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Silence Precedes Violence

---

“Papers," the unshaven border agent stated with indifference as I reached into my coat for the fake documents. Our train had pulled into the station at the Janvelt-Oslost border right around late morning, but it was clear that the crossing and customs formalities would last until midday. Novka looked particularly stressed; although, despite all that had occurred, we were making good time.

Immediately after the cars had halted at the platform, people started disembarking. Before long, we were thrust into the crowded, confusing mass of civilians and refugees, walking along the wooden platform, under the awning, trying to find our way amid the shouts of officials who tried to direct the living traffic with mixed results.

“All passengers, please proceed to the left side of the platform," a brown-uniformed human lieutenant shouted from atop a bench, his legs spread in a commanding pose. Slowly, the crowd migrated towards the end of the platform, and we were caried helplessly along with the tide. There were some wooden buildings around the station, from what I could see, but we appeared to be located in a very-remote area, with coniferous trees and evergreenery all around us. By that point, I was extremely tired – sleep had only found me for a moment while on the train from Yestloblast, and I had spent the majority of the ride in the misery that one feels when they are tired yet cannot find any conceivable posture that would provide them with decent rest. Not to mention that my mind was burdened with bad thoughts. Continually battling my exhaustion, I eagerly glanced around the platform, standing as tall as possible to garner a better view as I frantically searched for a glimpse of light blue, or the brown of the coat that Larissa had been wearing when I last saw her.

Instead, all I saw were hundreds of heads bundled with fabric or covered with hats, the condensation of exhaled breath escaping from the crowd here and there and rising into the air, creating a sort of punctuated mist above the heads of everybody on the platform. Despite my searching efforts, I did not see her anywhere. I felt the need to search for her, to investigate the crowd as much as I possibly could, but I had come to terms by that point with the fact that our task was what mattered – I had pledged myself to this job, after all, and with so much money on the line and others counting on me, I realized that I should assess my priorities and learn to get distracted less. Deciding not to risk testing anyone's trust further, I simply stuck with the group as we made our way through the crowd, though I was not at peace with my decision. Still, I somehow managed to push all intrusive thoughts from my mind and focus on the present moment as much as possible.

That wasn't too difficult, of course, given my tiredness. In fact, I found myself zoning out quite often as a result of it. I walked slowly with the crowd, my hands in my pockets, my coat fastened. Novka had begun telling us something regarding…Something, but I wasn't comprehending any of it. The day still had that sense of early-morning cold, despite being much later, and the air was crisp and frigid. Somehow the scene was remarkably calm – whether it was due to exhaustion or a sense of collective relief, few words were spoken. There was very little disturbance upon the platform, save the officers shouting directions every now and then. All was oddly orderly, as if all of these people upon the platform were simply part of the rank-and-file commuter crowd taking the late-morning train from outer to inner Henlot…I was zoning out again.

We were funneled onto a wooden pathway that led to the station building, and – slowly, as the line progressed – eventually found ourselves inside the low structure. It was all made of wood, with polished benches and tables here and there throughout the wide room for sitting or working. But aside from this, all of the furniture had apparently been removed from the place, and what had once been the ticket sellers' offices today served as cubicles for the border-crossing officials. Now standing before the glass, the brown-capped official giving me an indifferent stare, I handed over my papers.

I had long been under the assumption that the procedure in the Northern Territories was the same as that in Vishryad, when I had served there: namely, that anyone without their papers, refugee or not, would be sent back and not be allowed to cross. The thought was enough to provoke mild unease. To calm myself, I mentally repeated the fact that we were at an exit checkpoint – not an entrance. The chances were less likely that anyone would care about people leaving through the border rather than coming in. But then again, the North Army was desperate for soldiers, so theoretically keeping anyone within their territory would have been statistically advantageous.

I shouldn't have worried, though, because the border agent glanced at my papers for but a few seconds before sliding it back under the glass and nodding that I was all clear. Too tired to return the gesture, I grabbed my papers and walked off to the side of the room, down the row of cubicles, through the gap between the people exchanging papers with the customs officials and the next-in-line, until I had reached the side exit door.

