Chapter 10: Forget to Remember

Candlekeep, nine years ago.

Ilyrana sprinted down a candlelit corridor, the angry shouts of kitchen staff quickly fading behind her, a small bag of cinnamon apple muffins clutched tightly in one hand. As she came to the library proper, she brought the sack to her mouth, biting into the warm, fragrant linen, freeing up her hands. Not slowing her pace, she leapt onto a cart of books that needed to be returned to their spots on the shelves and used it to spring up, grasp the top of a bookshelf, and haul herself up.

Wasting no time, she backed up a few paces, then took two bounding steps and leapt, clearing the guard rail around the second floor. She hit the stone ground and rolled to lessen the impact; coming back up, she transferred her loot back to her hand, and continued her headlong run with no speed lost. Rows of musty books blurred past on either side of her as she headed deeper into the library, trying to put distance between herself and her pursuers before heading over to the stables to rendezvous with Imoen.

Sliding around a corner, she didn't see the man standing directly in the middle of the aisle until she had plowed right into him. The book he had been holding hit the floor with a resounding thud. She would have fallen, but the stranger caught her against his chest.

"Ya know, there's benches and chairs and tables to sit at, so you don't have to stand there and read where people walk." Ilyrana grumbled as she rubbed her head and peered up at the man, trying to see his face beneath the cowl he wore.

"Walk? Is that what you were doing?"

Ilyrana huffed, tucked her hair behind a pointed ear, and stepped back so she wouldn't have to crane her neck so much to look at him. Even though his hood was pulled low enough that she couldn't see much anyway. He must be one of the guest scholars. His voice was too deep for her not to recognize it if it were one of the monks.

He bent down and retrieved the fallen book, slipping it into his robes before she could get a glance at the title.

"What were you running from, little one?"

Even though she couldn't see it, she could feel his eyes burning into her with startling intensity. Feigning nonchalance, she dusted herself off and ensured none of her precious cargo had been damaged.

"Old Winthrop. He doesn't take kindly to people filching his muffins."

The man took a step toward her, head tilted to the side somewhat. He seemed about to say something further, but the sound of a door slamming and raised voices began to drift up from the bottom floor.

"Gotta go!"

Ilyrana sprang around him and loped to the nearest reading nook set against a window. Scrambling onto the sill, she deftly picked the lock with a hair pin and let it swing open. Taking a quick glance down over the edge, she turned and looked back at the stranger.

"Do me a favor? Can you go back to blocking the middle of the aisle? You're big enough that I think you could even slow Winthrop down."

"Cheeky little-"

"Oh! And thanks for this!"

Grinning, she withdrew the dagger she had swiped from him when he was steadying her. Twirling it between her fingers, the light spilling from the window caught the veins of jet and amber running through the polished wood of the handle, she slid it back into her belt, gave the man an exaggerated bow, and dropped out of the window.

Catching onto a stone handhold, she began shimmying her way quickly down to the lawns around the keep. Chuckling to herself, she imagined the stranger still standing up there, cursing her. Oh well, that's what he gets for getting in her way.

Landing on the grass below, she began tearing toward the stables, where she and Imoen had a secret hideout in the lofts that no one else could reach but them.

"Morning Dreppin!"

"G'morning Rana. Sun's barely up and you're already retreating to the stables? Whatcha done this time?"

In reply, she tossed a muffin at him as she began scrambling up a hay bay.

"You didn't see me!" She called as she disappeared into the shadows of the rafters above.

"No ma'am, I didn't," Dreppin hollered back before taking a bite out of the pastry.

"Though, I can't rightly explain why I smell like cinnamon if ole Winthrop comes sniffing around."

"Tell him you're trying a new salve for your rheumatism!"

Shaking his head with amusement, Dreppin stuffed the last of the bribe into his mouth and went back to raking hay, fighting back a smile as he heard the giggles of two mischievous girls fill the barn.

Ilyrana's eyelids felt almost too heavy to open, the very effort of doing so seemed to sap what little strength she had.

Blearily, she tried to focus on the only source of light in front of her. She realized it was coming from a campfire, only several feet away from her, yet she couldn't feel the heat coming off of it. In fact, she couldn't feel much at all. Her whole body seemed to be numb, perhaps from cold? Despite the fact she was wrapped in her fur blankets?

