When he wakes up in a clean bed in what he later will learn is a sanatorium, he finds a pair of flintlocks and a rose quartz rosary lying on the night stand next to him, meaning they're probably his.

Not that he has the slightest idea where he is, or how he got here in first place.

As he tries to gather himself, a group of people wearing unfamiliar faces enters the room. They crowd around his bed and ask questions, but when he has no answers it is them who tell him that he was lost to them for night half a year, dead and buried, mourned, and now brought back to life by a miracle of the Light.

They tell him this place is called the Hamlet, and that his own name is Dismas.

He does not know what to make of the information. He sits on the bed naked from the waist up, surrounded, and clutching the covers so hard it turns his hands into claws.

It is a blessing when a stocky woman with a voluminous headdress and a commandeering presence enters the room. A white veil billows after her from how briskly she strides before she stops to level an incinerating gaze at the thong of strangers.

"Out. NOW." She points in the direction of the door.

There is a chorus of protests, but when a male voice says, "Come on, let's give him some time," they start leaving, one by one, until the only ones left are the nurse and him and the room is blessedly quiet once more.

He doesn't understand, doesn't remember, he doesn't remember –

"Awake, are we?" the nurse asks, her attention turning to her patient.

He looks up from the crumpled indents that his hands left on the sheets and nods, not trusting his voice.

"Good. It's about time." She approaches him with a pewter cup full of clear liquid. "Drink this," she says, handing it to him. "Water and essence of valerian," she explains, reading his questioning look. "Best you take it easy for a while, and this will help."

He takes the cup, and she helps steady his hands and makes sure that he downs the contents.

Slowly, the tension begins to drain out of him until he realizes he is shaking and sore, several muscles twitching uncontrollably. He wonders if he cramped and didn't even notice, and if that is the reason why he is so sore. The tremor in his hands is the last to abate.

He is fine.

The medicine is clearly working, and the nurse bustles about as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He is still confused about waking up in an unfamiliar place, but the sudden wave of exhaustion that crashes over him makes even worrying increasingly difficult.

He is fine.

Outside, the sun is shining.

I've been through worse.

Of course he doesn't know that, but thinking it helps.

"Lovely day outside," the nurse says, opening the shutters wide to let a warm breeze in.

It is, but he has a comfortable bed and is content to enjoy it from inside his nest of blankets. Nobody makes him leave. He sleeps, and when he wakes it is dark outside. Somebody must have been watching over him, because despite the late hour, he is served a bowl of hot chicken broth, salty and sweet, and it makes his mouth water for more. He eats a second serving, and then, although no longer hungry, wolfs down a third, and then collapses back into his bed's soft embrace and sleeps until it is daylight again.

"Feeling better?" The nurse is back.

She had left him to disrobe and bathe in privacy, and he had made good work of the tub, the slice of soap and the couple of buckets filled with tepid water that he'd been given. Afterwards he had not bothered with slipping back into the loose linen shirt and pants that he had worn ever since he'd first woken up. Those needed a wash as badly as he had.

"Yeah," he rasps, sitting up. Every time he speaks it feels like he's got gravel stuck in his throat, but at least he now manages words. The first time he tried, he couldn't make a sound and he ended up coughing so bad, he almost passed out from the lack of air.

"Good." She beckons him to follow her. He hesitates for a moment, but then follows, clad in naught but the towel wrapped around his hips. The stone floor feels cold underneath his bare feet, but it's not a long walk, just down the stairs and into a smaller room on the left.

He doesn't have to be told that the room's most prominent feature, a huge mirror of polished silver that leans against the wall, is not originally from the sanatorium. It looks ornate and heavy and wherever it came from, it must have been a hassle to carry it all the way here. He wonders why they bothered. Then, he wonders who did.

The blurry shape reflected in the dull, grey surface slowly comes into focus as he steps closer.

The man frowning at him is a stranger.

This is me.

He looks like someone he wouldn't want to have a run-in with in a dark alley.

