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Yeah so I feel doubly stupid right now. Because not only have I allowed myself to be stuck on a single chapter for, like, half a year, but I also managed to forget that I've had this chapter in the backlog, essentially done and ready to go, since about November?! I'm sorry, you guys. I decided to take a break from writing after NaNoWriMo, and then I fell out of the habit altogether out of immense discouragement and general distraction due to a wonderful case of wavering emotional health.

I still haven't gotten to fixing the monstrous train wreck that is chapter 155, and I've run out of time for tonight, but I did take down some notes during work soooo you'll know within a month whether that got me anywhere!

Housekeeping: First, a trigger warning for miscarriage and thoughts of suicide. Second...

Avalyn Claire: Good question! Looking back, I didn't specify in the chapter where it first appears. I thiiiink the envelope was addressed to Jay? She likely would have addressed it to John Keith if she knew she was going to deliver it herself, but seeing as that wasn't possible, she lettered it to the alias she knew her brother would recognize.

EastAsianFan: Nope! The account is free. I think the site earns all its revenue from ads.

Jens: Deniel would be a great compliment to Vara if she became Queen! And thank you for checking up on me. Your poke actually got me to thinking seriously about this again, so hats off to you.

Thanks to all my reviewers! It's a nice reassurance to know that at least some of my former readers are still around. I never really wanted to give up on this first draft, but man, I've been tempted these last few months...

That out of the way, thank you all for your continued patience. Shoutout to Kira Vulpes for her help cleaning up this mess of a fic. And thanks to my other dear friend for her occasional judgmental sighs as I continue to put off finishing this story, and for her offer to help me with problem diagnoses in the upcoming chapters. Although I've managed to wiggle my way out of most of that, more out of sheer embarrassment because chapter 155 is a disaster that I don't want to ever see the light of day.

I guess I'll have to get over that eventually, huh? XD It's okay. I'll get it done, and I'll get it GOOD, dang it all.

Grace

Peran's wounded fighting hand left a trail of blood behind them as he let his captors push him down the eastern dungeon passage, away from the Blesseds. He knew he couldn't take on all six Guards with his injury. To say nothing of the Lord Rector trailing behind, holding that bloodied serrated knife. He likely had many more hidden on his person.

Faced with this choice yesterday, Peran might have decided to risk death to avoid capture. But now, as he imagined drawing his sword against them, taking their lives, all he could think of was Akins. The boy's body, alone and cold in one of these dark passages, just waiting to be found by rats. Or worse, these turncoat Guards.

Akins should have had a long life ahead of him, and he'd given it up for…for what?

Peran found some dark pleasure in clenching his fists, hearing as much as feeling the wet squelching of his bloodied hand.

I understand, he thought. Damn you, Garmadon, but I do. How can one go on living once their world has been destroyed? For you, it was Lloyd. For me…Makeri. Oh, Makeri, my son…

"Stop," the Lord Rector ordered. He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked a cell door. This was odd: only the Middle's High General was supposed to have a set of keys. Was he in on this plot as well, or had the Lord Rector stolen them?

The Guards shoved Peran none too gently inside. He staggered into the center of the room, then turned.

"I always knew you were a bastard," he said.

"Me?" The Lord Rector pinched his lips together. "I think you're confused, Clouse. You're the one who never met your whore mother."

Peran muscles went taut. He imagined his hands around the old man's neck, squeezing until that smug light left his eyes forever. Sharp, horrible pain surged from his hand to his arm and shoulder. Thick blood trickled on the floor, but he hardly cared.

"Heh," the Lord Rector scoffed and shut the door.

He and his lackeys left, taking the lantern with them.

Five years prior

A rough hand on Varasach's arm, half pulling, half dragging her to her doom. She did not struggle; she did not plead; she did not weep.

Gone, she thought numbly as she stumbled after her master. Gone… Her insides ached, like a fork twisting in her stomach. Her unsteady feet were sticky on the floor.

