The next day goes by with the knowledge that good things are about to come. Soon Harry and the Revolution will come to new terms and Alouette will be able to see her sister again—and he'll be able to get back to the Palace, too. There's a little longing in her heart. She wonders how that will work. Will Harry allow her to see him again? She can't bring herself to ask, though, because nothing is set in stone just yet, and she doesn't want him to think she's rushing it.

She makes pancakes in the evening, and Harry actually eats them. She doesn't know if he eats them because he doesn't hate them or to be kind, but she goes with the second one—Harry doesn't strike her as the kind of person that would make any kind of personal sacrifice simply to make someone else feel better.

"Can I call tomorrow?" she asks in the evening, when they're lying in bed.

He raises an eyebrow. "Eager to go back home?"

She gives him a shrug. "Some people actually have a life and things to do, you know." She laughs out loud right after, cause there's some absurdity in telling a man known as the President all over the country about her supposedly busy nine-to-five, and he doesn't miss the irony of it either.

"I'll have to find a hobby, then." His finger slides up and down her arm. "Or I could tie you to my bed so you'll never leave. How would that work for you?"

Curiosity perks up in Alouette, but she has no intention of letting him win. "How about I tie you to your bed and take over the country instead?" Her hand is on his chest. "How would that work for you?"

"Remarkably well, actually."

She lets out a surprised chuckle, and he presses a kiss to her lips.

"It must be the second time I tell you not to underestimate me," he comments. His fingers are still sliding up and down her arm in a relaxed, slightly curious way. He doesn't seem to mean much by it, but still... Alouette has to remind herself they need to do some shopping. Urgently. Very urgently. "If you hadn't only bought eggs..." Harry starts, and she interrupts him.

"You're always so skilled at breaking out of apartments, and yet you never do it when you should."

He laughs, and she does as well. "And here I thought you wanted me to be good, for you."

She presses a kiss to his jaw. "Don't tell me you've never heard of breaking rules for good reasons."

He flips them over so that he's on top of her. "It sounds to me like you want to—"

Alouette turns off the light. "To sleep." She chuckles. "Goodnight, Harry."

He leans his forehead on her shoulder. "This is simply pointless and cruel."

"Consider breaking out of the apartment the next time." She thinks about it for a moment. "Do it when I'm distracted, too, so I won't have to worry about pretending to be mad."

He leans up on his elbows, staring at her in the faint multicoloured light coming from the window on the side of the room. "Now, why would you pretend to be mad?"

"Because you'd be breaking the rules."

Harry lets out a hum and leaves a trail of slow kisses down her neck, teasing her just enough for her cheeks to grow warm. "It doesn't sound convenient to me. I think I'll wait a few days and tie you to my bed instead." He bites lightly over her collarbone, and her fingers tangle into his hair.

"You've got it wrong, I'm the one that's supposed to tie you to the bed." She can barely pay attention to what she's saying, because his tongue slides over the mark to soothe her flesh.

"And take over the country as well," he murmurs against her skin, "what else, my queen?" There's irony in the nickname, but it makes her giggle anyway.

"I'm adding grey to your wardrobe."

He's kissing up her throat, now, but he lets out a chuckle. "You wouldn't dare."

"Just you wait," Alouette mutters, but it's so hard to think when he's just so close to her. She can feel his warm breath on her skin, and it sends tingles down her spine. "You shouldn't underestimate me as well."

He kisses her jaw, and then hovers over her lips. "Is it a threat?"

"Yes."

"I see." He captures her lips in an open-mouthed kiss that makes her feel like she's just been dropped off the surface of the earth. She makes to pull him closer, but he rolls off her. "And that's a goodnight for you."

Her mouth falls open. "Revenge doesn't suit you."

The corners of his lips turn up in the darkness. "Oh, but it does. I wear it better than every other colour."

Unfortunately, Alouette does too. So she turns around and falls asleep.

•     •     •

Alouette wakes up to a bang. She jumps up, heart in her throat, and the first thing she thinks is: It's too bright.

Harry is standing near the window, an unreadable look on his face. She follows his gaze and discovers the source of light that's making her eyes hurt.

There are buildings going up in flames. People are running to their cars on the streets. Gunshots pierce the air mixed with the crash of advertisements falling down. A skyscraper falls to the ground not too far from where they are, taking down two more buildings as well.

Alouette isn't sleepy enough not to know what it means. "Fuck," she mutters, putting on the first clothes she finds and grabbing Harry by the wrist when he doesn't move. "We need to go."

They aren't safe. At any moment anyone could burst in though the door, and they'd be trapped. Their building could be set on fire, or taken down by another.

"Now!"

Harry is already dressed, she grabs her jacket, gun and keys and they run out of the door. Someone is rushing upstairs, and she pushes Harry back into the apartment until she can see nothing but their legs.

It's louder on the staircase. The smell of fire and ashes comes in through the shattered window of the main door as she runs towards it. The soundproofing of the apartment kept her from grasping the true extent of what's going on, and it strikes her in the second they're out on the street.

