Whispers about what was happening stirred the people. Whatever battle took place above was finished. They wondered at the significance of that. Whoever had come to free them started evacuating from the bottom level. Mole watched the lifts move up packed full of workers and return empty. Being on one of the lower levels they would reach him soon. Eager to leave, Mole raced back into the cavern he had been tunneling through in search of his belongings. All he owned could fit in a little sack. Just some spare rags, a few peculiarly shaped chips of Dust he kept for himself, and a clay action figure he inherited from a fellow tunneler who succumbed to the shakes. He tied his bundle of items in a tight knot and slung it across his back.
"Going somewhere?"
Mole spun around. They came sauntering towards him from down the cavern. A whole gang of mean men and women. Their cruel smiles were wider than usual. Mole recognized the one who talked. Vance, the de facto leader on this level.
"You know what's happening, don't you?" asked Vance.
Mole didn't reply. He didn't know how. They never spoke to him directly before. The mean men and women fanned out so that they blocked off any way past them. Vance approached him directly. Sharp talons grew from his fingers. The sinewy shifting sound of the retractable talons coming out caused a shiver to run down Mole's spine. Vance held a hand out to the side, lazily dragging his talons across the cavern wall.
"It's Mole, right?"
Mole timidly nodded and retreated some several steps.
"Thing is, Mole, the Ophidians are done. The Foreman is either dead or captured. The Rangers have come to liberate the Quarry. But they won't just let us all go. No, word is they're being careful to pick out the bad apples. So, I can't have people going around yapping about what it is I made for myself here. Do you understand?"
Mole slowly backed away from the advancing man. "I understand." He murmured, his heart pounding in his chest.
Vance scraped his talons off the cavern wall with an ear-piercing screech. "Thing is, unlike most on this level I don't think I can trust you. Spoiled tunneler that you are. You'll squeal, I know it. I've already taken care of all the squealers. All except you."
In that moment, Mole noticed the stains of red on their pickaxes. None of this was right. Mole hadn't grown enough to be tossed aside yet. He was still young. Still small. Useful. He didn't want to die. A whole world waited for him outside the Quarry. He knew that to be true. It had to be. Fearing for his short life, Mole bolted in the opposite direction going deeper into the cavern. Vance and his thugs followed.
The man who had once considered himself a king woke up on a bed of rocks. Sned sat up, rasping a cough. Pain filled his lungs with every haggard breath. The Quarry fumes had singed his throat, but it was the dent in his chest which pained him so. An injury from just a short while ago, yet his life before arriving at the Quarry seemed a distant memory to the former Mudslinger leader. It was unusually quiet in the cavern he found himself in. No squawking overseers. No dings of the pickaxe striking stone. Just a hollow sort of silence. One that creeped in from the lurking shadows haunting deep caverns.
In the night past, Sned remembered waking slightly when others dribbled some water down his throat. Whoever they may have been were gone. They had moved him he knew. The bottom most level of the Quarry proved too much for him. He had collapsed while picking away at a cavern wall. This time for good. Sned couldn't get back up. He didn't want to. Then as if on a whim a couple of other slaves dragged him away. They put him on a lift and sent him a few levels up to recover.
Bastards couldn't just leave me to die? Sned stood and started wandering the cavern in search of the exit. He took his shovel with him knowing that if an Ophidian overseer caught him without a tool in hand they would assume he was slacking off and beat him. These tunnels were much deeper and more complex than the freshly dug ones on the lowest level. Place was like a maze with all its turns and split paths. His only guide was to stick to the light of the torches which illuminated the main parts of the cavern. Any turn that gave way to darkness he avoided.
Sned walked a long while, not once running into anyone. It's as if the cavern had been abandoned. Just when he thought he was good and lost there came an echo of voices. Sned followed it. What he found at its source was odd to say the least. A group of slaves were gathered around a cavern wall, shouting insults and threats at it. One of them thrust their arm in a wall fissure as if making a grab at something inside that thin crease. The man screamed and his friends had to pull him back. When they did his arm came out missing two fingers on his hand.
