It was Finn, pushing himself forward to the edge of the crowd, out of breath, a gun in his hand. He was not alone. Corra and Cyrus hurried forward, just a few minutes too late. Both of them stared, thunderstruck, at the body of Ludo. And then at the man who killed him.

Corra’s hands flew over her mouth. “Oh god,” she muttered between her fingers. To Leta, she assured, “We came as soon as we heard but–” Her eyes traveled back to Fiearius. “Oh god…”

At her side, Cyrus looked ready to throw up.

It was indeed a sick sight. Fiearius stood over the dead body, his face dark, his skin covered in blood, looking every inch the assassin the Society had crafted him to be. He didn’t seem to recognize his brother’s presence, nor his friends’, nor anyone’s. For a man surrounded by people, he had never quite looked so alone.

Suddenly, with more strength than before, Leta moved forward decisively and cut through the crowd, ghost-like, entranced, but with a strange bout of resolution.

She stepped over Ludo’s body as easily as though it was a fallen chair, and then, her hand closed Fiearius’ forearm, her other hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, ” she breathed (she could feel his warm seeping blood on her fingers). “Back to the ship, come on.”

Finally, Fiearius drew his eyes from the crumbled shape of Ludo and met Leta’s stare as though he didn’t recognize her. His eyes were dazed and for a moment, it seemed he didn’t know where he was. Slowly, realization dawned over his features. He looked down at the gun in his hand, as though surprised to find it there, and back to the corpse, finding that too unfamiliar.

And when his gaze came back to Leta there was something there she had never seen in him before. Fiearius, so typically cocky and arrogant and full of swagger, looked–he couldn’t have been–frightened?

To her relief, he did not fight her when she tugged gently on his arm to lead him away. The gun slipped from his fingers, thudding to the ground. His eyes were on his feet as she guided him toward the door, her hand circled around his forearm. Cyrus, Corra and Finn simply stared at them, dumbfounded.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

It wasn’t enough for Leta to lead Fiearius out of the bar. With her hand tightened around his wrist, she led him all the way through the city, back to the docks, toward the Dionysian. She guided him up the ship’s ramp, passing through the cargo bay, the crew deck, the emptied corridors, until they reached the bridge.

The bridge, where he belonged, lest he had forgotten. It was for her sake as much as it was his: it was only when Fiearius moved forward and slowly dropped into his captain’s chair that she managed to take a breath.

And that was all she wanted. Him, here. Alive. Ludo’s death was a justified one in her eyes, but gods, she’d almost lost Fiearius for it. And it showed. Crimson streaked down his arms and coated his hair; his face was a mess of forming bruises; he looked exhausted enough to sink to the floor as he stared hollowly at the dashboard, eerily silent.

Words sat readily on her tongue. She wanted to rage at him for not knowing earlier what kind of monster Ludo was. She wanted to tell him he was an absolute maniac for going after ten men in a crowded bar, for nearly getting himself killed, for scaring her to death.

But even as she tried to summon the anger, it never reached the surface. She rested her eyes on the back of his head for a long moment, noting the blood soaking the nape of his neck.

“Let me just  … get her off the ground before someone gets gutsy,” he muttered at last, feigning his best tone of normalcy as he flipped a switch on the console. “Then I’m thinking I might need a bandage or two if you don’t mind.”

Softening, Leta only nodded, not that he could see it. Just when she turned to slip out to go ready the infirmary, he unexpectedly spoke again.

“And thank you. For everything.” His voice was soft, hoarse and utterly burdened with defeat. His words shocked her, and locked her in place, halfway in, halfway out of the cabin.

“And I’m sorry,” he added, even quieter. “For everything.”

All at once, sorrow stirred in her chest. Ludo was gone, but the suffering he caused wasn’t over; this was no victory. And now, she was quietly and tensely aware that she had just witnessed Fiearius at his absolute worst.

Shamefully, she could’ve sworn she felt her throat swell closed of its own accord, but only for a moment. In lieu of a response (no words seemed right, really), she lowered her hand to the slope of his shoulder and stayed there, for a few moments more.

It was the dirtiest fight Leta had ever seen.

From the far end of the room, she clasped a shaking hand over her mouth and watched, transfixed, as Fiearius somehow tore himself free from the three men that held his torso and then threw himself at Ludo like an uncaged animal.

The sight sent an icy tingle down Leta’s back. Fiearius had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, he was practically animalistic, almost suicidal in his attempt to throw himself at the fight.

But somehow, Ludo was ready for him.

Broad and burly as he was, he was surprisingly agile — graceful, even — when he slid to the side, seized Fiearius by the back of the neck and slammed his forehead onto the edge of the bar with a sickening crack. A second later, Ludo’s men grasped Fiearius’ shoulder and lifted him, allowing Ludo free reign to push up his sleeves and slam his fist into his Fiearius’ jaw over and over, making blood smear over his mouth.