The corners of his mouth tug downward, and his nose looks like it has borne the brunt of several punches to the face. He ought to shave, because his stubble is growing in patches around the scars on his jaw.

Overall, he looks older than he feels. There are streaks of grey in his black hair, too many to count. He has brown, weather-worn skin, not dark enough to mark him from the East or as a Southerner, but too dark to belong to a Northerner. A mutt, then.

During his bath he had already discovered that sometime in the past, he'd been stabbed, multiple times. He wonders what he did to deserve that. His body tells the story of a past filled with violence and hunger. He doesn't mind the scars so much as he does the prominent jut of bone at his hips or the hollows he'd like to fill out with muscle.

He drops the towel.

The rest is… ordinary.

"Well, I ain't no beauty," he concludes. It is a little disappointing.

"You look better than most things that were dead for half a year," the nurse comments dryly as she pokes her head in to check on him. He discovers then and there that he sure doesn't have a prudish bone in his body.

"Heh. Bet I smell better too."

"Don't push it." Her eyes narrow, though he manages to catch the flash of teeth in the mirror before she disappears again.

He returns his attention to his reflection. "S' just you and me now, pal."

In the looking glass, the man's shrewd obsidian eyes look back at him, gauging.

He sighs. Not even his mirror image seems to approve.

When he returns to his room, he finds a well worn pair of boots standing next to his bed, and fresh clothes laid out on top of it. They fit him well enough, though his favourite piece by far is the coat. It's like a second skin, even though it hangs down to his knees and he needs to fasten the belt because it's made for a man twice his girth. He rolls up the sleeves and then buries his nose in the soft fur collar, smiling. He knows it's his with a certainty he cannot explain. He may not recall who he is, but he has the distinct feeling that this coat knows him well.

He is informed that he is free to leave.

"This is a sanatorium, not a prison," the nurse huffs, before she tells him that he'll better be back by sundown, or he'll get to know the single holding cells they use for uncooperative patients. He shivers at the thought, and promises to be back on time.

The sanatorium has been his world, for the few days he actually remembers living on it. A miniscule world consisting of a mostly bare room with large windows overlooking the town, a washing tub, a bed and a nightstand. Leaving it seems like a daunting prospect, but as his strength returned, he has been getting increasingly restless.

The moment he steps outside, the light hits him like a sharp rock to the head. It hurts and it makes his eyes water, so he shields them with his hand, squinting through near-closed lids. The street he finds himself in is as unfamiliar as the room he had woken up in had once been. He will not let that deter him – after all, had he not gotten used to the latter as well? It's not a very large town; he had been able to see as much from the window. He only needs to pick a direction, and to follow it.

He chooses to head right, because it looks like it leads towards the town's outskirts.

The road swings in a gentle curve, leading him past a stable and a large barn-type building. A heavy set of double doors stands open, allowing him to see the carriages within. There is a herd of horses grazing on a spacious pasture behind the stables. From there it isn't far to the forest's edge. A waystone painted orange and green from the moss and lichen growing on top of it marks the border of the Hamlet.

From here on out the cobblestone gives way to packed earth and the road disappears into the forest. He contemplates the trees for a long moment before he turns around and heads back. He will find out more about the world out there after he has grown familiar with this place. One step after another.

Going the other way, he realizes that no matter where he is in the Hamlet, there is one sight that doesn't change. Overlooking the town is a sprawling estate, flanked by ancient oak trees. With its iron fence and pointed spires it seems ancient, cold and foreboding. He doesn't approach but he has no trouble making out that like most of the town, it must have seen better days and just like the buildings below it too shows signs of repair.

He spies a cart full of tools and supplies next to a house and further in the distance the sun is bleaching skeletons made of logs where new buildings are being constructed. A few of the buildings sport walls of bright, fresh wood that contrast against the old, washed-out timber.

He doesn't mind being lost in the crooked streets of this town. Maybe, he muses a while later as he passes a flock of geese in someone's overgrown front garden, he ended up here because he wondered whether it's true what they say about the countryside; that so far away from civilization, dogs bark out of their arses.

