ghost towns - fishfilet - Guild Wars 2 (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter Text

In the twelve years since he’d arrived in Divinity’s Reach with the last humanitarian evacuation of orphaned children out of Ebonhawke, Raylan figured at least some change would have come to the Salma District. The merchants hawking their wares in the district square might have finally tired of assaulting the ears of innocent passers-by with promises of fine linens or fresh cabbages, for example. Or perhaps Tamara the butcher might have stopped hanging her pigs to bleed above the gutter that ran into the mossy fountain at the northern edge of the square.

Her wiry silver hair glinted beneath the weary sun now as she skillfully fileted a side of beef, long knife flying through glistening flesh as she chatted with Loren the tanner, who wandered through the day’s fresh kill, ostensibly in search of quality hides.

For the millionth time, Raylan wondered if Tamara would ever catch on to the wistful looks Loren cast her way when he trooped back across the lane to his musty tannery.

This was Salma, so probably not.

He leaned heavily on his staff as he slipped through the crowd, ducking his head to avoid making accidental eye contact with Braden the aggressive cabbage man or Lobelia of the fine linens. He’d made it down from the Upper City without falling over, and he wasn’t about to give up the ghost in front of the man who’d been responsible for his first close encounter with a Seraph holding cell or the woman who’d been responsible for his second.

The uneven cobblestones underfoot meant it was slow going, though, and the thick haze from the smoldering dam to the north forced him to squint warily up the lane, noting the visible Seraph patrols and the equally as visible absence of local resistance to their presence. Two miles and an entire world away from the mansions on Manor Hill, this side of Rook’s Row wasn’t a big fan of the queen, and the many petty gangs that ran rampant here operated within a tangle of allegiances completely divorced from the crown.

Given the lack of spitting and cursing and club-wielding posturing going on, though, either something had changed in Salma, or Andrew must have put the word out. Cautious warmth spread through him at the thought.

As he continued on through the bustling square, Raylan saw that the Seraph had set up a makeshift fire station beside the mossy fountain that—he squinted, yep—indeed ran slightly pink. Large pails stacked in two neat towers stood beside a neat dolyak cart, with two Seraph in the process of unloading still more. A little boy crouched nearby, idly plucking parched weeds from the cracks between the cobbles and tossing them into the fountain. Every so often, he paused to watch them bob and swirl around in the tepid water before the stream pulled them under. The sight twisted something in Raylan’s stomach. He and Quinn had spent many afternoons doing the same—wiling away the hours, circling the drain like so many others in Rook’s Row with no future and fewer prospects. In the end, only luck had gotten him out. That same luck had gotten Quinn killed.

The guilt, like Salma, still felt the same.

Raylan slowed to watch the boy, who was barefoot but swaddled in a large coat likely meant for someone twice his age. The boy bent close to the cobbles, searching for something in the muck, and the hood of his coat fell back, revealing a head of thick, dark curls that tumbled wildly over his pale face. Beneath the red light of the burning sun, the resemblance was too much, and Raylan found himself approaching, something in the smoky wind clouding his vision, choking his breath.

Street instinct screamed danger just as a shimmering shadow slammed into his bad side, sending him staggering before vanishing with a pop. Instantly, Raylan realized what had happened, and he brought his staff down with a sharp crack, raising a warding line across the alleyway up the hill behind the fountain. He strode towards it, heart pounding, and watched his ward yank the shadow out of stealth, sending it sprawling in a jumble of gangly limbs. For good measure, he also sealed a barrier around the shadow, which, as he squinted through the milling crowd, he saw was just another child.

A startled shout rose from the Seraph by the cart near the fountain, but Raylan gestured brusquely and pushed his cloak aside as he passed, baring the Pact insignia on the breast of his tunic.

“Back off,” he ordered, “I’ll handle this.”

He was a little embarrassed to have fallen for what was, in hindsight, an obvious trap. How many times had he and Quinn run the same con? A child alone in Salma, even on the fringes of the market square, was easy pickings, and those desperate or dumb enough to resort to preying on children likely didn’t have the fight instinct to fend off a quick smash and grab.