A horrified yell erupted from Leta’s throat, but it was lost in the chaos: all around her, panic was unfolding as people circled closer to the fight in excitement or rushed to the door in fear.

In the chaos, Leta was pressed up against the wall and had to fight her way forward. In the jostle, she glimpsed the fight: Fiearius, outnumbered as he was, still managed to slam his elbow against one of the men and freed himself a second time. But this time, as he lunged at Ludo, he seized a bottle off the bar and crashed it against Ludo’s temple, shattering glass over the screaming crowd.

Ludo let out a yell as Fiearius shoved him against the wall and raised his fist, fury in his eyes. Before he could swing his fist forward, one of Ludo’s men sliced a knife across the flesh of his shoulder.

Fiearius’ raw growl of pain reached Leta’s ears even from twenty feet away and it made her heart grow cold. He was so outnumbered, it was as if he was fighting a whole army himself. Panic gripped her chest as she pushed herself into the fray — she had to get to Fiearius, she had to help —

Leta flung her hand toward her hip to get her weapon. Horribly, she felt nothing there. Her gun was missing, where was her gun?

Fear plunged through her as she wheeled around in horror. In her peripheral she could see Ludo’s men shove Fiearius to the floor, one of them raising a rifle overhead like a bat. She searched the floor for her gun and heard Ludo laughing; she could hear him say “Do you think they’ll miss you? Do you think they’ll miss you when you’re gone?”

And then, Leta saw it. In the far end of the room, a patron, looking horrified and fearful, held up a handgun, moving it between Ludo and Fiearius in confusion. He wanted to end the fight but didn’t know how. For Leta, it was as though the commotion slowed down and she was afforded an eerie moment of perfect clarity.

Time sped up once more, and before she could think, she advanced toward him and grasped the man’s wrist. With all of her strength she twisted his hand toward the ground, so his gunshot exploded into the floor, making screams erupt all around her.

But that didn’t matter; the gun was hers.

Wheeling around, she cried, “Fiearius!”

Three men were forcing him down to his knees, his arms pulled behind his back, when Leta threw the gun. The weapon skidded under the tables, across the floor, and in one last burst of anger, Fiearius lunged for it.

Ludo’s men went after him, struggling, raising their weapons, but in the next moment, a decisive gunshot cracked through the bar. Screams flew through the crowd before the whole bar suddenly hushed, quiet and still.

Leta stopped breathing, gripped in horror. It was only when she elbowed her way forward to see the aftermath that breath returned to her lungs.

The body of Ludo was sprawled across the floor, lifeless and limp as a ragdoll. Blood pooled and pooled from his head, but Leta did not wince. She did not even blink.

It was over.

Ludo’s men stepped away, backing into the crowd, while Fiearius didn’t move. He stood above the body, his chest was heaving, the gun still pointed at Ludo’s head, a mess of red laid on the floor at his feet. His expression was empty. His eyes were stone. All that fury and rage that had brought him here was gone and his struggling over. Now, he was still. Slowly, he lowered the weapon to rest at his side.

Movement rippled through the room. Ludo’s men were looking around in alarm at one another, deciding what to do, if they wanted to defend Ludo after his death. Anxiety rose in Leta’s chest: they had to get out of here. They had to leave.

But before she could make her numb limbs move, a confused voice arrived in her ear.

“What the hell is –“

“You know, Rhys told me the other day he wants to start drinking less,” she remembered suddenly. “He asked me to help him. Funny, yeah? He was drunk when he asked me, though … And Amora’s great. She’s still trying to marry off Cyrus to her nieces. No luck so far, though.”

“Poor Amora, never can take a hint, that one,” Alyx remarked affectionately. “Who else am I forgetting?”

Leta felt herself clench. Mentioning Aiden’s death wasn’t exactly good table conversation, and she wasn’t sure she could manage it.

“Well, someone new came aboard,” said Leta instead. “Finnegan, this fighter pilot. The deckhands were swooning over him the other day. And then there’s Ludo –” Hesitation passed over Leta’s face, her expression losing its cheer. “Ludo’s there as well, and … “

Abruptly, the tone of the table changed. The look of cheer disappeared from Alyx’s face as she simply gazed over the table, the color draining from her face, leaving her looking stunned.

“Ludo?” she repeated quietly, letting the name fall out of her mouth like she’d eaten something nasty and wanted to spit it out.

Cyrus eyed her in confusion. “You know, Ludo, older guy, beard — “

“No no.” Alyx held up her hand.“No, I know who he is.” Her eyes had gone glassy as she stared in mild horror at the table before her. “I thought he’d be long gone by now.” She just gazed straight through them, almost scared before she dropped her head in her hands. “Oh gods, oh gods…”

The menu slipped out of Leta’s hands. Something was wrong, truly wrong.