Losing the battle to keep her eyes open, she drifted in a restless purgatory of semi-consciousness. Dimly, the memory she had dreamed replayed in her mind. Like so much else, it was one she had forgotten, for whatever reason. She didn't know whether to blame time, repression, or Gorion for how much was obviously missing from her recollections.

What ever happened to that dagger she had stolen? Was it still in Candlekeep? Locked away with the rest of her possessions she was forced to leave behind? Or had she taken it with her that day she and Gorion had left home?

Gods, she had been young. Perhaps twelve then? Meaning she was around sixteen when she killed for the first time. And about eighteen when she had struck Sarevok down.

Had she ever made the obvious connection that that man she had run into had been Sarevok? Only four years before he came for her. She wondered now if he had known at the time what he was. What she was. That she was a potential obstacle he would need to destroy to ensure she didn't interfere with his plans. The irony that by making her his enemy he had sealed his own fate, must still sting. That by pursuing her, he had forged her into something far stronger than she might have ever become otherwise.

Voices floated through her semi-awake mind, teasing her back to the threshold of consciousness. What felt like ice brushed against her forehead, followed by swearing in the drow tongue.

"She's still unable to regulate her temperature, she's burning up now."

Strong arms lifted her with apparent ease and moved her away from the light. Almost immediately, her mind became a little sharper, enough so that, when she was laid back down, she could wiggle out of the furs she was wrapped in.

"Rana?"

Viconia. Slowly, Ilyrana looked up and focused on the drow's striking face. She saw concern, then a flicker of relief, before the haughtiness fell back into place.

"Welcome back. Are you going to stay conscious long enough to eat this time?"

Ilyrana gagged at the thought of food.

"You need to eat, abbil. You know I would be more than happy to force it down your throat."

Ilyrana gave a half-hearted hiss and, with as much dignity as she could muster in her current condition, rolled over, putting her back to the drow.

"As you will. You can be the first bhaalspawn to die of pig-headedness."

"Second," Ilyrana mumbled, her voice coming out raspy and slightly slurred. "Sarevok was the first."

There was a faint snort from somewhere in front and to the right of her. It took a minute for her eyes to refocus, but she eventually noticed Sarevok reclining against a rock, his face unreadable as he gazed back at her.

"Eat, Ilyrana. I will not be remembered as the bhaalspawn who was killed by the woman who willingly starved herself to death."

"Typical. Always making it about you."

"Naturally. Now eat."

"Go fuck yourself."

There was a sound of disgust from somewhere, Ilyrana couldn't tell if it had come from Viconia or Sarevok. She didn't care. The night air seemed to have suddenly dropped in temperature, and she was more concerned with trying to get her furs back over herself.

"I won't carry you back to the fire until you eat, little fool."

"Guess you'll be remembered as the bhaalspawn who was killed by the woman who froze to death then, asshole," Ilyrana growled back, feeling another wave of exhaustion crash over her, but unwilling to allow him the last word.

If he replied, she didn't hear him, as the sound of Imoen's voice began growing louder...and louder…

Candlekeep, seven years ago.

"Rana?"

…

"Rana, answer me!"

…

"Please, you're scaring me!"

…

"RANA!"

The air in Ilyrana's lungs went out with a woosh when she was suddenly knocked onto her backside.

"Imoen? What's going on? Why'd you push me down? … and why are we outside?"

"You were sleepwalking! AGAIN!"

"I...was? How long have I been out here?"

Imoen extended a hand down to the older girl and helped her to her feet. Ilyrana's hand felt frozen, and upon closer inspection, Imoen could see that her lips were tinged blue, and her cheeks were red from the cold and the harsh winter winds.

"I dunno, Rana. I snuck into your room to see if you wanted to finish reading that romance novel that we stole from Phlydia. You were gone. Last time you were sleepwalking, you came up here, so I checked to see if you had come back and I found you."

Ilyrana slowly stepped back up to gaze over the ramparts. All she could see was frothy waves crashing against the cliffs below, and a starry sky ahead. She didn't know why she sleepwalked. She didn't know why she always came to this spot on the northernmost walls.

"What was I doing when you got here?"

"Same thing as all the other times. Just standing there staring over the ramparts."

Ilyrana furrowed her brow in confusion and tried not to let her uneasiness show on her face. She knew her best friend was worried about her involuntary nighttime excursions, and so far Imoen had kept her promise not to tell Gorion. She didn't know why, but the thought of her foster father knowing about them scared her more than the sleepwalking itself did. He had always been patient and kind to her, had rarely ever raised his voice in anger, and though he didn't really show her much affection, she knew he loved her and wanted her safe and happy. Still… a tiny voice inside her mind told her that Gorion couldn't know about this secret.

