Time is slipping away from him like sand in a grate.

The day of the wedding has crept up, it's here, and Azazel isn't there. How much time does he have before Alistair is married off to the general? Hours? Minutes? His stomach sinks with dread. How is he going to get there in time?

His feet start moving before he has a plan. Maybe, that's just what he needs. There's no time to think, he has to act. He has to use every second he has and push it towards his goal: saving Alistair. He hobbles out of the morgue, steadying himself on the wall. Glancing down the hall, he sees no one. Hastily, he stumbles through the corridor.

Eventually, guards are going to find him. And when they do, it won't be pretty. He's in no shape to fight. He's in no shape for much of anything, really. If he is confronted by a guard, his best hope is to slip away from them. He can't outfight and he can't outrun.

From where he is now, there are two more corners he has to turn before he reaches the exit. The exit is guarded by at least two guards at all times, but other than that, it is relatively lax. Prisoners are almost always in their cells or being put to work, so they usually don't have to deal with prisoners wandering the halls. Especially prisoners that were dead just a little bit ago. But just because they're lax doesn't mean he can be, too. They have a strong advantage over him in every way. He has to find a way to slip by them.

Perhaps he can use stealth to his advantage and sneak past them. He doesn't suspect that it will work, because there's not much room to hide, but if it did that would be ideal. Nothing's ever ideal for him, though, so he suspects his aim will be to pull the lever that releases all the prisoners, causing mass chaos so great that they won't have time to catch him.

Far down the hall, he hears frantic shouting. He turns, but sees no one. From the morgue, two shadows scurry around the room and yell to each other about finding something. They must've discovered his body is missing.

He picks up the pace. Well, as much as his mangled body can. Just as he turns the first corner, he hears a voice bark, "There he is!"

Physically, he shouldn't run. He does anyways.

The pounding of feet reverberates through the hall and grows louder with every step. They're getting closer, far too close, and he doesn't need to glance back to know it. He can hear their shouting and running like they're right next to him.

His leg, the one the general stabbed, gives out suddenly. He stabilizes himself against the wall to avoid falling. The wall is shaking with the tremors of the stampeding guards.

Right behind him, a hand thrusts out to snatch him. He ducks and dives to the side, rolling out of his attacker's range. When he jumps back to his feet, his head spins like it's about to fall off. He wobbles back, staggering away from the assailant as his vision moves in and out of focus.

When he regains clarity, he sees none other than Warden stalking towards him. Three guards back her. Her ever-present sadistic cheer is gone, replaced with a furious snarl.

"You," she seethes, raising her arm high to strike him, "Are getting to be a real pain!"

She swipes at him, intent on ripping him to pieces, but he backs out of the way just in time. He turns and runs, teetering on the verge of collapse. He only makes it a few steps before he's knocked down by a guard. The guard, straddling him, winds back a fist and brings it down to Azazel's face. Right before it makes contact, Azazel moves his head to the side and they punch solid brick.

Howling in pain and clutching their swelling hand, they let their guard down enough for Azazel to throw them off. Another guard rushes to take their place, but Azazel twists to his hands and knees, gets up, and takes off running. Running is easier than it was before he was almost slugged in the face. Could this be an adrenaline rush taking over?

Whatever it is, he doesn't think much of it. He allows it to pump through him and invigorate him and revitalize him and carry him closer to freedom. Closer, and closer, and closer the last turn in the corridor grows. Once he turns that corner, the lever will be on the far end of the hall, under watch by two guards. If he wants to flip the switch, he'll have to be decisive. Quick.

He turns the corner. As he suspected, the door and lever are guarded. Too bad he underestimated how many guards there would be.

Not two, not three, but four guards stand at the exit. That pits him against seven guards and the warden. Not great. But he's seen worse.

When the four guards at the end of the hall see the chase, two of them leap up to block his path. They barrel at him, arms spread wide as if to snatch him right off the ground. Instead of confronting them, he slides to the ground, slipping right between the tallest one's legs. He jumps back to his feet just as the two guards crash clumsily into the others. Warden, witnessing the embarrassing blunder, screeches, "I'll have your heads and your jobs if you don't catch him now!"

The other two guards at the entrance are spurred to action by her vicious cry. They don't charge in as haphazardly as the others did, allowing him instead to come to them. He decides to not do that.

Leaping off the floor, he begins to float mid-run, running from the floor to the wall to the ceiling and back again in one fluid spiral. He leaves the last two guards in the dust, fumbling and scratching their heads trying to figure out where he went.

"Behind you, you imbeciles!" Warden roars, inflamed.

But it's too late. By the time they're all turned around and ready to attack him, Azazel's already slammed the cage door that separates the hall from the iron doors. He latches it securely, locking them out.

"I'll have you gutted!" She threatens, pounding a fist on the cage and making it rattle. "I'll tear you to shreds!"

Azazel saunters to the lever carelessly. The guards go very, very still.

"Don't you dare," she growls, her eyes burning. He places his hand on the switch. "Don't you dare!"

Azazel watches them a moment. He watches them tremble in their own skin, and he relishes it.