Quinn had always been the bait. Raylan had always been the one bailing him out of scrapes of their own making—until the day they’d gone after a certain Seraph captain, and world had begun spinning upside down and inside out.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the fountain. The boy in the coat was long gone now, probably having disappeared into the crowd the moment he’d raised his staff.

With a sigh, he ducked the low archway at the top of the hill and slowed to a halt in front of his would-be thief, who glared defiantly up at him. In one hand, he clutched Raylan’s belt. In the other, he brandished a short knife. He stood ready for a fight, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Raylan paused to catch his breath but ended up coughing instead. He grimaced, bracing a hand against his bad shoulder, and spat to the side, ash and dust and regret bitter on his tongue.

This boy was older than the other, about waist-high and thinner than two skrits in winter. He, too, was barefoot, but wore only a ragged, oversized tunic that trailed down his knees. Blessedly, he also looked less like Quinn, but the fury in his eyes was something that Raylan felt like a punch to the gut.

He leaned heavily against his staff and tried to remember what Logan had done.

“Where’d you learn to shadow portal?” he asked, “That’s pretty advanced stuff.”

“f*ck off,” the boy spat. He didn’t bother trying to break the barrier, which meant that he’d probably seen one before. Weird.

“I mean it,” Raylan continued, “I know grown men who can’t get anywhere close to your speed and accuracy, let alone keep up stealth while they’re at it.”

The boy stared at him, confusion beginning to match the anger in his eyes.

Raylan dropped his barrier with a gesture. “You ever decide you want to get out of Salma, go talk to Lieutenant Groban at Seraph HQ and tell him Raylan sent you.”

“I’m no f*cking bird,” the boy snarled.

“Did I say you were?” Raylan returned, “Talking to you didn’t turn me into a f*cking moron, so I’m pretty sure talking to a Seraph won’t make you into one of them either.” He lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. “Just throwing it out there. You might actually make something of yourself, you know?”

He turned to go, half expecting a knife to come flying at his back, but the boy called after him instead.

“What do you know about it?” he shouted. Beneath the rage and the indignation, there was so much fear in his voice, so much despair.

Raylan paused. “Salma’s my home too,” he replied.

At the bottom of the hill, he found a small unit of Seraph milling around the fountain by the dolyak cart. Some had buckets in their hands and were stacking them slowly, feinting at industriousness while sneaking furtive looks in his direction.

“Oh hey,” came a familiar voice from the bed of the cart, “I should’ve known.”

“That’s ‘Oh hey, Commander,’ Hal,” Raylan replied with a tired, reluctant grin.

“Psh,” said Sergeant Hal, shuffling to the tail of the cart bed and holding out his hand, “I heard the commotion and was wondering who it could’ve been since you aren’t around anymore. That’ll teach me.”

Raylan balanced his staff against his bad shoulder and shook Sergeant Hal’s hand with a grimace. “I’ve been gone too long,” he admitted, “Couple of kids got the drop on me.”

“Sounds like the tables’ve turned,” Hal chuckled, “Now you know how we all used to feel.” He laughed as Raylan made another face. “Well, either way, you’re a welcome sight. I think Andrew put out the word that we’d be coming by, but I swear we’re still getting some, uh, suspicious looks.”

Raylan scowled at the red clouds hanging heavy above. “Everyone here must’ve heard the dam blow, so I’d hope that’d be warning enough for some of the dumber assholes,” he replied.

“It’s nasty business,” Hal said with a shake of his head. He swiped the back of his arm through the sweat on his forehead, pushing aside unruly ginger curls. “I mean, the White Mantle? Here? Feels like Snargle’s written us into one of his greatest hits.”

“Right?” Raylan commiserated. He stepped out of the way of another Seraph, who slowly grabbed an armful of pails off the back of the cart with a curious, almost worshipful look.

“We have an organized a neighborhood fire watch now. Andrew’s doing,” Sergeant Hal said. Raylan looked up and saw the sergeant watching him soberly. “We’ve had crews up dousing the roofs since the dam blew. Just in case.”

