A/N: Read chapter 63 first! I've done something unspeakable and posted two chapters on the same day. So in case you've just arrived, this is the second of TWO chapters that have been posted.

Chapter LXIV: The Loss of New Beginnings

When he woke, there was dust coating his tongue. Dust in the air, his breathing thick enough to suggest that not only had the ceiling collapsed, but part of his ribcage as well. His eyes burning, but the blood, the mere taste of blood she had given him, still working in his veins.

Old blood.

She was the reason he was still breathing. The worst of his wounds drawing from its strength, while his need—his choice to keep breathing—forced his torso to heal before he was ready. Every rib causing him to cringe, his jaw pulling back into a silent scream as the bones started to contort, cracking and snapping into place.

The next moments filled with a grotesque agony as the tendons reformed. The crushed bones knitting themselves together through marrow and bone, like roots torn from the soil. So by the end of it, he was once again aware of his humanity…crying on his back, sobbing in silence and sweating in the dark.

Breathe.

He just had to stay conscious. Conscious and calm. Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty seconds…and then another ten minutes before he could move. How many times had he done this in his life… In a daze, pulling himself, step by painful step towards the far end of the debris, unable to concern himself with decorum when walking was the bare minimum of what he was trying to achieve. Refusing to focus on the right side of his vision.

Most of the room had been decimated, save for the corner in which she was sitting. Her arms wrapped around her knees. A sniffling sound emitting from the small gap above where her face was buried into her arms.

It had a forlorn, rumpled appearance, the coat spread across the ground with the pockets turned out and the lining torn. Carefully, she had laid everything out: a rough-spun bag, a small bottle of paraffin, fourteen coins of silver…

…but no flask.

Even with his sight struggling, he could see it. He could smell it. The hopelessness. The weight of her despair. Knowing that there was no blood. That even if she had dropped it, the fires would have changed it to cinders…

…and there was no changing what had been done to her.

Not now. Not ever, as far as she was concerned. Enough that at the sound of his approach, she raised her jaw aggressively. Red eyes. Tear-stricken cheeks covered in dust. As though she would rather suffocate than bear him seeing her in that moment. The tears eventually resolving into a sniff. And then another.

She sniffed…

…and sniffed…and then unwrapped her arm, holding out a stiff piece of paper. Its corner folded from where she'd been clutching it in her hand. "It's…" The sniffling turned into a faded whisper. "…it's me," she said finally.

The fuck it was.

He gave her a sinister eye. The room suddenly feeling a mite dangerous. And yet, knowing he would regret what he saw, he took the paper from her hand and held it up to the shadows. It was a photograph. Water-stained, no date, but the formal dress suggesting the mid-nineteenth century.

The subject…

…a woman, dark-haired and in her prime, standing behind a chair, her back straight; her mannerisms that of a bird that had been told to perch precisely so by the photographer, only to change her position mid-way. Locked in time. Fingers in motion, her form starting to stray, but her face turned directly towards the lens. The familiar jaw, the lips slightly parted. The eyes filled with an arrogance that reminded him of things he wished to forget.

She was exquisite. The bird of prey that he had considered, the mysterious creature that played with the minds of men. His mind veering from 'What now' to 'What the devil am I supposed to do with this information? Admire it?' He then began to meditate on the differences between men and women under certain circumstances because although he could see this woman was enticing to the eye, he could not connect her to the miserable pile of ash seated on the stones beside him.

The scent of her despair affording him enough intelligence to keep his mouth shut, therefore limiting the extent of his commiseration to silence. Unable to chide her for her loss. Unable to do more than nod, handing the photograph back to her and taking a seat against the remaining wall. Knowing that there were no words. Nothing he could say to change what had happened.

He contemplating the funeral pyre of her hopes and dreams…and she starting to sob. The tears flowing until it seemed as though water had taken the place of stone again. The sound holding her in its grip until she could hold it no more. Curling against the floor as though she wanted to bury herself there.

The fight lost.

But the world continuing to turn. The air growing thin, forcing him to choose. Only it was no longer a choice. So he leaned forward, starting to gather her losses into the centre of the coat. Using it to lead her away, like pulling a drowning creature to shore, feeling his way back to the space where the door had been.

Guiding her step by painful step through the decimated tunnel. The air getting colder, the sounds of the distillery soon left behind. The walk taking them through the underground, turning whenever there was heat or light…turn after turn until they stumbled upon an access tunnel. Immediately backing away from it. Knowing his people would kill her on sight. Knowing that he did not have the strength to fight them…

…not if Raze had given the order.

