ALLEN + MOIRINE // sleepwalking
Who: Moirine & Allen
When: Today.
Where: The market, an inn.
Rating & Warnings: PG.
His sleep was fitful. Frequently he was conscious enough to be aware of walking through the marketplace in his dream, but it was almost unrecognizable. He felt bodies bump into him. People pointed at him. Some whispered, some said his name. One had blurted, "The mad priest!", a title which had startled Allen when he realized the man meant him. But after these brief snatches of voices, of light, of footsteps and smells and dust, he would sink back into darkness.
He was in the market again now. It seemed clearer this time; the most vivid dream he'd yet had. He'd walked down the length of butcher's row before it occurred to him that he wasn't asleep. That was the reason for the clarity of everything around him, the volume of the sounds, the solidity of every push and shove from the people milling past him. Allen stopped in his tracks and looked around. It was midday by his guess; the market was packed with people, with carts, with animals braying and clucking and barking. But somehow, it looked off. The apothecary he regularly bought herbs from seemed to have been replaced by a wig shop. The faces of the men and women he recognized as merchants were older than he recalled, more haggard. Everything seemed to have slightly shifted in position, leaving Allen feeling unbalanced, displaced. And how had he even gotten here? He frowned and stepped out of the way of a cart, his eyes following it as he searched his thoughts. Though he tried, he couldn't remember where he'd been last. Logically, it should be simple: he'd woken, dressed, given his sister the customary kiss to her forehead, and gone to the Grounds with Brother Groden... but he couldn't remember doing any of those things. And, he realized with growing confusion, he did not have his satchel with him. His mouth fell open, and he looked around, craning his neck to try and make out if it'd fallen in the dirt as he'd been walking. Perhaps the strap had broken. But no, what was most important was how he'd gotten here. He could not remember leaving the Citadel that morning, even though he must have. All he remembered was walking...
"Sleepwalking," he mumbled to himself suddenly, looking around as his guess seemed more and more likely. It would explain why he didn't remember where he'd been or how he'd gotten here. He'd never gone sleepwalking before, so far as he knew, but one of the other priests had cautioned that he'd been fasting too much of late and risked either fainting or having hallucinations. Sleepwalking seemed to him a likely mixture of the two. How embarrassing. Pursing his lips, Allen looked up and around to place where he was; he could see the white tower of the Citadel to the north, and with a last unsettled glance around the market, began to make his way towards it.
She'd taken to spending more and more time in the marketplace. It left a slight guilt in her gut; Lord Myron had, so far, been very good to her. If Cerys' absence was noted by the rest of the housekeeping staff, he could attest it to the necklace. He'd never know she shirked her chores during the day. At night, she tried to make up for lost time, but she tired so easily nowadays. Once Allen came back... then she'd work twice as hard.
If Allen came back, she corrected, watching as a fishmonger wrapped a pike in paper as oily as it was. Could Ira really be that effective? Nervously, Moirine scratched at her palm. She cared nothing for the jewelry she'd promised him. One day, another maid would find the hollow she'd carved in the bedpost and steal it all. Best to use it for something then let it go to waste. Still, she wasn't about to pay him a fortune just to fail. Moirine had far too much pride to be knowingly played like that.
Her feet ached even as she shifted her weight from side to side. How long would it take for her to know if he was going to return? The better question was, how long would she wait? A month? Two? Even she didn't know how desperate she'd become for something to hold on to.
(Desperate enough to kiss Abel, some spiteful part of her mind suggested.)
Something white caught her eye. It was hard to find anything truly white in the market- everything was dingy and dusty. Her eyes flicked towards it. A boy, or a man; he was in that middling place. As quickly and quietly as she could, she followed him, holding her basket to her belly to keep its contents from rattling. It wasn't him. She wouldn't get her hopes up. But as she saw him stop to stare up at the citadel, her throat began to ache.
"Brother Burrell?" she asked, her voice tight and a little shaky. His back was still to her. Moirine had to keep herself from flinching away when he turned. What if it wasn't him?
What if it was?
He half-turned at the sound of his name and nearly stumbled into a woman carrying a basket of bread. After quickly reaching out to right the basket and apologize to her, he looked back to the girl that had addressed him, flustered. She was young, no older than he was, but although it was clear she recognized him, he couldn't place her. "Yes?" he asked, polite even though he was restless to return to the Citadel. If he'd been gone only for the first half of the day, he doubted his absence would've been noted. He often left in the early hours of the morning. No one needed to know about his sleepwalking. Then again, Allen considered sourly, he was sure that if any of the Initiates had seen him staggering through the market, the story was sure to be well circulated by the time he returned. They resented him for his unusual promotion.
After a brief pause, he wet his lips and glanced again to the Citadel. "Please, sister, tell me your troubles as we walk." I have pressing matters to attend to, he nearly said, but decided at the last moment that it was both impolite and untrue. There was nothing important about how quickly he returned to the Citadel; he merely wanted to be back for the peace of mind it would afford him. He brushed some of his ragged white hair from his eyes, glancing uneasily to a few women at a nearby stall who were staring at him and whispering among themselves. 'The mad priest'. Where had that come from?
It felt as though she couldn't breathe. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps Mari hadn't been right. Maybe she was only comforting herself with an illusion. Then, she heard the women's words and turned to glare hatefully at them.
"Please," she said to Allen, stalling, trying to keep from grinning at him. What had the whore said to get him to return to the inn with her? Moirine faked a wince, picking her leg up off the ground. "That's the trouble, brother. I've hurt my ankle." She moved the basket away from her belly and stared up at him. This was deceitful. It was manipulative and it shouldn't have been the way she greeted him, but she had to get him away from all these people.
"There's an inn, just there," she pointed, "Could you look at my leg? I know you from the Grounds. You treat the injured."
What she was going to do when they got to the inn and it became apparent that she had no room, she had no idea. Still, at least the eating area was more private than the market...
His mouth opened, shut, then opened again as he nodded and murmured an only slightly impatient, "Of course. Here, do you need--" He offered his arm, hunching slightly, unsure of how much he needed to support her. "Do you need help?"
The Citadel could wait long enough for him to see to a twisted ankle. He knew how to treat that much without Brother Groden's guidance. In truth, he suspected he could manage most outings to the Grounds on his own, but he was too wary of seeming overconfident in front of the others.
She'd only sprained her ankle once before, falling down a few of the stone steps leading to her quarters. Moirine tried to remember what it had been like. Tentatively, she hovered her fingers over Allen's arm, her eyes on his hand. Less gnarled, less thin, but... his. When she found the courage to try to touch him, she couldn't help but smile a little. He was solid. He was here.
"Thank you," she said after an inordinately long pause. Then, she began limping slowly towards the inn, sneaking glances up at him when she could. He was still taller than her, but definitely younger than he'd been... Steadier, too. Had Ira managed everything she'd asked for? Moirine grit her teeth when she felt tears coming. She never used to cry. Now it felt like that was all she was capable of. "Thank you."
The quiver in her voice made him look over at her curiously. Was she crying? Was the pain that great, or was she frightened of something? "It's nothing, sister," he said, his voice gentler than before. "I'm happy to help."
