A/N: Music is Monster by Paramore. Not really sure if it fits the chapter, but I was spamming it so...Play it!

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Endless. The catacombs are endless. I should use my shadows to give me the extra sense, to scout out the area before me. But I'm far too tired to do so.

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. I chant the words over and over in my head, the only thing keeping me awake and walking at this point. Gilbert's weight didn't seem like much when the king and I first struck out for Rutherland. Now though, it feels like I am carrying a mountain. A fragile, exposed mountain.

One foot in front of the other.

I should ask King Terrell to stop. I should suggest that we take a break under the pretence of caring for his well-being, when it's really all about me finally getting a good rest. No. I have to carry forward. I have to reach Rutherland as soon as possible, warn the people of our defeat and Cordair's fall. I have to reach there...

The weight on my back shifts with a groan.

"Gilbert?" My voice is parched with exhaustion.

He emits another groan. "Where are we?"

King Terrell rushes over, helping to ease him off my back. While pushing unruly hair out of his eyes, Gilbert scans the area with confusion, clutching onto the king for support. "Where are we?" he repeats.

I swallow some saliva. "The catacombs," I say. "We're heading for Rutherland."

"Rutherland? But—" His eyes widen in horror as the entirety of the situation dawns upon him. He suddenly looks like he's about to bolt away; King Terrell firmly latches onto his arm. "We can't! We have to go back!"

"It's too late, my boy," King Terrell says softly.

Gilbert shakes his head vehemently. "This—this is cowardice! We must go back. Please, Constantine, surely you understand." I flinch guiltily, looking away. I feel his eyes pinned onto me. "No..." He releases a snarl, a feral one that is not unlike a Creature's. "You traitor! You left those men to die!"

"It had to be done." Oh, Pietists Above, what am I saying? I never wanted to leave them. I never did.

Gilbert takes a step towards me. I stare at him. We're of similar height. However, the pure, smouldering fury on his face makes him loom over me. He raises his fist, ready to strike. The temperature in the room plummets; I see faint hints of frost crystalizing over his skin. I continue to hold his eyes, refusing to back down.

I will never apologise for my decision.

"Peace, Falkner," interjects the king, coming to my rescue. Reluctantly, with another low growl, Gilbert backs away, lowering his fist. He stalks off and plops himself onto the floor, looking determined to mope for quite a while yet.

King Terrell walks over to him to lay a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing we could have done, Falkner. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly understand. They were my men too." A sharp pang hits me; King Terrell had known the men for a far longer time than us. I send a silent prayer to Heaven, not just for all the lost souls, but for the king as well. This loss, it's not a burden for anyone to bear. Unfortunately, he's our leader—he is forced to take the brunt of it.

"It's just—" Gilbert takes in a deep, shuddering breath. "I could have done something. I should have done something."

"The past is past. Nothing we say or do changes that." With the firelight casting eerie shadows, King Terrell's face doesn't look like it belongs to a man of fifty odd. Rather, it should be of one who is well into his seventies. He grows silent for a moment; silver liquid starts to line his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," says Gilbert, head drooped in defeat.

"For what?"

"For failing to become the saviour that you needed."

Despite himself, King Terrell actually manages a smile. A smile. Pst. Kamira, how is he doing that? "It is I who should be sorry, for putting you two in such a position in the first place. We should never have tried to take on Diomedes; I was a fool for not seeing that. You two are far too young to have such heavy responsibilities at your age, Champion or no. I'm genuinely sorry. For everything."

My jaw drops open. Is the king of Perinus, ruler of the Heart of Ghaerlere, actually apologising? "Your Majesty, are you all right?" I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He looks at me with a gentle expression on his face. "I'm in a perfectly sane state of mind, if that's what you're asking, Squire Rutherland." He gets up from his crouch and waves the torch about, drinking in every detail of the area. "I hear running water," he says nonchalantly, voice just as cracked as mine. We found empty water skins in the satchel; now all we have to do is to locate the source of the gurgling. "I think we'll walk further, find the water source, then rest for a few hours or so. If we make a good, steady pace, we should be able to reach Rutherland in a week and a half."

"A week and a half? Can't we go any faster? The food will never be able to last us that long." King Terrell gives me a knowing look.

He's still smiling. Still smiling, even after all we've been through. Even though he knows what awaits us in the future. "If you're that concerned about meals, Squire Rutherland, Captain Eldric told me that the bats down here taste exactly like deer."

"The captain knew about this?"

"Yes. We planned it just in case of...anything." The smile on his face tightens; his expression darkens. I want to slap myself so badly—how could I be so insensitive? Gilbert, in response, shoots me a judgemental glare.