People scream past them. Some are hurt, being carried away by others. Vehicles race past, alarms ring all over the city. A car with smashed windows and still glinting headlights is thrown in the middle of the street, its back slammed into the side of a van. It's burning, the drivers are nowhere to be seen. There's dust in the air from the fires that have been started all over the city, the smell of metal and gasoline and pollution stings her lungs.

For a moment, she's speechless. They've driven through cities that had been attacked before, but it was never to this extent. It was never Dacran, the second biggest city in the country. A direct attack to the Palace and Revolution at once.

It's a war.

She glances at Harry for direction, but for the first time he's just as shocked as she is. Some weeks ago he told her he wouldn't concern himself with what was going on in his country since it only involved small actors. Now, though, with the third economical centre going down in pieces around him, she knows he wishes he'd done something then.

A new wave of people run down the street and she pulls Harry into a side street. Glass crinkles under her feet, and he shoves her behind a parked car when he sees two men with rifles smashing the showcase of a shop at the other end of the street. The same corner shop Alouette has visited a couple of times before.

"We need to get out of here now," she whispers. They can't risk hiding out in the city while it's under attack. If they find Harry, they'll be done for.

Harry flicks open the blade of his knife, once, twice, thrice, feeling the weight of it, as if he's getting ready for a fight. For once, she can't bring herself to tell him to stop. She doesn't know what will happen next.

The men are joined by three more are they ransack the shop, gunshots echoing through the city, finding their mirror in every street, laughs loud.

Another building falls in the distance, and the ground under Alouette's feet shakes. An explosion somewhere else makes her ears ring, as she grabs Harry's arm not to lose him in the sea of people and tries to reach their car. A woman runs past them with a crying child in her arms, into the arms of a man with a tear-streaked face.

"What the..." Harry hisses through his teeth, hiding his face with a hand as they walk past the push-and-pull crowd.

They turn into an empty street. "Why didn't the Palace stop them earlier!" Alouette cries out. Her hands are sweaty because of the multitude of fires inflaming the cold of the night, there are ashes in her hair and dirt smeared on her clothes.

"I don't—"

"How can you take precedence when this is happening?!" She opens her arms wide to the destruction around her. "How's that fair?!"

A new explosion goes off in the distance, followed by the rumble of another falling building. The ground shakes again, and fear comes over her.

"Where is the Palace now?"

Harry clenches his teeth. "I am the Palace, Alouette. But I'm not in Northfair. I'm here, because of you. Do not blame the Palace. They can do nothing but follow orders."

"Follow orders—?"

He gives her a hard look, that shuts her up immediately. "If not mine, someone else's. The truth is, you didn't know what you were meddling with when you pointed that gun at me."

She can't even bring herself to care right now. "They're taking apart an entire city!"

"The Palace will come. Their response time is only slowed down by my absence."

"People are losing their homes, getting hurt—" She shuts herself up. There's no point in arguing about it now. There's nothing Harry can do, because he's here, with her. It isn't his fault the Palace still hasn't come. He hasn't had any contact with it for over a month. "Shit."

She pulls out her gun, there are only three bullets. She forgot to take more before leaving the apartment. A boom resonates too close to where they're standing, and she's reminded of the task at hand. Get out of the city. Contact the Revolution. Maybe, also alert the Palace. Though she's sure someone else has already done it. They must be on their way.

It's nearing midnight when they finally get to the car. They keep having to change road or squeeze through vehicles with bullet holes to avoid being spotted, because they can't fight. Not like this. Not against this many people. At no point in the night the attack shows signs of relenting, even after the first crowds have left and the people on the street are few.

As soon as they turn into the street, Alouette sees three men at the end of it. They have guns and rifles, and they're walking towards them. There's no time to waste.

"Car, now!" She unlocks it and they get inside just as the first gunshot hits the windshield. She drives backwards, but then realises the road is blocked. "Sorry," she tells Harry, and then presses on the pedal.

The car shoots forward and the men jump to the side to avoid being hit. They shoot at them, but then she turns into another street and another, and they're only left with holes in the back window.

They take smaller roads and only slow down when they're approaching the borders of the city. Harry points out the obstacles before she can even notice them, and, fortunately, they don't run into anyone else.

But when they leave the city behind them and Alouette sees its buildings go up in flames, she knows its night is far from over. The sky is black, painted with that red line only fires can create. She drives through fallen advertisements and stuttering screens, allowing herself to start breathing properly again.

That's when her gaze falls on the dashboard, and she discovers the fuel arrow is on red. "No fuel?" she asks Harry.

He sends her a dark look. "Vehicle stops in ten."

"Shit." She takes a sharp turn and goes back into the outskirts of Dacran. If they're lucky enough, they'll find a spot far away from the mess and will be out of here soon.

It takes her a good part of those ten minutes to find a gas station. Its lights are off and it gives no signs of being active, but they don't have another option—though Alouette does look around to see if there's a car they could steal if theirs stops. The only vehicles in sight are the destroyed ones—all the ones that work have already been taken.

They stop at the gas station.