He is terribly disappointed in that regard when he actually comes across a dog. It's a gangly wolfhound that shows some white around its muzzle and walks with the stiffness of old age. He makes kissing noises at it and it wags its tail when he scratches it behind the ears. Since it looks well-cared for, he doesn't feel too bad about not having any scraps on him that he could feed it.

They spend some companionable time together, the man sitting on the bench and the dog lying in a sunny spot next to him.

Considering his situation, it is a marvel that he can feel almost at peace here, when he still lacks a clear idea of where here actually is. Maybe there is a part of him that recognizes this Hamlet, though why he should choose a place in the middle of nowhere when there were cities out there, busy and full of life, he does not know. He could have headed to Velstaad, or Fraehaven, or even as far North as Old Port, the jewel of the Northern city states. For the time it takes to draw breath he can see an ice cold, green sea with ships bobbing in the harbor.

Then the vision is gone, as if carried away by the wind. Even the names of the cities slip through his mind like the rough tufts of the wolfhound's fur through his fingers. He tries not to mourn their loss. It isn't like he knows whether they are real, after all.

When the hound's ears prick up and it rises to trot off without a backwards look, leaving him on his own again, he decides to move on.

He still hasn't seen the other side of the town. It takes him a moment to remember which way to go, but as he steps into a broader avenue, he can see past a gap in the buildings and catches sight of that estate again. He'll have to remember to ask whom it belongs to. For now, it is as good a landmark as he can ask for.

Nary a minute has passed since he decided on his new course, when an approaching figure catches his eyes. It's not the everyday villager scurrying past, too busy to spare a glance at a stray, be it dog or man. No, this is a striking blonde woman wearing a floppy hat and thigh-high boots that would be the cause of much gossip and scandalous looks at any social event. She walks like a lady and dresses like a rogue, and he is intrigued what a character like her might be doing here, when –

"Dismas!"

She breaks out in a wide smile, and he looks around, fully expecting that she is addressing someone behind him. There is no one though, and he suffers a moment of confusion until he recalls that,

Dismas, that's supposed to be me!

"… yeah?" He can hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"There you are." She draws even with him, and then hooks her arm through his like they are a couple out for a stroll.

He is too surprised to react in any way and thus, the window to so passes. Up close, he can tell that they're roughly the same height, and that she's beautiful in an effortless, undone way. Like she doesn't care anymore, and hasn't for a while.

"How are you?"

She eyes him up and down from underneath her hat, coquettishly almost, and he studies her in return. There is a mole on her right cheek, and she reminds him – he cannot tell. Dismas swallows, because for one moment it was almost like he could remember…something.

She doesn't wait for an answer. "Oh, you're gonna get so sick of people asking that," she drawls, at the same time as clear blue eyes drill into him. "How's the memory?" the mysterious woman asks, all mirth gone in an instant.

"Things are still…foggy." Dismas answers truthfully.

"Foggy, right." She nods once, her brows drawing together, mouth puckering in a most unladylike pout. As quickly as it had appeared, the expression is gone again, replaced by a smile. Less toothy, and this time, it makes the skin around her eyes crease, softens the haughty look. Even her voice sounds gentler when she asks, "Let me show you around then, yes?"

"Thanks … " Dismas falters.

"Audrey," the blonde supplies easily.

"Thanks, Audrey."

They stroll through the Hamlet's streets together, and Audrey shows Dismas where he can find the bakery, the barber, and the general goods store. She leads him to the river where it's broad and slow and one can bathe in the summer, and back to where he can take his laundry to the washerwoman to get it cleaned.

"This is the barracks," Audrey announces, pointing at a squat building made of stone. It sports a couple of new wings that are made of timber and cling to it like a growth.

"Barracks?" Dismas asks, not sure what a place like the Hamlet would need a barracks for.

"Of course," Audrey continues, unaware of his thoughts. "Where else do you think everybody lives?"

