Martin and Jacques were silent as Aelar concluded his story, both lost in thought as they tried to imagine the horrors Aelar had endured in that inhospitable jungle. Martin stared at his nails as if imagining them peeling off as he dug himself into the ground.

  “Well,” Aelar said, taking a drink for the first time since starting his narrative, “it’s not all bad. I made it out alive after all, and got a good story for Martin to use.”

  “I’m not sure I’m worthy of casting myself as the hero in that story,” Martin replied. “What ended up happening to Asher?”

  “Made his way back to town somehow. His hair never grew back, a side effect of the curse the Collector had placed on him.”

  “At least he didn’t end up being added to his collection,” Jacques remarked.

  “And did you find the inheritance?” Martin asked.

  “No. Nobody ever found it. Some say it's still out there. If someone does find any more clues, I’m sure our lord will send one of our brethren to pursue it. I just hope it’s you who has to find it and not me. I’ve had enough of the jungle for one lifetime.”

  They ordered a last round of drinks and shortly after stumbled their way out into the cold night air.

  “My work begins tomorrow,” Aelar said to Martin in passing. “If I end up needing you, I’ll send word through Jacques.”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Don’t you forget it,” Aelar said with a laugh.

  The trio said their goodbyes, and Aelar and Jacques walked off to find another bar that was still open. Martin turned in the opposite direction and began his walk home. His mind returned to the details of Aelar’s stories. The color of the plants, the way the locals spoke, the names of the towns and saloons he had visited. The real Martin had taught those around him real quick that the surest way to awaken his anger was to bring up the colonies, which had spared the Faceless Man from having to pretend too much about them, but he felt the potential weakness clearly, and he had too many weak points to worry about at the moment.

  As he walked, he committed the details to memory and felt himself sobering as he did so. A gift from the Faceless God, he supposed, or a curse, as it would take an incredible amount of alcohol to get him well and truly drunk. His steps were the most uncertain they had been since he had taken over for Martin and started to rectify his image, but he would likely be mostly stable by the time he arrived home. He breathed briefly into his hand. The Cosmic's blessing didn't go so far as to cover the smell, unfortunately. The slowly fading glow of the alcohol inside him was replaced by a cold knot of apprehension as he neared his front door. With a few slow breaths to steady his pulse, he softly lifted the latch on the door and opened it up, hoping to sneak in without waking up his wife.

  Boudica was awake. She was sitting at the table, the photograph of the woman that resembled her nestled in her arms, and the expensive bottle of wine they had purchased at the market stood on the table, nearly empty and looking out mockingly at the remains of dinner, now cold. A single candle cast shadows across her face. Her gaze fixed upon him, and although it was immediately clear that she had been crying, she stared at him with a sharpness that cut towards him just as dangerously as Aelar’s knives had earlier that evening.

  “You’re drunk,” she said, the words not a question but an accusation, her voice laden with disappointment.

  “As are you,” Martin began to say, “I… it was a few drinks with a friend who was in town.”

  “A drink,” Boudica repeated, “You’ve been coming home sober for months, and now tonight of all nights you go for a drink.”

  “Tonight..?” Martin asked. The significance of the bottle of wine and the portrait began to dawn on him.

  “The night my sister… passed away.” Boudica’s gaze finally broke from his as her head hung down suddenly, as if beaten down by a fresh wave of loss. “How could you forget? You were doing so well.”

  “Boudica. I’m sorry.” Martin moved over to her and knelt beside the chair. “I’m sorry, but everything has just been getting away from me these days. Someone I knew… from the colonies… was in town, and we went to catch up. I should have come home.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Boudica looked back up at him in surprise. “You don’t see people from those days.”

  “I didn’t think I ever wanted to. I see enough of them in my nightmares, but that’s not important now.”

  "This wasn't like Rafe, was it?"

  "No, not like that. We won't need to trouble Ms Alder tonight."

  Martin reached out to take the portrait from Boudica. He looked at it carefully, understanding for the first time why the woman looked so much like Boudica. He set it gently on the table and pulled a chair next to her, close enough to take her hands in his.

  “Tell me her story, so that I’ll never forget it again.”

