Home is where you are wanted as much as you are needed.

-an old colloquialism, origins unknown

The cold of the night gladly embraced Gaspard as he drifted further from the inferno the palace had become. Even from this distance the pillar of flames cast a shadow in front of him, as the fiery illumination painted his back in orange hues. Gaspard kept the conflagration behind him, and a weather eye ahead of him. His gambit had likely attracted many of the beasts in the city, but Gaspard knew better than to assume he was safe.

Driven by a need for shelter for the night -and by other, unspoken needs- Gaspard made his way to the eastern districts of the city. Gaspard had passed through this area more than once, but never made a detour to his current destination. He had told himself he was simply too busy to preoccupy himself with a pointless visit, but he’d always known that to be a lie. A lie he told himself. Confronting the old world in such a way would only make the contrast with this newer, darker world more painful. A return to the familiar would be a new agony, not a relief.

In spite of those thoughts, a deeper instinct pushed Gaspard towards his home.

Gaspard stopped at the mouth of the street. The ravages of the Mad Moon were sparse here. The celebrations of the Lunar Carnival had been concentrated in the wealthier districts, where money was plentiful, or in the poorest slums, where the population was most concentrated. For those in the middle, those too wealthy to know hunger but too poor to have known plenty, there had been a quiet divergence. Some like Gaspard, sought to leech off the wealthy in their final days of life, while others had sought camaraderie in the masses. Gaspard was unsure if he’d made the right choice.

Refusing to contemplate the past to that extent, Gaspard pushed open the door of his old home. He’d left the door unlocked after leaving for what he’d thought was the last time. In spite of that, his home had seemingly been left untouched. The scars of the hedonistic lifestyle he’d lived in his “last” days alive were found in every room. The ceramics and silverware of gluttonous meals devoured were still left scattered around the kitchen, long picked clean of scraps by the insects. Unwashed clothes laid strewn on every floor.

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Gaspard ignored the mess. Even if he intended to clean it, which he didn’t, he needed to rest. Gaspard passed through the empty hallways and found his bedchambers. Everything in the room was gathering dust. Gaspard had spent very few of the nights preceding the Mad Moon here, having no reason to return.

Sleeping in his armor had been a custom for Gaspard for quite some time. It ensured he was never caught entirely unprotected should something choose to go bump in the night. In spite of that need for safety, Gaspard peeled the armor away. Flakes of crusted blood fell away from the buckles as he unlatched them. The room began to stink of sweat, but even that was a welcome relief from the smell of decay. Gaspard stripped down to his underclothes, locked the door behind him, and for the first time in an age, laid down in his own bed. The stiff sheets closed around him in a loose embrace, and Gaspard found his way to a fitful sleep.

The sun rose, and Gaspard rose with it. He began the day with water. Buckets drawn from a well provided enough clean water to wash his armor, and Gaspard himself, scrubbing away the caked on blood and filth. The armor did not shine, and most likely never would again, but it was free of grime for the time being. Gaspard set the armor and weapons aside to dry and stepped into the street.

The ever present towers of the palace had partially crumbled, and what remained was now a dull ashen black instead of their previous polished white. The flames had died down, but smoke rose from the ashen towers, indicating that there were still plenty of burning embers. It would likely be days before the last spark truly died. Gaspard nodded in approval and retrieved his belongings.

His work was nearly done. Only one of the seven liars remained. Gaspard buckled on his armor and checked the edge of his sword. Here at the end, the urgency of his vendetta seemed even greater.

The hollow home, the quiet neighborhood, were all reminders of the consequences of their deception. Had the king and his cohorts told the truth, there might have been a sense of community at the end of it all. People given enough time to face their fears and settle their differences could have come together, and faced the end with some dignity. Instead, they’d been sped through a mad rush of panicked hedonism, and thousands had died clinging to fear and desperation.

Gaspard looked back at his home. For a moment, he considered burning it as well, leaving it truly in the ashes of the past. Ultimately, he decided against it. The building had done no harm. It was simply hollow, and would remain that way.

With his hand on his sword, Gaspard set out. He could not consider the past settled. Not yet. The philosopher was unaccounted for. Gaspard had one thing left to settle, and after that -the question the madman had forced Gaspard to ponder- Gaspard still didn’t know. He knew of only one way to find out.