When they reached the inn he opened the door and held it for her, trying not to flinch or frown at the way the hum of conversation in the common room lowered to an awed murmur when he stepped inside. He could feel eyes on him. Why? What had he done? Surely the entire city couldn't have seen him sleepwalking, and he'd never attracted so much attention before, not even after his sister had been chosen and named him her priest. Nervously he glanced to the girl. "Can you manage the stairs, sister? I cannot carry you, but I can help..." His eyes drifted down to the unusual curve of her belly, then back up to her face in sudden understanding. No wonder she was frightened; a fall in her state could harm the child. Allen cleared his throat and wound his arm beneath hers, across her back, and nodded towards the stairs. "To the left or right?"
'Sister.' Hearing that word come out of his mouth was too much, even if he didn't mean it the way she wanted him to. Moirine hobbled into the inn, ignoring the hush that settled. They all knew him. Hurriedly, she turned to Allen, trying not to be flustered by how close they were for the first time in what felt like ages. "They boil water in the back. Hot water helps the pain... Would you fetch some? I'll wait here."
She glanced to the innkeeper, who was regarding Allen with disdain. Did he recognize him, or did he simply not care for priests, Moirine couldn't tell.
Allen frowned. "I-- alright." He looked to the innkeeper when she did and flinched at the sneer he received. This was more than strange. He'd never garnered this sort of reaction before, not even within the Citadel. The others disliked him, but their attention wandered, and they rarely whispered right in front of him. These people...
He let his arm slip from his hold around the girl and went to the back of the inn, as she'd instructed. "Hello," he said haltingly, "I- Do you have hot water you could spare? I have a woman, injured." One of the women who'd stopped stirring a thick stew when he came in looked about to say something sour, but another, a large woman with graying hair, simply looked him over and pointed a ladle to a steaming pot beside the stove.
"Take as much as you need, boy," she said with a sniff, "And then get out."
He filled a jug with the steaming water, then nodded and mumbled his thanks to the two women before he hurried out. He'd checked his reflection in the water. There was nothing unusual he could see. He checked too, glancing down, that he was wearing his robes - and there they were, gray, worn, unmarked. Nothing visible that might indicate why the city seemed to be staring at him. Sleepwalking, and now this? The easy explanation would be that he was dreaming still, but Allen knew he wasn't. This was real, all of it, just... bizarre. Perhaps Brother Marlowe had been right. He should fast less.
Once Allen was out of earshot, she leaned over the bar and pulled a few coins from her apron pocket. She'd pay Myron back with whatever money she still had left hidden away. "A room," she asked, "Quickly."
The innkeeper didn't question her. No doubt she'd overpaid, and, well, her suspiciousness was a boon more than anything else. No one in Tyrol held any love for Allen. If she was luring him into some trap, they'd be the better for it. She flushed angrily as the man pushed a key towards her and said, "Last door on the left."
She hopped towards the stairs just in case Allen could see her. What was she going to say? What could she possibly say to lessen the blow, to keep him from going mad all over again? He deserved the truth, or at least some of it. She leaned on the railing, genuinely thankful to rest against something, and waited for him to come back.
"I brought--" he started, then trailed off when he found the girl gone. Where--? He looked to the stairs and smiled faintly in relief and embarrassment. "Water," he said as he stepped up to her level. "Will you be able to take the stairs by yourself, sister?"
The sooner they both got out of sight, the better, he thought, glancing to the hall and the line of doors. The stares from the men in the common room were making him tense, and he didn't want to rush treating this girl's injury or make mistakes as a result. He would go back to the Citadel once he was done, Allen told himself, eat a small meal, perhaps retire early. When he woke all of this would still be strange, but distant. Past. Perhaps even amusing, in time. Just a bit longer, this one obligation, and he could go home and put all of this behind him.
"I think so. Here." She handed him the key. "It's the last room on the left. I'll take my time." She was no actress, no matter how good she was at being Cerys. Cerys was a part of her. Faking a limp while scaling the stairs was too much. She could hardly remember which ankle she was supposed to have injured. Allen couldn't balk now. Moirine felt wretched and elated all at once. He was so easy to deceive... how long would he last in Tyrol like this? She managed a pained smile as she held onto the railing and waited for him to go on without her. "Don't worry, brother. I'll manage a few steps."
Allen hesitated. "If you're certain," he said finally, and took the key. The jug he held against this chest was hot, uncomfortably so, but he wasn't about to complain in the face of this girl's injuries. He walked ahead of her, but not too far, listening and ready in case he heard her stumble. When he reached the door without incident, he unlocked it and palmed the door open. The room was small and simple, little more than a bed and a table with a basin. He set the jug down onto the floor beside the bed and went back to help the girl the rest of the way.
When they were both inside, he shut the door. "Please, sit," he told her gently. "I- I do not have my things with me, but I will tend your foot as best I can. Was it--" He glanced down to her feet, then frowned. Odd. Neither seemed swollen. "The, the right or the left," he mumbled, still looking down at them.
Moirine lowered her eyes, sorry for having tricked him. "Neither," she murmured, slowly slipping the necklace off. Would he still not know her? Older, brown-haired, common... He wouldn't, would he? She took a deep breath and started to pull the pins from her wig. It was a nuisance, but after what had happened with Lord Myron she wasn't taking any chances. "I need to explain some things to you, Allen..."
Cita, how could she ever hope to explain without frightening him? The first few strands of white hair began to tumble down as her fingers kept working.
Neither? Allen looked up, puzzled, and then took a step back when she removed her necklace. Was she- what was she doing? Was she undressing herself? She wasn't injured after all. She'd tricked him. "I want to hear nothing from--" he started angrily, but he faltered. Was that white hair? "From, from you..." he trailed off, his eyes caught by the long white strands that fell free from beneath her wig.
He looked back up to her face. The resemblance was there. The same round cheeks, the bow of her lips, the pale green of her eyes, the shape of them. The more he stared, the more he noticed. And her hair, her hair was white. How was that possible? He rejected the obvious conclusion. His sister was a child of twelve. She was waiting, now, in the Citadel, guarded by her Cancellari. She was not disguised as a woman from the street, pregnant and wearing a wig. This girl... she was his age. He'd held Moirine as a baby. He took another step back. He could make it to the door. He would run, put all of this behind him. The city did not make sense today; when he woke, when he woke everything would be back to normal, he just had to get out now.
"Allen, please," she pleaded. She got to her feet but didn't move towards him. Moirine realized that she hadn't thought this through at all. Before, she'd been so determined to do it that she'd naively believed he'd, well, he'd stay with her. If she'd brought him back just to chase him away again...
Her neck tensed and her voice grew deeper as she repeated, "Please." He couldn't go out there without at least knowing what had happened. He'd be mad by sundown, and not simply because of the whispers of Tyrol. "Just listen to me." Moirine cracked then, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I've been trying to help you."
"I don't know who you are," he lied, "But you will not-- You tricked me. You enticed me here." His sister was waiting in the Citadel. This girl had his sister's face, many years aged, her hair, but it was an impossibility that this was Moirine. There were more reasons than he could count that forbid it from being reality.
Allen took another step back. "It's sacrilegious to bleach your hair. You, you shame Cita trying to disguise yourself so."
"It's me," she pleaded. She couldn't help but approach him now. "Ask me anything. Ask me about your visits when I was still a candidate, how you'd read to me, which stories I liked, what you did to make me laugh, how you kept me from sneaking around the citadel at night. Ask me."
Cerys was the disguise. The fact that she'd frightened Allen by being herself made her want to never wear that horrible wig again. "I can explain everything, but only if you listen. You aren't safe out there." Moirine didn't bother to wipe away the tears, wasn't even aware that she was still crying.
