Their depleted group continued back towards Anchor. Thomas' mind had revisited the fight multiple times over the course of the last two days. He'd killed people, and he still wasn't entirely sure why. He had hesitated to broach the question, hesitated to criticize Anne's decision, but the nagging doubts had only gotten worse. “I don't understand why Anne attacked them.” Norris looked to Thomas, eyes narrowing slightly at the question, considering it for a long moment before replying.

“Two reasons, Thomas. We were told before setting out that others would be arriving after us. They didn't.”

“Arriving … at the cave? That doesn't prove anything.”

“The Gray Guard doesn't leave Anchor, much less stray so far.” Norris frowned, then. “And they certainly don't form military patrols. They don't – didn't – have the numbers for that. Nor are their dedications well-suited to such activities; they have dedicated themselves to fighting people, not the things that live where people do not. Something has happened.”

“Why didn't we talk to them?”

“Thomas, Anne has … Anne had dedications that would have told her something of their actions over the last week; when you hunt a beast that has been destroying a farmer's fields, you want to know that you have killed the animal doing so before you come back. If she fired first, I trust that.” Thomas hesitated, on the brink of speaking again, when the notion of that sank in. Oh. “And second – they were pursuing Arias.” His jaw clenched. “Away from witnesses, away from their charter.”

Norris had not taken over leadership of their group, which Thomas had expected. Neither had John, or Arias. It was, to his surprise, Madelaine who had, with a youthful confidence, declared that they would continue on back to Anchor. Nobody had argued, and she'd situated herself into giving orders, which largely amounted to telling everyone to continue to do what they had been doing before.

They traveled. Colors appeared on the horizon, over a hill, and then the spindly towers into the air, intermixed with darker clouds spreading out over the horizon, a distant stormfront. The air itself began to turn a faint orangish-yellow, an astringent smell, almost lemon-like, becoming increasingly prevalent in the air, which itself grew misty and thick.

They were assailed by a small horde of enormous beetles with reddish-black carapace in the night; Amanda alerted them with a shout. They took some light scrapes and cuts in the melee, but nothing serious, and the skirmish was brief; the dog-sized beetles were surprisingly fast, but thoroughly outmatched. It was not the only fight, however; they were woken again, to fight something like green pigs; one of the children was bitten when one got past them, but Arias stitched the cut closed, and that was that.

Anne hadn't just been keeping away serious threats, Thomas realized as he thought about it during his own shift at watch, but also kept them from dealing with more mundane problems as well. His shift, and the night, passed without further event, and sleep found him before too much longer, the odd smell in the air the greatest impediment to his own restfulness.

The woman was back on the white bone throne, but the dais had been replaced with an enormous fur rug in shades of brown and red. The white bricks still stretched away in every direction, disappearing into that same a dome of darkness, the interior still lit by an ambient directionless light.

He was sitting on the rug at her feet, looking up at her, unable to move or look away as she surveyed him with an expression like a glacier. “Say the words. Say you want me to make the pain go away.”

“I still refuse you.”

“Oh, I know, and yet here I am.” An odd echo. “I am here for you, you know. I will always be here for you. Sex and death, the things that define you. You're bothered by both.”

“Shouldn't I be bothered? For using people, for killing people?”

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“You can use me, if you want.” That smile with too many teeth, embedded in darkness and shadow. “I don't mind, even when you're rough, even when you pin me against a wall.” Thomas shivered; that felt familiar. Had he pinned her against a wall, in one of these … ? It sounded … right. “Yes, you did. You need practice, but you have to actually do something to get any better at it. I can help you; maybe that's why Evan and Amanda won't look at you anymore, you just weren't any good. You should let me help you practice, it is my choice to agree. And isn't that what actually matters? What other people choose? If they choose to have sex with you, to fight you to the death, isn't that their choice to make?”

“It isn't their choices which define who I am. My choices define me; their choices define only them.” Thomas scowled, trying to ignore the barbs.