…Gone? Again? But I didn't…

Overlord stopped outside a cell and cast her in. She careened to her hands and knees, breathing hard. Her head throbbed savagely; she swiped her cheeks and realized her trembling hands were as filthy as her legs and feet. She curled them into fists and slumped against the cold stone floor.

"Who helped you?" Overlord demanded.

"It…it was miscarriage," Varasach said breathlessly. She dared not look up.

Overlord kicked her in the side. She cried out, curling around herself.

"I did nothing!" she said. "I did nothing, Master, I swear-"

He kicked her in the ribcage. Her lungs seized up. She raked her fingers across the floor, willing air into her body.

"Who helped you?" Overlord asked again.

Air-

Another blow. Pain like a hot poker between her legs.

"Who helped you?"

She hid her face a moment too late: his boot struck her forehead. She tumbled across the stones- her head hit the floor and her world briefly went black.

Her chest at last expanded. She allowed herself two wondrous lungfuls before she rolled onto her knees and tucked her face to her belly, making herself as small and protected as possible.

It didn't matter: his next kick threw her back again. Her body smacked against the far wall and she lay still, waiting for the blow that would finally- she hoped- send her into darkness. Unconsciousness- or death, if she was lucky.

But it never came. Instead Overlord crouched, taking a handful of her hair in his fist, and pulled her face too close to his. In the low light his gray eyes looked black.

"I will only ask once more," he said, his breath hot and oversweet. "Who helped you kill your child, Varasach?"

Whatever pain she'd felt before was nothing compared to what ripped through her body now. She squeezed her eyes shut just to get away from his wicked, burning stare, and clenched her jaw. Breathed shakily as she fought tears; fought to speak clearly.

"It...was...miscarriage."

Overlord grabbed her face and shook her until she reopened her eyes.

"And what of your boy last year?"

A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a drop of water plinked into a puddle.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. She lowered her eyes from his- too dark, too full of malice- to his mouth.

"Naava?" he asked. "Elz? Hagar?"

Varasach wasn't aware of changing her face, but she must have, because Overlord's lips stretched into a thin smile.

"It was Hagar, then."

His grip was too tight: Varasach cried out. But she did not struggle- no, never struggle. That was the surest way to be hurt worse.

Overlord dropped her and stood. She slumped against the wall.

"The last thing I needed was more of your kind running amok," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers as he turned his back on her and walked out. "If you hadn't terminated your son, and now miscarried your daughter, I would have killed them myself."

Her kind? What did that mean?

The cell door slammed closed, shutting Varasach in total darkness. The bolt thudded into place. Overlord's muffled footsteps faded into the distance, but the sound of water remained: too far away to be in her cell, but still close enough to taunt her.

When her breathing leveled out, she straightened and set her back to the wall, sloppily combing her hair back with still-bloody hands. She scrubbed them against her dress, but it was just as soiled.

She drew her knees to her chest, tears rolling in full force. Her legs hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her- her head hurt, and her heart…

Her heart must have left her body with the child, because she couldn't feel it.

All strength left her. She laid down on the floor and waited to die.

By the unsteady light of the torch mounted outside the cell door, Varasach watched as Garmadon begin to stir on the floor across from her. She sat quietly on a crate with her knees tucked to her chin, shivering, aching, and trying not to think. But the funny thing about trying not to think…

She'd had no sense of time while locked in Overlord's dungeon. How many days had she laid there with no food, water, or light before, by some fluke, Cole was placed in her cell and saved her life?

If you had known what sort of person I am… If you had known why I was there, you would have let me die.

You should have let me die.

Maybe Cole would come to the King's Keep and save her again. But this was a small thread of hope: he was in the South with no idea of the danger the Lord Rector had put her and the other Blesseds in.

Kyle will come, she told herself, and pressed her fist to her mouth, rocking gently as she tried to stop the fragile walls of her composure from crumbling; tried to keep the stifling, chilling blackness of despair at bay. Kyle is here, somewhere, and he will come.

A part of her wished he wouldn't. How fitting, how poetic it would be for her to die here. For her to end her borrowed days in another cell. Trapped in this desolate place with her father until hunger and thirst at last stole them from this earth.