He flinched when she drew near, taking a step back from each of her claims. "No," he said emphatically, his voice trembling. "My sister is in the Citadel. My sister is a child. Get away from me!"
Sleepwalking. Had he really been...? He felt like he was going mad. Finding himself in the middle of the marketplace without any recollection of how he got there, the stares, the whispers, and now this... this impersonator. She was mocking him. Trying to trick him. Why, he didn't know. He had no money, no status, however much the others in the Citadel liked to accuse him of believing the latter. He felt behind him blindly, unwilling to look away from the girl's face. She did resemble his sister, enough to make him uneasy, to make him wonder-- but it wasn't possible. Allen's hand closed on the doorknob and he swallowed, ready to throw it open and run.
"No!"
Moirine rushed forward to press both hands against the door. She'd just say it, she'd make him listen. Staring up at him, her green eyes wide, she spoke quickly, "Six years have passed. You're not in the Tyrol you remember. I'm not in the citadel, I'm right here because I lost my position." She was trying not to let everything come spilling out. Thank Cita she was present enough not to tell him why she lost her position.
"You died, Allen." Moirine searched his face for some hint that he believed her. "You went mad and you- you- That's why they all stare at you and call you 'the mad priest.' I brought you back because I need you, Allen."
Every time she thought she was saving Allen, all she accomplished was causing them both more pain. She'd saved him from Cita, from Hell, and now he was looking at her like she was no one.
He pressed himself flat against the door as much as he could, shoulders hunched, away from her, from her pleading stare and the things she said. He swallowed deeply. None of that could be true. Mad, dead?
"I'm not dead," he argued feebly. His thoughts began to wander, to consider. It explained the stares, the whispers. Why he could not remember where he'd been that morning, what he'd done. Why she had aged so drastically... Allen shut his eyes tightly against acceptance. It could not be true. "You do not have the power to bring the dead to life. Only Cita holds that authority. Do not try to trick me. You--" He faltered when he looked into her eyes. "You do greatly resemble my sister. But you're not speaking sense. I have no money, if that's what you want. And no, no enemies that would kill me. No reason to go mad." Her stare made him swallow, and he found himself unable to look away. How many times had he felt fixed in place by his sister's stare, the innocence in it, the trust? "Prove it," he said softly.
Her eyes moved back and forth quickly as he seemed to let what she'd said sink in. Curling her small hands, she let go of the door. "The Golden Hour ruined Balfour. They brought all the demons of The Epistles to life. And-" she paused, staring down at their feet. Allen's made him look particularly ungainly. "If you say something enough times to enough people, it becomes true."
Moirine was still wearing her cloak, though she'd taken the hood down to show him her hair. Unfastening it, she held the cloak out to Allen. "I'll take you to the citadel, but wear this. Keep the hood up." Sniffling for the first time, she dried her tears with the crook of her arm awkwardly. "You'll see what's happened."
He watched her remove her cloak, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. Brought demons to life? His sensibility warned him of believing too easily the things that she told him, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe a girl who looked so much like his sister to be a liar. He took the cloak she offered and put it on despite his misgivings, frowning down at the fastening as his fingers fumbled with it. He wanted to return to the Citadel regardless. He would go with her and see if there was indeed anything worth seeing. If there wasn't... he would return home and do his best to forget this ever happened.
Allen pulled the hood up and tugged it loose over his face, tucked his hair behind his ears. Even if she was lying, he would rather not be stared at, whispered about. The hood would prevent that. "I do not believe you," he murmured, "But I will go with you. Show me what you wish me to see."
The sun was still high in the sky when they stepped outside, and Allen was grateful that he no longer drew attention. The Citadel, he told himself. Cita's house would hold the answer to his questions.
She walked beside him silently, doing her best not to shiver as snow fell on her shoulders and melted. It wasn't such a long walk, Moirine told herself. and Allen needed the cloak more than she did. No one paid them much attention; they were dressed simply, two parishioners headed for mass. Still, as more and more of the citadel became visible, she worried that someone might see her. If they saw her, they'd see Allen...
"This way," she said quietly, touching his elbow without thinking to lead him off the main street. "We shouldn't get too close."
The alley was made narrower by the snow that had been shoveled into it. The cold cut her to the bone and she couldn't help but wrap her arms around herself. "Through here you c-can- you can see it-" Moirine had come here to watch people go in and out of the citadel many times. She'd spied familiar faces and gripped the side of the brick building, only daring to show her eyes and the top of her head as she watched.
Framed between two shops, the citadel rose, twisted and pitted. Boards and cloth covered the smaller holes, but there were gashes on it so huge that they might take decades to repair. Moirine had seen it enough times to not react. This was what the Hour had left them with.
Allen said nothing for a long time. This was not the building he'd left that morning, or the morning before. It was a corpse. His chest felt hollow, as pitted and crumbling as the Citadel that rose in front of them. How well he'd memorized every window, every ledge, every balcony... he'd seen them all every day since he'd first entered the Citadel as a child of ten. Admired them. Known that every stone had been laid to celebrate Cita's wisdom, Cita's love, Cita's strength. Now those stones lay scattered around the courtyard. Rubble.
He swallowed slowly, unable to find his voice for a long moment. He'd died. He'd gone mad. "Tell me everything," he said hoarsely, turning to look at his sister's face. There were tears in his eyes. "But not here. I can't look at it." His sister. Brown hair. Lost her position. Pregnant. These thoughts spun in his head, restless and unanswerable. They were true, all of them, but he couldn't find the strength to examine them, accept them. Not yet. He lifted the heavy folds of his cloak to wrap his arm around his sister's shoulders so that they shared its cover, eyes downturned as he waited for her to lead them. Did she have a home? Was it the Inn? Had she returned to live with their parents? Guessing exhausted him, and he hadn't the strength to ask. He felt numb.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. It was almost cruel to show him this, but... she knew her brother. He would have gone to the citadel anyway. He would have broken all over again without any warning as to what had happened to his home. Nodding, Moirine started to walk, then was surprised to find an arm around her shoulders. She closed her eyes a moment. "Back to the inn, then."
Again, they walked in silence, now solemn instead of tense. It wasn't any better. Once they reached the inn, she stepped out of his hold and began climbing the steps, holding her wet skirt high enough to avoid tripping on it. Once inside, she faced him, ignoring how cold she was, how the snow-covered wig was bound to make her catch a chill.
I can't tell you everything, she thought. A silent admission was better than none at all.
"You've never taken very good care of yourself..." she started, avoiding the bed, her gloved fingers twining together, "When the Hour created Belief, everything people said about you, it started coming true. You weren't mad before." She'd never doubted that. "They said things about us. That we were too close."
It was no time to be looking out windows or her feet. Moirine stared up at Allen. "They drove you mad. Then, I got sick. I said things-" She had to stop. It was her fault, no one could ever convince her otherwise. "I foretold Cita's coming. Everyone repeated it. Enough people believed that He was come. We thought He'd appeared to us."
Moirine squinted up at Allen, trying to figure out if any of this was making sense. Perhaps it was too much all at once. She wanted so badly to take him in her arms and console him, but... that would be too much.