"Do you remember," he begins, "When I first came here and you said you'd kill me in the week and I said I'd escape instead?"

She glowers at him, livid. She's quivering with rage.

He grins. "I win."

He pulls the lever.

A loud, blaring alarm blasts through the facility. Rusty cells creak open slowly, like the dead emerging from their graves. Immediately, the warden and the guards whip around to face the opening cells.

At first, nothing happens. Then, out of the cell with the sign reading, 'Welcome! Please Enjoy Your Stay!' a foot emerges. From the depths of the cell crammed with starved prisoners, the garchomp prowls out.

Other prisoners begin to join them. Brutalized, angry, vengeful prisoners. Their eyes scrape along the hall until they land on the warden and her guards. With a hundred raving, wrathful eyes fixed on them, the guards seem a lot less willing to pick a fight with their prisoners.

Azazel backs away, pushing the iron doors open. A sliver of sunlight slips into the room. Waving the warden goodbye, he says, "Better luck next time, pal."

He slams the doors shut just as the prisoners charge, leaving her to her grisly, well-deserved fate.

Racing down the jagged, steep slope of bones and ash, he finds that the adrenaline high he'd been thriving off of is already dwindling away. By the time he gets the the bottom of the hill, he's stumbling and losing balance. Tripping over his own feet, he catches himself on a dock post and takes a moment to soak in his situation.

He's in a lot of pain, getting worse by the minute. He's miles away from Bloomfield Island. It's a sunny, clear day, making it feasible for him to travel home by floating, but his injuries make him reluctant to do that. If the pain gets too great and he passes out, he'll drown. Either he needs to take that risk, or he needs to find another way to the island.

There is, he believes, a prison boat. He saw it on his way in. Picking his head up, he searches the docks for anything of the kind. He sees nothing, no boats docked at the prison. Someone must have traveled on it recently.

That leaves him with one option, and he doesn't really like it: he has to float across.

As much as he detests the idea, he's not going to wait around and mope about it. If he wants to stop this wedding, he doesn't have time to do anything else. Based on where the sun is in the sky, he'd guess it's a little past noon. Knowing Alistair, he probably pushed the wedding as far back as he possibly could in the day, if only to enjoy a few more hours of freedom. Azazel's counting on that, praying on that as he sets off across the sea.

The trip to Grimsby Island felt like an eternity. The trip back is that tenfold. There's so much more at stake to the return trip than the arrival. The arrival, he risked torture and life-long detainment. Yeah, sure, that's bad and all. But with the return, he risks hurrying to town only to realize it's too late, and the general has taken Alistair.

Maybe the crawling pace is because floating is much slower than sailing. It's hard to float quickly, especially when in pain. He's agonizing the seconds that creep by, feeling each like a nail in his heart. His worries are racing, but his body is not, it's drifting aimlessly along as if he has nowhere to be.

Something has to change. He can't float all the way across the sea, not in time. But what can he do? He's surrounded by nothing but ocean, ocean, lapras, ocean...

Wait.

"Hey, you!" He shouts, hovering over to the swimming lapras. She turns to face him, blinking inquisitively past her pink bandana. When he reaches her, he swipes the bandana right off her head.

"Wha—hey!" She protests, turning sharply to try and swat at him. Her flippers don't allow for much luck with that, though, and after dancing around her and holding her bandana tauntingly out of reach, she huffs, "What do you want?"

"A ride to the mainland," he says, already making himself comfortable on the back of her shell. Twirling her bandana around, he adds, "And make it fast."

****

The wedding guests are filing into their seats. Alistair watches them. For years, this had been his greatest fear: standing here, at the altar, awaiting his impending doom. Now that it is upon him, he feels nothing. He lacks the dread, misery, or terror he always imagined he'd be fraught with. He lacks everything. He just feels empty.

After the duel and subsequent demise of Azazel, the town has been rather on edge. In order to put on a display of generosity and to ease them, the general graciously invited them to attend his wedding as well—as long as they remain in the back. Dear Gunnora is one of those in attendance, seated by her family in one of the last rows. She catches his gaze. Excusing herself, she stands and makes her way to him.

He hasn't seen her since the general broke the news to her on the docks. How sickening General Thurston treated the issue, too, feigning sympathy for the death when he was the cause. Even thinking of such wrongs, Alistair does not find himself bubbling with any particular emotion.

Gunnora reaches him. She regards him with eyes of incredible mourning, of inconsolable sadness, and wraps him in an embrace. Mechanically, he returns the gesture. That's all he's functioning on today. Mechanics.

She pulls away, wiping at her eyes. She shoots a fearful glance at the cut on his cheek, nicely covered with cosmetics, but not covered enough. Giving him a dire, meaningful look, she asks, "Are you okay?"

"No. I am nothing," he responds, his tone flat. "I am neither okay nor am I not."

She nods, sniffing and looking away. Her eyes wander to the general, who's chatting pleasantly with Savaric and Grimald. Her attention snaps back. She leans in, whispering, "What really happened to Azazel?"