"Houses?" Dismas offers, because last time he looked that's exactly what they were for.

"I don't mean the townsfolk," Audrey answers, with a gesture like swatting away a bothersome mosquito. She pokes Dismas in the upper arm. "I mean the fighters!"

"Like…soldiers?" Dismas guesses, because maybe the town keeps some sort of militia at the behest of one lord or another.

"Something like that," Audrey agrees, her tone implying that it's actually nothing the like.

"What'd ya need soldiers for?" Where there are soldiers, there's usually also conflict. Then, wars follow and then woe anyone who runs into one of the press gangs roaming the streets in search of easy targets.

"We had a bit of a problem with vermin," Audrey remarks in an offhand manner.

"Vermin." Dismas looks at his companion, but she seems too lost in thought to notice. "Like what?" he insists to know. "Plague o' squirrels? Rabid badgers?"

"No, more of the Eldritch kind."

Audrey begins to walk again, and Dismas follows her, stumbling on the first step to catch up. He knows his eyes have to show his disbelief, but… "Eldritch!?"

The blonde nods and pets him on the arm. "Don't worry, sweetness – it's mostly under control now. These days it's more about making sure it stays that way. And if we root out some cultists while doing so then all the better, wouldn't you agree?"

Dismas isn't sure any of the news is agreeing with him, but he nods anyway. Eldritch…cultists…then, something Audrey has said sparks his interest. "We. That means you fight too?"

"Oh, you didn't think I was here to look pretty and provide enjoyable company, did you?" Audrey tosses her hair over her shoulder. She is teasing him, but in a good-natured way. Dismas doesn't mind. He can tell that she is trying to make this easier for him to swallow. It goes down as well as boiling oil.

"Why are you here?" Dismas asks, meaning, 'Why am I here?' but not having worked up the courage to ask that question just yet.

"Because cultists carry offerings for the things they worship, and after we kill them, we can strip all the filthy lucre off their cooling bodies," Audrey says with almost maniac glee. "Of course, the Heir gets most of it." She sighs wistfully. "But we still get a substantial cut – oh, don't look at me like this. We can't all cite noble reasons like Reynauld with his holy war, or Baldwin with his quest for an honorable death. No, some of us are really that shallow, and in for the gold."

A moment of silence follows. Dismas doesn't think Audrey nearly as shallow as she pretends to be. He also thinks she wouldn't appreciate him saying so. Therefore, he doesn't. He likes Audrey.

They go on, past the smithy and training hall – the old one, because as Audrey tells him, they've expanded since. Behind the buildings they find grassy plains that melt into gently rolling hills on the horizon. To their left there is a large field lined with straw dummies, but it's empty now.

Much closer, a rough dozen of men and women have gathered around a lone figure in armour. More than one of them carry some form of weapon and all appear to be absorbed by what the knight is telling them. He is balancing a longsword on one shoulder, gesticulating with the other, and when he shifts it is enough for Dismas to spot the golden cross of the Light on his chest.

Dismas knows a crusader's symbol when he sees one and he instantly feels weary of the man.

"Who's that?" Dismas asks, pointing in the direction of the crusader. His mouth feels dry, his heart palpitating too fast.

"Who - ," Audrey squints as if she had trouble making out whom he means. "Oh." She looks at him funny. "That is – Reynauld."

"What's a crusader doing here?" Dismas wants to know. The man in question has not spotted them, none of the warriors have. They pick up their arms and assume various fighting stances, and a moment a later they can hear the ring of metal striking metal.

"You probably know that better than we do," Audrey replies. "You were the first two to arrive here, together." She gives Dismas an apologetic look and a miniscule shrug. Perhaps he will recall, perhaps he will not.

"So is he the commander around here?" Dismas guesses.

"Not quite," Audrey replies and Dismas has the impression that she is relieved that they're not talking about the crusader anymore. "That would be the Heir, the lord of this estate. But I don't think there is a decision that he makes that he doesn't run past Reynauld first. He oversees the expeditions," Audrey explains, "and the training of the recruits. Linesi and Barristan help him out."