He watched her from beneath the hood, unwilling to take it off. His sister should not see her older brother cry. Was he still her elder? It didn't matter, Allen told himself. No matter what had happened, that would always remain. She would always be his little sister, and he always her protector. It was his duty. It was surprisingly easy to give up the notion that this girl was an impostor the more she spoke. Even if he hadn't seen the Citadel, he wondered how long he could've doubted her. He started to recognize her gestures, the cadence of her speech, the small changes in her expression that he'd learned to read so well. Moirine, as a woman. He was far too tired to fight the idea. Sleepwalking, he'd thought.
"Cita came?" he repeated, expression slack and weary. Had the Citadel's destruction been their punishment from an angry god? Had he forsaken them all? Why else would their sanctuary, their house of worship, be so thoroughly broken? And he'd been mad. Had he even been able to recognize his god? Numbly, Allen sat on the edge of the bed, swallowing when the mattress dipped with a creak. When he woke, would all of this be gone?
It broke her heart to see him like this. She kept telling herself that she'd saved him from Hell, but hadn't he said that remaining in this world would be a hell of its own? Was it better that he could touch his son and never know it was his, to worship Cita but know he had no place in His house, to exist but as someone else? What had she done?
Moirine knelt before Allen, as he'd done so many times with her. "No," she said. "It was a demon. We call them Others. The Hour creates them. We thought it was Cita and it ruined everything..."
"I was afraid. I didn't want to be its bride. So I made you run with me. Only you loved Cita so much that you went back." Moirine's hands trembled slightly, so she balled them into fists. Even though she was talking to Allen now, it hurt to recall everything. The Allen who had shared so many memories with her was still dead, but if he had a chance of... something, a life unencumbered by all his terrible guilt, he deserved it. "Tyrol made you mad. You wanted to die. You confessed to crimes you'd never committed so that- so that it would kill you. And it did."
He balked when she knelt. The Occia should not kneel, he nearly said, then remembered better. She was the Occia no longer. The more he heard of her story, of his story, the more he wondered when it had all begun to go wrong. The Hour had always been a sinful place, but he had never heard of these Others, of Belief. They had created a doppleganger of Cita, enough to fool the Civitates? How? How much power did they wield?
"I don't understand," he said hesitantly, hands drawing into fists that he held at his chest. He wanted to tell her to stand, or to get away from him, or to back away from her, but he couldn't. "You- You say you brought me back from the dead. That all of these, these horrible things happened. Why don't I remember them? The last I saw you, you were twelve..." Even if he had truly died and returned to life, why would only the last few years be gone from his memory? And died, died by the hand of a creature he believed to be Cita. He felt ill. Allen turned his head slightly, just enough to see the window around the edge of his hood. The Citadel gleamed white in the distance. From this far away, it still looked almost whole... He felt his throat tighten. It was broken now, and his sister had lost everything. Small wonder he had gone mad, that he had begged for death...
"I told everyone that I'd seen you, that you were," this still stung, but Moirine couldn't help but smile a little, "How I remembered you, before everything went wrong. You raised me, Allen. You taught me The Epistles, but... you didn't want me to learn anything else. You chased away everyone I tried to befriend..." He'd made it so that she had no idea how to even have a friend. Moirine shook her head. "I don't blame you." Not for this. "But I've no one else."
How pathetic she must look to him now. Brown-haired, pregnant, whining to him on the floor of a musty old inn. What a disappointment.
She covered her stomach. When the baby came, Moirine knew that she wouldn't be able to manage. Everyone else saw that, even Allen. They all told her to get rid of him, but she simply couldn't. "You didn't deserve what happened to you..." she lied.
Don't think of all those little girls.
He looked back to her, throat tense as he fought down his guilt. Already, before all the events she spoke of, he'd done that. What reason did she have to learn how to cook, how to sew? Cita's wife had no need for such things. If he'd known... but how could he? And to even suggest to her that she ought to learn those things... it would be an insult, a damning implication. He could never let her believe that she was anything less than perfect, anything other than what Cita wanted.
He knelt down to her level, his eyes filled with tears again. "I'm sorry," he grated out thickly. He shook his head slowly. "I'm so sorry. I- I never meant to--..." Hesitantly, he reached out to take her shoulders, then reconsidered at the last moment and took her hands instead. They were cold in his grasp. "And the baby?"
She went stock still as he knelt beside her. Only an hour ago he was calling her a liar. She'd been so sure that he was going to leave. Somehow, so long as he knew what he had to do to stay alive, Moirine would have been able to go on without him. Now he was holding her hands. Bowing her head, she hid herself behind her hair. Not even her hair...
"Don't leave me again," she choked out. Jude was... Jude was a subject she couldn't even discuss without fear of telling him too much. Nothing about their relationship had ever seemed unnatural to her. She balked at times for fear of rumors, but when they'd been alone, she hadn't felt any remorse. Allen had. She could never tell him. Leaning forward, she placed her head on his shoulder. "Please."
It wasn't an answer, but he wouldn't press. Telling him these things - they would hurt her too. Allen embraced his sister tightly, tucking his chin against her back. How strange it was that she was so large in his arms now, so solid. The Moirine he remembered was still small enough that she'd stood on his feet when they danced, small enough to fall asleep in his lap when he read to her. She was a woman now, grown, with a child of her own growing inside her.
Gently, he pulled back to catch her eyes. How long would it be, he wondered, before he was used to seeing her this way? He would stare for weeks. "I will do whatever you ask of me, Moirine. I swear it. I won't leave you. But I..." His eyes drifted down again. "I need time alone to think. Please. Do you live-- Do you live here? Or is there somewhere...?"
Wrapping her arms around him, she returned the hug. It felt as though her chest was ready to burst. Was she happy or was she sad? Moirine couldn't tell the difference at this point and so clung to him tighter. When Allen pulled away, she listened, then nodded slightly. "Here." She handed him the key. "I've a room in a lord's home."
Of course he needed time. Still, she couldn't find it in herself to trust him. He'd told her before that he'd never leave her. As Moirine climbed slowly to her feet, her thighs and back aching with the effort, she looked down at him. "Don't leave the room without the cloak. I'll come again tomorrow night, if you don't mind. I'll see to your hair."
Lingering by the doorway, she wondered if he'd even be here tomorrow. If he fled now... she couldn't try to bring him back again. She'd know for certain he'd never wanted to be with her. "Eat something. And try to sleep." Moirine forced a small smile.
He pocketed the key and nodded, though his eyebrows pinched together. A room in a Lord's home? Was it a Lord that had fathered her child? He felt a surge of fury in his chest and took a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn't make himself angry over something he didn't know was true. There were too many other things to think on, to understand, to accept.
Allen stood slowly, grateful at least that he was still the taller of the two of them. It gave him some semblance of balance, of familiarity. "My hair?" Did she mean to cut it? He paled. If it was as she said... he didn't want to be recognized, to be stared at, but his hair... He was not a handsome man, and took pride in few things. The white hair Cita had gifted him with was one of them. "I'll--... I'll be here. I may go to the Citadel for mass, but I will wear the cloak."
His hair had always been a point of pride- one of the few Allen had. Moirine nodded, her lips pursed in a tight line. Even as stable as he seemed now, she couldn't imagine getting through tomorrow without a tantrum. She'd be patient with him... Opening the door, she started to slip out. It was so hard to take her eyes off him. "Alright. Til then."
Moirine forced herself to close the door behind her, then pulled the necklace back on. He was here. He was real. Funny how bringing him back now seemed to be the easy part. Keeping him alive would be much harder.