Alistair purses his lips. For the first time, he almost feels something. Almost.

He takes her hands, squeezing them. "If I could tell you, dear, I would. But you would meet the same fate as Azazel if I did so."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees General Thurston watching them. Gunnora must see him, too, because she removes her hands from Alistair's, gives him a quick yet tense hug, and excuses herself. Alistair watches her return to her seat just as the general approaches him. He places a hand on Alistair's shoulder, and Alistair does not shudder. He does not even have to suppress an urge to do so.

"Now, now, my pet," he chides, "Most people are a little happier on their wedding day. Why don't you try to smile?"

Alistair coolly meets his gaze. "Or what? You'll strike me again?"

The general presses his mouth into a thin line to avoid scowling in the eyes of the public. Tightening his grip on Alistair's shoulder, the general grudgingly settles for his expressions of hollow apathy. The priest arrives, and the general kindly greets her. Alistair does not.

The priest holds the Holy Book before her, smiling at them. "So. Shall we start this wedding?"

****

"Wait... we're how many miles away from Skystead? I told you to get me there, not to drop me in the middle of nowhere!"

The lapras huffs, turning her nose up at him. Her bandana is wrapped back around her head. "I'm not a luxury cruise. You held my stuff hostage. Be thankful I even brought you this far."

"Listen, I've gotta get back to town, like, now," Azazel insists, trying not to let panic overtake his voice. The sun creeps across the sky like a spider. He forces himself not to agonize over it. "It's an emergency. You know: justice, and true love, and—"

"Yeah, yeah," she interrupts, already swimming away. "I'll believe it when I see it, pal."

He opens his mouth to shout at her, then closes it, then resigns to throwing rude gestures her way. Looking to the sky, he sees it's just a little past noon. The sun is slightly in front of him, hovering over the ocean. That means he's facing west, and Skystead is towards the south. Turning left, he embarks on his last stretch of the journey.

The aches and pains in his body have only gotten worse as the day has dragged on. Running through the uneven terrain of the wilderness is making that pain even more prominent. Every wound is burning like it's been impaled with a flaming blade, and every joint and bone and organ in his body throbs.

Stumbling through the ferns and brush, he knows that if he's going to make it back to town, he can't dwell on his injuries. Instead, he thinks of Alistair. Is he okay? Is he already married? Is it too late?

****

The priest has begun the ceremony. Everyone sits and watches, silent, as if at the gallows. With hundreds of eyes on him and the general, Alistair doesn't feel a drop of intimacy for the man holding his hands at the altar. He doesn't even feel contempt. He simply feels nothing.

As the priest reads from her book, outlining the beauties the two will soon share as one, Alistair hears a faint whisper in the crowd. His eyes flick over to the source: one of the general's wedding guests, an affluent businesswoman. She's leaned close to her wife and is muttering something in her ear, eyeing the cut on Alistair's cheek dubiously. Her wife shares her concern.

Can they see what the general did to him? Good.

He tilts his cheek into the sun, casting the shadows away from the mark on his face, showing it off to the world. A few more people notice, gasping quietly. They're scandalized. Scandalized at the thought of their beloved general committing such a crime.

General Thurston's eyes glint with danger, a silent threat to cease his actions. Alistair only presents his scar more, daring the general to do something about it.

****

Azazel's never been so happy to see the Underside.

He stumbles onto the dirt streets, catching himself on a garbage can. Steadying himself is almost harder than running. Gripping the edge of the bin, he fights to stand straight, only to falter back down.

His vision is growing blurrier by the second. Black dots dance in his eyes and make his head hazy. It's almost like he's dying all over again. He squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to regain his sight.

There's no time to die by a trash can. He may not be able to see right or walk right, but he pushes himself off and staggers down the street.

He makes it two feet.

Falling against a wall, he shudders as pain and chills course through him. His eyes, barely open, are bleary and dim. The world around him is closing in.

"Well, well, well," a nasally, mocking voice begins, guffawing at the sight of him. From the sewer drains, masses of grimer slink to the surface. Their eyes are alight with vengeance. The leader of them, a muk, states, "If it ain't that ol' banette that messed with my crew. Fancy seein' ya here in such a bad situation."

Azazel musters all his strength to scowl at them. He nearly blacks out just from that.

The Grimer Gang surrounds him, leering down at him. They look like demons, all of them: demons that are way, way too pleased by his pain. Worst of all, they look eager to add to that pain.

"Ya shouldn'ta messed with The Grimer Gang," the muk spits, shoving him back. He falls, leaning heavily on the wall so he won't fall on his ass. The grimers are grinning as they size him up. They know he's at his weakest. "Now, you're gonna pay."

Clawing at the wall, he forces himself to his feet. He'd like to size them up, too, and see how many he's up against, but his vision is blurring and making him see double. He's surrounded by five to ten grimers with this muk. Not great.

There's no way he'll win in a direct confrontation. He has to weasel his way out of this one; he has to convince them not to fight him. Can he bluff well enough to pretend he's in better condition than he really is? Hopefully.

