Velma wandered out in the snow, her fur-lined deep violet cloak pulled around her, her hands shoved deep in either sleeve. She shuffled through the lane as the snow fell heavily on her shoulders, staining her violet cloak with white flakes until she looked nearly as frosted as any wedding cake she'd ever had.

Suddenly, there were shrieks and shouts penetrating the impossible stillness and silence of the snow-shrouded mountains. She was not the type to go looking for trouble, and any amount of shrieking was indicative of a very difficult situation about to arrise. Velma pulled herself into a sidestreet, even as the crowd came hurtling passed her at a run.

Peasants. Really.

She squared her shoulders and turned towards the street from where they'd ran. She didn't go seeking trouble, but really. Nothing was going to be resolved with base panic. She strode solemnly and confidently. This was her town, and she was not going to let it be overrun with panic. Where were the guards? Where was the militia, if there was a problem?

She rounded the corner and blinked.

That wasn't a problem standing there before her. It was a large green and gold thing. Sheltering a young girl covered in burns who looked as if she'd walked the entire mountain in that thin white shirt.

Velma blinked. "Hello," she said carefully.

"We uh, didn't mean to scare everyone," the girl said quietly. "We were looking for a place to rest and thought we saw smoke. We can go if it's a problem."

Velma smiled. "Don't be silly, dear. They're just peasants. They've no thoughts in their heads about when to be afraid and when not to be."

A voice slithered through her head then as the green creature leered down at her. *Oh, they have plenty of reason to be afraid.*

The girl smacked the thing with the back of her hand. "Don't mind him. He just likes to try needling people. Anyway, we don't want to cause a problem, so we'll go if that's--"

"Don't be silly, you poor dear! You've been walking all this way with barely anything to wear! Come inside and warm yourself up," Velma insisted. "I have plenty of room at home for you and your ... companion."

The girl jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Well, thing of it is, we have another friend who's on his way up. He's pulling this cart and--"

"Say no more," Velma said imperiously, holding up a hand, a warm smile on her lips. "I'll have him sent for. Follow."

She swept around, her purple cloak trailing behind her as she walked. The girl and the large green thing followed with a set of bewildered looks all the way to the summit, where her mansion loomed.

Inheriting wealth certainly had its advantages.

Gershwin stood on the plains outside the city. It was banked in by mountains on all sides, distantly visible on the horizon. He'd come down here by way of the hills, and he didn't want to cross anything without a set of good strong horses. But it wouldn't do well to steal horses, not this close to civilization everywhere around. And he hated the charity with which Gleb and Tem were regarding him.

Dawn was breaking as he knelt in the tall grasses all around him. He dropped to his knees, watching the shadows of rogue trees as they stretched out of the blackness, reminiscent of the Hand of Fate. It was the closest he could come to communing with his Lady outside her temple far to the east, far outside his capabilities right now.

He knew he wanted her, needed her right now. He knew.

He was worried. He was so, so worried. Every thought he had was tinged with the shaking, quaking, impossible doubt. He couldn't shake it.

He knew that Feivel was in trouble. He could feel it in his bones. He wasn't dead so far as he could tell, but he had been hurt. Gershwin's own yellowed bruises told that story well enough. The blood still leaked from his ear every morning, proving it better than anything else could possibly hope to tell him.

And there was nothing he could do. His Lady was forcing them to stand alone. Alone! Without Feivel he was lost. He wasn't strong enough for this work she gave them. She expected too much from him.

Feivel could stand on his own. Feivel could navigate his way through the very mouth of the Seven Hells and into Utopia and back if need be. But he... Gershwin wasn't strong enough.

He felt himself floundering, foundering, heaving desperately for life, for survival. He could feel himself drowning and choking and gasping for purpose and ability.

He begged Her for a touch, a simple caress, a simple acknowledgement that he was not as lost has he thought. He sobbed it into the soils, his feathered earrings falling around his ears, jingling bells into his senses. This wasn't right.

Please. PLEASE, he begged.

Tears streaked through the dust that marred his face, and he wiped it away with grubby hands. The weight on his chest poured upwards to his eyes as he wept, hands clawing through the earth, trying to find Her, trying to reach Her.

But his Lady, deaf and dark and silent, lay aloof outside her temple. She lay beyond his reach, or anyone else's.

All he had to go on was one single touch, months ago now, and a basking warmth of approval.

He had to press on. He had to keep steady. He had to find Feivel deep in his own soul, and lean on that until that day when he could find his friend, his brother, once again.

And even as he resolved this, he heard the hooves of horses, felt them through his fingers on the earth. He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up through the dawning rose towards the unmistakeable shadows of Gleb and Tem, both on horseback, surrounded by three Runners cutting through the tall grasses.

He reached deep into himself, and he found a touch of Feivel. He wasn't sure if it was enough, but it would have to be.

For his sake.