Stepping out once again into the cold morning, I found myself on a wider wooden platform, this one without an awning, with some benches built into the floor here and there. Evidently this place was an odd sort of empty zone between the two countries…Not that there was anywhere else to go, of course: to either side, high fences of metal wire barred off exit of the platform, ensuring that the only way out was either back into Janvelt or forward, to Oslost. Perhaps this place had once been intended as a regular commuter border stop: it had no signs of being built for the large crowds that it had currently been adapted to handle, not to mention that it still appeared to be located in a fairly-remote location, with some empty fields now visible past the fences, dotted here and there by copses of trees in the distance. Yet, the war had raged, and the people poured out, so it had to be adapted. The sun had broken through the clouds by that point, and the morning peaked with beauty. I probably would have appreciated the moment more had I not been so exhausted.

Wandering further onto the platform and gazing around at the few others who lingered there, I reached into my coat and removed my cigarette case, searching for my lighter with my other hand. It was an odd feeling: being so far up North, so soon after just having arrived in Ervef only a week prior. Yet that felt like forever ago. I was having some trouble with my lighter, fumbling with it and trying to ignite it several times before I heard Forticay's voice right next to me.

“I've got it," he affirmed as he held another lighter up to my face. I leaned back for a moment and then registered the situation, squinting and letting him ignite my cigarette. He put the lighter away and thrust his hands back into his pockets.

“I didn't know you smoked," I muttered, actually not at all in the mood to make small talk, and far too tired to want to utter as much as a single word, but Forticay seemed in a mildly good mood, so there was probably no hope of dodging a conversation.

“I don't usually," he replied. “I mean, I'll have the occasional cigar from time to time, but I'm too afraid of getting addicted."

“Huh," I grunted, finding that statement a bit ironic, considering his drinking habits: I didn't think I had ever seen him drink without him at least getting near-drunk.

“But it's still nice to enjoy it from time to time," he continued his sentence after a long pause, clearing his throat, probably detecting that I wanted nothing to do with the present conversation and feeling awkward. Yet he went on, anyway. “Think we'll get through that line, over there?" He nodded in the direction of the refugee cue, where a few dozen people stood under a low awning against the wall of the building just in front of us, bundled up tightly, their hats pulled low over their faces, their hands in their pockets. I inhaled again and let out a large exhale, watching the smoke leave my mouth in a linear stream – the morning remained remarkably still, and I felt absolutely awful, unkempt, and just purely exhausted, the bright, sunny weather being the final punch in the face to make the situation all the more miserable.

“We have tickets," I finally reminded after my lengthy indulgence of the cigarette. “We can take the commuter train."

“Right," Forticay nodded, clearly slightly embarrassed at having failed to remember that distinction. We stood there awkwardly for a few moments longer, me completely uncaring and indifferent and Forticay evidently feeling pretty awkward, his attempts to get the conversation off the ground having failed.

“What is taking them so long," he finally muttered, with yet another attempt at small talk. “Do you think that maybe something was wrong with their papers? Back in Austlotz we had to correct the-"

“Forticay, I'm sorry, but I don't have the energy right now," I interrupted abruptly. He stopped.

“Oh, sorry," he apologized, evidently slightly taken aback. He was starting to aggravate me, though I knew it was probably unjustified for me to act so rudely towards him. What was he doing here, anyway? He had absolutely no business being in this line of work. He was more caring and sympathetic than anyone else in the field whom I had met. He didn't belong here, clearly. How had he even made it this far?

I gazed around, watching the few other people who walked across the wide platform, some of them in small groups and some of them alone or in pairs. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a blue tail that swiftly flashed into view behind a tall figure in a dark-brown coat. I was awake with excitement for a second before I realized that it was actually grey, and that the light from the sun had merely given the illusion that it was blue. The lizardfolk man was followed by a woman and a young girl, with the same color scales, the latter of which he turned to, kneeling down to grab her under the arms and hoisting her onto his shoulders, where she sat politely, as if admiring all of her surroundings. I sighed and let out another long exhale.

“Listen, I shouldn't have snapped, that's my bad," I suddenly apologized to Forticay.