When: Today.
Where: The market, an inn.
Rating & Warnings: PG.
His sleep was fitful. Frequently he was conscious enough to be aware of walking through the marketplace in his dream, but it was almost unrecognizable. He felt bodies bump into him. People pointed at him. Some whispered, some said his name. One had blurted, "The mad priest!", a title which had startled Allen when he realized the man meant him. But after these brief snatches of voices, of light, of footsteps and smells and dust, he would sink back into darkness.
He was in the market again now. It seemed clearer this time; the most vivid dream he'd yet had. He'd walked down the length of butcher's row before it occurred to him that he wasn't asleep. That was the reason for the clarity of everything around him, the volume of the sounds, the solidity of every push and shove from the people milling past him. Allen stopped in his tracks and looked around. It was midday by his guess; the market was packed with people, with carts, with animals braying and clucking and barking. But somehow, it looked off. The apothecary he regularly bought herbs from seemed to have been replaced by a wig shop. The faces of the men and women he recognized as merchants were older than he recalled, more haggard. Everything seemed to have slightly shifted in position, leaving Allen feeling unbalanced, displaced. And how had he even gotten here? He frowned and stepped out of the way of a cart, his eyes following it as he searched his thoughts. Though he tried, he couldn't remember where he'd been last. Logically, it should be simple: he'd woken, dressed, given his sister the customary kiss to her forehead, and gone to the Grounds with Brother Groden... but he couldn't remember doing any of those things. And, he realized with growing confusion, he did not have his satchel with him. His mouth fell open, and he looked around, craning his neck to try and make out if it'd fallen in the dirt as he'd been walking. Perhaps the strap had broken. But no, what was most important was how he'd gotten here. He could not remember leaving the Citadel that morning, even though he must have. All he remembered was walking...
"Sleepwalking," he mumbled to himself suddenly, looking around as his guess seemed more and more likely. It would explain why he didn't remember where he'd been or how he'd gotten here. He'd never gone sleepwalking before, so far as he knew, but one of the other priests had cautioned that he'd been fasting too much of late and risked either fainting or having hallucinations. Sleepwalking seemed to him a likely mixture of the two. How embarrassing. Pursing his lips, Allen looked up and around to place where he was; he could see the white tower of the Citadel to the north, and with a last unsettled glance around the market, began to make his way towards it.
She'd taken to spending more and more time in the marketplace. It left a slight guilt in her gut; Lord Myron had, so far, been very good to her. If Cerys' absence was noted by the rest of the housekeeping staff, he could attest it to the necklace. He'd never know she shirked her chores during the day. At night, she tried to make up for lost time, but she tired so easily nowadays. Once Allen came back... then she'd work twice as hard.
If Allen came back, she corrected, watching as a fishmonger wrapped a pike in paper as oily as it was. Could Ira really be that effective? Nervously, Moirine scratched at her palm. She cared nothing for the jewelry she'd promised him. One day, another maid would find the hollow she'd carved in the bedpost and steal it all. Best to use it for something then let it go to waste. Still, she wasn't about to pay him a fortune just to fail. Moirine had far too much pride to be knowingly played like that.
Her feet ached even as she shifted her weight from side to side. How long would it take for her to know if he was going to return? The better question was, how long would she wait? A month? Two? Even she didn't know how desperate she'd become for something to hold on to.
(Desperate enough to kiss Abel, some spiteful part of her mind suggested.)
Something white caught her eye. It was hard to find anything truly white in the market- everything was dingy and dusty. Her eyes flicked towards it. A boy, or a man; he was in that middling place. As quickly and quietly as she could, she followed him, holding her basket to her belly to keep its contents from rattling. It wasn't him. She wouldn't get her hopes up. But as she saw him stop to stare up at the citadel, her throat began to ache.
"Brother Burrell?" she asked, her voice tight and a little shaky. His back was still to her. Moirine had to keep herself from flinching away when he turned. What if it wasn't him?
What if it was?
He half-turned at the sound of his name and nearly stumbled into a woman carrying a basket of bread. After quickly reaching out to right the basket and apologize to her, he looked back to the girl that had addressed him, flustered. She was young, no older than he was, but although it was clear she recognized him, he couldn't place her. "Yes?" he asked, polite even though he was restless to return to the Citadel. If he'd been gone only for the first half of the day, he doubted his absence would've been noted. He often left in the early hours of the morning. No one needed to know about his sleepwalking. Then again, Allen considered sourly, he was sure that if any of the Initiates had seen him staggering through the market, the story was sure to be well circulated by the time he returned. They resented him for his unusual promotion.
After a brief pause, he wet his lips and glanced again to the Citadel. "Please, sister, tell me your troubles as we walk." I have pressing matters to attend to, he nearly said, but decided at the last moment that it was both impolite and untrue. There was nothing important about how quickly he returned to the Citadel; he merely wanted to be back for the peace of mind it would afford him. He brushed some of his ragged white hair from his eyes, glancing uneasily to a few women at a nearby stall who were staring at him and whispering among themselves. 'The mad priest'. Where had that come from?
It felt as though she couldn't breathe. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps Mari hadn't been right. Maybe she was only comforting herself with an illusion. Then, she heard the women's words and turned to glare hatefully at them.
"Please," she said to Allen, stalling, trying to keep from grinning at him. What had the whore said to get him to return to the inn with her? Moirine faked a wince, picking her leg up off the ground. "That's the trouble, brother. I've hurt my ankle." She moved the basket away from her belly and stared up at him. This was deceitful. It was manipulative and it shouldn't have been the way she greeted him, but she had to get him away from all these people.
"There's an inn, just there," she pointed, "Could you look at my leg? I know you from the Grounds. You treat the injured."
What she was going to do when they got to the inn and it became apparent that she had no room, she had no idea. Still, at least the eating area was more private than the market...
His mouth opened, shut, then opened again as he nodded and murmured an only slightly impatient, "Of course. Here, do you need--" He offered his arm, hunching slightly, unsure of how much he needed to support her. "Do you need help?"
The Citadel could wait long enough for him to see to a twisted ankle. He knew how to treat that much without Brother Groden's guidance. In truth, he suspected he could manage most outings to the Grounds on his own, but he was too wary of seeming overconfident in front of the others.
She'd only sprained her ankle once before, falling down a few of the stone steps leading to her quarters. Moirine tried to remember what it had been like. Tentatively, she hovered her fingers over Allen's arm, her eyes on his hand. Less gnarled, less thin, but... his. When she found the courage to try to touch him, she couldn't help but smile a little. He was solid. He was here.
"Thank you," she said after an inordinately long pause. Then, she began limping slowly towards the inn, sneaking glances up at him when she could. He was still taller than her, but definitely younger than he'd been... Steadier, too. Had Ira managed everything she'd asked for? Moirine grit her teeth when she felt tears coming. She never used to cry. Now it felt like that was all she was capable of. "Thank you."
The quiver in her voice made him look over at her curiously. Was she crying? Was the pain that great, or was she frightened of something? "It's nothing, sister," he said, his voice gentler than before. "I'm happy to help."