Raylan smiled thinly. “That’s good to hear,” he replied, nudging his staff back into his good hand, “Speaking of Andrew, have you seen him around today?”

Sergeant Hal squinted through the haze at the distant clocktower rising above Manor Hill. “Looks like it’s just getting on to noon, so he’s probably in at the Coin with the couriers,” he replied.

“Oh. Right,” Raylan said. He nodded at another passing Seraph, who blushed violently and dropped his buckets with a clatter. Raylan suppressed a sigh. “I’ll get out of your hair, then. Good to see you.”

Sergeant Hal’s farewell drifted after him as Raylan turned back to the district square. Through the bustling crowd, he could only just make out the empty plot on its southwestern corner where the Queen’s Heart Orphanage had once stood. Though its charred ruins had been cleared years ago, unlike the rest of the district center, nothing had yet been built in its place, and the legacy of its loss remained simply a patch of scorched pavers.

Raylan’s throat tightened, and he ducked his head and continued on, skirting the crowd along the square’s northern edge until he came to a familiar door above a familiar set of stairs. Some of the fraught emotion churning itself into a distant furor in his gut eased as he looked up, one foot resting on the bottom step.

Twelve years. Gods.

Ruefully, he shook his head and climbed the stairs, entering the sanctuary of the dimly-lit tavern he’d once called home.

Within, he shut the door firmly behind him and turned instinctively to the fire roaring in the hearth. He found many inquisitive eyes blinking up at him from the floor before it, and he stopped short, startled.

“Eyes here,” rumbled a familiar voice from behind the bar.

Like the children seated in neat rows at his feet, Raylan obeyed.

“I want all of you back here by sundown today,” Andrew Fayad said, raking a stern gaze across the heart and soul of the Salma’s District’s oldest and somehow most reliable courier system, “There’ll be extra starcake for those back before the sixth bell.”

Excited whispers broke out across the floor, and Raylan bit back a smile, leaning against an empty table with his hand around his staff.

“No one on the wall today,” Andrew continued, voice raised only slightly. The whispers subsided obediently. “If someone tries to send you up there with a message, what do you say?”

“Get your own ass up there!” chirped a sly voice. Giggles.

“And?” Andrew prompted.

“Take it up with Andrew,” Raylan replied.

A hush fell over the room, and some two dozen heads turned to look at Raylan again. Behind the bar, Andrew straightened.

“That’s right,” he said with a nod, “Anyone give you trouble, send them to me. Any questions?”

Amidst a fresh wave of fidgeting, a chorus of “No”s rang through the room.

“To the kitchen with you, then,” Andrew said with a wave of his hand.

With the patter of many eager feet, the Salma District’s orphans, some already in their bright green caps, tore across the common room to the kitchen, where they would pick up their little lunch pails and whatever messages awaited delivery in their assigned neighborhoods. Raylan watched them go and wondered if this was how Logan felt every time they spoke: Old. Tired. A little bewildered.

He turned back to Andrew, who looked exactly the same as he remembered—same strong nose, same heavy brow, same greying hair. Raylan found himself wondering why he was surprised. He’d only been gone a year. Why would anything have changed?

“Uh,” he said, “Hi.”

Up flew two bristling brows. “Ahai,” Andrew replied, bone-dry.

Raylan felt his face heat. He tried not to scowl. “I just, uuh… wanted to stop by. To… see how… to see if everything was all right,” he fumbled.

Andrew might have smiled, but with him, it was always hard to tell. “It’s good to see you, Raylan,” he said.

Raylan cleared his throat. Balthazar’s flaming tit*, he’d killed two Elder Dragons! Why was coming back here still so hard? “‘S good to see you too,” he mumbled.

Several couriers piled out of the kitchen, rattling lunch pails and scraps of messages clutched in grubby fists as they chattered across the common room and out the door. Not one of the mid-day barflys dotted around the room batted an eye, but Raylan turned to watch them go.

“You just passing through, or you hanging around for a bit?” Andrew said.