"Anyway, shall we move on?" the king suggests lightly. I bob my head, glad that he will be taking the lead from here. I've had enough of trying to play leader for one day. Gilbert nods his agreement as well.

We venture further into the darkness.

Wervas, fortimus.

******

In the darkness, I lose count of the seconds, the minutes, the hours that trickle by. Time is a static, yet infinite. Centuries could have passed and I wouldn't have noticed. It's nothing but walking, walking, walking. Catching up on sleep for a few blessed hours. Then resuming to walk with bleary eyes. Occasionally we'd stop for food, or to relight the dying torch. Or sometimes we'd stalk and kill the numerous edible critters scuttling around the place. Meanwhile, the gurgling we'd heard from the start had turned out to be a little stream running underground. Fortunately, after consulting the map many times, we just have to follow it to get to Rutherland.

I feel like I haven't spoken in days. Probably true, not counting the painfully polite remarks exchanged between the king, Gilbert and I whenever one of us suggests to take a break. I feel awkward around King Terrell; Gilbert is still angry at me, for all the king had said about 'the past is past'. Every single time I try to initiate conversation with him—with nervous cheerfulness—he grunts and smiles, but never really says anything. Eventually, the hard look in his eyes would drive me to silence.

So, no real interactions.

"Shouldn't we be reaching Rutherland soon?" asks Gilbert. King Terrell looks at the map in his hand for confirmation.

"Aye, we should. I can't be too sure though." He furrows his brows in worry. "We just keep moving forward."

I hear Gilbert exhaling in frustration. No wonder at that. He's probably eager to welcome the kiss of the sun on his skin. Away from the darkness.

Away from me.

I close my eyes, tugging on the shadows, feeling everything around me. I've been doing this now and then as soon as my strength had recovered sufficiently, trying to scour ahead for us in case of any unknown dangers. Trying to see if I can extend my senses to the surface, to see if we're getting any closer to our destination.

Nothing.

I release a sigh of my own. We should have reached Rutherland by now, if the endless days of walking are any indicator. Damn the Seventh Hell. I am a Rutherland by blood—I should know if I'd walked into my territory even if I were deaf and dumb and blind!

We continue without saying another word. It seems like an eternity when King Terrell emits an irritated grunt. He glares at the crossroads before us. He then refers to the map once more. "I don't understand, the map says that we're here now. Only, I don't see any entrance," he moans.

A hint of a smile tugs on the corners of my lips. Closing my eyes, I extend my senses into the darkness, searching for the sign of the exit. Without much effort, I manage to locate it. I open my eyes and say, "It's there," while gesturing towards the top.

Like the entrance into the catacombs, the fire casts light onto the wards carved into stone, forming a perfect square directly above us.

"Ah." The king tiptoes to inspect it. "It seems to be at least ten feet in the air. Can one of you reach it?"

"Squire Falkner would have to give me a boost." I give Gilbert a side-glance.

"Will do, Squire Rutherland." Surnames and titles. No more first-name basis.

With his somewhat reluctant help, I reach up for the centre of the square. While maintaining balance, I brace myself against the weight of the stone, shoving upwards with all my might.

The stone cracks before relenting with a pop. I push the stone away; warm light spills into the cavern below. I haul myself up first, ready to turn back and give the other two survivors a hand. A familiar voice stops me short.

"Constantine?" It's so raw with emotions that an uncomfortable sorrow seizes my chest.

A shadow blocks the source of the light. I crane my neck, seeing a stern, handsome face staring at me. His curly blond hair is unruly, as if the man hadn't bothered to comb it for days. He has dark circles lining his stormy eyes.

"Father."

I look beyond my father's figure. The room's walls are powerful, solid, made of stone like the rest of Castle Rutherland. In its centre sits a long table: one not quite as long as the one in the council room, yet still exceeding any normal standards. Crowding around it, a group of men look like they were in the middle of a very important meeting until I'd so rudely interrupted it. They slowly gather around the square hole, looking downwards in stupefied awe.

"What are you fools doing standing there?" Father snaps. "Help them out!"

"Of course, sire." One of the men, Sir Thrall, instantly extends an arm at the command. Gilbert allows King Terrell to get up first with the knight's assistance. He then leaps nimbly, clutching onto the edge with strong fingers.

With all three of us finally in the arms of safety, the men solemnly form a semicircle around us. Ridiculously, they bow towards us. Even Father, regarding us as though we were a God of the Marshem tribes. I want to sink on my knees in relief.

We have finally reached Rutherland.

******

A/N: The last leg of Constantine's journey is here. Will she manage to rally herself? Will she strike back? Please remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Marshem -- Main Pagan country in the continent of Vellwye; they worship twin gods: Remembrance and Forgetting.