Alouette gets out of the car, but mutters out a curse when she sees the system asks her for money first. "Do you have any coins on you?" she asks out loud, and Harry gets out of the vehicle as well.

"I don't, but 37799 should activate it." He walks into the darkness on the side of the small shop beside it. "Here."

She puts everything in position and follows him. There's a metal box. She hands him one of her hairpins and he opens it easily, revealing a set of four switches and nine numbers. She types in the code and flicks the switch that corresponds to their petrol pump, smiling to herself. "Remind me to take you with me if I ever go on holiday."

"I thought we were on holiday now," Harry comments sarcastically, and she rolls her eyes at him, going back to the car.

She's thrown to the ground. Her side hits the asphalt and the wind is knocked out of her. Someone's on top of her. She tries to kick them away but fails. She pulls out her gun and shoots. Her attacker falls back, but another kicks the gun out of her hand. She cries out and crawls away. "Harry!"

He's dealing with four more, knife out. She tries to reach him but someone grabs her leg and she falls again. She spots her gun some steps away and crawls towards it. A hit makes her ears ring for a moment, and then her fingers close over the cold of her weapon. There's still hope, she thinks. But then a foot crashes onto her hand. She lets out a scream but doesn't let go. She takes her own knife and plunges it into the man's leg. As soon as he lets her go she shoots the one pointing the gun at Harry.

Someone jumps on her and they wrestle the gun out of her fingers. The last bullet shoots out, but hits nothing. She punches her attacker and her hand screams in pain, but she forces herself to ignore it and kicks him away. She gets up to her feet and tries to reach Harry, but meets the eyes of another man, with a gun pointed in her direction.

"One down," he says.

She's screwed. Is she really going to die like this?

Harry kicks one of the men that are trapping him and stabs him from behind. The man shoots three times in a row but Alouette jumps out of the way, and Harry's eyes follow her to make sure she's safe.

The man pulls the knife out of his chest and comes at Harry together with the one he'd kicked away. Harry knees one of them in the belly and Alouette takes the gun the man has dropped. She shoots twice, but the bullets only hit air.

The man Harry has just fended off grabs the one he stabbed and runs off towards their vehicle. The black car drives away, and she lets out a relieved sigh.

Two more men come out of hiding and shoot at them. Harry tugs her behind the pump, there's an odd smell of gasoline that grows stronger and stronger. There's a small light—a match.

"Run!" Alouette screams. She grabs Harry's arm and tugs him down the street, turning around just in time to see the men take off with their car and the gas station explode.

The boom is loud and it makes her ears ring for a moment, but they're far enough from it not to be in danger. But danger is a subjective concept. They knew they were there; someone has alerted them. Which means that now they also know they weren't successful in trying to kill them. There will be more.

They turn and run.

The streets all around them are dark, only enlightened by the periodic flickering of the street lamps and the fires from Dacran. The air is clearer here, though, and it's easier to breathe. They turn into different streets again and again, losing their own sense of direction, only making sure they aren't going in circles. There are no vehicles around that aren't flipped or steaming from the hood, ready to explode if they're touched wrong. There's no car for them to escape with and nowhere for them to go—all Alouette cares about is putting enough distance between her and the gas station and the city too, while keeping off the main roads. The former because she's certain more will come to take them down, the latter because it's too risky to put Harry in the path of the Palace before he's had a chance to talk to Ezra. She can't let him go back until she's sure he's on their side—though something tells her stopping their newfound enemies might be in his best interests now, too. She'd never seen him so shocked before—not even when she put a gun to his head.

Harry trips and falls. She feels the pull before she hears the thud, her body is jerked backwards by the hand she's holding. She turns around and sees him on his knees.

"Come on," she mutters, dragging him up.

His arm is wrapped around his waist, when it falls back, all Alouette can see is red—a deep, dark red staining his sleeve and hand alike. A chill runs down her spine.

She's felt many types of fear before. She's feared the future, when she was buried in the hole that was the Revolution headquarters, wondering what would happen next. She's feared for her life, when she was at the Palace with only some days separating her from freedom. She's feared the dark, the unknown, at some point she's even feared fear itself. But she's never feared for someone else's life before. A bucket of ice has been dropped over her head; for a moment, she's emptied of word and reason, because what.

Harry doesn't get hurt. Harry doesn't bleed all over his clothes. To her, he's almost immortal—no one can take him down. And yet there's blood all over him, and they've been running for nearly ten minutes, and she doesn't even know when it happened.

That's when the sickness comes. His stained hand is all she can see in the golden shade of the streetlamp. His face is surprised, as if he too is taken aback by the fact that he's been stabbed. There's a slight tremble to his fingers, adrenaline is fading away and reality is settling in, and they both know this doesn't look good. They're in the outskirts of the second biggest city in the country while it's under attack, surrounded by people that want to kill them. And Harry is hurt.

Reason rushes back to Alouette all at once. She takes off her jacket and ties it around his waist, making sure it's applying pressure to his wounds. She wants to stop to assess the damage and come up with a plan, but they're far from safe. They need to keep moving.