"He bit me!" screamed the red-faced slave.
The obvious leader of the pack shoved his bleeding friend aside and shouted into the crevasse. "Come on out, Mole! You're only making it worse for yourself!"
From the crevasse came the small whimpering of a child. Sned knew he just stumbled across something better avoided. He backed away, his foot accidently kicking what looked like a clay action figure and drawing the group's attention. They whirled around, brandishing pickaxes. Their leader, for he was clearly that judging by how the others looked to him, grew sharp talons like that of an eagle.
"Who the fuck are you?" asked the faunus.
"No one." Replied Sned.
"Look at his hands, Vance." Said one of the slaves, pointing with her pickaxe. "He must be new."
The leader named Vance gave a ghastly smile, "You chose an auspicious time to get thrown away in here."
"What are you doing?" asked Sned, utterly disregarding their hostility towards the question.
"Just straightening some things out." Answered Vance, "Good news friend, our enslavement here has come to an end. We're getting out."
Sned cocked his head at the man, "Out?"
"That's right. The Rangers have slaughtered the Ophidians and are even now working to liberate us."
"Ah, so that's where everyone went. What are you doing here then?"
"Pest control." Said Vance, winning some laughs amongst his subordinates. "What's your name, friend?"
"I told you, I'm no one. Same as all of you."
Vance's smile shriveled, "What's that mean?"
"We don't deserve to leave here."
All amusement in their stupid faces fell away. Replaced with ugly snarls. They looked to Vance, just waiting for the order. They were worse than Mudslingers. Sned had to at least draw them into his schemes with gifts or words. These pinch-faced people just sat cawing at Vance's feet waiting for the mother bird to vomit leftovers into their mouths.
"You're insane." Spat Vance.
Sned made no reply to that, which seemed to have irked Vance more than any words could. He wondered if the constipated expression Vance bore now was similar to what he must've looked like when he was confronted by Clementine in the street. Sned's distaste for himself grew even more. They should've killed him. After what he's done. Sned had been lying to himself all these years about his role in the fire. Denying the truth of his complicity and stupidity which saw so many dead. He had been tricked by that bastard, Moss. Blinded by his gifts. Twenty people died because of his petty desire to rise above the rags of the Mud District. Clementine's sister. Naz's mother. And many more.
The worst thing was that Sned begged for his life to be spared. Clementine granted him that mercy. Only now did Sned realize that it wasn't mercy at all which stayed Clementine's hand. It was a punishment. A rather cruel one at that. To let him live and wallow away the rest of his years knowing all the while the cost of his actions. He denied them up until the very point when he was dragged into the councilor's chambers and thrown at his feet. Something died inside Sned that night. Something crucial.
Another whimper from the wall crevasse brought Sned's attention back to the gang of thugs before him. The small cry was unmistakably that of a child.
"We don't deserve to leave this place." Said Sned.
"Again with that shit?" With a gesture from Vance one of his subordinates came forward. The brute twirled her pickaxe, no doubt thinking herself strong. Sned moved to meet her, his shovel swishing through the air. The flat end cracked the woman on the side of her skull and she teetered over.
Spitting out curses, Vance and the rest of his posse advanced. Sned threw his shovel into their ranks, delaying their efforts. He managed to retrieve the fallen woman's pickaxe, which he buried into the chest of the first man who reached him. They were slow. Much slower than someone like Kiera. Sned wrenched the pickaxe free and prepared to face the others. They came at him all at once with less grace than even Naz. Sned fought them off, desperate to buy time.
A shovel swing caught him on the elbow, shattering the joint. Sned's left arm fell limp to his side, but he fought on with his right. His wild swings forced them back. That is until Vance shoved his way past the others. He ducked low and slipped through Sned's flailing pickaxe. Razor sharp talons shredded lines of red across Sned's throat. He toppled to the ground, clutching at his neck. Hot liquid seeped forth, draining away what energy remained to him. Vance's brutes continued their assault. Shovels and pickaxes bit into his flesh. Overkill for an already finished job. As his vision faded Sned caught sight of a small boy slipping out of the crevasse and fleeing down the cavern before anyone could notice him.