Raylan lifted his good shoulder, tearing his gaze away from the ruckus. He knew the stiffness of the motion caught Andrew’s eye by the way his thick beard twitched into the impression of a frown. “Whatever you need,” Raylan replied.

Andrew didn’t immediately reply, observing him with inscrutable calm as he wiped his hands on the dishrag hanging from his belt, first the left, then the right.

“I ran into a couple kids on my way here,” Raylan continued, to break the silence, “Are there still a lot of them running loose?”

Andrew’s brow furrowed. “Not that I’ve seen recently,” he replied, “Where were they?”

“Tamara’s fountain. Two boys,” Raylan said. Wryly, he added, “One of them took my belt.”

Andrew leaned against the bar top and folded his arms across his chest. “He shadow portal you?” he asked.

Raylan winced. “I’m guessing you know them.”

Andrew tossed his dishrag back onto the counter with a short nod. “They’re two of Taz’s boys,” he replied.

“They’re with the Mirages?” Raylan exclaimed, alarmed. The Viper’s Mirages were one of Salma’s most notorious gangs. “What’re they doing on the north side? Is VM expanding again?”

Andrew shook his head. “I’ve only seen those two around.”

“I let them go,” Raylan hissed, “f*ck, I have been gone too long. I should’ve let the Seraph take them.”

As he spoke, the door to the kitchen slammed open again, and the rest of the couriers thundered across the common room, bright voices ringing to the rafters, some calling farewell, some arguing with childish passion about the comparative merits of zhaitaffy and candy corn.

They were all very young, Raylan thought as he wrestled his temper back under control; most of these kids looked to be near the minimum age for Salma’s couriers. There were far fewer of them, too, than he remembered from his own days in the corps.

Twenty-three children had been lost in the VM firebombings six years ago. Most had been around the age these couriers were now.

He watched a boy with bright, bright eyes and an infectious grin dart out the door and realized he was seeing ghosts again. For some reason, he thought of Logan, who’d knocked him out cold that night to keep him from charging after Quinn into the blaze. Logan, who’d talked him into joining the Seraph in the aftermath. Logan, who’d slept at the foot of his own bed last night and awakened to the memory of a different nightmare.

Logan, whose cold hand had found his own and held on tightly, for however brief a time.

The common room was quiet, the couriers long since departed. Raylan unclenched his hand from his staff, the twisted aurilium peeling free from deep seams in his calloused palm. Andrew waited behind him, a silent, steady presence.

“Sorry,” Raylan said thickly, wrangling his face into a smile, “I was–I should–I think I should probably–”

Andrew rested a large hand on Raylan’s good shoulder, silencing him with a touch. “Come up on the wall with me,” he said.

Raylan looked up at him, face hot. “Andrew,” he protested.

“This lot’ll keep for a while,” Andrew replied. He tossed the dishrag aside and reached beneath the bar. Raylan watched him sling the old flintlock over his shoulder and hated the familiar sight of it. Andrew saw the look on his face, and something sad softened the steel in his eyes. “Come on,” he insisted nevertheless, “Out the door.”

Raylan followed him out, wariness warring with a bewildering mess of exhaustion and nerves strung tight. As they made their way north from the square, passers-by hailed Andrew and stared at Raylan in silence, which was a relief he couldn’t help but feel guilty about. He’d grown up in Salma. He ought to be doing more here, not leaving it all up to Andrew to hold things together where the queen could not.

“How are things, really?” he asked as they ducked beneath a heavily-laden washline slung between two tired hostels.

“About what you’d expect,” Andrew replied, keen eyes searching the narrow alley ahead, “It’s been a lean winter.”

“Bad harvest?”

Andrew shook his head. “Centaurs,” he said.

“The Riders are still short?” Raylan asked, referring to the Seraph battalion stationed in Queensdale, “It’s been years.”

“Tervelan swung. It’s hard to recruit into a unit with that kind of reputation,” Andrew replied, jerking his chin and diverting them from the alley down a narrow flight of grimy stairs that led into a dimly-lit passageway, “Your captain’s–”

“–He’s not my captain anymore,” Raylan interrupted.

