had given him before nothing but a prelude to the real thing. And she knew it back then, but her thoughts had been stolen by Hulin and she hadn't had a chance to analyze it fully until now.

Norah turned back to him, both of them regarding each other with an awkward and melancholy countenance towards the other. As much as she disliked his character, finding most of it to still be quite arrogant, she had to acknowledge her gratitude for displaying the rarity that was his selfless side. But she couldn't think of anything that would suffice. The woman had nothing to offer; she was penniless, covered in grime-covered borrowed rags and didn't even own her own freedom.

Her eyes landed on the gun on his table, the one that he had been polishing and her memory inadvertently recalled back to the scene in her room, when he had cocked it ready to kill her. Before she had placed his own pistol to his head as revenge, she always remembered him in her room in the middle of the night; how much hate he had for her, and how badly he had wanted her gone. However, there was one singular moment during the encounter that resonated the most.

"Do you even know my name?"

He didn't. She was a nameless hinderance to him that he couldn't scratch and label on a bullet. Perhaps, that was why he couldn't do it, but what had perplexed her— and angered her in the moment—was the day after.

He had asked for her name…

"I never did get your name..."

Trying to apologize...

In his own way.

Abigail's written sentence hadn't had much resonance in her mind at the time; it represented nothing more than an abandoned link missing its chain. But after the Coliseum, her words began to attach to her more; connecting and forming a strong rope even if it only consisted of two or more pieces. It was still growing though; more and more good deeds being added to it…

"And you never will..."

Her words shot back to him. Appropriate at the time, but now feeling heavy on her.

Perhaps, it was time for her to add her own link as well.

The only one that she had to offer anymore…

"Norah."

Erron Black blinked blankly at her but his posture noticeably stiffened the same time her's went slack after a long, deep exhale. The woman grimaced, her throat feeling as choked and full if she had a bag of rocks lodged in it. She swallowed, her fingers pulling at a loose thread at the hem of her sleeve. He didn't say anything from his chair, his eyes regarding her with a calm, but contemplative concession; the floor was hers to continue and he'd wait by with civil patience.

She lifted her chin, nodding her head minutely, before meeting his gaze dead on with mellowed determination. "My name is Norah."

He said nothing, his head turning away from her to stare off to the side, while his thumb brushed along his other fingers in a semi-enclosed palm; silently pondering over something that was exclusively for him to know alone.

What was there to say anyway? Her offering her name was about as uncomfortable and taxing as he probably felt asking for it back then. He didn't express anger or joy after finally knowing it—he didn't express any emotion at all— but she could tell he was inwardly.

His eyes betrayed him. They stared off, clouded, while his visage remained blank. His thoughts were elsewhere—out of the present and into the past—and recollecting the same memory she had but from his own point of view. It was evident he had the same antipathy for it as well, especially when she saw the faintest narrow of his eyes that landed suddenly on his firearm; regret for putting the gun to her head? But slowly, she saw his hand uncurl from its laxed fist and lay placidly on top of the table. A silent sigh escaped him, his shoulders dipping as if the weight of her name was its own heavy chain link on top of him.

With a small roll of his shoulders, as if lifting them off, he briefly flickered his eyes to her before he stared ahead at the wall once more.

"Erron."

A brief smile pulled at each corner of her mouth, as quick as lightning, as a disbelieving gasp of air fell from her lips like she had coughed up water from her lungs. Her green eyes blinked while a pained grimace flexed across her features.

She hadn't expected a name to be given back in return; he didn't need to. But there was so much within the exchange of simple designations than just mutual hellos. There was conclusion; one sought after by both of them. As if the cede was the final despondent words on a turbulent chapter. She couldn't say the next chapter in their shared book looked any promising, but at least its opening words (their names) offered comfort…and yet discomfort.

They were just names… nothing more.

Suddenly, she felt like she was drowning again. This time, there wasn't a drop of water in sight. No tide pools, no beach, no bodies…just a lighthouse. But its light was blinding, scorching, and made tears fall from them when she looked directly head on. It provided no assurance; no warmth and it was still too far off in the distance and she couldn't swim. She refused to go towards it. It was nothing but a false beacon.

"I'll…"— she turned sharply away from him, wiping a single tear that ran down her face— "Do you know… when they will be back?"

"No," was his answer after a pause.

The baker fidgeted her hands, when she realized her dilemma. She couldn't return to Ferra/Torr's room. Their door was constantly unlocked— the bolt was on the other side of the door; anyone could enter but she could not keep anyone out. She knew that Hulin wouldn't stop either. As soon as he heard they were gone, he'd send a guard to collect her. Then there would be no escape from him.