“Hm, what?" He replied, evidently also having been lost in thought. “Oh, no worries. If you're tired, you're tired," he shrugged. I sighed, letting my burnt-out cigarette fall to the ground and grabbing another one from my case. Forticay offered me his lighter again, and I tried it several times, feeling pangs of frustration at each failed attempt, the lighter producing only an empty, metallic clicking sound and a small spark. My hands were shaking. I finally dropped it, and it fell between the cracks in the wooden boards.

“Shit," I muttered, sighing. I let the cigarette fall from my mouth and shoved my hands into my pockets, my eyes suddenly tearing for some reason as I gazed out again at the horizon, over the peaceful, picturesque fields.

---

The train arrived in Lester Central Station by late afternoon. I had slept the whole ride. The day was still cold, but was now dim and noticeably windy. It honestly made sense given that we were currently in the second Northernmost capital in all of Vaymansphere, even if it was located in the Southern part of the country. My first impression of Lester was that this place was massive, and developed. Before the train had even arrived at the station, we spent nearly twenty minutes cruising through the industrial sector, most of which was at a standstill, many of its factories having been forced to temporarily shut down as a result of all trade with the Federated countries further south having long ago been cut off as consequence of Henlot's decision to close the border.

The city center, contrary to the grey, depressing, inactive industry zone, was alive and thriving. The day was cloudy, with a few light flurries of snow falling to the ground. Patches of ice embedded themselves in the cobblestone of the wide square, threatening to trip any of the many people who flocked about the large plaza in front of the train station. Here, at least, was a city that was not at war, and though the effects of the war were surely felt here, for the most part, normal life continued on. All around were men and women of seemingly every walk of life, clad in black, grey, and brown overcoats, top hats, billycock hats, and warm mariner's caps, walking with canes or carrying newspapers under their arms. Some walked swiftly, as if running late for something; others strolled more casually, their hands in their pockets; others still walked with children by the hand…Most of these people were human, which made sense, once again, given how far North-East the country was, but there were still quite a few members of other species around.

The buildings themselves that composed the city were, here, all at least five or six stories in height, those near the train station having tall, vertical windows upon each floor, with large entrances and doorways. Most of them were stone, concrete, brick…Plain colors but with highly-decorated facades. Most of them looked to be official buildings of low or non-government status: banks, money exchange offices, printing offices, and so forth. There was one building, however, that did have the large, blue flag of Oslost flying over it, the emblem of a highly-decorated and detailed crown in white in its center. It was a regal-looking establishment, directly across from the train station on the other side of the square, which – just as with the station – had several steps that had to be climbed before one could reach the wide platform with the large stone columns that stood before the front doors. This was clearly a more-important government structure.

Standing there, on the platform, shouting loud and with purpose, stood a tall, blond, clean-shaven man, whose facial features were remarkably thin and pale. He wore a long black overcoat, unbuttoned, the tail flaps whipping in the wind behind him, under which was, evidently, another, smaller grey coat which was buttoned over his vest. Gathered around him – close, but not too close – stood other individuals who were clearly government officials or assistants who did not compare to this man's status. There was even a royal guard standing by: a fox in his cobalt-blue uniform and peaked guard's cap, a rifle rested firmly against his shoulder as he stared out blankly into the distance. A considerable crowd had gathered to hear the pale, shouting man as he made dramatic motions through the air with his right hand, smoothly and purposely, with a sense of honor and regality, as he supported himself with a polished black cane in his left, which he clenched firmly. Because the others were all debating where to go, in the center of the square – and because I neither had any opinion on what we did next and felt that securing the tickets that had gotten us this far gave me a little bit of leeway with Novka, I walked towards the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man and what he was saying.

“The people of Henlot, and Ressex, claim to fight a cause for justice, in defense of their territory," the man was saying, sternly and loudly but in a proper tone. All around me were the flat tops of black and grey top hats and caps, and the round surfaces of plain billycock hats, bobbing, turning, and swaying with the movements of their wearers. “And yet, their actions of 'justice' and 'peacekeeping' have only isolated us and the other North-Eastern states who chose to remain neutral." Was this fear mongering, a call to unity, anti-immigration rhetoric...All three?...I wasn't sure yet. I continued to listen, curious. “Every day, for the past decade, the war drags on, and on, and on, as our economy sinks lower and lower, isolated by the cruel practices of our Southern neighbors." Some murmurs of agreement went up among the crowd – still, others were silent, merely watching the speech with blank, straight faces.