  Boudica stared at him, off guard from the display of affection she hadn’t seen from her husband for years. After a moment, she closed her mouth, which had opened in surprise, and a moment later she began to speak, slowly at first but then with increasing passion.

  “This was taken about a year before she died. My father paid… far more than he should have for one of each of us, Connach, me, and Vivian. It was around that time that a new parish priest came to town, a man named Tertius. He was the youngest son of some wealthy businessman down South, and with the business going to his two older brothers, he was left to join the priesthood. By some cruel act of the Creator, he ended up being assigned to Brannloch. I disliked him from the beginning, with his city ways and flirtations, but my sister was smitten. In two weeks, she was convinced she was in love, and a week later… she had given herself to him. A few months later, she missed her period, and a few months after that, she was starting to show.

  Father was furious; it was only after weeks of her being locked in her room and his shouting at her to confess that she finally confessed—Father Tertitus. Father ran out of the room that night, into the pouring rain, and half a mile down the road to the house where Tertius was staying with another priest and an altar boy. Connach and the other priest were barely able to pull my father off of him.

  It went to a Church trial, and my family was informed that we were lucky not to have my father excommunicated for laying hands on a priest. And Tertius? He was moved to another parish in the sunny South with a letter warning him not to do it again. He never spoke to my sister again, whether from cowardice or orders from the church, I don’t know, but it broke her heart. She barely ate, and only I could gradually coax her into eating something by reminding her that the baby in her belly needed nourishment. She lived, but I could see her slowly wasting away. After pleading with father again and again, he finally agreed to let her out of her room. As we walked through the countryside, there were moments she almost seemed like her old self, stopping and leaning over, carefully cradling her belly as she examined a flower, then stretching out her arm to me for support when she realized she didn’t have the strength to bring herself back upright."

  A smile came to Boudica's face for a moment as she savoured the image. She took another drink of wine before continuing.

  "There were looks of judgment and whispers, but my sister had been beloved before she had her heart stolen, and our people were kind. Many saw where the true blame lay, and the priests who came to our town had a much less friendly welcome than they had enjoyed before. Still, the judgment remained, and I could see how hard it was for Vivian. Despite that, as time went on and Tertius’ presence faded, things almost seemed to be normal.”

  Boudica paused again here. Martin poured her another glass of the wine and offered it to her. She took it with a nod of thanks and took a long sip. Boudica placed the glass back down and returned her hand to Martin’s

  “It was a spring day. We had planned to hold a small party that weekend. Since father had relaxed Vivian’s imprisonment, she had started to enjoy some freedom to leave on her own, so at first I didn’t even notice. However, as the morning went on, I realized I hadn’t seen her yet that day. I asked Connach, who told me she had left for a walk. He told me not to worry. Surely she couldn't have gotten far, he said. We started to search around for her, calling out her name in growing desperation, but we couldn’t find her. We had just told father and started making our way into town when a runner came with the news.”

  Boudica paused again, and Martin remained still, knowing she would finish when she was ready.

  “She… Vivian had walked the whole mile to the church, entirely on her own. She somehow snuck her way into the church and climbed up the rickety spiral steps to the top of the belltower, and then… and then…”

  Boudica couldn’t finish and, with a heavy sob, began to cry once more. Though he was not truly Martin, he could feel his heart break for her, and he brought her into his arms in the most intimate gesture they had shared so far.

  They stayed together like that for some time as Boudica’s grief slowly subsided and the lone candle slowly burned to the bottom, and then they stayed for longer still, two souls bound by the tragedy of circumstances beyond their control. The night wore on, and eventually they found their way to bed. Lying there in the darkness, each lost in their own thoughts, the silence between them a chasm too wide for any words to bridge. Boudica’s story had altered something intangible in the way the Faceless Man thought about her. It was a painful reminder that he was a fake, shambling around in the skin of someone who had done little to help a woman covered in scars. As he lay there sleepless, he felt Boudica moving beside him. An arm reached out, touching his arm softly and then slowly feeling its way down, found his hand. Martin turned his hand up as Boudica gently threaded her fingers through his.

  Hand in hand, they waited for dawn.