We're approaching the climax of this verse--whatever you do here, expect a cliffhanger. ;)

Update 16/16 of all verses will be Special, featuring an increased word count (a multiple of 16, perhaps 16x16) and all that verse's text under a spoiler. I'll keep linking back to it; something tells me we'll all start forgetting what's already established. :'D

A handful of the last batch of suggestions are canon now. I couldn't pick one, and 16/16 has 16x the usual word count, so I broke my own rules :'D

Honestly, you guys have a better idea where this is going than I do. POV shift, away!

The hamlet is saved, and you are in exile. The midwinter winds slice at your cheeks. What village exiles their only healer? You saved more lives than you sacrificed, in the end.

...No matter. Esgil's soldiers appreciate your talents-or at least they know better than to question them.

After four years of it, on and off, you're accustomed to eviction. Sometimes it's lonely business. Your only ever companion lives countless miles and three exiles away. You hope Eloa's forgiven you.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. You'd rather not recall your tragic separation.

"Just keep walking."

Despite your resolve, your body protests, and your muscles burn with every step. The shadows hum. Somewhere, somewhen, exists 'you' who knew better than to embrace them. You envy him sometimes.

A snowdrift trembles in the distance. Then a woman emerges, uniform crumpled, wobbly on her feet.

"Hello," you supply, after some awkward, mutual staring. The shadows stir hungrily under your skin.

Aha. Her face has vanished.

"Don't-"

Yet she glides through the snow and to your side. She caresses your cheeks. Her hands are cold; smooth; lifeless as porcelain.

You're too tired for this.

"Carry these." You drop everything but the compass and a case of crystal vials. "We continue North."

You travel through nightfall, until the Crossroads find you. The shadows delight. Your compass bleeds tar.

"I'm tired," you tell the coalescing fog. "Not now."

"You're hungry," It replies, in Eloa's voice. "Where are you going?"

Eloa's face fades into focus, spun from mist and memory. Your eyes harden when a body completes the illusion.

"The battlefield."

"Ah." It reaches for your arm, but you jerk away. "To consume."

"To atone," you snap, louder than you wanted, as if shouting makes it true. You breathe hard. The case of crystal vials weighs on your arm, and your soul.

Not-Eloa's shark-toothed grin reaches Its ears.

"The pact is irreversible." The shadows seep into your bones, swim in your veins. "You can't change what you are, what you've done—or what you've failed to do."

The truth twists daggers into your gut. You glance at your faceless, shivering aide, and the fractured compass in your palm.

You remember Eloa's goodbye.

'Keep it,' she called after you, while you stared at the floor. You couldn't bear to see her bedridden. 'Travel the world. Eat good food. Find that mudyak an' show it what for. And—'

Her voice broke, so you turned around. The rot had painted caverns under her cheeks. You'd have stripped the soul from every man, woman, and child in town to save her, but she wouldn't allow it. You'd lost enough of yourself on the Battlefield.

'Find peace, and think of me sometimes.'

You throw Not-Eloa a fierce stare. When It cups your face, mocking you, you swipe Its spindly arm away. Someone with nothing to lose has nothing to fear.

"I'm going to the battlefield," you say, "to finish what I began."

That, at least, is possible still.