Grissom was running through the high-walled streets, when he found her. A simple enough task, at the bidding of his commander, to seek the Müllenkamp vermin and be rid of them, cleanse the crumbled city. Guildenstern spoke his name, what was left for him but to obey?

But there, at the foot of the once-proud Cathedral, with the sting of sunshine in his eyes, he saw the woman he never though to see alone again. For a heartbeat moment he forgot himself, forgot the fealty that so compelled him.

She moved as if lost in a dream, her hair pale like wintry moonlight, and the hands at her belly were crimson with blood. He thought she was dying, as if her small gloved hands wrapped lovingly around the damascus hilt of her lover's blade.

"Samantha!"

Her head came up, and her eyes were bright like distant stars. Quickly, she uncurled her fingers and the crucifix she had been clutching fell to earth with a clatter. "Grissom?" She spoke with quiet disapproval, carefully regaining her broken composure.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" His voice was rougher than he meant for it to be, his words blunt and unwieldy as the heavily upturned cobbled street beneath them.

"Another death," she whispered, as if she did not see him, the rise and fall of her grieving breast making the red rose shiver. He could envision the procession of haunted souls walking through her mind-- taste the promise of death, the screaming silence. A shudder of disgust crawled down his spine. With tremulous voice, she murmured, "This place will kill us all."

"But we need not fear death, Samantha." With steady hand, he lifted her fallen rood and held it out to her, wondering just what he was offering her. "Our souls will be safe with God."

She spun away, as if she could not bear the weight of the cross, could not bear the sight of him. "Spare me your words, priest. You know my heart goes with Guildenstern, and I fear what may befall."

There had not always been such coldness in her eyes. Moved, he said, "For your sake, lady, I would no longer be a priest, with no words to hurt you thus."

She laughed, a thin, ironic laugh. "No words?" The toss of her silver hair was sharp and lovely, like the edge of an angel's sword. "Then give me your mouth, good Father Grissom, and give me your condemnation."

"As you wish." Reassured that they still understood one another, he moved that half-step closer and bent to kiss her upturned lips-- as he did so, slipping the rood pendant round her neck.

And a flock of birds took wing overhead, wheeling and skirling like the weeping of the very city all around them.

Grissom was running from the wall-voiced shrieks, when he found her. A simple enough task, at the bidding of the breathing streets, to seek the living vermin and be rid of them, cleanse the crumbled city. Lea Monde spoke his name, what was left for him but to obey?

But there, at the foot of the Dark-proud Cathedral, with the wash of raindrops in his eyes, he saw the woman he never though to see alive again. For a moment he felt his heart beat, and remembered himself, remembered the bloodsong that once compelled him.

She moved as if lost in a dream, her hair pale like spring sunlight, and the hands at her belly were crimson with blood. He thought she was praying, as if her small gloved hands wrapped lovingly around the hagane length of her lover's crucifix.

"Sss-- Samantha?"

Her head came up, and her eyes were bright like fallen stars. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers and the dagger she had been clutching fell to earth without a sound. "Grissom!" She spoke with quiet disbelief, carefully maneuvering her broken figure.

"What in hell are you doing?" His words were softer than he wanted them to be, his voice unused and aching as the lilting lift of the Cathedral dome above them.

"Another death," she whispered, as if she could not see him, the rise and fall of her wounded breast making the red rose quiver. He could envision a procession of winged souls walking through her mind-- taste the promise of death, the sweetest stillness. A shiver of relief slid up his spine. With unwavering voice, she said, "This place has killed us all."

"But we need not fear death, Samantha." With shaking hand, he lifted her fallen blade and held it out to her, knowing just what he was beseeching of her. "Our souls may be safe with-- each other."

She turned toward him, as if she had never seen a dagger before, as if she had never seen his face. "Give me your words, priest. You should know that Guildenstern has cut out my heart, and I fear I have already fallen."

There had not always been such warmth in her eyes. Moved, he said, "Forgive me, lady, I am no longer a priest, with no words to help you thus."

She laughed, a little, coughing laugh, as if she were realizing something at last. "No words." She could not lift her head to toss her hair, but her smile had yet an angelsword edge about it. "Then give me your mouth, good my Grissom, and give me your salvation."

"As you wish." Reassured that they still understood one another, he moved that faltering step closer to her and bent to kiss her upturned lips-- as he did so, her trembling hands slipping the dagger point into his heart.

And a thunder of spirits took flight underneath them, stirring and toppling the very city all around them.