“I have seen too many of our industries fail," the man continued, taking a step towards the crowd, his company standing politely behind him, their hands clasped in front of them or behind their backs, or else thrust into their coat pockets. “Too many people put out of work, too many children who can no longer afford school…All due to the unjust actions of the Federation in their unholy war against their Northern neighbors who, I might add, had only attacked them on reasonable suspicion that their economic interests were indeed being threatened." Already, I presumed that this man was representative of some unfortunate turn of politics that had recently occurred in Oslost. “They say that they never wanted any of this – that their soldiers are dying every day on the front lines, but meanwhile, our families are starving in their own homes!" Some more murmurs went up.

“Bloody exaggeration," a man next to me muttered. I turned to see that he was a short, proper-looking gentleman, dressed in black, with a billycock hat and oval-shaped spectacles. He was probably in his fifties or sixties, judging by his salt-and-pepper colored beard, which extended down to his upper chest. He held a leather bag under one arm firmly. I looked back to the speaker.

“The Federation still refuses to acknowledge our suffering," he continued, staggering backward as if for dramatic effect. “They have offered us only pitiful opportunities for negotiation, and the King of Henlot refuses to even admit that our troubles are legitimate. If this war must be fought, then fine, fight it – but not at the cost of those who don't even wish to partake in such bloody struggles." More murmurs of agreement, accompanied by some reaffirming shouts. “The Northern Territories are a controversial matter, indeed – it is well known how they treat their populace, and form their unequal society. But are we, as neutral nations, who want no part of this ideological war – which, I remind you, is only being fought on the basis of economic interests – forbidden from endorsing the option that best-suits our economic and opportunistic desires? That is why the motion to wage war against the Federation on the side of our Western neighbors must prevail. The Federation will regret their dismissal of the dire circumstances facing our country, and our allies, once we are fighting them on the front lines!..." The man continued to talk on.

“Idiots…" The man next to me murmured.

“Who's he," I asked him. He looked at me, seemed to judge that I was new here, and sighed.

“Our fire-and-brimstone prime minister, Mr. Wilmfort," he replied. “Just elected yesterday, in the parliamentary rounds. You're new here?" I didn't respond right away, debating what I should tell him.

“Refugee, from the West."

“Ah," he nodded. “So you're more than familiar with this rhetoric." He paused. “Don't misinterpret me – the Federation is a flawed organization that has made some terrible mistakes in the past and continues to ignore its own faults," he continued, as we walked away from the crowd together. I could see that he, too, had a cane, which made a clicking sound each time it came into contact with the smooth, hard stone of the street. “But there is still a clear worse side in this war, and our new politicians want to support it, as well as an alarming amount of Oslost's population."

“So you're not for the war?"

“Me? No. God, no," the man scoffed with a chuckle, as if finding both humor and distress in the fact that I would even associate him with such an idea. “I've had the privilege of seeing peace in Oslost for all of my life, save that quick civil war in Brooksberg that we helped to end."

“I see…" I muttered.

“What did you say your name was?"

“Uh, Tovef Halfe," I answered – I didn't see any reason to hide that. “And you are?"

“Johannes Stein," he replied. “I work at Bett and Birkley Printing Company," he affirmed, slapping the bottom of the leather bag that he held with his hand. “Was just on my way to deliver some books to a distributor when I walked into this nonsense." He lifted his cane a little and pointed it at the crowd that still gathered before the prime minister. “…It seems that we're on our way to war faster than anyone could have expected."

“I'd imagine the Duke is happy with that," I shrugged, recalling Hawthorne's speech concerning the Duke of Oslost's political malice.

“What?" The man turned to me, clearly thrown off.

“The Duke – Sir. Kilmerland," I clarified, as if it should be obvious.

“Kimerland?..." The man muttered, confused. “You must not be familiar with our politics," he finally stated. “The Duke is perhaps the only person standing in the way of Oslost's allegiance with the Northern Territories."

“What?" That was not what I would have expected, the way Hawthorne had painted him back in Ervef.