Run boy, run! You've been saved! Saved by the King of Mud!
The point of a pickaxe descended followed by the blissful release of total blackness.
Mole ran as fast as his short legs could take him. The adrenaline pumping through his veins served to drive him farther. He didn't recognize the man who saved him. A stranger's face had met his eyes when he wiggled his way free of the crevasse. A stranger had sacrificed their life for his. Never had Mole witnessed such selflessness. He didn't even think such a pure man existed in the Quarry. Now he was dead. Mole vowed to remember his face. Not as he last saw it, sickly pale and pained, but as he imagined it would be outside the Quarry. Full of life and beaming with kindness. The face of a real hero.
Spotting sunlight further up ahead, Mole picked up his pace. He rushed into the blinding sun and ran face first into someone else. Mole bounced off and fell onto his back. His vision slowly cleared and the shape of a man took came into view standing above him. Tall and silver haired. Mole wasn't sure how, but he knew this was the man who stood atop the Quarry earlier. What did Vance call him? The Ranger.
The Ranger looked down at Mole with such sad eyes. The depth of their pain incomprehensible. He knelt and held out his hand. Slowly, Mole sat up and placed his tiny fist in the Ranger's firm palm. The Ranger smiled and Mole knew at that point he was free.
Dwain shuffled along further up the line. He had been lucky. When the Rangers attacked he was on the first level of the pit, tending to his stump wrist. He isolated himself in one of the thousands of abandoned caverns. There none of his fellow Ophidians would hear him scream when he changed his bandaging. Looking weak was not an option for Dwain, yet it became his saving grace.
With the Quarry's temporary shutdown most of the slaves like Dwain took shelter in the caverns as to avoid the searing sun. Drawn by the roar of combat and the crackling clouds Dwain along with what looked like every man, woman, and child in the Quarry came out of hiding to witness. Dwain knew that with the majority of the Ophidians at Refuge the remaining skeleton crew would not be able to handle an ambush by the whole Ranger Division. The fight above didn't last long. After rolling in filth and tearing his clothes Dwain looked the part of just another slave. Even his serpent's fangs tattoo which marked him as an Ophidian was gone along with his right hand. He blended in, just another faceless slave.
The proceedings that followed the Ranger's initial victory went smoothly. Not very surprising considering these people had been taking orders most of their lives. What's a few more to them? The Rangers started from the bottom of the pit where the slaves were most in danger and worked their way up in clearing the Quarry. The lifts had been in constant motion for days now. Up and down and up and down. Ferrying the slaves below to the top of the Quarry. A slow but steady process.
At first the slaves were confused. Scared even. Especially those old crows who had been here for decades. Change was a foreign concept to them. Life in the Quarry had always been one of status quo. No matter how many times the Quarry changed hands the Foreman remained. He but dealt with new business partners. Even when Ira Glass took over her benefits of increased rations and elongated sleep schedules did little to inspire these insensate people. The Ophidians made sure of that. If only just to spite Ira for casting them aside. But now, with every passing hour the prospect of freedom filled their bellies with hope.
On every level slaves huddled together in thick throngs. Disguised, Dwain joined the flock waiting in line at the lifts. Whispers trickled down the ranks of freed slaves as to what awaited them. Upon reaching the top they would be escorted to a formal desk the Ranger Captain had set up. The names of each and every slave were jotted down into the logbook. According to the rumors swirling around, the Rangers then offered a choice. To depart and rejoin the world in whatever way they see fit. Or stay and join them to find and claim a piece of land for everyone to call home. How sanctimonious is that?
