moirine + allen // damaged

[autumnending]

Who: Moirine & Allen
When: Last Wednesday
Where: The Inn
Rating & Warnings: PG??



Moirine kept her hands curled tightly around the bundle she was carrying. The apothecary had overcharged her, she was certain , but she couldn't accuse them without running the risk of being turned away. How could a few chemicals cost so much? And how long could she continue to afford Allen's dye? As she did her best to stop worrying, snow crunching beneath her boots and teeth chattering, Moirine thought of perhaps just shaving his head.

...no, he'd never allow that.

Opening the door to the inn, she winced against the sting of coming in from the cold. No one paid her any attention as she climbed the stairs. Once outside Allen's door, she drew a deep breath and removed her necklace. If he isn't here, I have to believe he's somewhere safe. I have to be happy that at least he's alive. Finally drawing up the courage to knock, Moirine lifted her chin and tried to ready herself to receive no reply at all.

Allen looked up at the knock. He was kneeling by the window, his hair loose and his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He'd been praying for guidance, for strength, but so far he felt only weariness, displacement, a hollow numbness in his chest. He hadn't slept much. He'd kept hoping that when he woke, it would be in the Citadel, that he would climb the white stairs to his sister's chambers and scoop her up in his arms, that everything the girl with brown hair had told him was a terrible dream. He'd woken to an unfamiliar ceiling, the whistle of cold air through a crack by the window, and the miserable view of the broken Citadel through the glass.

Slowly, wincing, Allen rose and answered the door. He opened it only a crack at first, wary of what his sister had told him, but at a glimpse of her face he opened it wider to allow her inside. "You look cold," he said in concern, frowning. Even if she'd lost her position, he thought in dismay, most former Occias were well taken care of. Lords tended to take them for wives. Why wasn't it so with his sister? She was radiantly beautiful, clever, kind... He closed the door behind her. "What's that?"

Moirine shook her head. "I'm fine." She'd worn two dresses to make up for the cloak she'd lent to Allen, but it hadn't proved effective. It was strange, though. She used to become so frustrated with his coddling and concern. Now, it took her a moment to realize she was smiling because of that concern. Looking up at him, she put a hand on Allen's cheek. He'd been crying. She couldn't blame him. Moirine said nothing, just swiped beneath one eye with her thumb, then started to empty the bundle onto the bed.

A brush, a comb, a pair of scissors, a few small bottles of clear liquids, one yellow, one red and a washrag. Allen wasn't mindful enough to secure a wig every morning. He'd do a careless job or forget entirely. It had to be dye.

"They won't know you without your white hair," she murmured apologetically. White hair had always meant so much more to him. For Moirine, it was a thing of value, something she'd been prized for. She was proud of her hair, yet hated it all the same. But Allen... to him, it was a symbol of Cita's love. "We'll both know you haven't really lost Cita's favor."

Allen blinked quickly and swallowed at the touch to his cheek. He was unused to such familiar gestures; he wondered if he'd been used to them before he died. Now it simply seemed strange. Uncomfortable. He trailed after her, watching with a frown as she began to unpack the bundle. Bottles, a comb...?

He looked up quickly at her explanation. "No," he blurted. "No, you can't-- I'll, I'll wear the cloak." His eyes darted to the bottles. Did she plan to dye it? Vanity was a sin, but the thought of losing his white hair made Allen feel ill. It was a gift. To throw it away like this would be an insult to Cita. "Cut it short if you think it best, sister, but I can't-- No. Please."

His discomfort went unnoticed. Moirine was busy sorting out the bottles, careful to make sure she didn't misremember the solution. The clear came first to ensure that the skin wasn't dyed as well and that the color would set in the hair. Then the yellow and red. It couldn't be hard to turn white hair brown... She glanced up as Allen began to plead. "I'm sorry," she said. "You have to."

The city believed him mad, believed him a murderer, believed him Cita's cuckolder. A cloak wasn't enough. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached out for his hand. "Come here."

"No," he repeated, shaking his head. "No. Moirine--" It was the first time he'd called her by name, wasn't it? It felt strange, but he could no longer deny that the woman in front of him was his sister. Half a stranger, yet still his sister. "I'll wear a wig, then. Like you. But I will not- It's His gift to me," Allen pleaded, "I cannot ruin it like this."

He backed around to the opposite side of the bed, arms hugging his chest as he swallowed and shook his head at the bottles. "No."

