The Tower
In its youth, the outpost's corridors rang daily with the sounds of rough voices, laughter, shouted orders, the clang of blades on shields; the sort of noise that only military men en masse can make. In middle age, after the legion had gone, it served as a supply depot. But that stage of its life was a brief one. Soon it was left empty except for occasional adventurers scouring the dark, silent halls for remnants of the Empire's wealth. And in time, even they stopped coming.
And now, in retirement, Fort Farragut rises from the hillside like an aged sentinel, still standing guard over the city below. From its crumbling battlements you can see down into Cheydinhal, see the glitter of sunlight on the Corbolo as it meanders through those green parklands at the start of its journey south. You can see the roof of the Sanctuary. It's easy to imagine him standing here, silent and watchful, observing his children's comings and goings.
It was a short walk up the hill, but it's left you exhausted all the same. You've dreaded coming back here, to the place he called home. And why did he choose to live here in this dank underground ruin - why not a grand house like Uvani's, or even a humble one like Ungolim's? It's just one more thing you'll never get to ask. Like, Lucien, where were you born, where did you grow up, who were your parents, your first lover, your first kill...?
Shadowmere whinnies at your approach, but doesn't move. There's something in the stubborn plant of her hooves in the earth that suggests she won't be easily persuaded.
As you come close to her you notice the state of her hindquarters. They are crisscrossed with angry weals, some encrusted with dried blood.
For the first time, she jerks her head away as you reach for her reins. You'd think she was angry with you for what you put her through that night, but there's something more pressing on her mind. She neighs again, louder this time, throwing her head in that particularly wilful manner that horses have, as though serving notice that she would wait - and wait, and wait, however long it took, until he came back.
"He's not here," you say. "He's not-" and you can't continue.
Shadowmere shifts uneasily on her feet, unsettled by the animal sounds of your grief, but since there's no-one else here to comfort you, you bury your face in her coarse dark mane. And after a moment, she pushes her head against your shoulder, her sides expanding and collapsing in a heavy sigh.
"It's just you and me now," you tell her, several minutes later when you can speak again.
You sense her comprehension - and her disbelief. Her sleek black body shudders with the effort as she lifts her muzzle and calls again, plaintive and insistent, for someone who can't answer.
The sound resonates in the abandoned, decaying cylinder of stone.