After another few minutes of wandering, the trees became noticeably smaller again. It had been well over ten years since he'd been out this way, and he wasn't confident how many other rows of trees had been added or even how many aisles up he was from the southern edge of the Grove he would have to navigate by. They always told you that was part of the symbolism of the Shadowgroves. The goal of any assassin or thief while on a job was to blend in, to never draw undue attention to yourself. Here, finally, they would all manage to do just that. One tree the same as all the others around it. It did make visiting old friends rather tricky, though.

The daylight finally returned to the trail, the trees on either side of him no longer old or large enough to block it out with interlocking branches. Moments later, he walked out of the grove and headed to the southwestern corner, where he would begin his counting. The tail end of the spiral where the new trees were being added was now over on the eastern edge of the Grove, meaning what once were saplings on the west side had been given enough time to become respectable looking, at least. With a Shadowgrove this large, it took several years for a new layer to wrap itself around the place, even in the bloodiest of times.

At the point where the edges met, and the trees turned to continue winding back east, Albanos did an about-face and began walking back up the western border, counting this time. As the numbers got higher, so did his anxiety, and by the time he reached the 53rd row, he wished he'd saved the cigarette Lillith had handed him, or at least not made her angry enough to stalk off without being able to ask for another one. When a few deep breaths did nothing for his nerves or his heart, pounding away inside his chest hard enough to make even his temples throb a bit, he decided there was nothing for it. Turning, not giving himself a chance to talk himself out of it, he plunged into the Grove again, staring at the granite slabs that he'd avoided looking at entirely beforehand. The date of death on the first row was from two years back, 1028. The next, 1024...1021...1018...1015.

Five rows further in than it had been last time, so it'd be five rows further up, too. Moving north once more, every step taking more effort than the previous, he passed four more trees, watching the dates on the stones creep ever closer to that day. He looked up before proceeding to the fifth one, though, up into the branches where, considerably higher than it had been when he first put it there, a twilight purple hair ribbon fluttered in the slight breeze channeled through the tree-formed tunnels. At least, it had been a deep purple before. Now, it was sun-faded and element-tattered, but there, just the same.

At this ribbon, Albanos stared for quite some time. How long, he couldn’t be sure. He was trying to work up the nerve to look down. Ultimately, he had to close his eyes to convince his neck to cooperate, swiveling down without bearing to watch. When they opened again, they were greeted by what was, to him, the eternal stone monument to his greatest failure in life.

Meliana Valnoran-K'hras

Born: 17th of Harvest Sun, 975

Died: 8th of Moon's Frost, 1015

Assassin in Excellent Standing

"Hello dear," he said, addressing the cold gray tablet that marked the Twilight Bloom commemorating his dead wife. "I'm home..."

He wanted to say other things; he wanted to do nothing more than simply tell her about his day, like they always had, or prattle on about what the journey back to Kelsai had been like, but he couldn't. She had always been such an excellent conversationalist and attentive listener that knowing that no one else would fill up the silences between his ramblings made them too hard to get through.

A campfire somewhere up ahead, the sound of a woman whimpering, hideous laughter all around her...

He'd had no closure, and his time ever since had been too busily spent just trying to survive to let it heal all wounds like they always wanted to tell you it would.

Steel clashing, screams from the edge of the firelight, blood everywhere...

Parts of his mind flickered back to when they would go up to the belfry in the Kelsai temple, where he'd always gone for peace and respite, even when he'd still been a student. She loved it there; oh, how she'd gasped when he'd taken the blindfold off the first time he led her up to look at the view. She'd remarked on how even the Shadowgrove looked cheerful from on high in the sun's fading light.

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And then running, nothing but running, the sun rising, falling, the moon chasing after it but never managing to catch up before the sun was right back up again, no sense of time, no sense of anything, only the hunt...

Gods, she'd been comfortable to lean on, and now? A gods-damned rock and a knobby, deep-rooted tree, arguably the two least cuddly objects in the world. They told you the trees were symbolic. They told you the trees were a poignant metaphor for the beauty of the profession and the peace of death. But the trees were hard, and unbending, and uncompassionate, and cold. She was none of those things. How was this her? It was so unfair it made him want to scream.

Screams. Lots of them all around. Screams of the dead and dying. Screams of the hunted when the hunter comes calling. There is pain, the dull sensation of steel entering flesh, but it only registers in the far corners of the mind, secondary to all else now, an inconvenience to be dealt with later, if there is a later. Right now it is only the hunt. Right now it is only the killing.

Then, the memories from the dark parts of his mind could no longer be ignored. They pushed the good and the sentimental away, sweeping all else aside in their path. They flowed over him and forced him to his knees, all the old darkness, all the old torment. Fifteen years of collective repression and guilt began to overwhelm the dams in his mind. Various scars ranging across his body began to ache with phantom pains of injuries long past but never forgotten. He could do nothing but clutch at the grass and try not to cry out, but even his voice was lost in the torrent.

And then, when he was certain he could take no more, a smell forced its way in, faint at first but growing in intensity. The memories began to recede, his breathing becoming regular again, and when his eyes opened, there were no severed limbs or lacerated arteries. There was no blood, no carnage, no fire, just grass and a tombstone and the peaceful swaying of the leaves above. It was then that Albanos realized where the smell was coming from.

Looking up, he saw that the Twilight Blooms were beginning to blossom as the sun approached the western horizon, somewhere beyond the canopy. The smell brought him back, and all the years between now and that night slid back into place, reminding him that he is more now than he was back then, for what consolation it was worth. Looking down at Meliana's tombstone, he apologized to her for the millionth time, the tears he was confident he'd finished crying long ago coming back now, not in the great, racking sobs they once were, but in slow trickles.

Something brushed faintly against his neck, and the moment was gone. The old, hardened survivalist came rushing home again, and Albanos reached around to see what was resting there. When he brought his hand back, it held a soft, velvety, purple flower petal from one of the blooms on Meliana's tree. He smiled to himself, not given to putting much stock in signs and omens but made a little more cheerful by the coincidence.

"I'd like to think this means you've accepted the apology, but--

Thwak

"Ow!"

He rubbed the back of his head where something decidedly harder than a flower petal had just made contact. Looking around, he saw one of the rock-hard seed pods that the Blooms produced at this time of year lying beside him. There was a chittering from above, emanating from a squirrel resting on a nearby branch, squeaking angrily and holding another seed pod in its paws. A huge grin split Albanos' face as one last memory washed over him, of how whenever he was being silly or contrary just to annoy her, Meliana would always find something to throw at him. Usually not something lethal. Usually. He was sure she was responsible for the better part of his reflexes.

"Alright, alright," he said to the squirrel. "The apology's been accepted. I give in."

Seemingly satisfied, the squirrel cracked open the pod, shoved the contents into its cheeks, and shot off to wherever squirrels go when they're not pestering humans. Sighing, standing up, and trying to ignore the creaking in his knees, Albanos turned again to the tree.

"I'll visit more often, I promise. They won't try to stab me for it now—well, most of them won't."

When no more flowers fell and no more rodents attacked him, Albanos wandered off, aware that he would be cutting it very close for orientation.

As he jogged off down the aisle to the nearby exit from the Grove, the sun-blanched purple ribbon waved in his direction, very briefly, against the wind.