She shoves her screaming thoughts to the back of her mind and wraps Harry's arm around her shoulders, helping him stand up. "Come on," she only says, bringing him down a nearing street.

They aren't quite running anymore, but still she forces herself and Harry to keep a quick pace, even though she knows she's hurting him more. She hates herself every time she hears him hiss through his teeth; maybe he notices, because he doesn't let out any sound that would convey the amount of pain he's in.

"Just a while longer," she says, even though she has the striking feeling she's saying it more for herself than Harry, because he's silent, so silent, he's never been this quiet before. If they were in another situation, she has no doubt he'd point out the best direction to take, or notice anything in the world around them. But this is the timeline they're in, and Alouette can only tell he's still conscious because he's walking.

His head falls on her shoulder, his curls tickle her neck. Panic comes over her, and she wraps her arm around his middle tighter, getting him to move faster, because she's starting to feel his weight fight against her with every step they take and she needs to bring him to safety. Safety is a relative concept now, though. Even if she carries him somewhere no assassins will find them, it won't change the fact that he's been stabbed. But she can't think about it now; if she does, she'll start crying, because she doesn't know how to fix it. She's told herself a thousand times she could keep him safe, but when the moment came, she wasn't able to. He's not safe. He's nowhere near safe. And she took too long to notice.

There are no street lamps anymore—not ones that work. She's certain they aren't that far out already, there's a row of abandoned buildings on their side. She doesn't know where they are anymore—she doesn't recognise anything around them. She can still see the glint of the city very clearly—it'd be hard not to. There are faraway booms coming from it. She can almost smell the fire.

The moon seems to have moved in the sky when Harry loses his footing again. His hands hit the street and his arms barely stop him from hitting the asphalt face-first. He rolls onto his side, his breath is fast and uneven. Alouette takes his arm and pulls him closer to the corner of one of the abandoned buildings, so that they're out of sight. His dead weight takes her down with him again. He's never leaned on her like this before, and she has no doubt he wouldn't be doing this if he had any other option. Nothing is scarier than someone that never relies on others having to rely on her—it tells her just how bad this situation is.

Harry's head is against the wall. He's not looking at her—she's not sure he's looking at anyone at all. He hisses in sharp breaths through his teeth, his chest rises and falls quickly. There's shadows in his eyes.

You should check, the rational part of her mind says. But the rational part of her is nowhere to be found when her trembling hands touch her jacket to take it off and feel wetness instead. She jolts and looks at her palms under the moonlight, there are dark stains on them.

No no no.

Blood has seeped through her jacket. She can't take it off—he's bleeding too much. She can't risk it. She's suddenly aware that it's much worse than she thought, and she has to close her eyes for a moment and fight the sudden urge to throw up.

"Harry. Harry, look at me." She grazes his cheek with a hand in an attempt to get his attention, but all she does is leave a dark, almost claw mark on his face. "Harry." The second time, she manages to get him to focus on her—but his gaze is far away, a reflection of the kind of distance that people put between themselves and the world when they're daydreaming. Is he in shock because of what has just happened, or has the situation evoked old memories in him?

Alouette is panicking, but she tries her best to hide it. He can't know she doesn't know what to do. He can only rely on her now—if she loses it, they'll be done for.

He'll be done for.

"We'll fix this," she says, but even she can't hide the unsure edge in her voice. "We'll find a way." A distant alarm comes from the city. She thinks she can hear someone scream, but it might be her own imagination.

Ice is in her soul. When she presses her hands against his stomach, the soaked jacket spills slowly cooling warmth through her fingers. She's breathing fast, her heart is going at a thousand miles per hour. She needs to get him help, she needs to do it now, but the city is under attack. Palaces are burning less than a mile away from where they're sitting, the hospitals are unreachable and unsafe. The next city is too far away—and who even knows what they'd do if she brought Harry to them. They could take advantage of the situation to kill him. Or they could call the Palace and have her arrested—if not executed.

No, her best chance is the Revolution. But she doesn't even know where she is, only that Harry is eerily silent and she can't tell if it's the wounds or the surprise or only heaven knows what else.

A terrifying moment after, Alouette realises he might not be saying a word because he wouldn't be able to hide the pain and fear he's feeling. He never complains—not in a way that makes him seem weak. Even now, he can't break free of that image. She doesn't know how bad it truly is, because he won't tell her. But him not telling her yet being unable to move is enough for her to know.

Harry is going to die. If she doesn't get him help, he will die. There's no doubt in her that it's the truth—it's been an hour and he looks worse than before, her jacket isn't enough but she has nothing else on her. She can't save him by herself. Unless she brings him somewhere he'll be able to get medical help, he won't make it through the night.

A panicked sob breaks past her lips, just one. Harry's eyes are on her, and they aren't as attentive as usual, but she knows he noticed. She bites her tongue and forces herself to look away from his face stained with red. Her fucking fingers.

Then, she remembers.

The phone.

"I'm going to call Elijah, he'll help," she whispers, standing up. Harry is still looking at her from where he's leaning against the wall. His hand has replaced hers over the jacket, but he doesn't seem to be able to apply any substantial pressure. When she turns around, she hears him hiss through his teeth in pain. The sound is so faint she would've missed it if she'd been standing only a step away.

