you're a fraud and you know it
but it's too good to throw it all away
He had watched the Basin's army drain from the valley, streaming over rock and grass like water spilling forth from a dam, leaving but a few drops behind. There was a restlessness that had tugged at his heart as he observed, as though he knew he should have gone with them, put his life on the line for his family, for all those who were so much braver than he. Instead he was stuck with silence, solace, an empty solitude hung with tension. There had been excitement enough to keep the Thief occupied in their absence, and he had been relieved to learn of their victory. Yet his heart was not entirely at ease, not when he had seen Imogen leave with Ulrik to find Lena. There was little knowing what had happened to her when he was unable to decipher the kitsune's harried cries, no matter how hard she had tried to act it out. Ever since then he had paced the edges of the valley, watched the path, wishing he had been able to accompany the Engineer on his search.
He slept uneasily, if he slept at all. The thought of what might return: a full force, high on the successes of their conquest, or a crumbling band, riddled with bullet holes and casualties, a patchwork defense with their heads hung low, plagued his thoughts. He had never known defeat in war, and his imagination ran wild with the possibilities that could result. Still there was no sign of the Mender or her companion.
Roland had not forgotten his intentions to leave the Basin, the plans he had shared with Lena the last time they'd seen each other. It had been all but forgotten once the invasion had begun, pushed to the back of his mind while he had greater things to worry about. Now, in the silence and solitude, he had begun to think of it again. There was an anxiousness, an urgency to the thought, as if an hour glass was tipping, pouring sand from top to bottom, filling ever so gradually, and the Thief felt if he waited long enough then he might drown beneath that sand, smothered under wasted opportunities, one diversion too many. He could not waste any more days waiting, wandering, while a guillotine seemed to hang over his head.
The sun had long since departed beyond the mountains, and a shroud of black was tossed over slowly gathering storm clouds. It seemed the threat of snow was lingering in the evening air, latent in the chill of a gentle wind across the rocks. It was eerie, almost, or it would have been if the Thief had not grown used to the atmosphere, and he was as at ease amongst the shadows and darkness as he would have been at the lake's edge under a hot summer sun. He was beyond the reach of the water now, having climbed up into the foothills as if searching absent mindedly for a greater vantage point, as if he might be able to, with a hawk's precision, find exactly what he was looking for from the elevated heights.
Every rock he loosed with a step forwards tumbled down the mountainside, composing a short and flinty disturbance as it clattered down the pathway. The Thief turned, looking out across the trees, at the moon as it rose from behind the mountains.
"Lena," he called out, unsure of what exactly had possessed him to break the silence, when there was no telling what might be around to hear him. His own voice came back to him, bouncing off the rocks, and he flinched inwardly at the worry ringing clear in his tone. Perhaps there was someone who would hear him, who harboured news of her whereabouts, and he could finally find the answers that he sought.
@[Lena]
sometimes you even fool yourself a bit
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