His body protests as his spine jerks upright, positioning himself as if he's well put together and not on the brink of death. They eye him suspiciously, like he's a ticking bomb. At the very least, he has their caution on his side. Maybe he can play to that.

"You guys really wanna get your asses beat a second time?" He asks, carefully maintaining a flat tone. He can't let one hint of weakness slip by. Folding his arms, he states, "It would be really embarrassing for your gang. People might take you even less seriously than they do now."

The leader's mouth twists with thought. Azazel is surprised he's taking a moment to ponder it. He wasn't sure anyone in this gang had two brain cells to rub together.

Still, the muk takes an aggravatingly long time. Maybe he really doesn't have two brain cells, and that's why it takes him so long to stew over one simple thought. Whatever it is, it's dragging on far too long for Azazel's comfort, as his shaking is growing more apparent and his knees threaten to buckle.

Then, the muk grins. It's a toothless, cruel smile.

"You're bluffin'," he proclaims, as if it wasn't obvious. Azazel is covered in ghastly wounds and his barely able to stand on his own. He's guessing his poker face isn't the best, either, on account that he can't really tell which of the two muks he sees is the real one. "Ya can't beat us, not when I'm here. And ya look like shit."

"And you look as beautiful as ever," Azazel drawls, falling against the wall. The grimers chuckle at the sight, closing in. "You really don't have better things to do?"

"What could be better than teaching some punk a lesson?"

His bluff didn't work. The gang is advancing on him. He needs a new plan, and fast. One punch might just knock him out cold, and he doesn't have time to waste. The sun is moving in the sky; the wedding must have begun by now.

The first grimer throws a punch, and Azazel sinks into the ground. He doesn't have the energy to keep himself down there long enough to dart past them, so his body is ejected right back where he came. When he adjusts to being on the surface again, he sees the grimers lunging at him with grubby hands.

Immediately, he dives through the wall. He tumbles across the floor on the other side, inside someone's house. He rolls to a stop by a dining table with one broken leg. At the table, chugging a beer, sits Geoffrey.

Ugh. God. Could this get worse?

Geoffrey sees him, but doesn't react right away. His eyes are glazed over and unresponsive. Likely, he's way too drunk to do anything about Azazel being in his house right now. Which is great, because the last thing he needs is The Grimer Gang and Geoffrey teaming up to kick his ass. Unfortunately, Geoffrey is not alone. There's a hooker in his bed, and the moment she sees Azazel, she snatches a broom and charges toward him.

Floundering to his feet, he fumbles with the doorknob and thrusts himself outside just as she swings. He falls to the street as she shakes her fists and cusses him out very colorfully. Unfortunately, her creative language is the perfect beacon for The Grimer Gang. From the alleyway beside Geoffrey's house, Azazel spots a grimer peering down. Once the grimer locks onto him, he shouts for the rest of his gang and chases after him. Azazel curses to himself, giving the prostitute the finger before fleeing.

He supposes 'fleeing' is a generous term. Really, what he's doing is stumbling aimlessly down the street in hopes that it will lead him somewhere he wants to be.

Luckily, grimers and muks are slow. They ooze after him, travelling at about the same speed as honey on a table top. But Azazel can't say that he's much faster right now. Every step he takes is met with shooting pain in his legs, rocketing through every inch of his being. He'll take five steps before he has to stagger to the side and brace himself on a wall.

The muk is gaining on him. He slides faster than the others because he has more goo to glide on top of. He's rolling dangerously close to Azazel, dangerously close to reaching out and snatching him. There's no way he's gonna escape like this. At the rate this is going, he'll be captured and they'll beat the rest of his life out of him. If he's gonna survive this, he needs something between him and them. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hasty to run out of Geoffrey's house. That old sleazebag and the prostitute could've been good distractions, especially if she swung that broom around like crazy.

His mind races for a new plan, but he's not given a chance to form one. The muk snags him, ripping him off the ground and throwing him back toward the grimers. He hits the ground, hard, skidding to a halt halfway between the muk and his crew. Once again, he's surrounded, hooting and hollering thugs on all sides. They close in.

He struggles to stand, but the muk grabs him before he can even lift one knee. Raising him high, the leader slams him against the dirt. The grimers jeer and laugh. Azazel's head spins as he's raised again. He's slammed back down.

The world is fuzzy. Hazy. Unclear, unreal. His mind blinks in and out of awareness as the muk batters him against the street. Sneering and howling bash his ears.

There is nothing he can do. He doesn't have the ability to phase through the muk's hand and he doesn't have the energy to fight back. Essentially, he's a limp ragdoll. All he can do is wait for it to be over. What will happen after this? Will they kill him? What will happen to Alistair?

The muk holds him in the air like a trophy. Azazel's head lolls forward, his vision spotty. With a malicious, vengeful grin, the muk reaches a hand up to the zipper at his mouth, gripping it tight. Immediately, ice cold shock rushes through his body.

Oh, hell no. Never again.