The flame of hope is reignited in her, and she lets herself believe this can still be fixed. Elijah will help, he'll save them both like he said he would. This won't be definitive; it's just a pointless moment in time. They'll look back on it and laugh at how terrified she is.

It's not as bad as it seems, she tells herself. It's not as bad as it seems.

But she knows it's a lie, and it does nothing to soothe her.

She scrambles to get the phone out of her pocket. It slips out of her fingers once, then twice. She cleans her hands on her jeans and picks it up and searches for Elijah's contact. From the top corner, a red battery glares at her. She hasn't charged it since it was given to her.

She calls. It rings once, then twice.

"Come on, Elijah," she mutters under her breath, nervously biting her fingernail. She can't look at Harry in the eyes, can't turn around. She's scared that, the next time she turns, he'll look worse than before.

The line keeps ringing, and Elijah keeps not answering. When she gets the voicemail, she closes the call and calls again. And again.

He doesn't answer.

She calls a fourth time. "Pick up, pick up." The hand holding the phone is trembling.

The phone suddenly goes silent. She frowns and looks at it; the screen doesn't turn on. The battery has died.

"Shit!" She throws it on the ground, then falls to her knees and picks it up again, trying to turn it on repeatedly. It doesn't.

Alouette looks up. The chaos in the city is still high, she can hear its faraway echo. She doesn't know where they are exactly now. She doesn't know how much distance separates them from the Revolution, she only knows they aren't in the right area, because the buildings around her are like unknown, looming monsters in the night. She can only suppose that Dacran is standing between them—they took the nearest exit with the car earlier, the one that brought in the direction of Northfair. They're distant, too distant.

By car, it would take about an hour to drive through the city, but she doesn't have a car now, and even if she did, many of the main roads are blocked. Moving around the city without a vehicle is also impossible—it would take over four hours. Maybe walking through the city would take even longer, considering the chaos it's in. And she doesn't even have a weapon anymore, because they took Harry's knife and she left hers at the gas station. And Harry can't walk, but how could she leave him here? If anyone finds him, he'll be done for.

He's very pale, now, and he's sliding off the wall. It's the kind of shade that makes warning bells go off in her head. The run and the hour spent walking haven't done him well. Her hands are stained red and so are his clothes and the ground he fell on only some steps away from them. The shade has spread to the top of his shirt and on his jeans, too. There's too much of it.

The awareness comes suddenly. He won't last four more hours. He might not even last two.

If she goes now she won't be back in time, and he'll die alone.

It's an oddly calming feeling, knowing that. For a moment, it doesn't make sense—Alouette's brain registers it as it would a scene from a movie. Dramatic, certainly, but not real. It doesn't feel real. Thinking he's going to die after everything they went through together, so close to going back to the Palace, so close it fixing everything—it doesn't feel like something that's actually happening. Maybe she's dreaming.

Then it hits her all at once.

Harry is going to die. He's going to die and there's nothing she can do to help him—there's no one for her to call, nowhere for her to bring him. The only people that could save him are too far away to help, and it's almost midnight. They're alone, completely alone.

And, with a striking understanding, Alouette knows what she's going to do.

She could stand up and go even though she knows it's too late, that it'll take five hours, if not more, to get her where she needs to go. That she might get killed and never find her way back. But it would be pointless—she knows that. Five hours to go, one hour to come back. It'll take too long. He won't be still here by then—she's no doctor, but recognising when things are bad is part of being human. And they're bad now. She knows he won't last that long. She could still go, in the distant chance that maybe, just maybe, he might survive the next six to seven hours. But she knows he won't, because he's already dying before her eyes. And if she does, he'll die alone. Maybe it'll make her feel better not to be there, to tell herself that she tried, she really tried until the very last second and beyond, but that... it just isn't right.

No one deserves to die alone. Especially Harry.

We do everything together, he told her only a couple of days ago. She can't abandon him now. After every moment they shared, after all they did and the adventures they had, she owes her presence to him. She has to stay beside him, until the end. She could've never imagined they would be in this situation today. Two days ago, the world seemed to be so close for her to grasp. Now, it's being ripped away from her. And she has to stay—she has to see this through, because if she doesn't she'll regret it forever.

She has to stay with him. She wants to stay with him. She wants to stay with him, because her heart is already being ripped out by the knowledge of what's coming and she can't leave him alone—she'd let him rip her soul to shreds, if it meant staying by his side a little longer.

Who knew liking him would come to this? Liking. Funny word. Strangely small to describe what she feels for him.

She sits down with him. Sometimes, caring for someone also means knowing when it's time to stop fighting. And it is, now. They've already lost, and no deus ex machina will come to save them. "It will be fine," she whispers. Her voice is wet, shaking. Harry's eyes are closed, but they open when she slowly gets him to rest his head on her lap. He opposes no resistance—he's fading, quicker with every passing second. There's fear in his eyes now, of a shade she's never seen him wear before.