When they reached the inn he opened the door and held it for her, trying not to flinch or frown at the way the hum of conversation in the common room lowered to an awed murmur when he stepped inside. He could feel eyes on him. Why? What had he done? Surely the entire city couldn't have seen him sleepwalking, and he'd never attracted so much attention before, not even after his sister had been chosen and named him her priest. Nervously he glanced to the girl. "Can you manage the stairs, sister? I cannot carry you, but I can help..." His eyes drifted down to the unusual curve of her belly, then back up to her face in sudden understanding. No wonder she was frightened; a fall in her state could harm the child. Allen cleared his throat and wound his arm beneath hers, across her back, and nodded towards the stairs. "To the left or right?"
'Sister.' Hearing that word come out of his mouth was too much, even if he didn't mean it the way she wanted him to. Moirine hobbled into the inn, ignoring the hush that settled. They all knew him. Hurriedly, she turned to Allen, trying not to be flustered by how close they were for the first time in what felt like ages. "They boil water in the back. Hot water helps the pain... Would you fetch some? I'll wait here."
She glanced to the innkeeper, who was regarding Allen with disdain. Did he recognize him, or did he simply not care for priests, Moirine couldn't tell.
Allen frowned. "I-- alright." He looked to the innkeeper when she did and flinched at the sneer he received. This was more than strange. He'd never garnered this sort of reaction before, not even within the Citadel. The others disliked him, but their attention wandered, and they rarely whispered right in front of him. These people...
He let his arm slip from his hold around the girl and went to the back of the inn, as she'd instructed. "Hello," he said haltingly, "I- Do you have hot water you could spare? I have a woman, injured." One of the women who'd stopped stirring a thick stew when he came in looked about to say something sour, but another, a large woman with graying hair, simply looked him over and pointed a ladle to a steaming pot beside the stove.
"Take as much as you need, boy," she said with a sniff, "And then get out."
He filled a jug with the steaming water, then nodded and mumbled his thanks to the two women before he hurried out. He'd checked his reflection in the water. There was nothing unusual he could see. He checked too, glancing down, that he was wearing his robes - and there they were, gray, worn, unmarked. Nothing visible that might indicate why the city seemed to be staring at him. Sleepwalking, and now this? The easy explanation would be that he was dreaming still, but Allen knew he wasn't. This was real, all of it, just... bizarre. Perhaps Brother Marlowe had been right. He should fast less.
Once Allen was out of earshot, she leaned over the bar and pulled a few coins from her apron pocket. She'd pay Myron back with whatever money she still had left hidden away. "A room," she asked, "Quickly."
The innkeeper didn't question her. No doubt she'd overpaid, and, well, her suspiciousness was a boon more than anything else. No one in Tyrol held any love for Allen. If she was luring him into some trap, they'd be the better for it. She flushed angrily as the man pushed a key towards her and said, "Last door on the left."
She hopped towards the stairs just in case Allen could see her. What was she going to say? What could she possibly say to lessen the blow, to keep him from going mad all over again? He deserved the truth, or at least some of it. She leaned on the railing, genuinely thankful to rest against something, and waited for him to come back.
"I brought--" he started, then trailed off when he found the girl gone. Where--? He looked to the stairs and smiled faintly in relief and embarrassment. "Water," he said as he stepped up to her level. "Will you be able to take the stairs by yourself, sister?"
The sooner they both got out of sight, the better, he thought, glancing to the hall and the line of doors. The stares from the men in the common room were making him tense, and he didn't want to rush treating this girl's injury or make mistakes as a result. He would go back to the Citadel once he was done, Allen told himself, eat a small meal, perhaps retire early. When he woke all of this would still be strange, but distant. Past. Perhaps even amusing, in time. Just a bit longer, this one obligation, and he could go home and put all of this behind him.
"I think so. Here." She handed him the key. "It's the last room on the left. I'll take my time." She was no actress, no matter how good she was at being Cerys. Cerys was a part of her. Faking a limp while scaling the stairs was too much. She could hardly remember which ankle she was supposed to have injured. Allen couldn't balk now. Moirine felt wretched and elated all at once. He was so easy to deceive... how long would he last in Tyrol like this? She managed a pained smile as she held onto the railing and waited for him to go on without her. "Don't worry, brother. I'll manage a few steps."
Allen hesitated. "If you're certain," he said finally, and took the key. The jug he held against this chest was hot, uncomfortably so, but he wasn't about to complain in the face of this girl's injuries. He walked ahead of her, but not too far, listening and ready in case he heard her stumble. When he reached the door without incident, he unlocked it and palmed the door open. The room was small and simple, little more than a bed and a table with a basin. He set the jug down onto the floor beside the bed and went back to help the girl the rest of the way.
When they were both inside, he shut the door. "Please, sit," he told her gently. "I- I do not have my things with me, but I will tend your foot as best I can. Was it--" He glanced down to her feet, then frowned. Odd. Neither seemed swollen. "The, the right or the left," he mumbled, still looking down at them.
Moirine lowered her eyes, sorry for having tricked him. "Neither," she murmured, slowly slipping the necklace off. Would he still not know her? Older, brown-haired, common... He wouldn't, would he? She took a deep breath and started to pull the pins from her wig. It was a nuisance, but after what had happened with Lord Myron she wasn't taking any chances. "I need to explain some things to you, Allen..."
Cita, how could she ever hope to explain without frightening him? The first few strands of white hair began to tumble down as her fingers kept working.
Neither? Allen looked up, puzzled, and then took a step back when she removed her necklace. Was she- what was she doing? Was she undressing herself? She wasn't injured after all. She'd tricked him. "I want to hear nothing from--" he started angrily, but he faltered. Was that white hair? "From, from you..." he trailed off, his eyes caught by the long white strands that fell free from beneath her wig.
He looked back up to her face. The resemblance was there. The same round cheeks, the bow of her lips, the pale green of her eyes, the shape of them. The more he stared, the more he noticed. And her hair, her hair was white. How was that possible? He rejected the obvious conclusion. His sister was a child of twelve. She was waiting, now, in the Citadel, guarded by her Cancellari. She was not disguised as a woman from the street, pregnant and wearing a wig. This girl... she was his age. He'd held Moirine as a baby. He took another step back. He could make it to the door. He would run, put all of this behind him. The city did not make sense today; when he woke, when he woke everything would be back to normal, he just had to get out now.
"Allen, please," she pleaded. She got to her feet but didn't move towards him. Moirine realized that she hadn't thought this through at all. Before, she'd been so determined to do it that she'd naively believed he'd, well, he'd stay with her. If she'd brought him back just to chase him away again...
Her neck tensed and her voice grew deeper as she repeated, "Please." He couldn't go out there without at least knowing what had happened. He'd be mad by sundown, and not simply because of the whispers of Tyrol. "Just listen to me." Moirine cracked then, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I've been trying to help you."
"I don't know who you are," he lied, "But you will not-- You tricked me. You enticed me here." His sister was waiting in the Citadel. This girl had his sister's face, many years aged, her hair, but it was an impossibility that this was Moirine. There were more reasons than he could count that forbid it from being reality.
Allen took another step back. "It's sacrilegious to bleach your hair. You, you shame Cita trying to disguise yourself so."
"It's me," she pleaded. She couldn't help but approach him now. "Ask me anything. Ask me about your visits when I was still a candidate, how you'd read to me, which stories I liked, what you did to make me laugh, how you kept me from sneaking around the citadel at night. Ask me."
Cerys was the disguise. The fact that she'd frightened Allen by being herself made her want to never wear that horrible wig again. "I can explain everything, but only if you listen. You aren't safe out there." Moirine didn't bother to wipe away the tears, wasn't even aware that she was still crying.