"Rana, can you remember if you were dreaming? And what it might have been about?"

"Huh? Oh, um, no. I wasn't dreaming I don't think."

Or rather, if she had been dreaming, she couldn't remember what it was about now. Maybe she should go talk to Elvenhair about it? Or perhaps someone in the infirmary?

"Hmm… well, do you have any idea why this keeps happening? It's really starting to scare me."

Ilyrana pursed her lips and continued staring out into the distance, as if maybe the stars or the moon would enlighten her. She shivered from the freezing air, her long-sleeved nightgown provided almost no protection against the biting wind. She didn't seem to notice, though, because the longer she looked into the horizon, the harder it was to keep herself grounded in the here and now. It felt like she had forgotten something. Or that she needed to be somewhere, but couldn't remember where or why.

"Did you hear me?"

No… that wasn't quite it either. It was more like… something to the north was calling to her. That she could only hear its call when her mind was quiet enough to catch it, like when she was asleep. There was a forest not far north from here.

"Hey, why aren't you answering me?"

Cloakwood forest. That's what it was called. Though Ilyrana couldn't be certain that the pull was coming from there. It felt farther away than that.

"Rana?"

Baldur's Gate was farther north. What could be there, though, that would have anything to do with her? She had never been there. Had never left Candlekeep. So, why did she feel like she needed to go there? That something was waiting for her?

Something… or someone?

She was suddenly jerked around, so ferociously that she nearly lost her balance.

"THAT'S IT! I'm telling Gorion!" Imoen cried, her nails biting into Ilyrana's arm hard enough to break the skin.

"What?! No, you can't!"

Panic rose inside her, faster and stronger than the wind whipping around her. He couldn't know about this. Even if this was all just her imagination, just a weird fluke of her childhood that she would probably grow out of eventually, that small voice, be it instinct, or paranoia, or whatever, screamed that Gorion having this knowledge was dangerous to her.

Somehow, in some way, if her foster father found out about the sleepwalking, and especially that strange pull from the north, he would prevent her from ever finding out who was up there. And why she felt this irrational need to go to them.

"Look, I'm sorry, Im. I know this is weird, and it makes you worry, but please… PLEASE don't tell Gorion."

"Are you serious?! You just spaced on me while you're awake, and you don't want me to tell Gorion? Don't you think he might be able to stop this from happening anymore?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's not like it's bad or anything, it's just… well, weird, I know, but-"

"What happens if you come down with a fever because you've been standing out here in nothing but your shift?! What happens if whatever is making you sleepwalk makes you jump off the ramparts?"

"Imoen-"

"What happens if you start strangling more than Reevor's cats, Ilyrana?! Yeah, I know about that!"

The dread that had begun to gnaw at her insides was now tearing and chewing its way deep into her stomach. Her normally pale face went bone white with shock.

"How… how long have you known?"

"Since I overheard Reevor complaining that the rats in his warehouse must be eating his cats because they were going missing! Since I found the shallow graves you made for them behind the temple of Oghma! Since I dug one of them up and saw the cuts around its neck! SINCE I SAW YOU WRAP A STRING OF LEATHER AROUND ONE'S THROAT AND CHOKE IT TO DEATH!"

Ilyrana wrapped her arms around herself, now acutely aware of just how cold it was. She looked down at the stone beneath her bare feet. There was no explanation that made any sense that she could give Imoen. No reasonable excuse for her horrible actions. Nothing she could voice out loud that wouldn't leave her feeling insane. Like a gibbering crazy person.

"Why didn't you bring this up before?"

"What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to know how you were going to react? Between the cats and the sleepwalking, I feel like I don't know who you are anymore! Rana, you SCARE me!"

Those words hurt. Ilyrana could feel them, like a lash against her heart, leaving her raw and bleeding.

"I… I'm sorry, Im. I… don't know why I do it-"

"LIAR! If you can't tell me the truth, I'll go wake up Gorion right now and tell him everything!"

"Please, Im. I'm so, so sorry. Please, don't tell him. You know I would never hurt you. I won't do it anymore. I promise. I won't kill anymore cats, or anything else. I'll start locking my door when I go to bed, see if that will stop the sleepwalking. Just… please, don't tell Gorion!"