"I don't want to die," he murmurs confusedly, gaze unfocused, "not like this." His chest rises and falls unsurely, stuttering from moment to moment.

She clenches her teeth and wetness is in her eyes again. She looks away, she can't hold his gaze. She wants to scream and break things, curl up in a ball and cry, curse out the heavens and ask them why. But she intertwines their fingers instead, slowly, carefully, instead. His hands are so cold. "You're not going to die," she says, even though she knows the truth.

The truth is that she can't save him. The truth is that she's never been enough to save him. She thought she could do it, but now she knows she was only fighting against the tide. How naïve of her, to think he could survive out in the city only thanks to her. How stupid she's been. The air of the night is cold against her cheeks, and she realises with a start that she's crying. She couldn't even keep in her tears for him. It makes her want to cry harder.

Harry sees through her lie. She doesn't know if it's because she's crying, or because he can feel it too. That impossibility—that knowing tonight won't end well. "Please," he whispers out. He furrows his eyebrows, his breath comes in gasps through his lips—too fast, too light. His eyes are dark pits, and at the bottom of them there's fear—a badly concealed kind, faded by years of being ignored, sharpening its claws ready to pierce his heart. He almost looks like a boy, terrified of the coming night. "Don't let them take it away from me."

Northfair.

"They won't have it," Alouette whispers back—yet another promise she won't be able to keep. His grip tightens on her hand for a moment, and she runs her fingers through his hair, in hopes of easing heartbreak that can't be soothed.

"I want to go back home." The distress in his voice makes her cry harder.

She brings his hand to her mouth and kisses his bare knuckles. "You will go back home," she tells him, and it breaks her heart to realise it's the only promise she can truly keep. She'll bring him back home. She won't leave him out here, only surrounded by people who despise him. She'll bring him back home, where he belongs, and hope he'll be able to find peace.

Her chin wobbles and she lets out a choked cry, brushing his dark hair back and kissing his forehead. His lips part and he inhales, cold air trembling as it enters his lungs.

She should've never taken him away. He was safe between the walls of the Palace— the only danger to him has always only been her. But she brought him out into the world, knowing that everyone hates him, that everyone is out to get him. She knew, but she thought she'd be enough to protect him. It's her fault that he won't see the sunrise ever again. She knows he doesn't like darkness, and it breaks her heart to know he'll part from this world in the obscurity of the night.

It's all her fault.

"Do you remember the night you took me to the roof of the Palace?" she asks him softly. She's still playing with his hair, gently, but his grip is starting to loosen on their joined hands on top of his chest. "Do you remember the way the stars were glinting and the lights of Northfair were shining, painting the sky red and pink and green and blue?"

His gaze drifts to the vast expanse of the midnight sky above their heads. It's swarming with dark clouds, as black as pitch, so thick Alouette believes she could raise her hand and feel their vapour against her skin. There's no trace of that glittering ether tonight, only a fading moon through shadows. Everything is quiet, the air is still and freezing. It's October now, warmth isn't nowhere to be found, and she wishes there were at least crickets to sing him to sleep instead of distant alarms that seem to come through a wall of glass, audible but not able to reach their ears. Never before has the world felt so cold, unwelcoming, so still in dreadful anticipation.

"Do you remember the lights of Northfair?" she insists, and his eyes shift back to her. They're dark, an infinite abyss of despair she feels herself be swallowed by.

"Yes," he breathes.

"It's a beautiful city." A sob breaks through her chest. "It's such a beautiful city. Like a star. The brightest in the night." She remembers standing between those buildings for the first time, the wonder her despair made her feel. She despised it then, that city with enough hubris to fancy itself a star, a beacon of light shining in the night. The arrogance of its creators—the arrogance of the world it belongs to. Now, though, she understands. She understands why Harry would've gone to every end to save it. His beloved Northfair. What is there of so wrong of following a new sort of constellation if the original ones can no longer be seen? "I wish we could've stayed there forever."

Forever, and none of this would've happened. But it had to happen—he had it coming. He'd been awful, it had to happen. It's the cycle of the universe—after dark comes light, after sin comes punishment. But not like this. There had to be another way, and for weeks she told herself there was, but now she can see she's only been lying to herself since the start.

New tears run down her cheeks, and he grazes her face with his hand. The look in his eyes is intense, unguarded, as if he let all his walls crumble down. He's never looked so human before. "Northfair," he whispers, "is but a star." His touch slides on her chest, hovering over her heart. "Polaris is here."

Polaris. The fixed star of the northern hemisphere, the one she can always look to for guidance.

She cries harder.

"My necklace," Harry continues. His hand tugs at the silvery chain around his neck.

Alouette wipes her tears with the palm of her hand. "Do you want me to take it off?" she asks him faintly. She's surprised by the stiff quietude of her voice. Things don't feel real. She alternates moments of heartbreaking awareness to ones of eerie calm, in which she's almost convinced this is nothing but a bad dream.