He flinched when she drew near, taking a step back from each of her claims. "No," he said emphatically, his voice trembling. "My sister is in the Citadel. My sister is a child. Get away from me!"
Sleepwalking. Had he really been...? He felt like he was going mad. Finding himself in the middle of the marketplace without any recollection of how he got there, the stares, the whispers, and now this... this impersonator. She was mocking him. Trying to trick him. Why, he didn't know. He had no money, no status, however much the others in the Citadel liked to accuse him of believing the latter. He felt behind him blindly, unwilling to look away from the girl's face. She did resemble his sister, enough to make him uneasy, to make him wonder-- but it wasn't possible. Allen's hand closed on the doorknob and he swallowed, ready to throw it open and run.
"No!"
Moirine rushed forward to press both hands against the door. She'd just say it, she'd make him listen. Staring up at him, her green eyes wide, she spoke quickly, "Six years have passed. You're not in the Tyrol you remember. I'm not in the citadel, I'm right here because I lost my position." She was trying not to let everything come spilling out. Thank Cita she was present enough not to tell him why she lost her position.
"You died, Allen." Moirine searched his face for some hint that he believed her. "You went mad and you- you- That's why they all stare at you and call you 'the mad priest.' I brought you back because I need you, Allen."
Every time she thought she was saving Allen, all she accomplished was causing them both more pain. She'd saved him from Cita, from Hell, and now he was looking at her like she was no one.
He pressed himself flat against the door as much as he could, shoulders hunched, away from her, from her pleading stare and the things she said. He swallowed deeply. None of that could be true. Mad, dead?
"I'm not dead," he argued feebly. His thoughts began to wander, to consider. It explained the stares, the whispers. Why he could not remember where he'd been that morning, what he'd done. Why she had aged so drastically... Allen shut his eyes tightly against acceptance. It could not be true. "You do not have the power to bring the dead to life. Only Cita holds that authority. Do not try to trick me. You--" He faltered when he looked into her eyes. "You do greatly resemble my sister. But you're not speaking sense. I have no money, if that's what you want. And no, no enemies that would kill me. No reason to go mad." Her stare made him swallow, and he found himself unable to look away. How many times had he felt fixed in place by his sister's stare, the innocence in it, the trust? "Prove it," he said softly.
Her eyes moved back and forth quickly as he seemed to let what she'd said sink in. Curling her small hands, she let go of the door. "The Golden Hour ruined Balfour. They brought all the demons of The Epistles to life. And-" she paused, staring down at their feet. Allen's made him look particularly ungainly. "If you say something enough times to enough people, it becomes true."
Moirine was still wearing her cloak, though she'd taken the hood down to show him her hair. Unfastening it, she held the cloak out to Allen. "I'll take you to the citadel, but wear this. Keep the hood up." Sniffling for the first time, she dried her tears with the crook of her arm awkwardly. "You'll see what's happened."
He watched her remove her cloak, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. Brought demons to life? His sensibility warned him of believing too easily the things that she told him, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe a girl who looked so much like his sister to be a liar. He took the cloak she offered and put it on despite his misgivings, frowning down at the fastening as his fingers fumbled with it. He wanted to return to the Citadel regardless. He would go with her and see if there was indeed anything worth seeing. If there wasn't... he would return home and do his best to forget this ever happened.
Allen pulled the hood up and tugged it loose over his face, tucked his hair behind his ears. Even if she was lying, he would rather not be stared at, whispered about. The hood would prevent that. "I do not believe you," he murmured, "But I will go with you. Show me what you wish me to see."
The sun was still high in the sky when they stepped outside, and Allen was grateful that he no longer drew attention. The Citadel, he told himself. Cita's house would hold the answer to his questions.
She walked beside him silently, doing her best not to shiver as snow fell on her shoulders and melted. It wasn't such a long walk, Moirine told herself. and Allen needed the cloak more than she did. No one paid them much attention; they were dressed simply, two parishioners headed for mass. Still, as more and more of the citadel became visible, she worried that someone might see her. If they saw her, they'd see Allen...
"This way," she said quietly, touching his elbow without thinking to lead him off the main street. "We shouldn't get too close."
The alley was made narrower by the snow that had been shoveled into it. The cold cut her to the bone and she couldn't help but wrap her arms around herself. "Through here you c-can- you can see it-" Moirine had come here to watch people go in and out of the citadel many times. She'd spied familiar faces and gripped the side of the brick building, only daring to show her eyes and the top of her head as she watched.
Framed between two shops, the citadel rose, twisted and pitted. Boards and cloth covered the smaller holes, but there were gashes on it so huge that they might take decades to repair. Moirine had seen it enough times to not react. This was what the Hour had left them with.
Allen said nothing for a long time. This was not the building he'd left that morning, or the morning before. It was a corpse. His chest felt hollow, as pitted and crumbling as the Citadel that rose in front of them. How well he'd memorized every window, every ledge, every balcony... he'd seen them all every day since he'd first entered the Citadel as a child of ten. Admired them. Known that every stone had been laid to celebrate Cita's wisdom, Cita's love, Cita's strength. Now those stones lay scattered around the courtyard. Rubble.
He swallowed slowly, unable to find his voice for a long moment. He'd died. He'd gone mad. "Tell me everything," he said hoarsely, turning to look at his sister's face. There were tears in his eyes. "But not here. I can't look at it." His sister. Brown hair. Lost her position. Pregnant. These thoughts spun in his head, restless and unanswerable. They were true, all of them, but he couldn't find the strength to examine them, accept them. Not yet. He lifted the heavy folds of his cloak to wrap his arm around his sister's shoulders so that they shared its cover, eyes downturned as he waited for her to lead them. Did she have a home? Was it the Inn? Had she returned to live with their parents? Guessing exhausted him, and he hadn't the strength to ask. He felt numb.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. It was almost cruel to show him this, but... she knew her brother. He would have gone to the citadel anyway. He would have broken all over again without any warning as to what had happened to his home. Nodding, Moirine started to walk, then was surprised to find an arm around her shoulders. She closed her eyes a moment. "Back to the inn, then."
Again, they walked in silence, now solemn instead of tense. It wasn't any better. Once they reached the inn, she stepped out of his hold and began climbing the steps, holding her wet skirt high enough to avoid tripping on it. Once inside, she faced him, ignoring how cold she was, how the snow-covered wig was bound to make her catch a chill.
I can't tell you everything, she thought. A silent admission was better than none at all.
"You've never taken very good care of yourself..." she started, avoiding the bed, her gloved fingers twining together, "When the Hour created Belief, everything people said about you, it started coming true. You weren't mad before." She'd never doubted that. "They said things about us. That we were too close."
It was no time to be looking out windows or her feet. Moirine stared up at Allen. "They drove you mad. Then, I got sick. I said things-" She had to stop. It was her fault, no one could ever convince her otherwise. "I foretold Cita's coming. Everyone repeated it. Enough people believed that He was come. We thought He'd appeared to us."
Moirine squinted up at Allen, trying to figure out if any of this was making sense. Perhaps it was too much all at once. She wanted so badly to take him in her arms and console him, but... that would be too much.