“He hates our new prime minister – always has hated him."

“But- I was under the impression that Kilmerland wanted to go to war."

“My gosh, no!" The man almost laughed. “Kimberland has been trying to cool down the mounting political situation here for years. He wants nothing but peace. He's even tried to offer to facilitate peace talks." I was confused – this contradicted everything that Hawthorne implied…Although, come to think of it, I had frankly jumped to those conclusions on my own. But either way, he had not painted a pleasant picture of the Duke. “His new prime minister, on the other hand," the man continued. “Is not so interested in preventing military intervention in favor of the wrong side." I wanted to ask more, but I heard Forticay calling me over.

“Tovef! Come on." I turned to see him waving, standing by the rest of the group who were now standing and looking around silently, seeming to have made up their minds on what to do and where to go.

“I have to go," I stated.

“Well, it was nice meeting you," the man nodded with a slight bow. “And I hope you find fortune in Lester," he shouted as I walked off. I rejoined my party, and we made our way to the end of the square…

---

The evening was cold – particularly cold. Fat, puffy snowflakes fell from the sky slowly, sparse and dispersed, melting on the ground and rendering the grey, stone pathway slippery and shiny, reflecting the light from the lamps along the street that were widely spread out. In the distance, the harmonic choir of a religious procession echoed throughout the city, its dramatic fluctuations of pitch creating a tone fit for the winter and, frankly, creating a nostalgic sense of warmth within me. But it was far off. I stood outside, alone, just off the doorstep of the tall wooden structure where we had decided to stay.

It was a cheap, claustrophobic, and rotting place, but it was near enough to the city center – as well as the government palaces and state offices – to justify it as a reasonable place to sleep. We did, after all, have a job to do in two days, and it would be easier being close to where we would carry out our…Orders. I was feeling nervous, anxious…I still had no idea what my whole role in this would be. We were still formulating a plan, and had discussed it in greater detail after arriving in the cramped room that we had rented: I would probably be instrumental, as the sharpshooter of the group, but there was no guarantee that we would take such a direct course of action, either. Whatever the decision was, it seemed that Novka, along with Martin, unsurprisingly, seemed to have taken charge – I didn't mind. I supposed that they technically were officially the ones who had orchestrated most of everything until now, to begin with, so it was only fair. They were still pretty keen on hearing input from the rest of us, however, which I was at least thankful for.

But even then, I wasn't really sure what we would ultimately decide to do. We had one day to figure out everything. Where is the duke? What does he even look like? Does he ever show his face in the city? If so, where? What places does he frequent regularly? Does he have many guards with him? How many?...We were trying to compile the answers to questions that should have been resolved weeks before something of this magnitude, yet we were striving to do it instead in a single day, and we hadn't even started (aside from the fact that Vage had left on a walk around the city to determine what streets would be favorable to us if we wanted to remain undetected, not that our hotel was located on a particularly crowded street, anyway – it was pretty out of the way). The next day, we were to fan out, explore, garner what information we could…I was to go to the Scientific Convention grounds at Royal Park. We certainly had a short-notice job, but one that would have a good pay-off if we were successful, at least.

I was anxious – I could tell that the others were, at little, too. Not all of them showed it, but it was evident just from the atmosphere of things. I continued to stand alone. The night was calm, quiet, still. Not a single other person roamed under the deep-blue sky that stretched above the black shadowy buildings silhouetted against it, towering over me as if wanting to consume me. No one else roamed the street. The snow fell and melted. I was completely alone. If ever there was a calm before the storm, this was it. Silence precedes violence. Smoke from my cigarette floated elegantly into the air, and white snowflakes fell…

Was I really about to commit a murder? I really hadn't reserved much thought for it until then, but now I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had killed maybe even dozens in the infantry: but those were different. Those were state murders. Those were people who died in loud, chaotic, indescribable circumstances whose faces I'll probably never know, and who would have surely killed me if I had not eliminated them first. Besides, those deaths I never thought about – I shuddered away from them with the reasoning that I had a military obligation to do what I did. But this was different: I could not hide behind the cause of whatever I was fighting for, or the orders of an officer. This was my choice.