“And yet their choices change what choices you have available. If they didn't choose sex, or combat, would not your choices be different?”

“That is beside the point.”

“Not at all. If you had a warehouse full of food, your choice to share it, or not, matters differently, if you are in a world of starvation, or a world of plenty – worlds created by the choices of others.”

“That's ...” That wasn't entirely wrong. But it felt … twisty. “Whether or not I'm a good person should not depend on what choices other people make.”

“What should it depend on? Should your choices not have to take into account the world you find yourself? Is goodness determined in a vacuum, devoid of the consequences of our actions?”

“No, but it isn't determined by the world, either.”

“True. It is the interaction of the internal and the external.” The divinity, if that's what she was, gave him a radiant smile. Literally radiant; the shadows retreated from it somewhat.

“So, what, it's okay to murder people, if they make the wrong choices?”

“If their choice is to kill others, yes, I think so.” The light of that smile faded into something darker. “Of course, you have harmed yourself, which is not, as you say, okay. Your pain is unnecessary.” Hunger. “Give it to me, and redeem yourself of that self-harm.”

“No.”

“Is not the creation of pain bad, is it not wrong? You speak of morality, but ignore the morality of pain itself. Is it not wrong to cause pain? If it is wrong to cause pain, is it not wrong to refuse to let pain end?” Twistiness, again.

“I … just because I don't know how to refute your logic does not make your logic correct. I will not be convinced, no matter how convincing you are.”

“How irrational. How irritating. But very well.” Hunger, again. She was a mouth of darkness, teeth glistening in the dark. And then sex and death once more. “We will talk again.” Thomas opened his mouth, preparing to tell her that he would not be convinced, and the vision faded back into darkness.

It was not yet dawn. Thomas rose, and began a slow circuit of their encampment on the side of the hill, dew cold on the bottoms of his feet. He headed downhill first, doing his best to move quietly; he more or less succeeded, but nearly slipped on the wet grass twice. The depression between this hill and the next was quiet, and he took a moment to look up, at the bright and visible galaxy overhead – or at least the semblance of one. It was beautiful, but it was a beauty that had, at some point, turned mundane. It took something like a conscious effort to appreciate, and he struggled to get there.

He tried, for several minutes; made himself look, tried to clear his mind, of the fears and anxieties; mostly Thomas became more aware of his fears, and anxieties, and a curious sensation. His thoughts felt … frayed. They didn't feel properly cohesive, properly coherent. His mind felt frayed, felt like it was starting to come apart. He didn't want to think about Anne, he didn't want to think about the people he'd killed, he didn't want to think about the nightmarish thing that had been in nearly every dream lately, which he had begun to suspect had begun with the faceless … spider … thing.

He definitely did not want to think about the spider, or its songs. Thomas gave up, and started walking again, back around and up the hill. A figure atop it resolved itself, mostly because of the waist-length hair; Arias was standing watch, at the top of the hill, her long hair blowing gently in a breeze he only began to feel as he ascended higher.

Her face resolved in the dark as he drew near; she was looking towards a soft glow, obscured by hills; Anchor's odd magical pollution.

“Hey.” She didn't look around, but did an odd kind of gesture with her shoulder, almost a shrug but too horizontal. Thomas hesitated, looking her up and down; he hadn't interacted with Arias to any extent since Anne's death. He wanted to hug her. But that also felt invasive. Instead he looked to the glow on the horizon with her. Anchor. They were trying to get back, but … what was back there? What would he even do?

Maybe he'd go through the portal, see what the rest of this odd … universe, or whatever this was, had to offer. The thought held nothing for him, though; it felt idle and unimportant. His gaze returned to Arias, studying her face. Her expression was … stiff, and unreadable. She didn't look back at him.

“I'm sorry about Anne.” A brief movement, not quite identifiable in the darkness. And then she was stiff and still again. He looked once more to the lights, then up, once more to the stars.