He watched her from beneath the hood, unwilling to take it off. His sister should not see her older brother cry. Was he still her elder? It didn't matter, Allen told himself. No matter what had happened, that would always remain. She would always be his little sister, and he always her protector. It was his duty. It was surprisingly easy to give up the notion that this girl was an impostor the more she spoke. Even if he hadn't seen the Citadel, he wondered how long he could've doubted her. He started to recognize her gestures, the cadence of her speech, the small changes in her expression that he'd learned to read so well. Moirine, as a woman. He was far too tired to fight the idea. Sleepwalking, he'd thought.
"Cita came?" he repeated, expression slack and weary. Had the Citadel's destruction been their punishment from an angry god? Had he forsaken them all? Why else would their sanctuary, their house of worship, be so thoroughly broken? And he'd been mad. Had he even been able to recognize his god? Numbly, Allen sat on the edge of the bed, swallowing when the mattress dipped with a creak. When he woke, would all of this be gone?
It broke her heart to see him like this. She kept telling herself that she'd saved him from Hell, but hadn't he said that remaining in this world would be a hell of its own? Was it better that he could touch his son and never know it was his, to worship Cita but know he had no place in His house, to exist but as someone else? What had she done?
Moirine knelt before Allen, as he'd done so many times with her. "No," she said. "It was a demon. We call them Others. The Hour creates them. We thought it was Cita and it ruined everything..."
"I was afraid. I didn't want to be its bride. So I made you run with me. Only you loved Cita so much that you went back." Moirine's hands trembled slightly, so she balled them into fists. Even though she was talking to Allen now, it hurt to recall everything. The Allen who had shared so many memories with her was still dead, but if he had a chance of... something, a life unencumbered by all his terrible guilt, he deserved it. "Tyrol made you mad. You wanted to die. You confessed to crimes you'd never committed so that- so that it would kill you. And it did."
He balked when she knelt. The Occia should not kneel, he nearly said, then remembered better. She was the Occia no longer. The more he heard of her story, of his story, the more he wondered when it had all begun to go wrong. The Hour had always been a sinful place, but he had never heard of these Others, of Belief. They had created a doppleganger of Cita, enough to fool the Civitates? How? How much power did they wield?
"I don't understand," he said hesitantly, hands drawing into fists that he held at his chest. He wanted to tell her to stand, or to get away from him, or to back away from her, but he couldn't. "You- You say you brought me back from the dead. That all of these, these horrible things happened. Why don't I remember them? The last I saw you, you were twelve..." Even if he had truly died and returned to life, why would only the last few years be gone from his memory? And died, died by the hand of a creature he believed to be Cita. He felt ill. Allen turned his head slightly, just enough to see the window around the edge of his hood. The Citadel gleamed white in the distance. From this far away, it still looked almost whole... He felt his throat tighten. It was broken now, and his sister had lost everything. Small wonder he had gone mad, that he had begged for death...
"I told everyone that I'd seen you, that you were," this still stung, but Moirine couldn't help but smile a little, "How I remembered you, before everything went wrong. You raised me, Allen. You taught me The Epistles, but... you didn't want me to learn anything else. You chased away everyone I tried to befriend..." He'd made it so that she had no idea how to even have a friend. Moirine shook her head. "I don't blame you." Not for this. "But I've no one else."
How pathetic she must look to him now. Brown-haired, pregnant, whining to him on the floor of a musty old inn. What a disappointment.
She covered her stomach. When the baby came, Moirine knew that she wouldn't be able to manage. Everyone else saw that, even Allen. They all told her to get rid of him, but she simply couldn't. "You didn't deserve what happened to you..." she lied.
Don't think of all those little girls.
He looked back to her, throat tense as he fought down his guilt. Already, before all the events she spoke of, he'd done that. What reason did she have to learn how to cook, how to sew? Cita's wife had no need for such things. If he'd known... but how could he? And to even suggest to her that she ought to learn those things... it would be an insult, a damning implication. He could never let her believe that she was anything less than perfect, anything other than what Cita wanted.
He knelt down to her level, his eyes filled with tears again. "I'm sorry," he grated out thickly. He shook his head slowly. "I'm so sorry. I- I never meant to--..." Hesitantly, he reached out to take her shoulders, then reconsidered at the last moment and took her hands instead. They were cold in his grasp. "And the baby?"
She went stock still as he knelt beside her. Only an hour ago he was calling her a liar. She'd been so sure that he was going to leave. Somehow, so long as he knew what he had to do to stay alive, Moirine would have been able to go on without him. Now he was holding her hands. Bowing her head, she hid herself behind her hair. Not even her hair...
"Don't leave me again," she choked out. Jude was... Jude was a subject she couldn't even discuss without fear of telling him too much. Nothing about their relationship had ever seemed unnatural to her. She balked at times for fear of rumors, but when they'd been alone, she hadn't felt any remorse. Allen had. She could never tell him. Leaning forward, she placed her head on his shoulder. "Please."
It wasn't an answer, but he wouldn't press. Telling him these things - they would hurt her too. Allen embraced his sister tightly, tucking his chin against her back. How strange it was that she was so large in his arms now, so solid. The Moirine he remembered was still small enough that she'd stood on his feet when they danced, small enough to fall asleep in his lap when he read to her. She was a woman now, grown, with a child of her own growing inside her.
Gently, he pulled back to catch her eyes. How long would it be, he wondered, before he was used to seeing her this way? He would stare for weeks. "I will do whatever you ask of me, Moirine. I swear it. I won't leave you. But I..." His eyes drifted down again. "I need time alone to think. Please. Do you live-- Do you live here? Or is there somewhere...?"
Wrapping her arms around him, she returned the hug. It felt as though her chest was ready to burst. Was she happy or was she sad? Moirine couldn't tell the difference at this point and so clung to him tighter. When Allen pulled away, she listened, then nodded slightly. "Here." She handed him the key. "I've a room in a lord's home."
Of course he needed time. Still, she couldn't find it in herself to trust him. He'd told her before that he'd never leave her. As Moirine climbed slowly to her feet, her thighs and back aching with the effort, she looked down at him. "Don't leave the room without the cloak. I'll come again tomorrow night, if you don't mind. I'll see to your hair."
Lingering by the doorway, she wondered if he'd even be here tomorrow. If he fled now... she couldn't try to bring him back again. She'd know for certain he'd never wanted to be with her. "Eat something. And try to sleep." Moirine forced a small smile.
He pocketed the key and nodded, though his eyebrows pinched together. A room in a Lord's home? Was it a Lord that had fathered her child? He felt a surge of fury in his chest and took a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn't make himself angry over something he didn't know was true. There were too many other things to think on, to understand, to accept.
Allen stood slowly, grateful at least that he was still the taller of the two of them. It gave him some semblance of balance, of familiarity. "My hair?" Did she mean to cut it? He paled. If it was as she said... he didn't want to be recognized, to be stared at, but his hair... He was not a handsome man, and took pride in few things. The white hair Cita had gifted him with was one of them. "I'll--... I'll be here. I may go to the Citadel for mass, but I will wear the cloak."
His hair had always been a point of pride- one of the few Allen had. Moirine nodded, her lips pursed in a tight line. Even as stable as he seemed now, she couldn't imagine getting through tomorrow without a tantrum. She'd be patient with him... Opening the door, she started to slip out. It was so hard to take her eyes off him. "Alright. Til then."
Moirine forced herself to close the door behind her, then pulled the necklace back on. He was here. He was real. Funny how bringing him back now seemed to be the easy part. Keeping him alive would be much harder.