“–Thackeray’s been sending Seraph from the city out to the garrison as a stopgap,” Andrew amended, “But that still hasn’t been enough.”

They continued on for several paces in silence, Raylan struggling to match Andrew’s long strides.

“You know, he’s stopped by a few times since he got back from Maguuma,” Andrew said.

Startled, Raylan looked up from the cobblestones. “Logan?” he asked, “Why?”

Andrew shifted the flintlock to his other shoulder and glanced behind. “When the local Pact boys started coming home and we still hadn’t heard from you, we got a little worried. He was just letting us know how you were,” he replied. There was no judgment in his voice, no reprimand, no disappointment, and that cut more deeply than any lecture might have.

The weak winter sun glinted off a clouded window pane overhead. Raylan’s eyes stung. Andrew paused.

“We knew you’d be back in your own time,” he said.

Raylan shook his head. “That’s no excuse,” he muttered, looking away, “Logan’s got enough on his plate as it is.”

Andrew looked at him, gaze heavy, then turned away and continued on.

“Does look like a stiff breeze could blow him right over these days,” he replied mildly.

Raylan grimaced as he looked up and down the gloomy corridor, realizing with belated unease that Andrew had taken the underpass approach to the wall that cut through the gutter beneath Lyssa Low Road. Back when he’d been a courier, this had been VM territory, and despite Andrew’s past life as their primary enforcer, it had always been off-limits to anyone from the north side of Rook’s Row.

“Should we be here?” he asked.

“Taz and I came to an agreement a few months back,” Andrew replied.

Now doubly alarmed, Raylan protested, “Andrew–”

“–We’re just two old men who aren’t getting any younger,” Andrew interrupted firmly, “Don’t worry about it.”

With a sharp look, Raylan stepped around him to lead the way forward, lighting the way with a wisp of white light he sent spinning out ahead of them. He doubted the Mirages would try anything today of all days, but their reputation for senseless acts of extreme violence had been earned in the blood of Salma’s unsuspecting for years.

“Tell me what’s been going on,” Raylan demanded, “I can help.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Andrew replied.

“Don’t bullsh*t me,” Raylan shot back, stung.

“We’re small potatoes, Raylan,” Andrew said with infuriating calm, “You stay focused on Tyria. I’ll handle Salma.”

Raylan clenched his jaw, staff chiming angrily against the cobbles with every step. “You talk about them like they’re completely separate things,” he muttered.

“For you, they have to be.”

Raylan rounded on him. “How can you say that?” he demanded. Sharply, he gestured around them. “You know what all this dogsh*t means to me.”

“Do I?”

Raylan flinched. “f*cking hell, Andrew,” he spat, “I know you do.” Andrew shifted almost imperceptibly, a mountain settling into the foundations of the earth. Raylan looked away.

“Write home sometime, then,” Andrew said at last, “It won’t be just your captain who’d appreciate it.”

Petra was up on the wall with the Seraph, which was probably the least surprising development of this unexpectedly fraught return to the Salma District. As Raylan hauled himself up the last flight of stairs behind Andrew’s sheltering bulk, he heard her say, “Commander who is here? The Pact has so many of them I’ve lost track.”

The Seraph officer speaking to her caught sight of Raylan and Andrew coming up the stairs behind her and raised his bushy eyebrows. He pointed. “That one,” he said.

Petra turned. Raylan grinned. This was easy. Simple. Uncomplicated.

“Raylan!” Petra exclaimed, blue eyes bugging out in disbelief, “What are you doing here?”

“I heard someone blew up a dam somewhere,” Raylan drawled. He jerked his chin over the parapet at the smoky haze clouding the northern horizon, “That it?”

“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you weren’t responsible,” Petra laughed, wrapping him in a tight hug that had his shoulder complaining. He let her hold him, though, and kiss his cheek, and ruffle his hair. When she finally pulled away, it was only to look him over with a critical eye, and she tucked his hair back behind his ears with a casual affection he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much.