Before Dismas can ask, Audrey continues. "You'll know Linesi when you see her; she's the one with really dark skin. She's also a wicked shot with a crossbow. You wouldn't be able to tell she and Margaret are friends if you ever see them training together. Have you met Margaret yet?"

Dismas shakes his head.

"We can swing by the shooting range later, see if she is there," Audrey says. "Anyhow, Barristan's a former man-at-arms. He's the old grouch with an eye patch. He arrived here with Baldwin – now he used to be a king in the East, can you believe?"

"Used to be?" Dismas repeats carefully.

"Baldwin's dead," Audrey says curtly. "He was leprous, and he chose to die fighting rather than to waste away of sickness. Even if Para claims she could eventually have healed him."

"And Para is – "

"The Hamlet's resident Plague Doctor. You'll usually find her at the sanatorium, if she isn't arguing with Junia about some questionable medical practice or another. Junia's the head Vestal, by the way." Audrey pauses, then adds, "This town? It ain't much. But we do look out for each other."

Dismas still does not know how he found himself in the company of all these people, but before he can ask, or do something else like embarrass himself by bawling in reaction to her words, Audrey's grip around his arm tightens, and she pulls him off to the side. They take a cobbled alleyway that leads them to a large square. This has to be the town center, with two-story buildings huddled close together as there is not enough space for them to stand on their own.

The middle of the open area is taken up by a well and a large statue of a regal man in a robe. Dismas is awed at the sight at first, but the impression is spoiled as he and Audrey come closer. A pair of pigeons has nested on top of the statue, and now the man has bird shit dripping down the left side of his face and beard.

Audrey pays the statue no heed, instead pulling Dismas towards a sprawling house with a stone base and wooden upper levels. She makes a grand gesture, grinning like the cat that got not just the cream, but the whole bucket of milk. "And this here is our favourite place: Jubie's."

The moment they step over the threshold, Dismas feels right at home. Jubie's is a tavern that walks the fine line between seedy and comfortable, and it is named for its owner. Jubert is a burly man with a depressed moustache that quivers with barely restrained emotion when he hands them two small glasses full of amber liquid.

"On the house."

Dismas thanks the innkeeper while Audrey blows a kiss in his direction. They take their drinks and sit in a comfortable corner booth that offers them glimpses of the outside through the small crown glass window next to them.

"Cheers." Audrey knocks her glass against his, just hard enough to make the liquid inside slosh around, but not hard enough to spill it. "To friends."

It's a good toast to drink to and the booze burns just the right way going down. When their drinks are gone, Audrey orders them two tankards of apple cider. Jubert also serves them a tender cut of meat that's been roasted to pink perfection, and a thick slice of crusty dark bread that is ideal for soaking up the juices. Audrey chews with her eyes closed and an expression of bliss on her face. Dismas expected her to pick at her food, not to rip into it like a hungry wolf.

He does not know how he will pay for the meal, but Audrey tells him not to worry about it, so he doesn't.

"I come here often?" Dismas asks. His hunger has been sated halfway through the meal, but he can't quite stop eating.

"Jubie probably had to take a loan from the Heir to cover for the loss of income," Audrey says through a full mouth.

"Heh." Dismas looks around, takes in the sturdy wooden tables and benches, the giant tile stove that is radiating heat even from half a room away, and the small touches like the cushions to sit on top of or the blankets that cover the backrests but can be used to wrap around one's shoulders. Yes, he can see himself coming here often.

"What's down there?" He nods at sturdy, rustic staircase at the end of the common room. He can't see where it leads, because there is a thick felt curtain blocking the view into the space below.

"Tables for cards and dice," Audrey says. "Basically, Jubie's got a gambling hall in the cellar."

Dismas suddenly realizes that he hasn't played a game of cards in what feels like forever. Audrey, who can probably read him like a book, shakes her head.

"Oh, no. You, mister, have a ban."

Dismas' face falls.