She couldn't be there every morning to fix his wig in place. And he couldn't risk a few hairs falling out. She was simply disgraced, a possible target. He'd never faced the crown's justice for his crimes; they'd arrest him and put him on trial. "No," she said firmly, balling her hands into fists when they began to shake. "It's only hair..."

Moirine started removing the pins from her wig. She hadn't taken as much time this morning and so it was a much easier task. As her white hair began to tumble out, she grabbed the scissors and cut a thick lock in half before she could think about what she was doing.

"No, stop--!" Allen lunged across the bed to grab at her arm and missed; he tumbled onto his chest and scrabbled awkwardly up onto his knees, the mattress creaking under his weight and quick movements. He caught her wrist tightly. "Stop it!" What was she doing? Even if she wasn't the Occia any longer, she had no reason to spit on the gift Cita had given her. Eyes wide, Allen looked down at the coil of white hair frayed against the floorboards. From the moment he'd seen the Citadel the previous day he'd felt nauseous; now he had to press the back of his other hand against his mouth and shut his eyes tightly. His stomach rolled. This was too much, all of it.

"Please," he managed against his hand, eyes lifting to stare at her pleadingly. "If you must cut mine, cut it. But not yours. Do not throw away his love for you."

Jerking the hand holding the scissors away from him for fear of what Allen might do to himself, Moirine backed up. Had he really been like this even when she was a girl? He certainly wasn't as hysterical, but she could see the potential behind his eyes. Genuinely afraid for the first time since she'd brought him back, Moirine nodded. It wasn't worth explaining in detail what His love had brought her. "I won't."

"Sit down," she said as she got onto the bed. "Please..." It felt as though she was constantly commanding him. Perhaps it was a necessity. Or, perhaps it felt safer to keep him at arm's length. Every time she got too close, she remembered how he'd told her he loved her, wouldn't leave her, against her lips. "And don't move."

Her hands were still shaking. It wouldn't be a good haircut.

Silent and pale, he did as he was told. The mattress creaked again as he sat, his back to his sister. She said he'd confessed to false crimes. What had he told the devil he'd done that warranted this as protection? Cita, forgive me, he thought silently. He curled his hands into the sheets, rigid and tense.

Allen took a deep, shuddering breath, waiting for the metallic snip of the scissors. "You've changed so much," he whispered hollowly, his eyes on his boots. If he looked at her, at the one hacked off section of hair or the shears she held in her hand, he was afraid his resolve would waver. Knew it would. He missed the little girl he'd held in his arms. Now she'd been replaced - aged - into this girl who by turns stared at him with fear or desperation. Mad, she'd said. How mad? Had he been the one to damage her so badly?

She lifted a section of his hair and hesitated before cutting it short. Neatening came later... Moirine had never done more than trim Allen's hair. Getting rid of the greater part of it... well, at least he wasn't a vain man. "I haven't," she said reflexively. "It's only such a shock to have you back." No one really changes, she thought, remembering the look in Allen's eyes.

It got easier the more she cut. Moirine moved her fingers through his hair as quickly as she could. She apologized for each snag. Sliding off the bed, she stood in front of him and used the comb to brush the rest of his hair forward. Carefully, she snipped it away, then leaned in to see to his bangs. Her jaw was clenched. She could feel his breath against her skin they were so close, or else imagined she could. Moirine cleared her throat and cut faster.

He stayed stock still. With each snip, it became easier. The more she cut, the less he would be able to stop her. The less it would matter if he did. His eyes drifted to the white hair that clung to his robes, to the bedding. He tried not to look at her face when she was so close to him, uncomfortable and still tense, angry. "How long have I been dead?" he murmured, green eyes fixed on her shoulder.

He could feel the cold air on the back of his neck. The weight on his head felt lighter. What did he look like now? The point was to make him unrecognizable, but he wondered if when his sister had finished he would recognize even himself. It was hard enough to acclimate himself to his sister's changes, her losses; now he had to come to terms with his own.

Brushing the hair off his shoulders, Moirine glanced up at Allen every few seconds, trying to see if the cut was relatively even. When she felt there was nothing more to be done, she stepped back. He looked so strange. He'd be stranger still once she'd given him brown hair.

The question made her turn her head. "Three months," she said, almost beneath her breath. It was hard to keep herself from holding her belly. Three months. When her throat began to ache again, she brusquely dusted more hair from the front of Allen's robes. "There. Can you fetch some water? For the dye?"