He swipes the muk's hand away, slashing at his eyes. The muk bellows in pain, dropping Azazel to cover his face and wail. The moment Azazel hits the ground, the other grimer are upon him. Before one of them can swing a punch at him, he sinks into the ground and dashes past the muk, popping out on the other side. He stumbles forward, his feet uncoordinated, and takes off down the street.

The Grimer Gang shouts after him, making all sorts of ludicrous threats in an effort to stop him. But now that he's filled with resolve, they're far too slow to catch him. He dashes through the Underside, his speed and strength growing with every step. In no time at all, the muk and his lackeys are far behind him, too far to ever catch up. They shake their fists at him and yell curses, turning around and slinking away in defeat.

Confidence surges through him, and a smile dances on his face. He's gonna make it. He's gonna make it off this dirty street and to the Topside, he's gonna make it to the wedding, he's gonna make it back to his friends. He's gonna swoop in and crash the wedding and relish in the general's huffy, appalled face. He's gonna make it back to Alistair.

That thought is so sweet that it takes a hold of his mind and floats into the clouds with it. Which is pretty unfortunate, because he kinda needs that mind when he's running, so he doesn't trip and fall like a dumbass. Like, right now.

His foot snags on a rock, and he goes down hard. It's worse than just biting dirt. He topples, he tumbles, and he lands in a painful heap. Dirt and scrapes cover him from head to toe, and his wounds from the prison angrily reintroduce themselves. All the aches and sores and shakiness from before hit him like a sledgehammer, striking him with twice the force they had initially.

He tries to pick himself back up. The ground he's pushing off of is as stable as jello and just about as solid. Everything is spinning, everything is racing, everything is disoriented and confusing and nauseating. His hands, scratched and weak, tremble as he tries to rise. Drops of ichor fall to the ground.

This is it. He's not gonna make it.

Slumping to the floor, he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of nothing but defeat. He thinks of the people he let down, his mom, his dad, all his people at Beggar's Hole, and he thinks of how the general will never fall because no one will be there to push him. He thinks of Gunnora, Felicia, Fulk, and the kids. He even thinks about Officer Nigel and Muriel and Adallinda.

He thinks of Alistair.

He thinks of Alistair, locked away and forced with the general for the rest of his life. He thinks of Alistair finding no company in anyone ever again but his books, reading those fairy tales and romances and longing for them to be true. He thinks of Alistair: alone, afraid.

He opens his eyes.

****

Those dreaded words leave the priest's mouth.

"Alistair Laurembert, do you take General Thurston Rambugnon III to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

A hush sweeps over the crowd. He can feel them lean forward, he can feel their eyes bore expectantly into him. They're waiting for the cherished 'I do'. The general has already spoken his, and the crowd basked in it like it was a glimpse of heaven. They fawned over it so intensely, those few who had seen his cut have entirely forgotten the offense.

His eyes meet the general's. They both know what he will say. He will give the crowd their 'I do', because it is in his oath. He recalls how Azazel criticized him for ruining his life over a contract. Now, Alistair has no life to ruin.

He opens his mouth. "I—"

"—Do fucking not!"

Appalled cries and gasps rise up from the crowd, everyone turning down the aisle to face the intruder. Before Alistair can catch a glimpse of them, they disappear into the shadows, darting towards him and leaping out to steal him away from the altar.

Another round of outcries erupt, but Alistair is spinning too fast to bother with them. Swept away from the general, wrapped up in a familiar pair of arms, Alistair completely surrenders himself when he is kissed deeply.

****

Yeah, Azazel's sore. Yeah, he's got injuries everywhere. Should he be at a hospital right now? Probably! But right now, none of that matters. His mind is dizzy, but not from pain—from pleasure.

Alistair's in his arms, still unmarried, and is kissing him. His lips are as soft as he remembers, and sweeter than ever. The whole universe seems to disappear, like they're in a world of their own. Even the frightful utterings from the wedding guests don't bother him. It just tells him that word of his death must've gotten around. Death that he escaped just to be right here, right now, kissing Alistair. When he breaks away from the most satisfying kiss in the history of ever, an amused and endeared smile tugs on his face. Alistair is staring up at him, incredibly still, with stars in his eyes.

This glorious haze doesn't last long. He snaps out of it as soon as he sees a purple dust on his hand. He traces it back to Alistair's cheek, where he'd been cupping his face, and sees powdered cosmetics concealing something.

A wound?

Gingerly, Azazel reaches out and brushes his fingers against the injury. Somewhere between fear and anger, he asks, "Did he do this to you?"

Alistair stares at him a moment longer, as if in a trance.

"I, um," he stammers, his hand fluttering up to his own cheek. "Yes, he..."

A loud, booming voice orders, "Azazel, away from my groom."

Azazel releases Alistair, but doesn't move away from him. Instead, he urges Alistair behind him as the general marches toward them.

"Don't call him that," Azazel hisses, venom dripping in his words. "Not after you hit him!"

"I said away, Azazel."

"Don't take another step towards him!"

You really are a constant thorn in my side, do you know this?" The general demands, his gait undeterred. "No matter what I do, I can't quite seem to get rid of you."