"Perhaps we can argue the details another time," Audrey adds hastily, "but let's not get into trouble on your first day back."

"I'm not looking for trouble," Dismas mutters casting a longing look at the stairs.

"Maybe not," Audrey agrees, "But trouble's always looking for you. Oh, cheer up. I'm sure they'll let you play a couple of rounds if you promise to keep the aces out of your sleeves."

Under different circumstances, Dismas would be irritated about her assumption that he might cheat – or rather that he might get caught cheating. But she probably knows better, and also there is a pretty redhead that slides into the booth right next to Audrey. She kisses the blonde's cheek, and takes a surprised Dismas' hand in both of hers.

Audrey hurries to introduce her as Margaret. Margaret has a dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and she wears her fiery red hair tied in a loose knot.

"Bonjour," she greets Dismas with a bright smile. "Je suis très heureuse de te revoir. Comment ça va?"

"Ça va," Dismas replies, and the only one surprised that he actually understood the river of words is himself. "And you?"

"Fine," Margaret replies, letting go of his hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face and behind her ear. She nods at Jubert when he brings her a large pint of ale, then takes a long drink and sighs. "Ah. Much better now. Say, is Reynauld coming too?"

"I… don't think he is, no," Audrey says when Dismas fails to answer.

"Non?" Margaret's look turns to worry. "Is something wrong between you?"

"No, we're just taking it slow until Dismas' memory recovers, ma chérie," Audrey fills in.

Margaret smiles and shrugs, contemplating Dismas with a tilt to her head. "You know, I was getting used to being the best shot in town. But it was a bit boring too. No competition."

"Don't let Lin hear you," Audrey chides and Margaret laughs.

When Audrey asks if they should order another round a good while later, Dismas declines politely.

"Thanks, but I should head back. Nurse's orders."

"Oh, yeah. Wouldn't want to get you locked up after your first day out," Margaret says.

Dismas swallows. He'd had no intention of testing the nurse's patience, but he had not believed in the existence of such cells. He does now.

Audrey and Margaret accompany him back to the sanatorium, and thankfully the nurse does not lock him up. She asks after his wellbeing, then lets him retire to bed.

That night, Dismas lies awake. Outside, the moon is too bright, casting the whole room into cold, hard-edged shadows. The bed is too hard, and the covers too hot, and Dismas tosses and turns, and eventually just lies with his gaze turned to the ceiling while dark thoughts nibble at his sanity like mice.

He doesn't understand how it can be that he knows what a pistol is, how he can understand and speak Margaret's language or know the first verses of the Light, but not recall his own name. There is a hole inside of him. More than once he rests a hand on his chest to feel for a pulse. His heart beats away as he lies awake and aches, and does not know for what.

Memories? Perhaps they are not lost to him forever and besides, he can make new ones.

Friends? He met two today and they still care about him.

Why does he feel so alone then? There is something missing, and he is terrified of closing his eyes for fear of losing what little he gained today.

He tries to curb such wayward thoughts like one might discipline an unruly dog pulling on a leash and come the morrow a bleak mood has gotten hold of him that not even the first rays of the rising sun can dispense. Dismas dresses quickly and leaves the sanatorium with the nurse none the wiser. He walks the streets of the Hamlet like a ghost, unseen by the villagers.

When he reaches his goal, the sun sets the gilded cross atop the belfry on fire. A sign from the heavens? He doubts it. No, it is not heaven he descended from.

He doesn't enter the church, but passes it by and steps through a hip-high iron gate that opens on screaming, rusted hinges. Dismas' pants are quickly soaked around the calf where the high grasses, wet with morning dew, brush against them.

He sees broken tombstones and others so worn from wind and rain that they have been polished smooth, the engravings that adorned them having become illegible with the passing of time. This is an old part of the cemetery. He will find no answers here.

Dismas follows the gravel path until the cemetery changes. He can tell that somebody has been tending to the more recent graves. There are flowers planted in neat beds and the grass is cut short. Many of the crosses are made of simple wood and will rot away eventually, but whoever the unfortunate souls resting in them are, somebody at least made an effort for their sake.