To his credit, he didn't flinch at 'dye'. Slowly he unwound from the bed, his boots making a soft scuffle against the floor as he stood and crossed the room to pick up the jug by the window. It was filled with the same water he'd gotten for Moirine's false injury the day prior, though ice cold now. "Here," he said quietly. "I never used it." He'd taken a sip in the night, but that was all. He'd felt too sick to try to eat or drink anything.

With his free hand he tentatively touched at his head, fingertips feeling out how short his hair was now, how thin. "Three months," he repeated, forcing himself to concentrate on her answer so he wouldn't balk at what she was about to do next. If it would save her hair, he'd do it. "You said you were at a Lord's house." He worked up the courage to meet her eyes, though he frowned when he did. "Are you married?"

"Thank you."

She took the jug and dumped half into the basin, then poured in a good amount of the clear liquids. The apothecary hadn't been very specific in their instructions, so Moirine used more than she needed to, just to be sure. Scrunching her nose up at the acrid chemicals, she dipped her hands in, ignoring the way the cold water burned. "Keep your eyes closed. It's- I'm not sure exactly what it is..." she trailed off childishly. "But I was told to keep it out of my eyes."

Up on her toes so that she could work the first rinse into his scalp and across his forehead, ears and the back of his neck, Moirine shook her head. "No," she said quietly. Who would want to marry her like this? "I work for the lord. That's all." How ashamed Allen had looked when she'd suggested becoming a seamstress... What would he say when he knew she was a maid? "He treats me well," she added, hoping that that might bring him some peace.

"Work f--" Allen winced when whatever it was she'd worked onto her hands smeared across the back of his neck, cold and stinging. "Work for?" She was... a maid? A cook? No; it had to be the first. Moirine had never had to even prepare ingredients for a meal, let alone cook one. "You should not be forced to do such a thing," he mumbled. Was all of this his fault? "You were the Occia. Did no one come to you when you were replaced? The last, she--" He couldn't remember what happened to her. Guilty, Allen simply said vaguely, "She was well taken care of."

Not married. And why not? And with a b-- Allen twisted his neck around suddenly to stare at her. "Not married?" His shock was plain in his face. "But-- your child...?"

"I wasn't replaced," she answered with such calmness that anyone could tell it was forced. "I was expelled. There is no Occia." Was it all worked through? She kept stroking his hair out of habit. "I ran from the Other who called himself Cita. I thought that I'd been cast off."

Moirine took the yellow, a saffron onion dye, and the red, some sort of Indian spice, phials and dumped most of them into the jug. "Lean over the basin." As she swirled the jug, the water grew dark and viscous. "I broke my vows while I was away. Then you-" Cutting herself off, she took a handful of the paste and started pressing it into Allen's hair. It was somehow chillier than the water before it. "I heard of your death and came back to Tyrol. The Citadel reinstated me. Brother Marlowe found that I was pregnant, so I ran a second time."

Though she was still lying through omission, it was strange to be so forthright with Allen. It seemed like most everything she'd ever said to him had been a white lie, something to keep him from thinking badly of her. Now, she simply wanted him to be prepared for what he was going to hear on the streets...

The shock was what hurt her. Dropping her hands from his hair, Moirine stared at the wall, jaw trembling from how hard she was clenching it. "A bastard."

There seemed to be no end to the things she had to tell him, and all of them bad. He lost count of the ways he'd disappointed her, she'd disappointed him. Allen felt the mixture she'd worked into his hair began to sting at his scalp. He wasn't prepared for this. Not for a moment of it. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, swallowing the bile that'd risen in his throat.

"A bastard," he repeated flatly. He took a deep breath, then expelled it. "I thought I'd raised you better than that."

It'd taken enough for her to even say the word; hearing 'bastard' pass Allen's lips was too much. "You don't know what happened," she snapped, turning to glare at him. Never in her life had she thought of hitting her brother, but right now all she could picture was slapping him across the face. Before, he'd been thoughtful, if not extreme. But now... now he was young and stupid like her. He couldn't patronize her for a mistake he'd made as well. "You raised me to be perfect and useless. Then you left."

She knew that he loved her more than anything, save Cita. She was thankful for every second she'd spent with him. But he was a man who thought it his place to kill children in order to keep Moirine the way he wanted her. As much as she loved him, trusted him, she knew that the cancellari had been right. He hadn't been fit to raise her.