Cyrus sat up in alarm. “Hey — hey, what’s the matter?”

When she finally took her hands from her face, there were tears welling in her eyes. “I knew — “ she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Gods, I knew, I thought so many times, I should have said something. Gods, I should have said something.”

Leta’s heart was starting to beat hard. “Said what?”

Her wet eyes looked up at the both of them as she breathed, “Why I left. Oh gods, I’m so sorry, I just didn’t– I’m an idiot. I needed to say something and I didn’t. Gods, I didn’t. And now, who knows what–” Her voice drowned in her own throat, but she found it again only moments later. “I just wanted to get away as quickly as I could,” she explained hurriedly, “and when the captain took out that Benning ship, it was the perfect opportunity. I just–I just ran.” The tears were streaming down her face now. “I’m so sorry. I’m–I’m so so sorry…”

Leta’s stomach plunged, and kept plunging. She was scared to ask, “What happened?”

Alyx turned pleading eyes upon her, as if begging her to not make her spell it out. But slowly, she took in a deep breath and said, “Ludo, he–”

“He what?” Cyrus asked, held in suspense.

Pitifully, she looked up at him and said shakily, “It was that night after the Obelon gig. A few of us went down into the town to celebrate. Went into town and drank our wages away.” She took a deep breath before she continued on. “On the way back…I guess I drank a lot. I split off from the group. Got a bit lost. I ran into–into Ludo. He said he’d help me back to the ship.” This time, her pause fell even longer, heavier and it took all her courage to continue.

“He–I didn’t really know him,” she explained, stumbling over her words. “We never spoke. But he used to–sometimes on the ship, I could feel him…watching me. But he was crew. Right? And I was lost so I–so I went with him.” Her voice crumbled almost entirely so that she could hardly say, “He– he didn’t take me to the ship though. I was too out of it to fight back I guess. Or just too weak…”

After a moment of thunderstruck, horrified silence, Leta managed to find her voice, which struggled out of her throat.

“You don’t — ” she began, with difficulty. Her eyes burned on Alyx’s for a moment longer. “You don’t have to apologize. For any of that. Ever.” The words emitted with a conviction, which was surprising, considering how suddenly weak and shaky she felt, like she had just caught the flu.

Swallowing down the sickness in her throat, Leta did not hesitate as she suddenly pushed herself to her feet nearly upending their small table in her awkward haste, without a backwards glance toward Cyrus.

“I– I’m going,” she offered blankly, almost as an afterthought: her voice sounded hollow in her ears, quite unlike herself, like it belonged to someone else. Offering no other explanation of where exactly she was going, Leta crossed toward the exit of the cafe, staggering out.

Seconds or minutes later (really, it could’ve been hours), she was back on the street, parting the crowded sidewalk as her feet carried her forward, faster than her mind could process. Really, her mind was a fog, and she hardly noticed as she nearly stepped into passers-by. Ludo had assaulted her. He could have assaulted countless others …

The thought sent a wave of anger through Leta so powerful and hot that it almost scared her.

Her feet pounded up the metal ramp of the Dionysian before she had a chance to process her surroundings

“Leta — ?” ventured a confused voice. It was Javier, who stood in the corner of the cargo bay, a broom in hand. “What, what happened?” he asked shakily.

But Leta hardly heard him. She suddenly gained a sense of tunnel vision, and everyone lingering in the cargo bay were simply blurs in her eyes as she continued forward, her feet moving of their own accord. Part of her was looking for Ludo. She had no idea what she’d do if she saw him.

Up the stairs, through the corridor — she barely noticed where she was going until she halted, sharply, directly inside the doorway of the bridge.

In the cabin, Fiearius was lounged back in the captain’s chair, his feet on the dashboard, in mid-conversation with Corra. They appeared to be picking through a box of guns as Corra said, “Why are we keeping this one? It’s older than you, cap’n — “

Leta stared at them numbly and took her first full breath in what felt like days, a long, uneasy inhale in her chest. She froze and stared, wide-eyed.

“Fiearius,” she breathed, quietly, and he cocked his head toward her. At once, her eyes sprang with tears, her expression falling into a portrait of despair. “Fiear,” she pressed again, and this time his name was heavier on her lips, painful. Fiearius fixed his gaze on her and pushed himself to his feet at once, alarm in his eyes.

Shakily, she pressed her wrist against her mouth, expertly holding back an onslaught of anger and crying. “You were wrong. He did cross you.” Her eyes swam with tears, but she tried to steady her voice as much as possible. “Alyx’s — Cyrus’ friend — she told us. Ludo attacked her.”

What if he didn’t care, what if he didn’t understand? For a moment Leta was panicked as Fiearius did nothing but stare right through her. But then his expression started to change. His jaw twitched, fury arrived in his eyes. He pushed himself toward the door, but not without grabbing the nearest gun and snarling, “Where is he?!”