“We’ve been worried sick,” she murmured, “Until Captain Thackeray came to see us a few weeks ago, we had no idea if you’d even made it out of Maguuma or not.”

Raylan winced and ducked his head, pathetically relieved that Andrew had gone farther on down the wall to speak with the officer in charge.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Petra searched his face, then glanced around at the wall, where the two nearest Seraph sentries were trying their best to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping.

“Oh, come on, don’t give me that,” she sighed, taking him by the arm.

Raylan winced and pulled away. “Bad shoulder,” he explained, offering his other elbow instead.

“What happened this time?” Petra said, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm and guiding him away across the battlements.

“The queen tried to assassinate me,” Raylan quipped.

“About time,” Petra snorted. Raylan made a face, and Petra laughed again, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked. He fumbled with his staff, then sighed and passed it over into her beckoning hand.

“I see carving bad guys up like Tyria’s hottest lumberjack was getting too easy for you, so now you’ve resorted to beating them up with a big, shiny stick,” she said, hefting it curiously before her.

“Just following in your footsteps,” Raylan replied.

“Bah. This shiny twig has nothing on Ms. Timber,” Petra scoffed.

Raylan didn’t bother telling her that the number of Mordrem the “shiny twig” in her hand had fried to a crisp likely numbered in the thousands. Nor did he tell her that the pure aurillium “twig” she was now casually using to whack him in the shin with every other step had been a sacred gift from a celestial being that had once been a human but was now an incorporeal blob of energy floating around Maguuma in a metal suit.

“Yeah,” he said instead, “You’re right.”

He pulled her in tighter to his side, ignoring the equally amused and curious looks from the small army of Seraph sentries strung out on the wall. Jormag and Primordus were on the rise, Logan was having a crisis, and the White Mantle were laying siege to the city, but he was home now, and not even the heavy, smoke-choked wind from the north could cloud his spirits as they meandered along.

“You still writing to that girl from Claypool?” he asked, “The smith?”

“Hm? Who?” Petra frowned, “Oh, Cherise.” She shook her head, twin braids falling over her shoulders. “Nah, long-distance was too much for us, especially during highwayman season. For a few months there, none of our letters got through.”

“Andrew said it’s been rough with the centaurs lately too.”

“Yeah,” Petra replied, “We’re getting by, though.”

When his every attempt to send his Pact salary to the Coin had all been adamantly refused, Raylan had turned to Logan, thrown half a fiscal year’s worth of paystubs at him, and begged him to put them to use in Salma in some way that would benefit the denizens of Rook’s Row without damaging Andrew’s infuriatingly sensitive pride. After much bitching and moaning, Logan had—for some reason—finally agreed to “figure something out.” Though Raylan had never asked exactly where all his hazard pay was going, he was beginning to hope it might have played at least a small part in keeping Salma standing these past few years.

In the past, a lean winter in Salma had meant hungry people, and hungry people had meant desperate people, and desperate people had meant gang wars, and the last gang war had ended in the firebombing of the district center and three months of Seraph occupation. From what he’d seen today, there hadn’t even been the slightest threat of that. No bruisers circling the market stalls. No priestesses begging for alms at the gates.

Salma was still Salma—ramshackle and cobbled back together, creaking along like a three-wheeled dolyak cart. Eternal. Immutable.

“Raylan?” Petra said.

He’d stopped again, lost in thought. Petra watched him, a little worried, a little confused. Much farther down the wall, Andrew strode back towards them, a looming stormfront.

“What are you doing up here on the wall, anyways?” Raylan said, pulling her away and resorting to his tried-and-occasionally-true strategy of barging past problems until something blew up in his face.

Petra favored him with a look that was distinctly unimpressed but played along. “Remember the old aqueduct we found that one summer after that freak storm?” she asked.

Raylan screwed up his face. “Uhhhh,” he said, “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Yeah, the one with the naked man graffiti?”

“Of course that’s what you remember about it,” Petra laughed, rolling her eyes, “But yeah, that one. Turns out it leads beneath the wall straight to the dam.” Raylan stopped again and stared down at her. “Yeah,” Petra continued, “The dam that just blew up? That one.”