On the second day, more people arrived from Refuge. Dwain had hoped it would be the bulk of the Ophidian forces returning from their conquest. However, it was readily apparent that this was not the case. According to the whispers of the few slaves on the first level the newcomers took away the Ophidian prisoners and resupplied the Rangers. This shocked Dwain. If the city was supporting this liberation then something must have happened. Something drastic. Whatever the case, he wasn't sticking around to find out.
On the third day, the lifts stopped on the first level. Finally. Those like Dwain who were too weak to climb the twenty-foot steep slope to the surface boarded the lift. Up top was more waiting. The line leading to the rumored desk was a slow one. Those freed slaves who decided to stay had set up a camp of their own in the neighboring woods. Tents were pitched and cook fires illuminated the twilight of the forest. More than half of them stayed judging by their numbers.
There were others as well. From Refuge, Dwain guessed. Doctors and merchants and even normal looking civilians helping the freed slaves. So, the secret was out. Whatever this implied had no effect on Dwain's starved mind. Two days and a night he lived as one of the slaves, feasting on scraps and muddied water. Just two days and he barely survived. Thankfully, fresh food and drink were passed along down the line. The water that dribbled past Dwain's lips never tasted so sweet.
As the day dragged on Dwain advanced his position in the queue. By sunset he saw the desk and the one sitting behind it. None other than Captain Ashur. The grizzled ranger who took his hand. Dwain hadn't the strength to fuel the black flames of hatred in his growling stomach. He hid his stump in the folds of his clothes. His face was already smeared in a mask of grime. He hoped it was enough.
Upon reaching the desk Ashur readied his pen over the thick log. "Your name, Sir."
"Herb." He replied, "Herb Johnson." Without even meaning to his voice was altered to a scratchy alien thing even to his own ears. His parched throat helped with that. Ashur scribbled down the name as two other Rangers flipped through their own books. The source of the line's slowness revealed itself. They were checking the names and faces with known criminals condemned here. Smart. There were more than a handful in the pit. As they searched their lists, Ashur studied Dwain who stared at the log, refusing to make eye contact. He was locked by the Captain's stare for only a minute yet it was enough to make him sweat. When the two rangers both gave their approvals, Ashur waved him on.
"You're free to go." Said Ashur, "Return to whatever family or home you were torn from if you so wish. Or you can stay. We intend to make a place for ourselves in this world. You can be a part of that. We can offer shelter and protection from the Grimm."
"Thank you." Mumbled Dwain, "But if it's all the same, I'd like to be on my own. There is power in numbers, yes, but the larger the group the more we might attract the creatures."
"This is true, but it's our choice. One we're willing to risk. Go on, you're free to go."
Dipping his head in a small nod, Dwain set out. He trudged through the makeshift camp, swiping food and supplies as he went. He'd need them if he wanted to make it through the night. No one paid him any mind. He was just another brave soul vanishing into the gloom, probably never to be heard of again. Dwain had to be quick. The longer he stayed at the Quarry the more likely he would've been recognized. He was well known to the slaves of the lower levels. If they found him…Well, better to be eaten by the Grimm.
Dwain didn't make it that far from camp when he heard a branch snap in the brush behind him. He whirled around. Nothing. Not a person or animal in sight. Startled, he picked up his pace. With one hand, he pushed through the green of the forest. Faster and faster he went. His stolen supplies fell one by one out of his insecure wrappings, but he didn't stop to retrieve them. He didn't dare. Something was after him. He knew it by the cold sweat on the back of his neck.
All sense of direction and destination were abandoned. Dwain simply ran as fast as he could. He craned his neck to peer over his shoulder, but there was nothing in the dark behind him. When he swiveled his head back around he saw her. Directly in his path. It was too late to slow down. She caught him by the throat and using the force of his momentum threw him up against a tree. His head smacked against the bark with a crunch.
The faunus bared her teeth, "Remember me?"
Dwain choked an incomprehensible response. His feet dangled above the air, kicking helplessly.