She thought of Carver and Bao, thinking them as promising islands of hope, but it was dashed from her when he knew that they could offer little in means of protection if Tama found out they were hiding her. Besides... she didn't want anyone else getting hurt or dying because of her.

But, she couldn't be with Black either.

Erron said nothing, instead she heard him lift himself from his chair as she walked towards the door— his footsteps fleeting towards his balcony. Norah touched the handle, but before she opened it, she turned to peer over her shoulder at him one last time.

His arm braced akimbo against the frame above his head as he gave her his back; staring off into the distance. The other hand rested against his hip, just to have somewhere to place it. Light spilled over the outline of his form like an autumn halo as the sun began to set on the capitol, the light going past him to shine into her eyes. Norah squinted against the light, turning away from him to look back at the solid wood of the door; preferring its dark appearance over the ring of light bypassing the gunslinger to her.

Norah shook her head, twisting the handle in her palm.

A false beacon.

Her hand dropped, her shoulders slumping.

But it was the only one she had.

"Can… can I stay here? Just until they get back?" she asked tentatively. Her words feeling like heavy marbles dropping from her mouth. The baker turned back to him the same time his head tilted to the side, the corner of his eye regarding her before he gave a simple nod.

"Food's your's if you want it," he drawled flatly, his eyes back towards the sun again.

She nodded, her feet shuffling towards his desk before she sat softly down in it as if the chair itself was made of delicate glass. The woman stared at the plate of food in front of her, sighing at the familiar handiwork of Carver's cooking and taking note that her bread that accompanied his meals was missing. Her appetite detached from her— pried by her own solemn thoughts—as the pair bathed together in their awkward silence.

"Thank you..." she confessed finally, feeling a need to fill the void. She gulped, blinking rapidly before she decided to test the waters, "Erron."

Again, he remained silent, but his posture became rigid at the sound of his name from her.

Her fingers pulled towards the plate, needing something to distract herself, and began picking at the food; bringing tiny mouthfuls to her lips and chewing languidly. Once again lost in dour contemplation.

She could understand why she was so uncomfortable being around him, but what was he hiding from her? Why was he so frigid to her presence now? What had happened to make his natural distaste for her run cold? Would she ever know? Or would it remain buried forever under snowfall without the promise of spring? Perhaps it was for the best. She assumed, despite his physical appearance destined him for desert environments, she could speculate that he liked winter and often longed for snow; it halted things. Froze them in time like his age; preferring to live in suspension. However, she wondered how much he longed to do it now, with her uncomfortably in his room. Maybe he did want spring after-all; something to unthaw them both from their awkward stagnation.

Black was the first to cave into it, but he allowed her the luxury of a full stomach first; waiting patiently for her to finish before he walked over to her. He looked down at her, his eyes softly but critically taking in her haggard appearance before his nostrils sniffed the air between them. Norah looked down at her lap, knowing he was assessing over his disheveled state. It had been a while since she had anything close to a bath— not even a chance to wipe grime and sweat away with a rag— since the Vaults.

The corner of his mouth flickered to the side for the briefest of seconds, as if a sudden thought occurred, before he eyed the door.

"Follow me," he instructed, walking around her and the chair. Her brow furrowed as she stood, however she remained by the chair; waiting for an explanation from him.

He stopped when he noticed her staring at him, trying to assess what he wanted but failing to. He frowned again at her appearance and explained: "One thing you need more than grub, is a bath."

The baker smiled dimly at him, acquiescing softly as her hand tugged and pulled at the cord of leather that kept her disheveled bun together. A curtain of dark, greasy hair fell and landed on her shoulder; sighing at the weight of the rat's nest that sat on her head. "For once I agree with you."

Erron stared at her, the corner of his mouth tugging lightly at the state of her chaotic hair. He rose an appeased eyebrow towards her. "Whatta ya know…Hell can freeze over after all."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "I am afraid you lost me."

He rolled his eyes lightly at her:" Meanin' that you finally agree with me on somethin'."

The baker scoffed sardonically at him before she shrugged a single shoulder at him. "Just this once…"

They walked out together, him leading the way, as she kept her eyes on everything but his face.

A beacon… maybe not a false one after all…

At least she hoped.

A/N: This arc - Norah's arc - is inspired by Susanne Sundfør's 'White Foxes'. And just like Erron's OUTITW chapters, we'll go back with her too. I do not foresee her's being as long as his though.

Disclaimer: This work is a labor of love and in no way own any of the properties except my own original characters. Feel free to leave feedback if you want. Hope you enjoyed the product and thank you for reading. I also have a tumblr under the same name and an A03 account now that shares the same name.

Thanks and as always, see you next chapter.