“You’re joking,” Raylan said, aghast. He twisted to look out over the parapet, half-expecting the White Mantle to appear in their pristinely-laundered hordes at any moment.

“Nope,” Petra replied cheerfully, “We only just found out this morning after I reminded Dad about it and took a couple of Seraph down there with me. Now, we’re waiting for one of their engineers to get out here so they can make an estimate of how f*cked we are if the White Mantle find it.”

“Do we really need an engineer for that?” Raylan asked with a ferocious scowl, “I’m pretty sure the answer’s going to be ‘completely.’”

“You tell me,” Petra said with a shrug, “You’re the ex-Seraph.”

Raylan’s scowl deepened. “Emphasis on the ‘ex,’” he replied.

Petra’s laugh turned sly. “Speaking of exes and Seraph–” she began.

“–No,” Raylan interrupted flatly, “Not here. Not now. Not ever.”

Petra squeezed his arm. “He still clueless?”

“He’s still in love,” Raylan muttered.

“Wow,” Petra hummed, “That’s actually kind of impressive. It’s been, what, a decade of pining at this point?”

Raylan glared. “Can we please not talk about this right now?” he all but begged.

“Fine,” Petra relented, “But you know I’m going to ask you more about it later.”

“Why?” Raylan complained.

“Because I don’t think you let yourself talk to anyone else about it. And I need my fill of gossip before you disappear again for another year.” Raylan scowled, and Petra reached up to ruffle his hair again. “If that’s the face you made at Mordremoth, it probably died laughing.”

“f*ck’s sake, stop it,” Raylan swore, ducking away. Petra snickered.

“You sure you missed us?” she asked.

Raylan opened his mouth, a smart retort on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back. Swallowed. Petra’s teasing grin faded, and worry and confusion returned.

“You know I did. I mean, I do. You know I do. Whenever I’m gone,” Raylan replied. After a pause, he added, “Right?”

Petra’s eyebrows quirked in a quizzical frown.

“I’m always trying to come back to you guys,” Raylan continued in a rush. He looked away, fingers drumming against his thigh. “In case you didn’t know, I mean. I just thought I should say it before, I don’t know–” he threw up an exasperated hand, “–Primordus eats Queensdale or something.”

“If he gobbled up all the centaurs while he was at it, I think your favorite Seraph captain might end up giving him a medal,” Petra said.

“Would you st–Balthazar’s breath, I’m trying to be serious for once in my life,” Raylan snapped, shaking Petra’s hand off his arm and turning to face her fully. She bit her lip. “With me and Andrew, it’s been–” he struggled for words, “–you know. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over me tipping off the Seraph about the Mirages.”

“You don’t know that,” Petra interjected.

“No, I do,” Raylan insisted, “I can feel it in the way he looks at me.”

“You know that that’s just the way he is,” Petra returned, “He doesn’t say much, but that doesn’t mean he hates your guts. Without the Seraph, VM would’ve hit the Coin and the hospital too. We’ve been over this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“The firebombings never would’ve happened in the first place if I hadn’t gone to Logan. Quinn would still be alive if I hadn’t gone to Logan,” Raylan retorted, “There wouldn’t have been any reason for Taz to go after the orphanage if I hadn’t f*cking gone to Logan . That attack was personal.”

Why was he talking about this?

Furious with himself, Raylan gestured curtly. “But that’s all beside the point. All I’m trying to say is that even though it was weird between Andrew and me before I left, and it’s weird whenever I come back, I’ll keep coming back. Whenever I can. I owe it to you guys.”

Petra shook her head, incredulous. “You don’t owe us anything,” she replied.

Raylan winced. “I’m pretty sure I do, but that probably wasn’t the word I wanted to use,” he muttered. He ran a hand back through his hair, almost wishing he was back out in Maguuma raining holy fire down on hordes of Mordrem. Staying alive was simple. Coming home was not.

Home.

“Salma is home,” he said after a protracted silence, “You guys. You and Andrew. You’re family.” He found himself leaning backwards away from Petra, bracing himself for a blow he couldn’t believe he was expecting. “That’s how I think about it, anyways,” he muttered.