"You said you had a friend who would love to buy a faunus' tail." Her sleek panther tail coiled tight around his stump wrist, causing him to howl in pain. "I'd like you to introduce me."
They put a bag over his head. He could only guess where they were taking him. When the bumpiness of the gravel road leading out of the Quarry was long past the Foreman heard another noise. An ambiance of voices and cars. Not a totally unfamiliar sound, but a forgotten one. It had been a very long time since he was in Refuge. Decades.
The Foreman was ushered here and there, pushed about like livestock. When they finally removed the bag from his head he was sitting in a dark room. Silence encapsulated it. There was not a peep to be heard from the outside world. There were no windows either and only one door, which was guarded by a beautiful young woman. A pinch of light brown freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. She carried a large instrument in her hands, almost as tall as she was. The Foreman sat uncomfortable beneath her cool gaze.
"I want to talk to Colton Moss." He said, while anxiously picking his scabbing wounds.
The woman voiced no reply, but just stared at him. The Foreman shut closed his mouth and looked down. Confident woman like her intimidated him. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long before the door opened and a man stepped inside. Well-dressed he was with a blue bowtie and shiny white gloves. He carried with him a suitcase, which he placed on the table between them. The man stopped and stared at the Foreman a moment before turning to regard the woman.
"Thank you, Melody. I'll take it from here."
The sandy haired woman gave the slightest of nods before slipping out the door. With her gone the well-dressed man turned his full attention back on the Foreman. He stared in silence for a long while. The Foreman could feel those eyes on him, slithering up and down his skin like a snake. Slowly, a smile crept into the man's features and he sat down.
"My name is Roland Teal."
"Don't look like police."
Roland Teal applauded enthusiastically, "Correct. I had the City Guard drop you into my lap."
"I want to talk to Colton Moss."
"You will, soon. But first…" Teal undid the suitcase latches and opened the case. He spun it around so the Foreman could see its contents. Inside rested an old dirtied pickaxe. "Recognize it?" asked Roland Teal.
"It's a pickaxe."
Another sarcastic round of applause, "Correct again, but you can do better than that. Come on now, look closely."
The Foreman leaned forward. It was indeed a pickaxe, but a little smaller than the ones he typically uses. A model of its scale would be used for one handed excavation or given to a tunneller. The handle had been worn and discolored proving long-term use. Grit still clung to the edges of the metal head.
"Who's is it?" asked the Foreman.
"Don't you remember? You're the one who gave it to me."
Roland Teal unbuttoned his shirt at the wrist and rolled up the sleeves past his elbows. He then peeled away his white gloves, revealing heavily scarred hands. Puckered and spotted from past callouses. Teal flexed and wiggled his fingers in the overhead light as if he hadn't seen them in years. The Foreman was slow to understand at first, but those scars were unmistakable.
"You're…"
"I was your favorite once." He said, his tone reminiscent, "Your best even, hard working as I was. Did you think I died in those tunnels? You should've known better, Foreman. Should've checked. But then again you don't want people doubting your reputation. Am I right? Funny how mistakes from our past come back to haunt us. Alas, my tunnel is no more. Used as it were for another's purpose. I suppose it was a symbolic sort of justice, it being used to help bring about an end to the Quarry."
The Foreman's eyes flicked down to the pickaxe. He imagined breaking the man's skull with it. Then he'd leave this place. Maybe find that Melody girl if he got the chance. He caught a hint of an amused smile from Teal as if the man were reading his thoughts.
"Go on," said Roland, "pick it up."
Fear pumped through the Foreman's veins, the poison paralyzing his body. The man going by the name Roland Teal simply smiled at him, waiting.
"Pick it up." He said again this time more assertive than playful.
The Foreman swallowed a lump in his throat and reached for the pickaxe.
A dreamless sleep welcomed Runt Braun in its null embrace. The lack of haunting nightmares gave Runt cause to believe he was dead. He drifted in the dark, lost in an empty ocean. His body was calm and numb. If this was death then he would not complain. Here at least the waters were peaceful. The undisturbed sea he drifted on was thick as ink. It stretched in all directions. No horizon line was visible because the ocean was the same black as the sky.