So instead, they went deeper. Avoiding the sun-traps. Keeping to the shadows until he could find his head. The scent of thyme finally granting him a boon in the underground. Like passing through a dream, time shifting forward until the sewer began to flow again. The world growing less foul, and the scent pushing him forward. The stones at the edges of the tunnel starting to recede from the sewage.

The walls no longer covered in mildew. Every ladder tempting him until he found an entrance to the hiding place. Not a door or a ladder, but a small hole, only three feet in height. An iron gate barring it from their side. Reaching his arm through the grate, he started searching…his hand touching blood knew what…until he felt a latch. Hearing a creak as he pulled it. The gate suddenly ajar, barely giving her time to register its existence before she was crawling through, watching him pull himself up and into the tunnel, immediately closing the gate behind them with a rusty clank.

The tunnel holding them like a grave until they reached the other side. A four foot drop from the tunnel to the ground, his drop proving more painful than hers. His knee even now forcing them to stop even though they were steps from the door he wanted. A metal door with a narrow handle, one that opened on an industrial safe room. The modern equivalent of her home in the catacombs. Table, medical supplies, and a spartan bedstead covered in a layer of bedding.

He shut the door behind them, finding his way along the wall. His target clear as soon as he saw it. Water pump. Water streaming over their heads, hair and shoulders. Water on his eyes. Water until their skin was clean and the smell of fuel had lessened. But it could not rid her of the memory. The sight. The smells. The sounds. Soaked to the bone, she lay in a nightmare.

Seated on the bed, pulling the coat into her arms as though she could not bring herself to let go. His steps taking him through the motions. Clothing. Knife. Candle. His need for the latter telling him the dark would be a different affair for him in the coming days. Eventually noticing that she had not moved. That she would sit on the spartan bedstead until hell came. But hell had already come. His hand again the only thing pushing her forward.

"Sleep," he urged, unwrapping her fingers from the coat. Knowing there was laudanum in the medical supplies and the danger was finally gone.

"I don't need…"

He doused the candle. Taking a seat by the wall, his eyes on the door. "Sleep," he said again.

o…o…o

She slept for two days.

Fitful at first. Her sleep only woken when her heartbeat was slow. Time enough to hunt for the creatures that lived in the tunnel—wishing he could avoid the rats for her sake. But there was no way around it. He would say her name. Reinette. Only once before her eyes would open. Squinting, she would sit up slowly, holding the edge of the bed for balance. Gripping it as she took a bowl, gulping the blood down. The room dark, holding her like a womb. She would close her eyes again. The bed holding her in its embrace. Sleep. The silence full. Her pain complete.

She slept.

o…o…o

On the third day, she opened her eyes. Staring at the ceiling. Unable to feel. The desire to sleep overwhelming. She sat up slowly, raising her hands to her face and curling towards her knees. Rubbing sleep from her eyes before taking the bowl from his hands. Drinking her fill. Blood that tasted of rats and broken promises. When she was finished, she again turned towards the wall. Ready to sleep again. Ready to drop into a half-sleep if the world had any pity.

Only this time, his hand took hold of her shoulder before she could lie down. Her eyes meeting his for a stretch before she nodded. Knowing it was time. Gripping the side of the bed and shifting her feet gingerly from the bed to the floor. Staring at the wall. Keeping herself upright. Seeing what lay around her, yet finding little reason to engage with it. He'd left clean clothes on the bed for her. Shirt. Breeches. He was not leaving the room. She did not care.

She clawed the rest of her clothing off. Pulling the clean shirt over her head. Lying back to button the breeches over her legs before she sat up. Unable to care for pride or dignity when all was meaningless. Her youth gone. Her skin still oily from the paraffin when she took his hand, allowing him to pull her up. Her boots lying in the corner of the room. She retrieved them, removing the key before sliding them on her feet one by one. She no longer cared for her history. The silver key of Hrafn left on the bedside table.

Ready, she walked to the wall and sat in a folded crouch, leaning her head against the stones. Waiting for him to finish. His obligatory walk around the room taking stock of all they were leaving behind. The discarded dress left on the floor. When she would not take the key, he pocketed it for safe-keeping, his fingers burning for a fraction of a second. Eventually running his hand along the edges of the bed, once on the left and twice on the right, before he again pulled her to her feet.