Sure, I had done some…Questionable things for Tiko, for his cargo hijack. But did those actually count?...I guess they did, actually. Hm. I hadn't considered that before. I swallowed. I began reaching for the bottle of pills before my stomach could even begin to hurt, tossing one of the few remaining tablets into my mouth before I could feel the first tiny sign of pain.

Even if what I had done before did count, this was still a world apart from that: this was the death – the murder – of a top state official. Regardless of whether we were met with failure or success, or if we were caught or not, the event would surely have massive implications for the whole country; for the whole region, perhaps. My mind wandered to the hateful thoughts of those bastards in the seat of power whose inability to compromise with one another and whose deafness to the pleas of the people for equality had basically started this whole mess. I hated them. I silently swore at them all the time, although more and more I managed to repress all thought of them. Now it all came flooding back. But what if I was one of those people? What if the duke was actually a decent one, and by killing him…

But, on the other hand, that wouldn't change anything. It's all the same conflict. It won't matter if there's peace tomorrow: before long, somebody new will be guttering and choking in the mud as sprinting boots slap against the ground all around them, not giving them a moment's notice. Nothing I could do would ever change anything, for better or worse. So why even worry about it?

I sighed and let my burnt cigarette butt fall onto the wet brick of the street. Grabbing my case to ignite another one, I glanced down the dark road, feeling the light sensation of the pistol in my coat pocket pressed against my ribcage. I swallowed, pushing my thoughts away again. I told myself not to worry about the job – just do what you're told and everything will be fine. Besides, there was a lot of money in it for me.

But then another thought occurred to me: what if I just walked away? Right now. Didn't look back…Would anything really happen? If nothing changed, could that actually be a good thing? I gazed down the street again as I placed my almost-dead lighter back into my pocket, watching the lamps in the distance glow through the curtain of tobacco smoke. The student village. I wanted in that moment to just start walking, down the street – not with any ceremony or significance. Just to start walking, and keep going until I got there.

I realized that I could be dead in two days; that I had no idea what I was walking into; that anything could go wrong…But if I just left – just started walking down this street – no one would come looking for me; no one would come after me. They could try, perhaps, but they would give up. I wasn't that crucial to the objective. I could just leave. I had thought that I traded away any freedom that I had for the next few weeks back on that cold morning in Ervef, and that had given me peace of mind; but in reality, I had never lost any of it…I could still do anything I wanted. That always bothered me. Only now, it wasn't because I felt constantly bad for making the choices that I continued to make, but because of the possibility that I could make…A good choice. For myself. A genuinely-good choice. What good could come out of what I was doing now, anyway? Could this whole plan of ours actually result in any good for anybody but ourselves, and our well-to-do client? But if I just left…I could just…I could just leave it all behind.

I swallowed as the sound of a man singing gently pressed its way through the air. I looked down the street to see a wolf with black fur in a long brown coat stumbling and swaying drunkenly over the brick. He was singing loudly, in some language that I only knew a little of – East Loridian, perhaps? He clearly wasn't a native speaker, given his mispronunciation of so many of the words, as well as his accent. As he drew nearer, I could see that his coat was tattered, with patches sewn on here and there. His fur was ruffled and matted in places, and his tail hung limp behind him. I tried to stand inconspicuously – perhaps the drunkard would pass me by. But unfortunately, while creating particular emphasis on a line in his song, he swung his head around and caught a glimpse of me. I tried to avert my gaze, but his unsteady, unfocusing, vibrant eyes caught mine.

“Sorry, mate, you have the time?" He asked loudly and obnoxiously as he hobbled over, tripping and falling onto me. His large ears brushed against my face as I recovered from the surprise. I pushed him back to his feet by the upper arms and he placed his paw-like hand on my shoulder to steady himself.

“Easy mate, easy," I cautioned, the cigarette falling out of my mouth, bouncing off of the man's coat and onto the ground. “Where are you headed?"

“I'm looking for Chelmer's Street? Er…Yeah," he muttered. “This is it, right?" I looked around.

“I have no idea what street we're on," I admitted with a quick shake of the head, but the man reacted as if he hadn't even heard me.

“Do you know what time is it?" He said again, mixing up his words as he slouched onto me again.

