Armand was released from the care of the healers the next morning and made his way back out into the world with bleary eyes and a heavy heart. The world looked even more grey than before. Like there were clouds gathered over everything that he just couldn't get rid of no matter how many times he rubbed his eyes or shook his head. 

He didn't care who did or didn't see him as he walked between guard tents. This place used to feel so much like home. Now it felt hollow, like someone was screaming out in a silent voice that no one could hear. He could feel their eyes burn him with judgment as he passed them sleeping in their tents or sprawled in front of early-morning fires. Armand wondered if the screaming came from him, even though he couldn't feel himself make a sound or really feel much of anything.

The tent he'd shared with Griffon was deserted. The flap was blown out of the way of the wind. Someone had forgotten to pin it down. Usually that would be his job, and he supposed Griffon probably just forgot after Armand ran off. He pulled it closed behind him and pinned it to the ground with a stake as he went inside.

The space pressed in on him from all corners. Armand had to stop himself from crying. He didn't want to here, even alone where no one could see his pain and judge him for it. He took a deep, shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. All of Griffon's things were still here. He didn't really have a right to them, but he was the closest thing to someone who could begin to claim that they did.

Griffon's cloak was still hung on a peg sticking out of the center tent-pole. His bedroll was still unpacked and made up neat on one side of the room. He'd left Armand's as it was, as if he hoped he'd come back. Armand's temples throbbed. He rubbed them with his fingers but it didn't do anything to relieve the ache. 

He felt like he was robbing a grave as he opened up the traveling bag Griffon had left behind. The smell of damp leather assaulted him as he flipped up the flap. The leather string tying it shut was sticky and had begun to fray and crack at the ends.

An almost-full canteen sloshed with water Griffon would never get around to drinking. Armand tossed it in the corner and pulled out the next thing. It was a flask, completely empty of even so much as a drop of liquor. The cold metal stung his hands as he put it down again. A pair of skulldice rattled around the bottom of the bag but Armand ignored them. 

He reached into a back pocket of the bag and something cool and shapely caught in his grip. He pulled it out of its hiding place and rested it in his hands. It was a dagger, tiny and too rusted to be useful, with most of the leather worn off the hilt. Armand remembered when he used to dismember rodents with it and bring them proudly to his brother as if they were some sort of prize. He hadn't seen it in years.

Why he'd kept it Armand didn't know, but the air got thick around his head again and Armand sat down. A wave of dizziness washed over him and his eyes started to burn. He clutched the dagger tight in his hands and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes squeezed shut. Get a hold of yourself. Armand let out a choked sounding breath and leaned forward. He rested his hands on his knees and pressed his thumbs hard into his eyes.

He'd have given anything to get yelled at again, just for a moment. To be told what not to do or that he couldn't go somewhere. To be denied the ability to go on a scouting mission or reminded oh-so-subtly that he couldn't fly. He wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to take a deep breath, but it came in shuddering gasps instead as the tears gathered and pooled on his kneecaps.

When he was six or so a...friend...of his had convinced him he could fly, if only he jumped off one of the rooftops in the marketplace. He'd been so desperate for a companion that he'd believed him and spent weeks finding a way to climb atop the structure while no one noticed. He'd felt triumphant as he heaved himself to the top and leapt off, like a bird.

He'd crashed into the ground so hard he thought he'd never breathe again, and everyone stared and shouted and his arm crumpled underneath him and he realized he couldn't move it. How terrified he'd been as it dangled there, useless.

He'd come crying back to the guard tent and Griffon yelled at him so loud he thought he might actually kill him. Armand only now realized the look in his eyes had been terror, not anger. Then he'd held him in place while one of the healers wrenched Armand's arm back into the socket while Armand kicked and screamed and Griffon whispered over and over in his ear that he'd be okay, that it would be over in a second. 

Armand held the dagger curled in his palm. It felt cool to the touch and yet made him recoil at its presence. It was just like Griffon to act like he knew everything and then to leave him all alone...except Griffon never would have left him alone. Armand didn't know how he had tricked himself into thinking he never cared, that all he wanted to do was to make his life miserable.

What he wouldn't give to have him back just for a few minutes. To ask him the things Armand had always been afraid to ask because every time the subject came up Griffon's lip curled and he went to talking about something else. What Armand's parents were like. Where home was, before they'd taken off. Whether Griffon liked them or not. What Griffon's dad was like. 

He stood, face blank and eyes red and puffy, then tossed the dagger onto the pile of Griffon's other belongings. He didn't have a right to any of them. They weren't his and they never would be.

He trudged out of the tent and toward where he knew he'd find Aegan. He had to talk to him, to tie up any loose ends before he left here and left these memories behind forever. He wouldn't know the answers to any of his questions, of that he was sure. But maybe he'd be able to point him in the right direction.

Aegan sat slumped over the table, his head in his hands, when Armand entered. He didn't look up, or even seem to acknowledge Armand's existence as Armand flipped open the tent flap and stood in front of him. 

"I wanted to ask you some things," Armand said, and Aegan slowly looked up and fixed him with his icy grey stare. His eyes were ringed with red and Armand took a step back in surprise.

"You shouldn't be here," Aegan spat.

"I need to know where to go," Armand said, and he realized at once he sounded both lost and like he was asking completely the wrong person.

"He was my son," Aegan said, and his voice cracked.

Armand swallowed and took an additional step backwards. His vision started to cloud again with that familiar anger and he fought to keep it under control.

"He was my brother," Armand said, though he'd begun to realize Griffon was much more than that.

"He was my son and you killed him. You should have left and not come back. You had your chance." Aegan rose from the table as he spoke. His skin was ashen and his wings were rumpled and frayed at the edges.

"It was an accident," Armand said. The anger roiled and Armand swallowed, desperate to keep the beast locked up inside him where it could not do any additional damage.

"You heartless little monster. I should have killed you when you were a baby." Aegan leaned heavily over the table, a deadly and dangerous glint in his eye, breathing hard. Armand reflexively put his hand on his sword. It was like they were doing a dance. A complicated, dangerous dance that was also a game, and Armand got the feeling there would only be one winner.

All at once Aegan lunged, and Armand drew his sword as Aegan's hands clasped around his neck. His heart beat loud and ragged in his ears. His vision started to go cloudy and he struggled to breathe through the grip of Aegan's clammy fingers. The blade pierced bone and flesh and the pressure of it traveled up Armand's arms.

Aegan let out a weak cry and his arms released from around Armand's neck. He slid with a wet crunch to the floor, the blade sliding free as he did, a puddle of red growing around his still-barely-alive corpse.

Armand's eyes were wide and his breathing was fast and shallow. Spots swam in front of his vision. Blood ran off the tip of his blade and onto the floor. Aegan's eyes flickered to Armand's and slowly drained of color. His icy glare thawed, then went glassy, then dull. Armand nudged him with his foot, but he did not move. 

A wave of nausea washed over Armand. He braced himself on the table for a moment, then grabbed a cloth handkerchief and cleared the weapon of blood. He sheathed it again and glanced at the doorway. He needed to leave. He needed to leave before anyone found him, and he had to get as far away as possible before they did.

Armand ran, as far and fast as possible, toward the other end of the caravan. No one could know. Not the sellswords, not Wren if he ever saw her again, not anyone. His legs pumped furiously as they carried him farther and farther away from the guard tent and into the open desert. He kept the edge of the caravan in sight, just enough to keep his bearings, until the buildings started to fade, then pick up again.

Maybe they'd take him back. He prayed to anyone that listened that they would.   

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Armand has a bad habit of running from his problems. Do you think this might get him in more trouble later? What could he do instead? Let me know in the comments!