In the distance, something like thunder boomed. Its reverberation sent ripples through the ocean surface. The percussion grew louder. Its piercing screech like the splitting of a mighty glacier. The once quiet ocean turned violent. Waves descended in great numbers, crashing against one another. Runt thrashed about trying to keep his head above the black water. Something sharp drove into his palms and plunged him into the inky depths. Down he went as if bound to an anchor.
From below came a cacophony of voices. More than there ever had been before. Despite their dissonance they were single in purpose. Their clamor reached out from the ocean's bed, taking shape. A thousand hands grabbed hold of Runt, dragging him further down. His back hit the ocean floor yet still they pulled. They were unrelenting in their desire. Their need for him. Each incoherent voice was a plea. The ocean floor resisted his descent, but slowly gave way. The pressure in Runt's palms twisted and he screamed. Just in time for the mud to fill his lungs.
Runt awoke with his heart beating like a jackrabbit. Sunlight seeped through the shuttered windows. Behind his eyes that thunder still throbbed. He tried to rise from the bed he laid in, but the throbbing grew worse so he fell back down. The bed creaked beneath his weight. Runt recognized the small unfurnished room he dwelt in. One of many in Coll's inn. Clementine sat in the corner of the room on a plain stool. He was bent over with his head down as if asleep and both hands were overlapped on the top of his gnarled cane.
With some effort, Runt wriggled himself into a sitting position. His strength flickered like a dim hearth. Old Gran's stitches sewed together numerous slashes across his arms. The metal plates he had strapped across his forearms prevented many of the wounds from cutting deep, but it was not enough it to fully protect him. The sheer number of cuts would take a while to heal. The gash across his cheek from his first fight with Oren had yet to even fade. Linen bandages wrapped around his palms and backhand. Runt clenched his fingers finding himself unable to make a fist.
"You lost a lot of blood." said Clementine without looking up. "I feared you would not wake."
Runt's memories of what happened before he blacked out never left him. Even on that empty ocean he knew. Only it didn't matter then because he was dead. "Clementine…What am I doing here?"
"To make things easier for Old Gran and her team of cutters all the injured have been moved to under one roof. Coll's inn was the only place with enough rooms."
"I should be dead."
"And yet you are not."
"Where is Kiera?"
"Gone." Answered Clementine, "For good this time, I think."
Runt gathered what energy he had and attuned himself with his semblance just a little bit. Opening his ears to the city unleashed a wave of nausea. This was not the Refuge he had come to know. The Flower District was devoid of music. The crowds that once flooded the Trade District were mute. Even the clang of production in the Craft District had ceased. The whole city was overcome with the solemn shifting of stone and muffled voices. Runt separated his connection. Sweat beaded his brow.
"What have you done?"
Clementine looked up then. Heavy bags fell under his hooded eyes as if he hadn't slept in days. "I did what I thought necessary. Even if we defeated the Ophidians it wouldn't have had the impact needed to bring Ira down. We needed to create a public display of losses that not even she could walk away from unscathed. A message loud and clear across Mistral."
"A public display of losses?" repeated Runt in disbelief, "Is that what you're calling it? Is this how you justify yourself?"
Clementine's knuckles whitened on the cane, "Colton Moss is dead. Ira Glass is dead. The Ophidians are broken and scattered to the winds. As we speak Captain Ashur and his Rangers are preparing for an exodus, guiding the freed slaves from the Quarry to find a new home. A new life. One free of servitude and free of this city's needs. That is how I justify my actions."
Runt was silent for a time, stunned by Clementine's words. What he said should've made Runt happy, but it had the opposite effect. The Quarry was liberated. What they set out to achieve was done and yet the victory felt hollow in Runt's soul. "You give life by delivering death?"