Harry gives her a weak nod. His gaze on her feels different today. It doesn't make her feel naked, nor cold. In truth, she can't feel it at all. It's missing that spark she's always identified as undeniably Harry—it's just a look. He isn't reading anything in her eyes, seeing anything through her soul. What hurts the most is knowing that, if the situation were a little different, he would be commenting on her crying her eyes out because of him. Maybe, in another reality, he'd be offering her whiskey, in his odd conviction that it would help her mend her soul.

Her fingers find the clasp on the side of his neck, and she takes the necklace. The cross at the end of it catches the distant light of the city as it dangles before her eyes. "What do I do with it?" she whispers. She can't take her eyes off it, not even when she notices that her hands are trembling.

Harry raises his right hand and slides a ring off his pointer finger with his thumb. "Take it." He offers it to her holding it between his fingertips.

It's a little sticky when she takes it and she has some difficulty making out which one it is, considering how stained it is. She cleans the blood off the stone, and lets out a surprised sound when she recognises the green of it. It's the only ring she's always seen him wear—he's never taken it off before, not even when he wasn't wearing the other ones.

"Don't let them have it."

"The ring?" she asks. "Why?"

He doesn't tell her. "Keep it safe." He presses her hand holding the ring to the necklace. "Do not wear it."

Realisation dawns. She passes the necklace through the ring and slides it down to rest against the cross. "I'll keep it safe for you," she says, putting on the necklace. It's long enough for the two pendants to be hidden into her shirt, safe against her chest.

The two words send a stinging pain through her. For you. As if she truly believes there will be a him and her after this moment. As if she thinks there will be a future in which she'll give the ring back to him—even though they're completely alone, and no one will come to save them. There's no vehicle for her to steal, nowhere for her to bring him, they're isolated from the world, and yet they're still under that same moon, the lights of the city still shining on them. Harry said Polaris is inside her; she wishes it'd show her the right way, now.

Maybe she's losing some type of game. Maybe this is just another turn in the maze, and she got stuck in a trap. Maybe there's a way out of this, but she can't find it. She can't leave him alone. She can't do this to him.

The night is growing colder, and her trembling is not only due to fear and pain anymore. The moon is rising higher and higher in the sky, soon it'll start falling towards the horizon again. Maybe it's simply the eerie, somewhat unreal electric vibe in the darkness tonight that makes her believe there's a way—that this can still be stopped, or reversed. But she knows, deep down, she's only lying to herself. She's only trying to slow down the pain and grief, yet she feels them coming on from the deep dark waves she now knows she should've always drowned in. What's the point of learning to breathe underwater if Harry's no longer with her?

Harry's forehead is cold when her fingers brush against it. His eyes are closed, but only apparently so. He's looking down, into the distance, as if he can't get himself to let her see him fading away from his eyes. His breath is lighter than before, but still as quick as the wings of a butterfly. He was trembling earlier, but now his body is growing still, growing cold. His cheeks are cold and so are his hands, and she wants to keep him warm but her jacket is putting pressure on his wounds—even though it seems to have been completely pointless now, she doesn't dare taking it off. And even if she did, it's wet and cold, now. It would only make him feel worse. She has to clench her teeth to keep herself from crying again.

"You know, I think I get it now," she says. Despite the distant sounds of the city, she has the distinct feeling of her voice being the only sound in the world. "You were right. We aren't so different after all." Her fingers slide through his curls, but her hands are dirty and sticky and she's only matting it more. "The way you feel about Northfair, I feel about the Revolution. For so long, you acted like Northfair was your Polaris, and I acted like the Revolution was mine. I was sure of it—I was sure it was the only thing that mattered to me, the one my universe spun around. But the Revolution, just like Northfair, is nothing more than a star. Maybe an important one, strong enough to influence the world around it, but it'll never be the only one, nor the most important one."

Her gaze falls down, and she realises Harry's eyes are closed. He's still breathing, albeit faintly, and she resists the urge to shake his shoulder to make him open them again. What right does she have to wake him up, to bring him back to a world of pain, when there's nothing she can do to save him?

There are new tears in her eyes, and she leans her head against the wall and looks at the stars, choking back a sob. She doesn't stop playing with his hair. She doesn't stop talking—because if the echo of her voice disappears from the night, she'll know this is definitive, and she can't allow it to be just yet.

"All my life, I've followed the path that had been created for me by my family. I built my life around the Revolution, because it was what I was supposed to do." A moment of hesitation. "Don't get me wrong. I do believe in what they stand for. But I've realised there's never been a moment in which I made the conscious decision to join it, because I was always part of it. Maybe, seeing the world beyond it has made me realise the true value of it. It's a little late to discover all this at twenty-three, but what else could I do?"

There's a ringing alarm coming from the city.

"For so long, I followed the path others had built for me, and I've realised only now how empty and useless it made me feel. There's a difference between fighting because you've always done it, and doing it because it's what you believe in. I did not have that choice. But, thanks to everything that happened, I do now. And it's made me realise how bright of a star the Revolution is—and how it isn't the only one, too. I see, now, why you too have mistaken Northfair for Polaris. How couldn't you, when it was the star your world spun around?"