The general reaches out as if to grab Alistair. Before he can lay a hand on him, Azazel slashes at his face. He recoils just before being hit, scowling, then swipes an arm out to snatch Azazel's wrist.

Before they explode into another duel right there at the altar, Alistair jumps between them and shouts, "Enough! No more, both of you!"

The only reason Azazel doesn't tear the general apart right now is because Alistair holds him back. General Thurston keeps himself poised, glaring down at him.

"This bastard," Azazel seethes, pointing an accusing finger at the general, "Fucking killed me."

Gasps of disbelief arise from the crowd. Or, maybe it's not disbelief, but indignation. At him. He's not exactly a fan favorite among the rich, especially not the general's wedding guests. His accusation is probably more offensive than shocking to them. One of them stands—Eustace, the pompous swalot who owns the art gallery in town—and skewers him with a look.

"You are nothing but a liar, a thief, and a cuckholder!" Eustace spits, enraged. "The entirety of the general's stay, you have done nothing but disgrace him. And now you want us to believe another one of your lies?"

Loud, angry voices rise up from the crowd like pitchforks and knives. And none of them are coming to his defense.

"It's true," Alistair declares, as if it'll make a difference. The voices only grow louder, with vehement shouts of 'whore'. Alistair tries to speak over them. "I was there, and I witnessed—"

The mob shouts over him, enraged and vicious, like a feral pack of dogs. Their eyes burn with bloodthirst. And if Azazel's not mistaken, they're closing in. Putting an arm in front of Alistair, he pushes him away from the crowd that snarls at them ravenously.

"I—I can attest!"

They all turn to see Pepin flutter nervously up to the altar. His eyes flick anxiously between the crowd, the general, and Azazel, as if any one of them might attack. His feathers tousled and his stance jittery, he states,

"I've worked in the general's estate for a long time, and he has always been secretive, as if he's hiding something. But it wasn't until this morning that I discovered what that is: he ordered the Beggar's Hole Massacre."

Somehow, Pepin's revelation manages to shush the boiling crowd. Perhaps it stuns them into silence from sheer audacity. Or, perhaps, they stop to listen because something inside them knows: the general is a polished apple rotten to the core.

"I overheard him discussing what he did with Master Alistair, after I served them their tea," Pepin continues. He flitters away from Savaric and Grimald when they make a motion to silence him. "He confessed to it all: even to trying to have Azazel killed by a ditto clan. He—he struck Alistair."

It's as if Pepin tied them all up and gagged them. Every mouth is hung open, speechless, and every pair of eyes are wide. To further prove Pepin's point, Alistair wipes the cosmetics off his face and reveals the cut on his cheek. Gasps erupt from the townsfolk, but the wedding guests simply cover their mouths and mutter behind their hands.

Again, it's Eustace who retaliates with a rebuttal. "You are honestly asking us to believe a thief, a whore, and a servant over General Thurston? He's an esteemed war hero and a great service to our nation. He has tenfold the credibility of you all combined!"

It's the townsfolk who seem unfazed by Eustace's words, all climbing on board to condemn the general to justice. But the rich wedding guests, they eat his words up. Bit by bit, they return to their steadfast denial and irritable resentment. Their angry cries for their own justice resume with a fury, calling for Azazel to be executed and Alistair to be disgraced and all sorts of creative forms of torture. But above all that, they're demanding one thing:

"Where's the proof?!"

In terms of hard, concrete evidence, Azazel has nothing. All he has is his word, and that will never be enough for the people who worship the ground the general walks on. Alistair opens his mouth and closes it, floundering, as if scrambling to find something to say. Savaric and Grimald advance on them, slowly, like creatures of prey. Pepin is starting to look like he wished he hadn't said a word.

"There is no proof," General Thurston proclaims, shaking his head. He casts a sorrowful expression on his face, as if hurt and betrayed that anyone would ever utter such detestable things about him. The wedding guests buy into every drop of it. "There is no proof, because it is not true. They only wish to tear me down with lies."

He maintains his downcast facade until he turns to Azazel and Alistair, his back facing the guests. His eyes are dark and his expression is stony. Harsh. Wicked.

"But it will not work," he declares, his eyes alight like a volcano. "This is the end of the road for you two."

Alistair clutches his arm. Azazel looks left and right, searching for a way out. They've been backed up to the cliff's edge and the only way forward is through the general. With the condition he's in, there's no way he could float long enough over the cliff or even shove the general aside.

"As I said, Azazel," the general says, motioning for Savaric and Grimald to seize them, "Away from my groom."

The colonels advance. Azazel stands his ground and braces himself for a fight. He might die for real this time, but he sure as hell isn't going to go down easy.

Before they can even be at an arm's length from him, a voice cuts through the chaos: "I can prove it."

Everyone stops. Everyone holds their breath. Everyone turns, wide-eyed, to face Skystead's resident veteran, dojo master, and innkeeper as he steps up to the altar.

"I can prove it," Fulk says, his eyes determined and grim. "I can prove the general committed the Beggar's Hole Massacre."