"How else do you pay for it?" he snapped back, "You knew this is what would've had to happen. We were told as much."
"What difference is there now between you and them?"
Clementine paled at the question. What anger he held drained from his body. For the first time, Runt saw the face Risa had described to him. When Clementine would come back from his trips into the city, nervously poking his head out from around the corner. Knowing full well what he had done to upset her. Dismayed and ashamed, yet unapologetic.
"You bombed their streets with Dust. You used children. Sent them into dark tunnels." Runt hesitated, overcome with sudden dread, "Do they even know what they've done? What they helped you commit?"
"They are still children." Said Clementine, his voice dead. "In time, they'll forget the truth of it. I'll see it repainted so that all they remember is that they helped save lives."
"And what about you? Will you convince yourself of the same?"
"I hold no delusions over what I've done. The lives I've taken and the livelihoods I've ruined. They are mine alone."
"Do you even know how many?"
"Thirteen." whispered Clementine, "Thirteen lives were lost in the other districts. Their names are seared into my brain. I've fashioned of them ghosts, Runt. They will never be far behind me."
Runt trembled, still failing to make a fist in either hand. "Risa wouldn't have wanted this."
"I am past that now. Those deaths are not in her name." The serious timbre of his voice caused Runt to shudder. He stared at the younger man, unable to recognize his all too familiar features. Clementine pushed himself to his feet. "Refuge is in a state of restoration. They could use a skilled carpenter like you to help rebuild."
"Where are you going?"
Clementine paused at the door, "I have a grave to visit. And Kiera is gone. I don't believe she is with the Rangers. The last thing she will want is to be around good company. I will endeavor to find her and help her along the path she is on."
"You would leave this city?" asked Runt, "Leave me?"
Clementine grimaced, "I despise Refuge and wish to be gone as soon as possible. Too long I have denied myself a life outside this valley. Would you join me?"
That last question was asked in desperation. Runt saw the need in his eyes. Clementine always relished his self-isolation, but now he was adrift and alone. More so than ever. If not physically then he no doubt imaged himself as such. An unwelcome sight to every face in every district. Even here.
"I can't." said Runt, tasting bitterness on his tongue. "They need me now more than ever."
Clementine's smile was brittle as if he expected such an answer, "That they do." Without another word, Clementine slipped through the door and out of sight.
A grim fatigue settled into Runt's bones. One birthed from paranoia and superstition. He didn't believe he would see Clementine again. The thought tortured him. He looked down at his uncurled hand. His twitching fingers pulled on damaged tendons. The way they were curled looked as if he were holding a heart in his palm. The ghostly shape of Risa's hand moved and settled into his own, a perfect fit. Her touch dissolved the exhaustion in his bones and Runt knew he would see his friend Clementine again. Of that he had no doubt.
Runt squeezed Risa's hand, clenching his fingers into a fist.
He never had much in terms of personal belongings. Still, looking upon the light traveler's sack left Clementine somewhat off-balance. His whole life seemed so small and yet his heart unwelcomingly heavy. The books would have to stay behind. All except one of course. They were too heavy to carry and they would doubtless be ruined or lost on the journey if taken in their entirety. He stared at the pot of dirt resting at the windowsill. The plant sprouting from its surface was dead. Shriveled and gray. Clementine thought about taking it with him. To continue his attempts to garden life as Risa had. Yet now it seemed so futile.
The floorboards of his home squeaked, announcing a new arrival. No one could sneak up on anyone in this district. No one but Runt. Clementine turned to regard whoever it may be. To his surprise, Blind Shan stepped into his living room.
"Young Clementine." She gave a gap-toothed smile in greeting.
"Shan."
"You're off then?" she asked.
Clementine squinted at her in suspicion. Of all the mysteries and curiosities he's entertained throughout his life, she was the first. The original. However, the wonder he once held as a child had withered to a husk. Wonder replaced with skepticism. That, Clementine knew, marked the beginning of the end for childhood. "Who are you, really?"