"What happened?" His hands fell to the sheets as he turned to stare at her. "You broke your vows. I do not blame you for running, but... You were raised to be pure. And then, the first chance you had, you..." He trailed off, looking away again with a wince of disgust. After a moment, he shook his head, a sob trembling in his voice. "I'm sorry. I- It's hard to hear this, all of it, heaped one after the other," he said thickly. "I don't understand why I would, why you would..." Perhaps she'd been lonely. Trapped with her mad brother. Allen flinched.

"Nevermind. I'm sorry. You're right. I don't... I don't know what happened." Who had he been, the man she'd broken her vows with? A farmhand, a merchant? Had he bragged later that he'd deflowered the Occia herself? Allen hung his head again, eyes shutting tightly. She'd brought him back to help her. That's what she'd said. He had to be strong to do that, however weak he felt now. "I'm sorry."

She heard the tremble in his voice. All his apologizing worried her as well. She knew she'd said too much already and yet she kept talking. There was just so much that he didn't know and deep down she was still the girl who couldn't stand to see her brother disappointed. Moirine paused a moment, the set to work on his hair once more, eager to soothe him. Staving off his madness was more important than his opinion of her. "You're right. It isn't fair of me to put all this on you at once."

They could talk of something else, something pleasant... Nothing much good had happened to the people Allen knew. The animals she took care of, the crafts she made him, they wouldn't strike a chord. Drifting off as she massaged his scalp, Moirine tried to think of something. "I'm sorry for seeming so cross with you," she apologized quietly. "You've no idea how happy I am you're here."

He said nothing. He didn't know what to say. He didn't doubt that she was happy, or relieved; he'd seen the small smiles she'd given, though they'd seemed to him to be strangely timed. This woman was not the girl he remembered. He didn't understand her. He didn't know how to comfort her. And it would be laughable of him to say that he was happy to be there, too. He wanted to help her, would help her however he could, but... It had been Cita's will that he died. To bring him back again...

"It's alright," he forced himself to say, but his voice was flat, forced. He'd never been a very good liar. Allen swallowed and pinched at his thumb, trying to keep himself from crying. He didn't cry often, but when he did it was always at the worst of times. When he'd still been an Initiate he'd once cried at mass, touched by the sermon the priest had given, and for weeks after the other Initiates had taken to bursting into fake sobs whenever he'd entered the room. "I just need time to... understand everything that's happened. I prayed to Cita all night for guidance, but..." I wonder if he'll listen. Allen blinked quickly, trying to ignore the tug and burn of the chemicals against his scalp. "I won't leave you," he said after a short silence, his voice firm. "I just... need time."

She was done with his hair, she knew, and so backed away. Catching sight of Allen pinching his thumb, Moirine nodded quickly. He was trying not to cry because she'd said that she was happy he was here... "Mmhmm," she hummed, going to the basin to get the dye off her hands. "I'll give you all the time you like." Moirine forced a smile on her face that made her words quaver.

Scrubbing until she couldn't tell if her hands were stained or just raw, Moirine took deep breaths. Finally, she made herself stop. "You have to leave it on an hour or so. I'll bring you fresh water to rinse with." Looking back at Allen, she did her best to look unaffected, cheerful even. "I can go and get it now, or," she paused, "Wait with you a while."

It was strange, Allen thought distantly, watching her wash. His sister was more mature now in some respects than he was. Stronger, certainly. And his reactions were hurting her. He cleared his throat and reached out to catch her hand. It was cold from the water, and he cupped his other hand beneath hers to warm it.

"Wait with me," he said quietly, eyes on hers. It was as much of an apology as he was capable of giving just then.

His hands still fit over hers. Moirine nodded, tentatively taking a step closer to him. She'd been the one to ruin things the last time. She'd kissed him. Looking up at Allen, Moirine told herself that it wouldn't happen again. He'd told her to be happy without him... she ought to encourage him to do the same.

Though it was still matted with dye, Allen's brown hair made him look so much younger. Moirine smiled. "I've brought my copy of The Epistles. I thought you might like to borrow it while you wait."

For the first time since he'd been brought back, Allen smiled in genuine relief. "Yes, please. Thank you." Cita's teachings would see him through this. He would find the comfort and strength in the Epistles he needed to do what his sister asked of him. She'd brought him back to help her, and so far he had only wearied her, accused her. Though he doubted very much that he could've reacted any other way to the news that'd been heaped on him over the last few days, he still felt badly for it.