Dismas moves on. He counts eight mounds, and there are more still, but one of the graves draws his attention. It has a large pile of earth next to it, suffocating the delicate flowers underneath. It is open, a back abyss, deep enough to swallow a man standing. Dismas forces himself to step closer. Hidden in his pockets, his hands curl into fists.

His eyes land on the tombstone. A proper one, made of stone and adorned with some crimson fabric. Somebody has bothered to leave candles, but they have since burned out. He can read the letters carved in the stone, albeit with difficulty.

S

Perhaps they were wrong – the voices that first visited him. Perhaps his resurrection is not a work of the Light, but of the Dark – and his existence not a miraculous second chance, but punishment. What if he is unable to die, cursed to return time and time again? He will claw his way out of the earth, fight and die until he loses not only his memories, but his sanity.

Here he is: a man who cannot remember his past, nor envision a future.

A walking corpse, he is disgusted with his own existence.

Perhaps he ought to climb back in, let the earth cover him like a blanket, let everything fade back into blackness.

He should –

He.

"Ya alright there, lad?"

Dismas's head whips around so fast, it makes him dizzy. He is standing right at the edge of the grave and has to catch his balance so as not to actually fall in. How long had he stood here, eyes rooted to the ground and his thoughts full of darkness?

Dismas would be offended to be called 'lad' by anybody else, but the man who is sitting on a bench that leans against the church wall has to be into his early sixties by now. Compared to him, Dismas might well be a lad. He thinks he recognizes the man's voice as the one who had said to give him some space, back at the sanatorium when he had first woken.

This has to be Barristan, the man-at-arms. He is stocky of build and has a head of white hair, an equally white beard, and wears an eye patch over his right eye.

"Was I really dead?" Dismas asks, not expecting an answer.

Barristan pauses in packing his pipe. Then, "I helped bury you," he answers.

Dismas realizes Barristan probably isn't here to stare at Dismas' grave.

"What brings ya here?"

"I lost friends, too." He points his pipe at another grave, the engraving on which reads,

N

Baldwin. He remembers Audrey speaking of him, king and leper. He ended up in the lot next Dismas'. Unthinkable, in any place other than the Hamlet.

"Think he might be alive in there too?" Dismas asks in morbid fascination.

Barristan gives him a sharp look with his one good eye. "I hope not. He deserves his rest."

"Yea, I could do with some o' that too," Dismas mutters and rubs at his burning, gritty eyes.

"What ya need, is something to take yer mind off all o' this," Barristan states, misunderstanding. "Behind the barracks you will find the kitchens. Why don't you see if you can make yourself useful?"

Despite his exhaustion, Dismas does as Barristan suggested, leaving the man-at-arms to his pipe and his grief. He has no trouble finding the barracks again, and a slender man in a turban points him to the kitchen where he spots a corpulent woman in a deep green habit.

"Sister – ," Dismas calls out to make his presence known.

The nun turns, surprise showing on her round face. "Junia." She watches him approach with open curiosity. "What brings you here?"

"Barristan said I might be of help," Dismas answers honestly.

"You have met Barristan?"

"Yea, earlier. In the graveyard," Dismas explains and he instantly knows by the Vestal's expression that he has given himself away.

"Is there…something on your mind?" Junia enquires.

Dismas snorts. That's one way of putting it. "Lots."

"Margaret told me that you seem to have lost your memory," Junia asks carefully.

" 'S true." Dismas answers. There is no point in lying anyway. "Dunno why. Nurse can't explain it."

"Perhaps the Light brought back the parts of you that were…salvageable," the Vestal muses.

Dismas barks out a hollow laugh. "Sister, there's not much of me left."

It is enough of an answer when Junia does not reply. Dismas' mood turns sour, the questions from earlier assaulting him again. Perhaps a Vestal of the Faith will have better answers for him than a grizzly old veteran.

"What if this was a mistake?" Dismas asks quietly.