“I have no idea, sorry," I replied as I lifted the man back to his feet before he could sink all the way to the ground. “Do you have a home?" I asked, trying to get to the point so that I could get this guy out of my life as soon as possible. He opened his mouth wide to speak, revealing his stained, sharp teeth, and pressed a paw to my chest as he leaned forward.

“I'm living at…" He trailed off, and let his head sink against my shoulder.

“What? Where?" I asked, shaking him slightly. He shot awake and lifted his head again, continuing as if nothing had happened.

“I'm living at, uh…Len- Uh…Les…With Cedric," he affirmed in a dozy, unfocused tone.

“What?" I almost scoffed, not at all sure how to interpret his senseless mutterings.

“What do you mean what?" The man chuckled, throwing his head back with his outstretched paw still on my shoulder, nearly pulling me from the wall. I grabbed his coat and pulled him closer to prevent us both from falling. “I just told you," he laughed, and then sighed, muttering something, and let himself sink lower to the ground until he was practically on his knees, hie eyes half-closed. I started to become even more uncomfortable.

“Where did you say you lived?" I asked again, but the man once more threw his head back, leaning backward on his knees, pulling me down as he gazed into the sky, at the snow.

“Ah, the stars are alive," he shouted with apparent delight, and closed his eyes again and let himself sink backward onto the cobblestone. His grip loosened and he let go of my coat, his arm falling to the ground. I stood there for a few moments, looking at the unconscious drunkard on the street: he wore a tattered dress shirt with blue, vertical stripes under his unbuttoned brown coat, and had on dark, canvass-green pants. He had fallen asleep in a particularly drunk-like position, as well, with both of his legs bent under his body and sticking out a little, forcing his back to be arched slightly as his torso pushed out to the side.

Idiot, I muttered in my head, and put a gloved hand against the wall by the door to the hotel, hoisting myself up the front step. I was about to walk inside when I looked back at the unconscious man: he was just lying there, asleep, on the ground, with snow descending gently on top of him. I wanted to just walk away – I was still tired, and felt remarkably under the weather at that moment. But I knew that if I left this man here he would probably freeze to death and would only be found the next day by the early-morning cleaning patrols. I sighed, stepping away from the door and letting my hand slide from the knob.

“Come on," I grunted, grabbing him by the front of his coat and lifting him high enough to place my arms under his, hoisting him to his feet. He did not respond at first, his head still thrown back, and I nearly dropped him to the ground before he finally seemed to register what was going on and allow himself to stand.

“Oh, what?...Thanks, mate," he muttered tiredly.

“All right, let's go," I muttered, as I grabbed his arm and pulled it around my shoulder, nearly knocking my ushanka from my head. I placed my other arm around his waist, and held him as close as I possibly could to prevent him from tripping or falling over – something he almost did many times.

“What's going on?" He mumbled tiredly as we walked down the cold, quiet street.

“We're headed somewhere else," I replied, scanning the sides of the street in the distance for any sign of a bar or late-night tavern. The man didn't even ask where we were going.

“What's your name?" He finally said after a while, with a touch of curiosity. I hesitated at first for some reason – I just couldn't answer him right away. This man was drunk as hell – as in, absolutely, completely, hopelessly intoxicated. Frankly, even if I got him to somewhere warm, it wouldn't be a total shock if he later died from alcohol poisoning or something of the sort. Either way, he would remember nothing of tonight. I swallowed. Was I really about to say what I was thinking?

“Adrik," I finally conceded. A wave of a mix of relief and regret washed over me.

“Oh, Adrik, I'm Evgraf," he replied enthusiastically, making me suddenly regret telling him my name. I pushed the thoughts away. “What are you doing all…All the way…" He couldn't finish his sentence.

“I'm new here," I answered abruptly, still scanning the street for a tavern.

“Oh, I see," Evgraf chuckled excitedly. “What brings you?"

“Work," I replied.

“Wha- What work?"

“Important work."

“Ah…" He suddenly grunted. “You sho… You shouldn't work your whole life. You'll end up regretting it later on."

“With all due respect," I began, readjusting my grip around Evgraf's waist. “I don't think you're in the position to be giving advice." He went silent, and seemed to think on this for a moment before his face suddenly lit up and he chuckled.