Pain is a peculiar thing. Every time you believe you've hit the edge, it shows you how untrue that is. Physical and emotional pain are alike, in that sense. She thought she'd been heartbroken before, but now she can hardly breathe. Now that Harry is no longer an active part of the conversation, the reality of a world without him is starting to sink in her heart. And she hates every second of it. It makes her want to put out all the stars, one by one. Drench the Revolution in sea water and watch it float away into the horizon. Pour a glass of wine on Northfair and watch it burst to flames. Shatter the foundations of Dacran and watch it sink into Hell.

"Yes, I do believe in the Revolution, but I don't like its light. I don't like it because it blinded me, trapped me. It must be the only celestial body so inept at illuminating the night sky despite the strength of its light."

Watch Whitsen burn in the flames of Northfair, let Pans fall out of its orbit around the floating island that would the Revolution become. Throw dust over her newfound dark universe and let it settle over it forever.

"You said my Polaris is inside me, but I think you're wrong. My Polaris is you." Her voice shakes. "Shit," she mutters under her breath. "That sounded a lot less pathetic when I first thought it."

Harry can't die. It doesn't make sense. Someone like him doesn't just die. It isn't written in his character sheet, nor in his stars. It isn't written anywhere, because it isn't like him. He's supposed to last forever. He's supposed to last forever, with her. But he's dying now, and that's fucked up. It's just plain rude of him to make her like him so much and then leave. She likes him to much for her own good. She likes him so much that she doesn't like him at all.

"Fuck, I think I love you," Alouette whispers out, and then she laughs. She laughs, because that's so pathetic. She doesn't know what's worse: having fallen for him, or having realised it so late. Both make her want to kick herself.

Heavens. She loves Harry. The thought is barely registering. She loves Harry, and now he's dying, and there's nothing she can do. Why do so many people she cares about die? Why can she never save them?

I love you. If Harry had heard her say that, she's certain he would've laughed. Or thrown her out of the window. Maybe both, simultaneously. Maybe she's glad he didn't hear her say it. She can't know for sure, but something tells her that, in his book, love admissions are the ultimate sign of weakness. Maybe she is weak. What's so wrong about it? If weakness means being willing to set the world on fire for someone, then she'll gladly go down with it. Oddly enough, though, at the same time, the world is also what she's trying to save from the person she loves. She knows her morality is screaming somewhere on the ground, wounded by her love confession to the one person she was supposed to kill.

Truly, knowing she was meant to kill him first, this shouldn't hurt so bad. But it does, because she's never truly wanted him to die. She's never believed in murder as a way to solve issues. Now, though, that might change.

"Why the hell did you make me love you? How could you—" Her sentence is broken by a sob. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." Her hand flies to her mouth. All of a sudden she can't hold it back anymore.

She starts crying. Hard. So hard that she wonders how Harry isn't waking up, no matter the depth of his slumber. The new tears join the old ones on her cheeks and she can hardly breathe.

Harry can't go. He can't leave her alone. It isn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The moon has reached its height in the sky. It looks down at her, somewhat melancholically, and then begins its fall.

Alouette hides her face in her hands. Her chest is heaving so hard it hurts and her muscles ache. Her hand stings. The cold is colder and the pain is stronger and she's drowning. She's drowning.

There will be no going back.

A universe without Harry is no universe at all. There's nothing she can do. She's useless, useless like she's always been, like she'll ever be. She wants to sink to the bottom of Harry's ocean and never come back up again. She's smothered by the sudden realisation that there truly will be no coming back. Tomorrow she won't be the same person she is tonight. She's shattered, crushed.

Because, despite everything, he did not deserve to go like this. This is wrong, wrong, wrong.

There will be no going back.

She knows, as starkly as you'd see a mark in red on a white paper, that a piece of her will die with him. The dawn of tomorrow, and of every other day after that, will not shine in the same way for her. And she can't stop crying.

He doesn't deserve this.

She wants to pull her hair out. She's so angry she wants to scream. She's so angry that her anger turns into sadness and sadness turns into tears that turn into anger. It's smothering and all-compassing. She could drown in it.

When she realises that, in some twisted way, everything is how it would be if she'd gone through with her mission, she's certain she might puke. This isn't the way out she was dreaming of. She didn't want this. She didn't. She's trembling so violently her muscles burn.

It wasn't meant to be like this.

Harry's hand has long fallen from hers. She can only know he's still breathing because her hand is on his chest. Everything smells like rust and fog and there are no stars nor constellations, just the darkness and the moon presiding over it. But its light is cold, too—it's only the reflection of something that isn't here.

There's a sudden click.

Alouette looks up, and she finds herself staring at the barrel of a gun. It seems a fitting end, she thinks, ironically. There's nothing for her to defend herself with, and even if she hadn't lost her gun and the knife, she'd have no strength to fight back.

Not anymore.

"Oh." The hands holding the gun belong to a man that seems to be around her age, someone she's never seen before. "This isn't what I was expecting to find."

Yes, I'll try my best to update in the next couple of days. Thank you for the 380k reads on this story! I hope you enjoyed this chapter x
Miki