Opening the door and leading her out into the tunnel. Breathing the air at every intersection before choosing their path. Her walk slow after so many hours without movement. Their voices silent when she had no desire to speak, let alone breathe. She walked when he walked…and sat when he sat.

It took little thought.

Time passing with barely any movement…

…until a light shone through the tunnel, blinding her. She did not even flinch this time, instead welcoming the prospect of an early exit. Shading her eyes as she watched Lucian step forward into the light. The shadows resolving themselves into the forms of Raze and Weylan. Shouts calling back through the tunnels that he had been found. Voices conferring and hands moving silently.

An argument starting.

She let herself slide purposelessly to the floor again, her back against the wall. Crouching while they resolved the discussion. Hands moving…fingers pointing. None of it mattered. The argument soon ended and Raze staring at her with undisguised suspicion. But it could not stop the impossible occurring.

Lucian turning his back on them…and coming to stand before her, his hand once again outstretched, pulling her up to stand. He knew she would not rise of her own accord. Not for a very long time.

His gait loose, his knee still limping, as he led her forward between the ranks. Lycan soldiers. Workmen. Search-lights. Their eyes glinting in the dark, following her with the same suspicion…the same confusion shown by Raze. Their stares…the words that they were not saying…starting to become unbearable. Her lungs moving faster until they were in the carriage. The windows black and the horses leaping forward.

Hidden from their sight, she curled up on the seat, burying her head beneath her arms. The blindfold untouched. Across from her, Lucian was outstretched on his side of the carriage, his palm pressed against his forehead. Eyeing the door as though even now, he expected an ambush. All she wanted to do was sleep again. The horses finally clattering to a halt. The door opening to reveal all manner of sights and sounds that at one time might have meant something to her.

It was his home.

The long walk taking her through a cobblestone entryway. Past a burnt stable-house. Through the side entrance to the main house…the kitchen enormous…but filled with too many lights and sounds. They were not expected. Neither of them. Beyond his shoulder, she saw a young maid scream as they stepped through the doorway. A copper pan dropping loudly to the ground before she recovered. The entire kitchen staff watching them with shock as they passed through the kitchen.

The world around her telling her to engage. See. Think. Care. She wanted to sit on every step and sleep, but he kept forcing her to stand and walk. Through a long hallway and up a magnificent staircase that had been mutilated by claws. The windows in the main hall broken as though a great beast had crashed through them to reach the outdoors. She climbed the staircase. Unsure where they were going. Unsure of why they were going.

The top of the staircase revealing a multitude of possibilities. Hallways. Armour. Rooms by the dozen. He turned right. Drawing her forward…and forward…past all of the paintings. The windows. The ornate chairs. Another turn before he opened a set of doors.

It was a library.

A plethora of books on a multitude of shelves. Her sense of feeling nothing almost wavering for a moment. It was beautiful. The walls panelled, the cushions thick, the oak table sturdy. It was here that she had seen the stained glass window, the menagerie of birds…the marble bust with its face that seemed to move in the dark.

Left to her own devices, she allowed herself to slump by the door. Too tired to follow him this time. His expression steely as he drew the curtains—thick and layered—before opening a side-cabinet. Reaching around the inside, searching for a handle that eventually clicked, causing a small door in the cabinet to slide open. The sound of glass tinkling as bottles were shifted and moved around. His movements slow as he limped back again, dropping himself unceremoniously on the floor beside her, carrying two glasses and a bottle.

She took the bottle.

o…o…o

Four hours later.

They were whispering in the library.

"Where is she?"

"Passed out on the couch."

"Lucian, this is not protocol."

He swilled his glass. "Neither is spending five hours being skinned alive with a match for company."

Raze exhaled, sitting down. "Those five hours helped us evacuate."

You're welcome, he thought. Raising a glass, knowing it was probably the only gratitude that would be coming his way, given that a quarter of exile's port was now under rubble. Rena's actions deserved a commendation, yet she might still find herself court-martialled under the Council's recommendations.

Blood, this next house arrest was going to be a fucking nightmare, he realised. Pressing the glass against his head…

…and then his eye.

Refusing to sustain any conversation about it. Refusing to hear it when Raze asked him how bad it was. Raze who was still talking. All the while, Singe dabbing his eyelid with some form of ointment or other. The gauze eventually wound around his eye and the rest of his pain drowned in alcohol. The laudanum still out of reach.

"Do you remember how many drops?"