"I don't claim to know the Light's will pertaining to all of us, but mistakes like that do not happen," Junia says.

"Yeah, well. You ever heard 'bout something like this happenin' before?" Dismas wants to know.

Junia takes her time answering. "No."

"Guess there's a first for everything, then."

The Vestal crosses her arms. "Perhaps it is a mistake," she replies in a cool tone. "I can think of two dozen good people who would deserve this more than you." Dismas has the distinct impression that Junia doesn't like him very much.

"But." The Vestal sighs, the rigidness melting out of her posture. "Life is the greatest treasure of all, and the Light chose you. Now it is up to you what to make of it."

Dismas holds his breath, then releases it in a rush. She is right, but that doesn't mean he feels ready to do… what exactly? He'll start by making dinner and go from there.

"What're we cookin'?" Dismas' voice sounds strangled.

Junia takes the change of topic in stride. "Broth," the nun says, pointing to a large bubbling pot. "Meat and vegetables and dumplings with mushrooms, onion and fresh white cheese."

At least they work well together, Dismas is pleased to find out. Junia oversees the pots and pans and Dismas chops away at the vegetables and meat. Eventually, only the dough remains. Mixing enough for all the hungry mouths is an enormous task and by the time they're finished kneading it, they're both covered in flour and short of breath. Dismas' arms ache and his hands cramp, but he has been able to pour all his frustration into making the dumplings. He is drained, of the anger and despair, and of energy.

"Now we need to get the salt water boiling," Junia says cheerfully while Dismas slumps in a chair. "I do not know the time, but it takes exactly two Laudate Lucem to cook them properly."

Dismas nods, then realizes he doesn't recall the prayer. He doesn't recall any prayers, come to think of it. If the Light resurrected him, he should probably know to say a few words of thanks. And if not, well, it wouldn't hurt either way.

"Teach me?"

Is that a flash of shock on Junia's face? She overcomes it quickly. "Of course. Though it should be said with a rosary. I can borrow you mine." Her hand goes to her belt.

"I already got one," Dismas replies, pulling the beaded necklace out of his breast pocket. He'd put it in his coat this morning and been carrying it with him ever since.

Junia eyes it with curiosity and something like knowing. She stirs the pot one more time, then shows him how to properly hold the rosary.

"Alright, repeat after me."

"So I'm a man of the Light?"

They're at Jubie's again, and Audrey has re-introduced him to Josephine, a small woman of Eastern descent with an eccentric wardrobe, a wickedly sharp wit and a bloodhound's talent for sniffing out lucrative deals. It's the latter that helped her become the Heir's financial advisor – a task she claims suits her much better than dungeon-crawling.

If not for Margaret's timely intervention, Dismas fears that he may have pledged all his worldly belongings to her, which Josephine would let him loan back…for a fee. As it is, he is still the proud owner of a patchy wardrobe, a pair of flintlocks and a mysterious rosary made of semi-precious stone.

There is a moment's silence following his question, and then all three girls break out in hysterical laughter.

"Guess not," Dismas huffs and slides the rosary back into his breast pocket.

He is sure they will let him in on the joke, even if Josephine is shaking her head as she attempts to sip her drink without spilling any of it. Audrey is wiping tears from her eyes and Margaret's face has gone red, but at least she looks like she is trying.

"Tha- that – " An unsteady finger points at Dismas.

Then, Audrey makes a pig-like grunting noise when she takes a breath and Margaret hides her face in her crossed arms, leaning on the table for support. Meanwhile, Josephine is fighting a losing battle with not having her ale come back up her nose, and Dismas kicks up his feet on a nearby stool, a wide grin making his face ache.

He is happy, he realizes, his earlier bleak mood gone for now. He doesn't know if it was the work, or Junia's reminder that his life is in his own hands, but here, in this dingy Hamlet, with the girls for company and a cool, damp glass of Jubie's home brew in his hand, he feels something that has been eluding him since waking up, maybe even something he has not known in his former life: a sense of belonging.