Frightful utterances rise up from the audience, regarding Fulk with a mix of reverence and hesitation. Even Eustace is grudgingly slapped into silence. No one can argue with the credibility of a war hero like Fulk.

"You wish to defend something so wholly untrue?" General Thurston demands, narrowing his eyes at Fulk. "I strongly advise you against it. I cannot express how deeply that will affect your reputation. Or your family's."

"You can't intimidate me with that anymore," Fulk argues, barely offering the general a glance. "The military will never keep me from doing what's right. Never again."

Turning to the rows of guests and townsfolk, Fulk announces, "If you're all willing to listen to the truth, I will give it to you right now:

"I was a soldier at the time of the Beggar's Hole Massacre, and I worked directly under General Thurston. I had just achieved the rank of colonel, which I had coveted for so long, but only a month later, I resigned and moved my family here to Skystead. What I had been forced to do under orders was immoral and corrupt, and it urged me out of the military for good.

"I can confirm that General Thurston was at the site of the massacre. I can confirm that General Thurston was responsible for the massacre. Because I was there.

"I was at the Beggar's Hole Massacre when it happened," Fulk declares amidst the scandalized gasps of the crowd, "We had been ordered, by the general, to kill everyone because they were terrorists. But when we got there, I saw they were only people: innocent men, women, and children. I tried to have the attack called off. But the general insisted to see it through, and he did. He killed everyone."

"Both the military and my own shame bound me to silence. There were times when I wanted to reveal everything, but if I did, I knew my family would be targeted. But it's clear that I can't stay silent any longer. The general has done more to hurt my family in this past month than I thought possible. So, I won't be silent anymore. I will do everything in my power to ensure he gets exactly what's coming to him."

"As for proof," Fulk concludes, "He detailed every day of the campaign in a journal. If you find that journal, you will have your proof."

Silence sweeps over the people. They stare, with a hundred, unblinking, beady eyes, as if they're entire world is spinning. Azazel understands that feeling. He's got it right now; no matter what he does, he can't shake the revelation from his head: Fulk was there.

His testimony is compelling. He has a stand-up reputation among the townsfolk, even among the rich wedding guests he catered to for weeks at his inn. They're much less inclined to throw his words in the trash too quickly. Even Eustace seems hesitant to jump to the general's defense at this point.

"This is utterly ridiculous," General Thurston scoffs, too ruffled to bother with his sympathetic disguise. "Will you all believe a disgruntled former subordinate? Will you all believe a thief and my unfaithful lover? All of them have clear motivations to see me torn down."

Apprehensive, uncertain murmuring trickles through the crowd. They don't seem eager to put full faith in the general, but they seem even less eager to put faith in the other side.

"Besides," the general adds, "Even if I had written everything about this massacre I supposedly took part in, my journal is nowhere to be found. Likely, it has been tossed out without me realizing it. There is no physical proof."

The journal?

The journal he stole?

That has the proof?

"I knew that would be a bomb-ass thing to steal!" Azazel exclaims, snapping his fingers excitedly. The townsfolk look at him in surprise. Officer Nigel narrows his eyes, as if adding to his conspiracy billboard in his head. "I mean... if I were a thief. Just a fun little thought experiment. You guys don't ever think about that stuff?"

He's met with nothing but blank stares. Alistair tugs on his arm, directing his attention to him.

"My love, do you know where the journal is?"

He looks around, surveying the wedding flowers that adorn the site. There's dozens of flowerpots, but only one that he cares about. There: the one with the slightly chipped rim. The one he hid the journal in. He races to it, thrusts his hand inside, and pulls it triumphantly out.

Cracking it open, he flies through the pages in search of the date. A little over fifteen years ago, sometime in the spring. As he searches, Alistair, Gunnora, and her family surround him, leaning forward with bated breath to await the verdict.

The writing grows more faded and worn the further back he turns. He can only hope that the writing is not so faint as to be illegible. Whipping past every page, his eyes dart around for any mention of his home or his people.

"There!" Fulk says, pressing a finger firmly to the page.

Aloud, Alistair reads, "Beggar's Hole is a plague on this entire island. The only way for Bloomfield Island to achieve an excellent reputation is for this stain to be wiped out. I will do what must be done: I will destroy that wretched place, and all the people who live there."

Azazel only stares at the words a moment longer before snapping the journal shut. Holding it high above his head, he opens it to the inside cover, revealing the words etched inside for all the crowd to see.

Journal of General Thurston Rambugnon III.

Icy dread seems to trickle down the collective crowd's spines. They all look at each other, silent. Then, they all look at the general. The general looks back.

"Now, now," General Thurston laughs lightly, a hint of anxiety in his tone. Savaric and Grimald look as tense as he sounds. "There is all a very good explanation for this."

The people look back to each other. They don't say a word, they just speak with their eyes. And all their eyes are grim, and all their eyes are angry.

"Who's to say that journal isn't faked?" The general asks, clearly grasping at straws. Savaric and Grimald are already braced to defend. "I wouldn't put it past their wicked schemes—would you?"