He jerked his jaw out of the man's hand. "Nine."

He heard a noncommittal sound. The scratch of a pen.

"I know what you are thinking, old friend…" Raze had come to stand across from him. "…but the boat is leaving tomorrow at noon. There is no place for an exile during your next transfer. She cannot be part of this."

"Make it happen."

"What?"

"You heard me." He was not letting this get out of hand. "I will go underground, Raze…but they are all coming with me. Sabine, Rena, Reinette. All of them."

"That's impossible."

"Then I am staying the fuck here."

Raze almost ground his teeth. His claws gripping the table as though he wanted to throw it across the room. "What if we were to send her to Allegra?"

He almost barked a laugh. "Allegra would dress her for her own funeral."

Singe only tapped his pen, but he suspected the man agreed with him by his scent. But Raze had sat down. Refusing to give up. "How will you prove that she meant no harm?"

"She saved my life, Raze."

"That does not mean you have to…" Raze was looking affronted. Offended. "…bring her with you, for bloods' sake, Lucian. We can thank this creature in other ways, but she does not need your coddling."

"You think this is coddling," he said bitterly. In a single motion, he downed his drink, proceeding to fill it from the second bottle he'd managed to find after Reinette took over the first. "After all these years," he said, daring to challenge his oldest friend. "…how can you not know that smell?"

The man squinted, his eye passing towards the couch. "It's not the same."

"It is exactly the same, Raze."

He could see it. He could smell it. She was walking along an edge. Every breath meaningless. Every object a potential weapon. Two minutes alone and she'd either have hanged herself or be searching for matches. At least he had a fucking reason to his existence, he realised grimly.

Their conversation suddenly at an end as they heard the sound of nails on velvet. The couch losing its battle against claws as Reinette sat up. Her balance off as she tried to get to her feet…

…and then sat back down again.

Still drunk.

Staring woozily at the table in front of her as though she were trying to find a point that would stop moving. Her hand rising to rub her nose as she leaned forward, trying to reach for the bottle.

It took three tries.

The woman finally taking a swallow before she gestured with it. "Do you know what Ewan Saunders said to me before he died," she asked, looking as though she wanted to vomit. "He said I cut off all his fingers…"

Perfect timing.

Singe didn't seem bothered by the statement. However Raze lowered his eyebrows and then pointedly looked at Lucian…who gestured. For in the spirit of charity, were they not all capable of cutting someone's fingers off?

But her lips were starting to tremble. She pulled the bottle closer into her arms. Smelling of guilt and unshed tears.

She sniffed again.

"It took me three days to do it," she said. The statement causing her to sigh, as though she needed them to shed light on her sorrow. "What kind of awful creature takes three days to cut off someone's fingers?"

Raze was now tapping his fingers on his arm. Staring at her like she was a miscreant child tracking dirt on the carpet. This was not boding well for his request…

…but regardless of what the other man thought, it was going to happen. One way or another. All of them or none of them. He would do his duty, he would serve the horde, but whether they accepted it or not, he would at least control the terms of his next house arrest.

So before the man could respond, Lucian sat forward. Trying to ignore the scent of hostility still coming off Raze.

"Look, I have a proposal for you, Reinette." He pointed at the room around them. "Due to recent events, it has been…" He considered the word. "…suggested…by the Lycan Council that for the sake of my safety—and that of the Horde—I should consider an early transfer."

"A transfer."

He nodded. "New life. New name. New quarters." He flicked a finger at the door. "In two days, I will be on the first ship to France." That should give Raze enough time to orchestrate it. " From there, I cross into Belgium…and then Germany. I will be underground for at least two years…and…" He paused, glancing at Raze before returning his attention to her. "…if you choose, you can come with me."

o…o…o

Come with him.

She felt dead inside. And yet…

He had not mentioned an alternative. But he was looking at her with a careful squint. Trying to mask his uncertainty by stirring his glass. "So are you coming?"

She thought about it.

"Yes," she said.

A/N: Yes, I'm still writing and no, it's not the end. On that note, so many thanks to anyone who is still reading on this strange journey that we've been on. Every review has brought me tremendous joy and keeps me writing in the midst of all my daily struggles. It may take years, but I will get this story written. Even with a toddler, a husband, a cat and the distinct feeling that they all want me to finish the damn story so we can all do things like "go outside" and "enjoy the roses." Pssh. Why go outside among the roses when I can write about roses? Love you all. Rushwriter out!