"Then tell me why, Rana. I have to know. You're my best friend. I love you. Let me help you," Imoen sobbed as she threw her arms around Ilyrana.

Together, they sank to the ground, arms wrapped tightly around one another. Ilyrana let her sob into her neck, stroking the younger girl's unruly red hair while she tried to think of what to say. She didn't want Imoen to be afraid of her, but she didn't see how telling her would help. If anything, the truth would probably confirm that she did have good reason to be scared.

"Rana… you can't always be the strong one. Sometimes you have to let me protect you. Please, just tell me."

Ilyrana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Still holding Imoen close, so that she wouldn't have to look her in the eye while she spoke, she shared her burden with the girl who was like a sister to her.

"I've been having these dreams. Sometimes I don't remember what they were about, but I wake up feeling angry for no reason. Really angry. And nothing I do can get it out. Can make it go away. Other times, I remember the dreams so vividly that I have trouble convincing myself that what I saw in them wasn't real. Those dreams… I wake up feeling like I'm going mad. I see things that I've never seen before. That I pray to the gods I never see while I'm awake. In those dreams… I murder people. I've watched myself bash Dreppin's face in with a rock. I've put a kitchen knife through Phlydia's neck. I've shot arrows into Jondalar's back while he ran from me. I've taken a rope and wrapped it around Gorion's neck and pulled until his eyes bulged and his face turned purple. I've… I've… gods… I've whipped you in the back with leather until there was hardly any skin left. What kind of person am I for dreaming these things? Who even has that kind of imagination to conjure up images like that? Someone who's sick and twisted. Someone who's evil. Those are the only kind of people who would have dreams like that. And the cats? Imoen, one minute I'm trying to do my chores, or I'm studying for a test that Tethtoril is going to give us later, and the next, my hands are sticky with blood and I have a mutilated cat at my feet. Was I supposed to bring its corpse to Reevor and tell him I found it that way? How many dead cats is it going to take before he figures it out? Before he tells Gorion? Before I'm locked away, or sent somewhere else, or told that I can't go anywhere near you because I might get bored with animals and move on to people? There's something wrong with me! Something very, very wrong. When I sleepwalk, I feel like I need to be somewhere. That there's someone who needs me. Someone north of here. Baldur's Gate, perhaps. Maybe they can tell me what's wrong? Or maybe they're the one giving me these dreams somehow? Gods, I sound like a raving lunatic! Imoen… WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!"

Imoen pulled away and looked at Ilyrana. Saw the terror. Saw a young woman look so haunted that the shadows inside her mind might actually scare her to death.

Slowly, gently, Imoen placed a hand on each side of Ilyrana's head, felt the freezing tips of her pointed ears beneath her palms, and pressed her forehead against the other girl's.

"Rana," she whispered, unable to stop the tears that were still streaming down her face. "You are NOT sick and twisted. You are NOT evil. You are the kindest, bravest, and strongest girl I know. Whatever is happening with these dreams and the sleepwalking, whatever is calling to you, we will beat it together. Gorion himself has said that the main reason he won't let us leave Candlekeep ever is because he's afraid we'll take over the world."

Ilyrana choked out a laugh. Placing her own hands over Imoen's, she threaded their fingers together and lowered them to her lap. Watching her own movements, she gently rubbed the girl's hands to try and warm them.

"Rana, I love you. We're a team. I'm never going to leave you. Especially when you obviously need me. Please, don't shut me out again. I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Promise me, Rana. No. More. Secrets."

"I love you, too. And I promise, Imoen. No more secrets."

Ilyrana jerked awake. It was night still. She didn't know how much time had passed since she was last awake. Was it the same night? Or the next? Had it only been minutes since her last dream? Or hours?

Rolling onto her back, she pressed her palms into her eyes. She felt like the dream had leached something inside her just as effectively as the Slayer had. As hunger was doing. She could almost still feel the freezing, salty air playing in her hair. Could almost remember the sound of the waves breaking against rock. Could almost still feel that cancerous despair when Imoen had uttered that Ilyrana scared her. It was so similar to how she had felt when she had the chance to tell Imoen about Sarevok, about their past, about everything. The chance she didn't take. The promise that she broke.

No more secrets.

LIAR!

Taking a deep breath, she slowly sat up, feeling every muscle in her stomach protest at the movement. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she rested her forehead on them and waited for the world to stop spinning. Moments later, she raised her head and looked around.

