He brought them far, to the edge of the field, to the haybales. Daz carried her silently, only held her while she cried until she couldn’t anymore. Until she was still. There was nothing else to do, nothing kind he could tell her that wouldn’t be a lie. He hadn’t been asked to lie to her, he’d been asked to protect her. 

The smell of iron was strong, the taste was stronger. 

The pain was getting to him. He set her down against the hay, sat down next to her, and knew right then that he wouldn’t be able to get up again. God, he reeked of ichor; why did the little bastards have to die so messy? Not that he was one to talk. 

A hand went to his side, to the pit there. He could hardly stand to touch it anymore, and he didn’t need to see it. 

Instead, he looked to distant Hovvi, and sorrow welled within him. In the dark it was so hard to tell it from home. So many years spent seeing Westwul burn in his dreams, and now he got to see it burn one last time with his eyes open. He found it hurt just the same. 

Dragon had landed, he saw her rise from the lake. Daz would never have called these monstrosities beautiful, but there was a terrible majesty to Dahlia’s savior, something haunting in the finality of her coming. With everything that had happened, he knew now that she was here, it was over. He prayed she wouldn’t see her own failure in this, the death of her second home, but a part of him knew she would. 

The window went both ways. 

Daz groaned, laid his head back against the hay. Through cracked, tired eyes he looked over at Quinn, and with a bloody hand he stroked the hair from her face. A smile tugged at him, and he didn’t have the strength left to fight it. In a way, it was funny. All those years ago, making Besca swear to protect Dahlia. Now here he was, protecting a girl she’d brought to him. 

Shutting his eyes and breathing his last, Mendas St. Senn died a man of his word.