"Sit with me," he said, gently pulling her closer by her hand. What would he say that wouldn't upset either of them any further? "You, have you..." he faltered, frowning briefly until he tried, "Have you decided on a name for your child yet?" Tentatively, he placed a palm against her belly. She couldn't be far along. He'd not yet had much experience with treating pregnant women, but he knew the stages, the symptoms. His sister was three, perhaps four months, at his guess.

Stupid. She was so stupid. For a moment, she hoped that he might sense something. He might feel that it was his. So much of what Moirine knew of the world came from stories. In a story, he wouldn't need to ask these questions. He'd come back to her without another word after putting his hand over their child.

Moirine nodded tentatively. The baby hadn't begun to kick yet, but she hoped that it would while Allen's hand was on her stomach. "Jude," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, careful to avoid his hair. "After our uncle."

His eyes narrowed, and he smiled curiously. "Jude?" She hadn't been born yet when their uncle had left. Where had she heard his name? "He left for France before you were born," he murmured, spreading his fingers to cup all of her belly. He could feel her heartbeat through his fingertips. "He- He was a Christian. The name, Jude, it's a Christian Saint. He protects the hopeless, the lost." Allen glanced down to what he could see of his sister's face, her hair against his shoulder. Brown hair didn't make her any less beautiful, but the sight of it still made him uneasy. He'd match her in an hour's time. Allen swallowed and let his hands fall back into his lap.

"I'm sorry for, for how I've been," he said quietly, eyes downturned. "You won't have to worry any longer. You and Jude are safe now, I promise you." Cita, give me the strength to make that true.

"You told me about him," she said, closing her eyes as he held her stomach. "When we ran, you decided to go by Jude." Moirine didn't want to hear anything about the Christians, not after what Ira and Mari had said. She didn't want anyone to think of her son as a lost cause. As she leaned away from Allen, she nuzzled her cheek against his neck.

Smoothing her dress, Moirine nodded, her expression shuttered. "Thank you." She didn't need protection; she would be the one protecting him. She just... It'd been so hard growing up without parents. Moirine knew that she had it in her to be a good mother, but she couldn't do it all on her own. Hearing Allen promise that he'd look after their son... It was all she could have hoped for. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she lingered a little too long, then caught herself and pulled away.

"You'll have to choose a new name."

Allen looked at her sidelong, swallowing and frowning when her kiss lingered. He'd gone by Jude? What a strange name to pick. Then again, if what she said was true - and it had to be - he'd wanted to die. Perhaps he'd taken the name in some last, vain hope. He forced a small smile.

"Something simple." He considered men he'd known in his head, eyes drifting to the floor. They were all Civitates, all men who'd raised him or seen him grow. Would it be too obvious to take one of their names? "Martin," he said after a moment. A pair of missionaries from a village in the north had visited once when Allen had still dreamed of becoming a missionary himself. Martin and Merrick, their names were. "Martin Merrick." He looked over to Moirine. "Is that alright?"

Moirine nodded, turning his hand over in her hold. Martin Merrick... so much like Moirine. It almost made her feel guilty for going by the first thing Mari suggested to her. Trailing her fingers against the lines of his hand, she nodded. "You'll have stay here a while longer. I can pay, but... let me sort Tyrol out for you first."

Moirine stared up at Allen a moment. Without any expectation, she asked, "Can I stay with you tonight?"

Under normal circumstances he would've insisted that he could look after himself, but the more Moirine told him, the more he realized he was in far over his head. He nodded, watching her fingertips trace the the palm of his hand. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he fought down a shudder. He'd done it to the Moirine he knew, Moirine the child, to make her laugh, but it was an oddly intimate gesture coming from a grown woman. Uncomfortable, he gently took her hand and moved it aside.

"Yes, of course." A bit of white caught his eye, and Allen looked down and plucked a wavy lock of white hair from his lap. He pressed it between his fingers, watching the hair fray, before he took a deep, shuddering breath and dropped it onto the floor. "Yes, please."

Everything he did seemed so pointed, so full of meaning to Moirine. She told herself that he was simply reacting to things as any sane (sane, she stressed) person would, that she was the one forcing significance into every gesture. That made it sting a bit less when he moved her hand away. Smiling slightly, Moirine folded her hands in her lap and glanced towards the window.