The nearby campfire was barely more than smoldering embers now. A bedroll lay on the other side of it, but it was empty. Turning her head, she kicked in her Infravision and swept her gaze across the springs. Viconia was patrolling near the path, absently kneeling down on occasion to pluck something of value from one of the corpses that littered the earth. Turning her head the other way, she locked eyes with Sarevok.

He was still reclining against the same rock, though he no longer wore his armor. He had one knee up, with his arm draped across it, a wineskin dangling from his fingers. Something in his eyes made her feel exposed. Like a deer who suddenly realizes it's entered the lion's den. It didn't stop her from glancing down at the wineskin, though. Alcohol. Sweet, sweet alcohol.

"You, uh… gonna drink all that?"

Sarevok didn't respond. Just continued staring at her. Ilyrana huffed and reached over to grab her Bag of Holding that laid nearby. Digging through it, she pulled out a wrapped bundle of dried venison and a skin of what she hoped was wine. She was disappointed when she tasted only tepid water after uncorking the skin, but she did need it, so she drained it all. Ripping off a strip of the meat with her teeth, she continued rummaging through her bag until she found a flask of whiskey she had obviously forgotten about. Upending it, she swallowed every last drop with a sigh, all the while pointedly ignoring Sarevok's increasingly uncomfortable stares.

Eventually, she began unstrapping the armor she still wore. The long-sleeved shirt she had on beneath it was damp with sweat, so when she pulled the rest of the leather off, the fabric clung to her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Sarevok finally turn his head and looked away.

Someone had taken off her boots and belt. She kept the soft doeskin breeches on, simply because she had nothing to change into that wasn't just as dirty. Trying to run a hand through her hair, and having it snag the second she threaded her fingers through it, she plucked a thin cord of worn leather from her bag and began tying her hair up into a bun. The blood dried into her locks and the leather in her hands reminded her of the dream. Of the cats.

"Tell me something, Ilyrana," Sarevok finally spoke, the measured tone of his words unable to hide a purr of menace. "Was your most recent dream just that? Or another memory?"

Ilyrana froze, her hands still on her hair as she finished adjusting it. Emotions flickered through her too fast to even process. Fear. Confusion. Uncertainty. Weariness.

And rage.

It seared it's way through her, burning away the other useless, cumbersome feelings, and giving her her first taste of clarity in days.

"Fuck you," she whispered, slowly lowering her hands to her lap and staring straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her eyes flare with golden light. "Stay the hell out of my head."

"Come now, Rana. You and I both know I have no control over this."

"Have you fucking tried to control it?"

"Why would I? It would likely be a fruitless effort, anyway, and I'm beginning to see just how enlightening this phenomenon can be."

Ilyrana finally looked at him. His eyes flashed like a wolf's from the darkness, the gold brightening in time with his thoughts and mood. His lips were turned up in the barest of smirks.

"What are you playing at, now?"

"I'm just trying to piece together everything I've seen these past couple of days. There's been so much information you've dumped into my lap that I want to ensure I understand it all."

Grinding her teeth, Ilyrana tried to push away the lingering effects of her most recent dream. Her skin still tingled from the transformation, occasionally strong enough that she lost feeling altogether. Exhaustion came in waves, punctuated by splitting headaches that lasted a few seconds before disappearing. She was in no condition to deal with Sarevok. In any capacity.

"Your point, brother," she hissed, putting a slight inflection on the last word, and noticing his eyes narrow slightly at the word.

"My point, dear sister, is that I should not have allowed the return of those memories to stay my hand all those years ago. Had I known what I know now, I would have put you out of your misery and pushed on towards godhood. Frankly, after watching your incompetent approach at 'leadership', as well as the bumbling idiocy of your lackeys, I'm positive that I would have attained it long before now. How you're still alive, when you stumble blindly, and often drunkenly, through this war is a question that likely keeps the sages awake at night, just as deep in their cups as you commonly are. Why you've been gifted with a power like the Slayer, yet turn your nose up at using it, except to save me, is also just as bewildering. As is whatever sentimental reason you had for doing so, though I won't even try to puzzle that one out, likely it's just as pathetic as your dreams. Watching you weep over dead animals and the foolish little conundrum of your sleepwalking only further proves my assessment. I sincerely hope you've been able to deduce by now that it was I who was waiting for you in Baldur's Gate. That it was our repressed memories attempting to bridge the gap. And, judging by our conversation the night before last, you've romanticized it to the point that you nearly pined away after my death. Such a waste. I don't know whether to be amused by whatever girlish displays are sure to come in the future, or sick at the knowledge that Alaundo's Prophecy may actually center on a silly little girl who thinks becoming a god is beneath her and yet chooses to be too weak to defend herself and her companions when there's power there to be wielded. You will fall, sooner rather than later, without me even having to raise my hand to aid in your defeat, and you will lose so much more than I ever did simply because you leap headlong into your own failure."