Petra stared up at him, blue eyes wide and searching. “ Gods, Raylan,” she said in a voice aching with pity, “What happened to you out there?”

Raylan shook his head defiantly. “Maguuma has nothing to do with this,” he insisted.

“I’m pretty sure that damn jungle has everything to do with what’s going on,” Petra returned, “I haven’t seen you so torn up about the fires in years.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Raylan snapped.

Petra arched a sharp eyebrow at his tone, and Raylan reined himself in again, stewing.

“Dad and I love you,” Petra said, letting him pull away, “From the moment he hauled you out of the cellar kicking and screaming with Robert’s sh*ttiest moonshine tucked into your underpants, you’ve been family. Nothing that’s happened, whether it’s in Salma or Maguuma, changes that.”

Raylan tried to look her in the eye and found that he couldn’t.

“Raylan,” Petra tried again, terribly kind and so terribly, terribly blind, “I think you need to–oh,” she interrupted herself, forced cheer straining her voice, “Hey, Dad. Is their engineer here?”

Raylan turned away as Andrew replied.

“Yeah, she’s on her way down to the dam now with Groban,” he said, “Turns out she’s actually from Salma, so Lucien’s map was good enough for her. We’re done here.”

“Oh, great. I knew I shouldn’t have bothered waiting around. At least that’s only half a day wasted,” Petra sighed, “Did you get the kids out okay?”

“They know what to do.”

“Thanks. Back home then?” Petra asked, and from the sudden clarity of her voice, Raylan knew that she’d turned away from Andrew to include him in her question.

“You two head on back,” Andrew replied, “I need to stop by the hospital first. Priestess Amelia said she needed a hand with something.”

“Okay. You’ll be back for dinner, though, right?”

“I will.” Andrew hesitated. “Raylan?” he called.

Raylan looked over the parapet. Somewhere far beneath the haze, Logan waged war upon the White Mantle, facing down a foe that he could at last meet toe-to-toe.

“I should go,” Raylan said to the smoke on the horizon.

“Raylan,” Petra protested.

Her hand on his cheek when she turned him to her was warm and firm, nothing like Logan’s cold, furtive, fumbling touch. Nevertheless, he shook his head and stepped back, though the effort it cost pulled something taut in his chest. You don’t need me, he meant to say.

“I can’t stay here,” he said instead.

“I think you need to stay here,” Petra returned.

Raylan found he was still shaking his head. “I only stopped by to make sure you were okay after the dam blew, and it’s obvious you’re all fine. You’re here, the Seraph are here… I’m just getting in the way.”

“Maybe we don’t need you around to kill things for us, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want you here. Raylan, I really think—”

“–No,” Raylan interrupted harshly. He stared down at her, words echoing strangely in his ears as though he was listening to himself speak from the other end of a fuzzy comm line. “You don’t get it. I don’t want you to get it.”

Petra clutched the strap of the flintlock on her shoulder in a white-knuckled hand, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Despite himself, Raylan looked up at Andrew and found him watching impassively, craggy face unreadable.

“I wanted to write you after I got back,” he continued, words snapping like a lonely flag in the wind, an empty challenge, “But what was I supposed to say?” His voice turned bitter, biting. “We might have killed Mordremoth, but we didn’t win in Maguuma. Some of us survived. That’s it.” He dragged a hand back through his hair, feeling half-feral, like Faolain in her rage, like Eir in her despair. “I’m sorry,” he said to them both, “I’ve brought all that sh*t back home with me, and I need to get out of here before I f*ck all this up too.”

He drew a ragged breath, smoke sharp in his lungs, burning his throat, stinging his eyes, and tried to fix the sight of the two of them in his memory: Andrew—tall, stern, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled above the elbow. Petra—strong, fair, bright-eyed, flintlock glinting over her shoulder. Framed against a bloody sky and the worn battlements high above Salma, the image they cut was both foreign and familiar, soothing and wrenching.

“I’ll be back,” he said, “I’m sorry.”