She recalled the first time she'd played in the snow with her brother. He'd chased her as she threw great handfuls of the stuff over her head, not trying to hit him, only wanting to see more snow fall. He'd suddenly stopped and swung his head from side to side, calling, 'Moirine, Moirine.' He'd pretended that with her white hair and pale skin she disappeared against the snow. For years she'd been convinced that snow made her invisible. Her chest ached as she came back to the present. At least that was one memory they shared.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, her voice flatter than usual.

He shook his head. "I couldn't... I couldn't keep anything down." He'd taken some of the coin Moirine had left him the previous day to buy a half loaf of bread, but he'd only been able to pick at it, had to turn away and swallow bile whenever he thought of what she'd told him. "I'll be fine. I'm not..." His eyes drifted to the white hair on the floor. His hair. "I'm not hungry."

When would all of this start to feel real? He'd been dead, brought back, everything had shattered, changed, and now his pride lay across the floor, the sheets. He could list these things off calmly now, but he didn't understand them any more than he had before. Why had all of this happened? Why had Cita punished them so horribly? "How long before...?" he asked, pointing to his hair. The mixture no longer stung at his scalp, but he could still feel it clinging there, thick and wet.

"A few minutes."

Naively, she'd hoped bringing him back so young would erase all his bad habits. It seemed he had been the same at seventeen, she'd just been too young to notice how poorly he treated himself. Moirine got to her feet after seeing him stare despondently at the hair on the floor. Bending was becoming a bit of a problem, but she knelt to scoop up all that white hair. Instead of throwing it into a bin, she stuffed it into the sack she'd carried the dye in. It was still to be thrown away, but at least this way Allen wouldn't see it lying in the trash.

"Once you've rinsed, we'll have a proper supper," she murmured, resting on the floor a few seconds, preparing to stand. "And no one will stare at you."

He watched her, frowning when he noticed how delicately she had to bend. He could hardly comprehend the idea of his sister being a mother. In a way, it'd always been her role; the Occia was Cita's wife, and therefore mother to the world. But she was also small, guarded, unprepared for the world and the trials of pregnancy, the desperation he saw in single mothers. 'Jude', she'd said. It was a well-deserved name. He suspected the child in her belly had everything to do with his sister's determination. The patron saint of lost causes.

Allen climbed from the bed to bend and offer his sister his hands to help her up. "And after that?" he murmured, frowning at their feet before he could work up the courage to meet his sister's stare. She made him feel like a child now. "After today?"

She took his hands and rose slowly. Her eyes were on level with his mouth- funny how she'd never really noticed until after she'd kissed him. Moirine moved away from Allen and went to collect the pitcher and basin. "I know someone who is in need of a healer. I'll find you work with him. Then you can do as you like."

What would Allen say when he found out about Silence? What would he think? It seemed the string of disappointment would continue. Disgraced, common, pregnant, part of a gang... Would he ever see her as even a fraction of what she was? At least this way, Moirine thought, she'd know if he loved her or if he loved the Occia.

"I'll go and fetch your water now." She tucked her wig a few times, just to be certain, then grabbed the pitcher and basin and headed for the door.

A healer. He was visibly relieved by the idea. Even if the Citadel's doors were closed to him, he could still help people, still heal them. A part of him worried; he hadn't yet completed his training, and his field experience was limited to going with an older priest to watch him work, or to be supervised himself. He would learn quickly out of necessity, he supposed. Perhaps he could find an unaffiliated healer to train under.

"Thank you," he murmured, swiping a bit of dye from his cheek with his thumb. It would be unsettling to see himself with brown hair. He could only ever remember their father with white hair, though their mother had brown. Were they still alive? It mattered little to Allen either way; he let the thought go. He looked back up to his sister, chewing his lip before he said earnestly, "I'm sorry, Moirine. About everything. I'll do my best for- for both of you."

From the doorway, she turned to look at Allen over one shoulder. After a moment, she gave another small, guarded smile. "You haven't done anything." she said quietly. "There's no need to apologize."

Without giving him time to reply, she slipped out. She stopped after a few stairs to lean against the railing, the heavy basin and pitcher causing her arms to ache. Did Allen mean to make up for all he'd done later in life? That wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him to be new, to be happy. That wasn't going to happen...

She slumped to the ground, setting the chemicals aside to hug her knees to her belly. He'd never be sorry for everything. He'd never know everything. She had to think of something to make him feel better about all this.