Ilyrana snapped.

Wrapping a hand around the handle of a dagger she had brushed against in her bag, she painfully, but gracefully, rose to her feet. Her eyes were solidly lit orbs of yellow now, their light rivaling the stars'. Sarevok didn't move, hadn't moved during his speech, but she noted his gaze flick to the sword that lay beside him.

"Oh, Sarevok. You honestly believe that I give a single fuck what you think of me, my leadership, or my friends? Why in the Nine Hells would I? At least none of them have ever betrayed me. Not willingly anyway. Unlike your own. Did you ever deduce how I came to possess your journals and the damning evidence of your schemes? Who left me the trail of breadcrumbs that would allow me to expose you during your coronation as a Grand Duke? Here's a hint: It was the same person who graciously loaned me their sword so I could kill you while you were distracted by your own sentimentality. And while we're talking about Tamoko, have you stopped being self-absorbed long enough to appreciate the fact that she was right about how utterly wrong you were about Alaundo's Prophecy? Hells, you're right, the prophecy could be about me, but at least I'm not betting everything on that possibility, then whining when it turns out I was wrong. And you know what, I didn't ask you to come along! And I sure as shit won't give a damn if you leave! But the longer you stick around, bemoaning your obvious jealousy over how far I've come, despite you, I'll be more than happy to escort you back to your lonely corner of the Abyss. Yeah, I don't enjoy using the Slayer, but don't flatter yourself for a single second thinking I won't use it to put you down, yet again, just as easily as I used it to protect you. And you want to sneer at me about saving you because of some 'sentimental reason', but you seem to have already forgotten whatever reason you had for bringing me back, rather than letting the Slayer finish me off completely. Instead of turning tail and running away, as I expected you to, you stayed and helped me get back control. Why, brother? Tell me-"

Sarevok surged to his feet, sword in one hand, his other shooting out to clamp around her throat. He felt the sharp cut of her knife pressed against his stomach when he dragged her closer. He didn't let her go, but he didn't squeeze either, just kept his hand wrapped around her neck, and she looked up at him, eyes blazing, but fearless.

"Do something," Ilyrana whispered, the steel biting a little bit deeper, taunting him.

She watched his fury encourage him to roll the dice. He could snap her neck in a second, just the same amount of time it would take her to slip her blade in far enough to nick something vital.

"In my mind, I've done this a thousand times," he whispered back, pulling her closer, and ignoring the blood that was beginning to soak into his shirt. "I can almost predict how your ashes will settle to the earth. The only thing missing from each iteration is my own death. So you're safe this time. Next time, little one… you better not make the same mistake I did years ago and hesitate."

"Liar," she hissed. "I think you can drop the bullshit, Sarevok. We both know you can't do it. If you could, I wouldn't be standing here. There's a plethora of reasons why I can't sleep at night. Fear of you, and what you might do, doesn't make the list. Do something already, or get the fuck out of my face."

She felt his fingers twitch against her skin, felt the muscles in his hand try to tighten. For the briefest of moments, she thought he might actually do it. It was there in his eyes. The hate.

His words, the dreams, her memories, her exhaustion, the Slayer, all of it, made it so that she wasn't entirely sure what she wanted more. For him to allow her to call his bluff, or for him to prove her wrong. In this moment, she found it difficult to care.

She watched him glance down at the knife. Saw surprise light his face, before being replaced with something akin to grim resignation. His eyes found hers again. Gently, he released his hold on her, his calloused fingers brushing briefly against her collarbone before dropping to his side. His sword fell to the ground beside him.

A little confused, Ilyrana glanced down at the knife in her hand, and stilled. The light shining from her eyes glinted off the familiar amber and jet colored glass that was entwined in the mahogany wood of it's handle.

"You're right, I can't do it. If you would be so kind, though, I would appreciate it if you returned the dagger you stole from me."