Where would she go when she died? Not to God, surely. Not after what she had done.

You forgave me for what I did to my son, she prayed. You forgave me for the mistakes which caused my daughter's miscarriage. You forgave me for so many things, God, but this…this is too much for you to forgive. I nearly sent my own father to eternal death because I could not find a place in my heart to forgive him!

Lou was right. I cannot be forgiven. Not while I hold this hatred in my heart.

Garmadon showed her nothing but kindness. Perhaps he'd gone so far as to actually love her- though she had no idea why anyone in their right mind would- and she'd repaid him with cruelty.

Oh, God, please just take me away now. Bring those Guards back; let them kill me here.

Her body ached as she readjusted herself against the wall. She found this funny: a year ago this would have been a nonissue. Indeed, this wooden crate was a step up from the floors of Overlord's cells. How quickly she had grown accustomed to the luxuries of the East.

Garmadon moaned. Varasach reopened her eyes and watched as he slowly awakened, testing his limbs: his fingers, his feet. His arms and legs. After a while his eyelids fluttered open. He stared at the ceiling, first with confusion, and then with anguish. Rolling quickly, albeit stiffly, to a sitting position, he scooted against the wall. Varasach noted with fascination how he also drew his knees close and rocked back and forth. Only he bit his fingertips, not the skin of his knuckles.

Then he saw her and froze.

"Oh…" he murmured. "Oh, oh no, why…what are you…"

"The Lord Rector," Varasach said softly.

Garmadon did not look surprised. He groaned, folding his hands behind his head, and hid his face between his knees.

How many warning signs had Varasach ignored these past few days, or even weeks? How many times had Garmadon done something, said something, that all but screamed that he was not well?

How many times had he begged forgiveness for a sin committed twenty winters ago, only for her to spit in his face?

Garmadon was as haunted by his past as she; as guilty as she; as unworthy of love or forgiveness as she.

And yet, what had her God done for her? What was her God hopefully still doing for her?

Garmadon didn't need her hatred. There was too much of that in the world. What he needed was love and grace.

Help him. She remembered those words, a whisper in her soul when she'd first laid eyes on him in Sheshin Keep. Help him, Vara.

Her God had left her on this earth to fulfill this one task. Why had she so stubbornly disobeyed?

Varasach slid off of the crate and padded across the cell. He curled tighter around himself as she crouched in front of him. His hair was a mess: wispy, half loosed from its tie and tangled between his entwined fingers.

She reached out tentatively to pull his hands apart, then smoothed his hair; the movement encouraged him to raise his head a little, and she cupped his cheek in her hand. She more felt than saw his hot tears. His shuddering breath still smelled faintly of that poisoned wine.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but knew the words were, and would always be, inadequate. And so she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. I am sorry… I am so, so sorry…

Garmadon leaned into her embrace, and wept.

So this is how it feels, Lou thought, bouncing his knee as he glanced about from his seat on a crate in the corner of the dimly-lit cell. Execution- no, murder- by starvation. Not the way he'd ever thought he would go. Incredibly apt, though, considering how many of his own victims had died in a similar way.

Not mine, he thought, and hugged himself as nausea roiled in his stomach. Not mine. Not mine. Overlord's.

Maybe one day he would learn how to separate the actions of the two consciences which had shared his body for over a year: the monster and the man. Today was not that day, and he didn't have high hopes for tomorrow, either.

Though, who could tell? Maybe the coming days of solitude in this dark cell would be good for him. A time of meditation, growth, and peace in preparation for his inevitable death and journey to the afterlife to meet whichever sorry excuse for a god ruled this sorry excuse for a world.

Assuming, of course, that this god cared enough to meet him in the first place.

Humans may be bastards, Lou thought, and reclined, closing his eyes. But at least I know where we got it from.

High General Derek was in the library poring over maps when the Guard strode toward him. He looked up from his work, frowning as the man pulled up a chair, spun it around, and sat on it backwards.

"I have one question for you, High General," the Guard said. "Please answer truthfully. I'll know if you don't, and then we'll both be in a soiree of trouble. Yeah?"