Slowly, the crowd turns their dark gazes back to the general. They glower at him with a loathing unlike anything Azazel's ever seen. Probably unlike anything the general's ever seen, either. The general looks around, seeing his pristine, god-like reputation being torn down, with only his villainous colonels by his side. Resolved and steadfast, the mob takes a collective step towards General Thurston.

The general takes an instinctive step back. "Let's discuss this, like civilized people."

Another step forward.

Another step back. "I'm sure if you sat down and listened to me, you'd all understand."

Another step forward.

Another step back, hastily recorrected. The general is on the cliff's edge, a hair's width away from plummeting to the rocky shore below.

He protests, "Surely, my reputation should speak for itself!"

"Your reputation has gone to shit," Azazel states, locking with his gaze. "Just like you."

As if he'd rallied the town with a heart wrenching, moving speech, they all erupt into shouts of vigor and cries for blood. Foregoing the patient prowl of a step-by-step approach, they swarm the general with raving fury. Savaric and Grimald apparently have limits on their loyalty, because as soon as the general is bumped precariously close to the edge, they bolt the scene so that they're not next. Some townsfolk chase after them.

Bellowing and yelling clamor through the crowd, striking the air with pangs of rage and betrayal. Fiery, irate, and livid, the collection of wedding guests and townspeople begin to push and shove the general closer and closer to the cliffside.

Officer Nigel races to the scene, trying to deescalate the situation, but he's too late. They're already overcome with fury, and their eyes already burn with a desire for vengeance. Their god let them down, and they're angry.

The general's back heel is off the edge.

Alistair reaches out to stop the raging mob, but Azazel pulls him back. Holding him close and burying Alistair's face in his neck, he says, "Don't look."

Like a building wave, the crowd looms over the general and strikes down on him. Overwhelmed and alone at the cliffside, the general cries, "I am your general—!"

His foot slips.

It happens fast after that, so fast that Azazel can only hear him scream for an instant and he could barely see who got the final push. But he did see, and even if he's interrogated about it for hours, he'll never spill. He's glad he kept Alistair's eyes off the scene, because he knows Alistair would have to tell the truth about what he saw: and he's pretty sure neither of them want to see Gunnora go down for having the final push.

When Alistair's head shoots back up, he whirls to face the cliffside. Seeing the general gone, he stares at the open sky for a long, long moment, as if he can't process what just happened. Then, weakly, he utters, "It's over."

"It's over," Azazel agrees.

"My contract," Alistair says, turning to Azazel. His eyes are wide and mixed with emotion. "It's over."

He can't help the smile that tugs on his face. "It's over."

A laugh escapes Alistair, like an exhale of relief. A flood of tears slip down his face as if he's been holding them in for years, and he laughs through them. Throwing his arms around Azazel's neck, he presses dozens of butterfly kisses to his face.

It's over. It's all over.

As much as Azazel would love to enjoy being kissed senseless, his head is having a hard time not spinning. The aches and pains from a week of torture are returning to him with a fury, making his brain fuzzy. Also, he's had a weird few hours. Like, he discovered his parents' killer, his own would-be killer, a military cover-up, he died, came back to life, crashed a wedding, discovered Fulk was part of said massacre, and watched the general die. Probably somewhere in the top five for craziest days he's had.

"Babydoll," he says, gently pulling Alistair off him. "I love you so much and I totally want you to keep doing what you're doing, but I think I'm about to pass out."

"What?"

He doesn't get a chance to respond, because he immediately follows through with his prediction.

****

He wakes up.

Sunshine pours through the open window, and a gentle summer breeze caresses the pale yellow curtains. The air is warm and calm. From outside, the melodious, bubbling song of children laughing and running through the streets floats to him. The blankets around him are an odd mix of soft yet scratchy. It's not in anyway uncomfortable, though. It's almost homey.

He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to close his eyes and sink into the pillow and allow the rest of the day to drift by. But there's a smell of fresh baked cookies wafting from downstairs and a taste of the salty ocean in the air that's too good to miss. Sleeping would be nice. But living this moment would be so much better.

As his eyes flutter between sleep and consciousness, he slowly finds the ability to move. He shifts slightly, dull aches and pains with every motion, but they're offset by the plush mattress beneath him. With great effort, he forces himself fully awake.

There's a few things he notices, right off the bat. He's at the inn, which is an odd choice, because he probably should be at the hospital. But his wounds have been dressed and there's medical equipment all around him, so he's clearly gotten the attention he needs. Then, there's the things he notices immediately after, like the ridiculous amount of people in the room.

"Holy shit," he mutters, forcing himself to sit up. Officer Nigel, the librarians, the medics, the merchants, and a dozen more people fill the inn room. Gunnora and her family surround the bed, with Alistair seated by his side. When he stirs, their attention instantly shifts to him. "Wow, guys. Have you just been watching me sleep? Little weird, not gonna lie."

"Thank goodness you are awake," Alistair utters, relieved. He's holding Azazel's hand. "You had me worried sick. I had begun to wonder if you would ever wake."

A grin tugs on his face. "You can't get rid of me that easy, sweetheart."