Montmercy grimaced.  Abhorrently filthy.  This was a far, far dirtier business than had ever been supposed.

    At the bottom of the newly destroyed marble stairwell, the Contra’Vagus finished cleaning unnaturally-hued blood off the sword with a handkerchief.  Smoothly the blade settled into its sheathe with a soft click of steel kissing steel. However, the stain, now soaking into the formerly white square of linen in hand, was nothing compared to the newfound wrongness permeating the soul, numbing the mind.

    Distantly heard were the crackles of flames, echoing bursts of rifle fire, and even – could it be possible?  The growing swell of Montmercy’s Corps d’Noir soldiers cheering!  Eyes closed in silent gratitude. Yet here in this momentarily quiet, dim alcove, hope of closure was nowhere to be found, a satisfactory revenge shockingly spoiled.  Poisonous thoughts snaked through this moment of triumph, blood pulsing with two bone-biting fires.

    Grief.

    Rage.

    Here, at the culmination of two years of civil strife, there should have been some sense of burden eased, of peril abated.  Yet peace for the Kingdom of Duna’Liet felt farther out of reach than it had ever been.  Montmercy’s breathing became too quick, too rapid, too threatening.

    Standing around ruminating only wasted precious time.  Before it became utterly unmanageable, a hard bite on a leather glove pacified, the tension within releasing.  Overwhelming thoughts began to clear.  Resolve renewed.  Immobilizing feelings had to be swiftly obliterated.  But breathing...

    A moment might be spared to recover that.

    Montmercy stooped to pick up a wide-brimmed, felt hat, fallen in the course of battle.  Muscles screamed over this simple act.  Another feeling to ignore.  An easy proxy for personal vexation, the dusty brim was given a thorough beating against the grey thigh of this formerly pristine uniform, before the much abused sun hat was pulled down into its iconic placement over tightly-bound raven hair. Shadow would have to do for now to conceal burgeoning tears and swelling eyes.

    Those, too, needed to be suppressed before anyone might observe at close range.

    Glancing up the serpentine spiral of stairs to take in its ruined grandeur, Montmercy focused on a high landing three flights up. There, ornate wrought-iron and mahogany rail torturously twisted outward into open air.  There, Montmercy and that... that deplorable, truly loathsome, former foe had fallen to certain mutual doom. Yet destruction was only assured for one.  Dry lips were wetted with a slip of considering tongue. It was nothing short of wondrous to be standing here now.  Montmercy glanced down at the fleur-de-lis signet ring made visible through a small rip in the left glove, yellow gemstones winking cheekily even in this poor, smokey light.  

    Miracle or devil-work, to be alive against all odds meant only one thing.