When Derek didn't answer, the Guard continued. "What's your opinion of the Princess?"

Derek finally pulled himself from his surprise. "You're not on duty this morning, soldier. Why are you here?"

"I'm here to ask you a question," the Guard said, his amber eyes grave and unwavering. "I know I'm out of line, High General Derek, and for that I apologize. But we don't have time. This is a matter of life or death. Please answer me quickly. What do you think of the Princess?"

Hosts, he's actually serious! Derek blinked a few times.

"She's…young," he said, unsure what this Guard wanted from him.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Moons, man! What do you think of her? And she's nineteen. Not that young."

"Well, pardon me!" Derek tossed his pencil down on the table with exasperation. "I don't know what to think of her. She's from the West, which means she has considerable naivety when it comes to our culture and politics. But she's smart in her own way, and clearly unafraid to speak her mind in front of the King, even on topics as controversial as the fate of the South."

"Do you think she could be Queen?"

"Do I think-" Derek pushed back his chair and stood. "What is this about, soldier?"

The Guard stood, too. "This is about saving her life," he said. "And the lives of everyone else in this keep. Now please answer the question. Do you think she could be Queen?"

The Guard's eyes seemed to bore into Derek's very soul. The hairs raised on the back of his neck. "I don't know," he admitted. "She has a long way to go. But the potential could be there, if she chooses to pursue that path."

The Guard's soul-searching gaze continued for what felt like an eternity. Derek looked away briefly, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't have time for this. "Do I get to know what this is all about before I cashier you, soldier? Let me see your tag."

The harshness left the man's eyes but, curiously, he did not appear frightened by his High General's threat. He slipped his tag over his head and handed it to Derek, who scanned it quickly.

"Kyle Maikal," he said. "That's right, I put you on the Princess' retinue. You're from the North?"

"Yes, sir. And may I say, it's a relief to finally meet someone I can trust here. Do you know where the Blesseds are right now?"

"It's not my job to watch their every move."

"That's a shame, because if it was, they wouldn't be locked in the dungeon right now."

"What?"

"You heard me, sir. The Middle Lord Rector locked them up not five minutes ago, along with what must be thousands of pounds of explosives dispersed throughout the cells." He twirled his finger. "You know what that means for everyone in the keep when they're ignited."

"How do you know this?"

"Dumb luck, sir. All those reserves from the North? Bought off by the Priests. You couldn't have known that. Which is why you put me in their group when one of the turncoats fell ill. I still don't understand everything, but I know enough to tell you that we are in serious trouble. If we- if you- fail to act now, not only will you die, but the Blesseds will die. Every man and woman in this place-" He snapped his fingers. Or at least he tried, but there was no sound. He regarded his gloved hand with mild disappointment.

Derek crossed his arms, considering the strange Guard. His story fed many of Derek's own doubts about the loyalty of the Priesthood. "You make a fantastic claim against the Lord Rector," he said.

"Nothing you didn't already suspect, sir. I know you spoke to Deniel Waren- who is not in on his grandfather's plot, by the way- and that you examined the Lord Rector's room."

"I-" Derek's face grew hot. How could this Guard have known that? "I found nothing in the wardrobe."

"He'd burned the bloody clothes by the time you got there. Listen, we're out of time. You may not believe me when I say there are explosives under the keep, but do you really want to take that chance? He means to set them off soon: I was warned to leave the keep with the rest of the turncoat Guards before noon."

Derek glanced at the clock above the fireplace. Fifteen minutes until noon.

"What took you so damn long to come to me?" Derek demanded. "Evacuate the keep, soldier. I'll call a few men to help you. If you're wrong about this, you'll lose a lot more than your uniform."

"I'm not wrong. What about the Blesseds in the dungeon?"

"I'll get them. Go!"

I...

sigh. I never thought Overlord would make a reappearance, even in a flashback. I'm reminded every new scene of why I hate him, and I am SO glad he's gone in body, even if he isn't yet entirely out of mind.

I am completely out of time, sheesh. Thank you all again for your patience! Reviews are appreciated. I'll do my best to see you all soon.