“Hehe, that is clever," he nodded lazily with a wide grin. “But I suppose you're right…I was supposed to make the deliveries this evening, shit!"

“It's fine, they'll forgive you," I stated, indifferent.

“Noahr," Evgraf let out some indiscernible moan. “You know I…" He sighed, and then tried again. “I worked for the- Uh…Guards," he finally finished after some difficulty. “And we…We…We, had to look, meticulous," he sighed, his legs buckling from under him. I yanked him back to his feet before he could pull me down, as well, and looked around the street for anyone who could help me, but aside from one shadowy figure in the distance walking in the same direction as us, it was empty. “If a button was out of place, they'd…" Evgraf tried to continue. “They'd…Uh…You get the idea…"

“Sure," I grunted, just trying to focus on keeping him upright.

“Anyway, don…Don't ever work for those sorts- For these sorts of people," he ended. “They'll never help you when…When…When you're not important."

“There's no way you were in the guards," I eventually muttered, trudging along: I finally spotted what looked like it could be the hanging sign of a tavern just ahead.

“You hav- You have…Take these things as they arrive," Evgraf continued. His legs buckled again.

“Come on, Evgraf," I urged, hoisting him to his feet again. “We're almost there."

“Jus…Don't forget to do the things that are important to you, a?" He grunted as his head rolled forward, and I was worried that he would double over and fall right onto his face, but he kept himself standing and we walked on.

“Almost there, mate," I said again, I now could clearly see that it was, in fact, a sign for a tavern: Boris and Miller's, according to the colorful board, with a painted beer mug – overflowing with white foam – underneath. It was illuminated only by a nearby streetlight.

“Have you ever found anything…Anything that made you happy, mate?" Evgraf suddenly blurted out tiredly, barely able to keep his eyes open. I swallowed.

“Uh…Yes," I admitted rather sheepishly.

“Ah, good for you," Evgraf muttered happily. “Not often that happens." I was silent.

“…No," I acknowledged.

“Hey, thank you fer…Uh…Help," he muttered, slurring his speech more.

“No problem."

“Seriously, though…It's good to help…It's good to help, people who need it." I paused. We were a few steps away from the door, but I stood still. I wasn't sure why I didn't just walk the three extra steps to the door and drop the man off. But for some reason, I felt like there was more to be said. I wasn't entirely sure: it was almost like I found something comforting about the whole situation that I didn't want to leave behind. Evgraf realized that we had stopped walking and lifted his head up.

“What?" He turned towards me drowsily, his nose at the end of his long snout almost grazing me on the side of the cheek. “Did you find what you're looking for?" He mumbled lazily. I was silent for a few moments, staring, not at Evgraf, but off into space, past the tavern.

“I think so, maybe," I finally replied.

“What? That makes…No sense," Evgraf chuckled. “What do you mean you think so? Hehe." I thought for a few moments more.

“Then yes."

“Uh…Yes what?"

“Yes I found what I've been looking for."

“A…" He smiled again, a wide grin stretching across his face. “That's great! Let's go in." And, unprompted, he led the way into the tavern. I grabbed him by the coat before he could trip and fall, and the two of us burst through the door into the warm room.

Inside, it was completely empty, with some scattered tables and chairs lying about beneath the soft yellow glow of the lanterns that hung from the low rafters. The older, fox-like bartender turned from whatever he was doing as we entered and gazed at us with a mix of content and reluctance. I half placed, half dropped Evgraf into the first chair I saw, where he let his legs sprawl out in front of him and his arms hang limp to either side, his head rolling back and his mouth open to the point that it resembled a wide grin, but he was totally unconscious.

“Keep an eye on him," I stated to the bartender as I pulled two salir from my coat and tossed them onto the counter. “And give him some water." The bartender said nothing, and I left before he could. Entering the cold, still evening that night, dusted with snow, and shoving my hands into my pockets, I trudged back down the street, my boots thumping against the wet stone bricks. I sighed, walking on silently, enveloped by the frigid, quiet evening. Not a sound rang out through the air – the distant choir had long since ceased. I was alone. Truly, entirely, alone.