Night had fallen at long last.

Tem's staff guided him away from walls and curbstones and sleeping beggars as he swung it gently back and forth.

Tup.

Tup.

Tup.

He heard shuffling steps alongside him, but he saw nothing.

He pushed the fear of the unknown from his heart. If there was any worry to be had, he would know soon enough. There was no point in being paranoid about it. Paranoia only leant him the guise of a crazy old beggar.

He was an old beggar, naturally, but there was absolutely no need to perpetuate a myth that he was crazy.

The shuffling continued, and Tem continued to ignore it until someone grabbed his left arm and pressed a knife to his throat.

"Hold it right there, old man." It was a woman's voice, cool and hard. Tem did as he was told.

"Where do you think you're going with a full pouch of coins?" A man, up ahead. His footsteps sounded heavy as he approached.

"I'm going to find a room," Tem replied honestly. "Why sleep under the sky in a gutter one more night?"

"Why indeed, old man? Hows abouts you share your wealth and we'll leave you enough for a room."

"But I'll need dinner, breakfast, supplies for the road, money for tolls--"

"If you don't pay up, we'll collect your life as toll," the woman hissed.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Then you'd best cooperate, I think."

Tem nodded a little. "Yes, I suppose so." But before he reached his purse, he yanked his arm free of her grip and snapped his pole up, smacking the woman in the face. She staggered back, unevenly; the shuffling noise had to have been her favoring her right leg, for whatever reason.

As the man rushed him, Tem presented the narrower, sensory end of his pole to the man and braced himself. The man caught it, and Tem swung the pole to the left, where the woman was still struggling to her feet. The man tripped over her, but he held tightly to the pole.

Tem had to release his pole, and he backed himself up carefully until he had his back to a building. He felt carefully for obstacles with his toes and splayed fingertips. He couldn't get an accurate feel for things before his assailants were on their feet again.

Gershwin and Feivel stared at each other for a long moment as the sun set. Their horses, the storm grey roan stallion and the blood bay gelding, stared pawed the ground impatiently. Both were equipped with their swords, their bows, and enough food and water to see them half-way to their destination, as befit them as pilgrims of the Hand of Fate. If she chose to take their lives due to starvation, so it would be.

"May she keep you," Gershwin told Feivel, throwing his arms around his friend. "May she keep you in her heart, and may you fall only if she wills it."

"May the wind protect you, brother," Feivel whispered back, their old tribe's prayer for a safe return from battle. "May the earth guide your steps, and may your feathers still shine as brightly when we see you next."

Leaving each other was like willingly cutting off a limb. At length, they stepped away, mounted up, and took the whistles in their teeth. They nodded to one another, then whistled their horses to a run away from the Sanctuary. They surged towards opposite horizons - Feivel to the South, Gershwin to the West - and as they approached them, they whistled towards each other, wishing well and a hope to see each other again.

The only thing stronger than the pain in their hearts at their separation was the trust they had that Fate would sort everything out to suit her desires.

Faline and Quetzalcoatl were asleep. Camphor was still toiling away. He didn't need sleep, and he didn't want it. He had a project, and that was enough to keep the ring silent, for the most part.

Every now and again, he would hear hoofbeats, echoing and distorting themselves through his head. Every now and again, he would hear whispers of voices, far away, as if heard through the open end of a bottle and spoken by someone very small. Every now and again, he would feel the tug of the ring upon his hand.

He chopped the wood incessantly, splitting the logs to use them as planks, tying them tightly and well, stirring the embers of the fire whenever they began to fade, tossing on a log every now and again to be consumed to give him light, and to give Faline and QUetz the warmth they needed.

This would have been so much easier alone. He would have walked for months, never stopping, just running from the tug of the ring. Why it insisted he hook these two along, he had no idea. He didn't want the power and riches and whatever else the ring promised him. He didn't want that, and he didn't need it. He needed an axe and a cart and a forest and people to die, so he could live forever, or until he messed up.

But such, it seemed, for not the first time, was not to be.

The ring demanded the bridge, and Camphor could only guess why, other than to endear himself to this poor girl and her dragon.

He pulled the ropes tightly, the coarse fibers biting into his skin. He would pull them out later, when he was finished. Faline still had his gloves.

The ring flashed brilliantly in the firelight, and Camphor felt the urge to be sick again. He didn't need to eat anything, but every now and again he did, simply for the comfort of it. He didn't need the nourishment. He didn't need the energy. That was given to him by the magic of completing caskets for those who would have them. Faline hadn't raised any questions yet, but one day she would, and probably soon.

Camphor stared angrily at the ring.

Damn you, he thought bitterly. Damn you, and damn me, too, if that's what it takes. I never asked for you.

He hefted the axe with his left hand, braced his right down on the log he was splitting. He could feel the hoofbeats, the voices, the words, echoing through his head. No more than usual, but enough at the right moment that he shut his eyes tightly and swung the axe down hard on his hand.

He bit back the scream of pain as the axe pinned his hand to the log, as blood gushed out of his fingers. He collapsed against it, watching the blood flow between his hand and the log and the axeblade in the firelight. He sobbed quietly, resting his forehead against his hand, and he twitched his fingers of his right hand. He knew it wouldn't work. It never did. His bones would not break until he was no longer a Casketmaker, and he had worked too hard to live a mortal life.

But he did not want the ring.

To lose it was to lose the immortality he wanted so much, the infinite quiet observation of the ages. But he had to lose that to lose the ring.

Catch twenty-two, it seemed. A rock and a hard place.

He would not willingly fail. He would not. And the ring... he was stronger than the ring. He would win out over it. He gritted his teeth and pulled up on his right arm, his left resting lightly on the axe handle to catch it as it was flung out of the log.

He stared for a long time at the blood seeping from his knuckles. He wiped away at it for a moment, seeing where this one lined up with the countless other scars he had from similar episodes. Similar strengthenings of resolve. He would not give up. He was not going to be the puppet for some other force.

He pulled his knife from its sheath and thrust it into the fire. When it heated, he cauterized his wounds and let the pain flood him for the rest of the night. He would block it in the morning, but for right now, he wanted to remember what it was to be a man, and not simply a tool to be honed by forces outside his control.