"Whatever do you mean?" asked Blind Shan, ever so innocently.
"Are you even blind?"
Her wrinkled eyelids compressed slightly before peeling back. What once may have been irides and pupils were lost in the silver storm that filled her eyes. "I am, but I can still see."
Clementine almost lost himself in that mystical gaze, "What do you see?"
"Potential." Answered Blind Shan, "I saw much of it in you when you were young. A potential for terrible greatness. One that may sour the world or brighten it some. Difficult to tell these things are. Life even to one such as me remains unpredictable. I merely hoped to coerce your mind to nurture the better part of your soul."
"What you're saying makes no sense. No one knows the future."
"I never said I did. I can only glimpse one's potential. The many different paths awaiting them." Blind Shan moved closer towards him, "Creation and destruction is a choice and it takes one with knowledge to know which to choose at the right time. My hope-my belief, is that you would one day be this person."
Clementine glanced at his belongings still needing to be packed and spotted the old book of fairy tales. "You filled my head with your stories. Making me believe things untrue to guide the course of my life just to fulfill your own fantasies."
"Nothing I've ever told you was a lie."
Clementine was shaken by her belief in that statement. He smiled despite the pain twisting in his gut. With arms held out to his sides he asked, "What do you see when you look upon me now?"
Blind Shan's clouded eyes recoiled from the sight of him. He could not tell where her anguish came from, disappointment or shame. "You tread murky waters, young Clementine."
"In a world such as ours is it any wonder?" Clementine turned back around to finish packing. Her presence remained behind him as it always has in his own mind. "I thought you were my friend."
"I am your friend." She retorted.
"Then answer me truthfully as a friend would. Why were you in the Buffer that night? Did you know what was going to happen to me?" he struggled to keep his voice steady, "Did you know about the fire to come?"
Blind Shan hesitated before responding, "It was a possibility."
Clementine whirled on her, "And you said nothing?!"
She remained silent against his fury.
"Why?" he croaked.
"Young Clementine. Sweet Clementine. My words will only hurt you."
"Why?!"
"Because it needed to happen." She said, her voice impossibly soft, "What potential I saw in you did not exist without that event.
Clementine fell away, his right leg failing beneath him. He balanced himself against the wall with one hand while the other clutched his face. His fingers moved across the faint scar surrounding his left eye. Fingernails dug into his skin deep enough to draw blood from the old wound.
"I wish I died then rather than all those who did."
"That is the mindset which I had hoped would blossom in you." Said Blind Shan, "You understand sacrifice and loss. This gives you perspective and most importantly empathy."
Rage overcame Clementine, but it did not come from the black pit in his gut. No, it came from his heart. He advanced on her, swinging a wild fist. Blind Shan caught it with her frail looking hand. Her grip was steel and with one open palmed strike to the chest she sent him flying back against the wall. The pain that erupted in his leg burgeoned white hot.
"I don't expect you to understand why I did what I did." She said, "I don't even expect your forgiveness though it would be a welcome gift. I am concerned with a bigger picture. One that spreads all across Remnant not just one city."
Clementine was slow in picking himself up. The anger that overcame him was knocked out in that blow along with his breath. Without saying another word, he grabbed his traveler's pack and plant pot before limping from his home.
Blind Shan followed him out at some distance. "If you ever want to pick up this conversation again. I will be here. I will always be here. You may not believe me now but I am your friend, young Clementine."
Her words chased after him. Clementine did not slow down for them. He held the dead plant in his hands as if it were his own soul. Once again, he trekked through the ruinous state of Refuge. He left its gates not once looking back. The thought of seeing Adriane again kept him moving forward. Monnie and Merri too. Clementine vowed to visit them at Spool's old village in the glades. If only for a little while before moving on. Far from this city he will go. Far from its confusion and sorrow. From every street which held bittersweet memories. He'd purge Refuge from his soul if such a thing was possible. Yet, Clementine knew that one day he would return. Yes, he would return.