Does history repeat itself, as is often claimed? It would be so, were ‘history’ an agent unto itself that could indulge in repetition. History as an entity does not exist in the present, however. History is the summation of past events through present eyes.

None should be surprised, therefore, to hear claims of patterns and cycles from historians - it is the ore for which such men mine, sifting away piles of dusty pages and dross until they are left with something that may be forged into relevant instruction for the present.

Yet other metals pass through their sieve to languish, simply because it was not what that particular man wished to reclaim. The Gharic pen ever selects the gold and silver from their own past to the exclusion of all else, so that their pages may gleam bright with remembrance.

They are welcome to their gilded fantasy, and good riddance. The history they discard is written chiefly in iron and lead, and we have ample use for both.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

“Well?” Clair prompted him. “See anything that might prove useful?”

Michael did not respond, staring at Luc’s haggard face. The man was thinner than he remembered, with a patchy growth of beard and dark circles under his eyes. A coarse rope was tied around his neck, from which a small wooden token was suspended; the rope had rubbed the skin under it raw.

The final disposition of the island’s residents had not lingered in Michael’s thoughts after his departure, as he had figured that the Institute would preserve things as close as they could to their prior state. Spark’s absence was evidently more disruptive to the Institute than he had assumed.

Then again, Luc and the fellow Esroun in the control group were an oddity. Spark and Claude had been Esroun, and the bonds that they had cultivated within that group of young men were specific to them. To a presumably-Ardan replacement from the Institute, what use were a bunch of orphans from the continent? They had no souls, and no other useful purpose now that the objects of their loyalty were dead. All that remained was an expendable, unsouled body - and those were already in great supply.

A sick feeling took hold in Michael’s stomach. It was logical, now that he thought about it - he simply had not had cause to consider it prior. From Luc’s perspective he must seem a monster, the stranger who had swept in from across the sea to upend his life, kill his mentor and patron and eventually cause his expulsion from what had been a paradisiacal refuge. Now he had returned to the torments of his childhood, laboring under uncaring masters until inevitably the work maimed or killed him.

There had been no other option, but the inevitability of the consequence made it no more palatable. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Luc and focused on Clair’s increasingly-impatient face. “There’s a lot of traffic past the barricade,” he said. “Soldiers and laborers go through on a regular basis.”

“We’re already supposed to be laborers,” Gerard said. “That seems like the obvious choice.”

Charles looked askance at him. “Dangerous,” he pointed out. “Look at the state of the people here. These are dead men, even if they’re taking their time about it. None of them will survive this war, and many of them won’t last the week. Worked to the bone, driven out in front of a charge as fodder - so yes, getting in as labor would be easy. Not safe, though, and getting back out again will be a challenge.

“I’m not even sure it’ll be that easy,” Michael said, focusing his gaze back on Luc’s crew. “We don’t look the part. We’d need to leave our equipment and clothing with Emil, come dressed in rags and - there’s some manner of token they’re all wearing, maybe a sort of work pass. We’ll need to steal some in order to get by. Aside from that, we need at least one person who looks the part of a soldier; they’re prisoners, they always have at least one guard.”

“Stealing from the prisoners shouldn’t be difficult,” Sobriquet said, drifting in from the side. “And we are fortunate enough to have an Ardan among us who should look quite convincing in uniform.” There was a pause, and Michael felt the focus of its attention settle on him. “But isn’t there something else? I felt the shift of secrets within you as you looked, and none of them have yet passed your lips.”

A cold shot of adrenaline set Michael’s heart beating faster. His guilt over Luc’s state had distracted him from the reality of the other man’s presence; here was a man who was privy to many of the secrets Sobriquet was pursuing. Luc had been present when Spark learned the nature of Michael’s soul. He knew that Michael bore Stanza within him. It wasn’t impossible that he had surmised more - and if Sobriquet asked, Michael felt that Luc would be only too happy to trade that information.

The group’s attention was on him now as Sobriquet’s question hung unanswered in their midst; he had to say something, and lying to the smug apparition was not a viable option when the topic of conversation was so close to his secrets.

“I saw a man among the prisoners that I had met before,” Michael admitted. “Relevant to me, but not to our purpose here.”

Clair raised an eyebrow. “An inside man?” she said. “That seems relevant to me. We’re looking for ways inside, remember.”

“This man - would not help,” Michael said, shaking his head. “He has fair cause to hate me. If he were aware of my presence here I believe he might summon the guards purely out of spite.”

Charles snorted. “Who could find it within them to dislike such a wonderful lordling?” he asked. “What did you do, have him whipped for insolence?”

“I killed the two most important people in his life,” Michael replied, giving Charles a flat look and finding the artifex surprised for once. More than one set of eyes looked toward Sobriquet, an awkward silence settling in as it said nothing to dispute the claim.

“So I suppose we should talk to somebody else,” Gerard said.

Sobriquet’s outline shimmered. “I still agree that trying to work our way in among the laborers is our most likely route inside the compound,” it said. “There are a few among the captives here who have that particular flavor of utility, something that says they’ll be helpful in our endeavor - ah, perhaps that gentleman there, in the red.”

Michael had a sinking feeling. Just to be sure, he turned to look; Sobriquet's outstretched arm was pointing directly at Luc. “That’s the man I just said we shouldn’t work with,” he protested.

“How completely surprising,” Sobriquet said. “An incredible coincidence.”

Past the buzzing distortion in its voice Sobriquet actually managed to sound droll; Michael fixed it with a glare. “He won’t help us.”

“Ah, incorrect,” Sobriquet said, bobbing closer to Michael. “He will not help you. There should be no problem if Clair were to speak with him, especially if I keep him blind to your presence here.”

“The last time I was trying to move unnoticed through a hostile camp, that man was the one who reported my position to the guards,” Michael said. “This was before he had a good reason to hate me.”

Sobriquet hummed. “I imagine it was not a hostile camp for him at the time, correct? Here, he is a prisoner. The two scenarios are hardly comparable.” It leaned in closer to Michael. “He can’t deceive me in any material sense. If he is duplicitous then I will let him rot here with the others. If not, however - well, he would not be the first prisoner stuffed with secrets that I have collected recently, would he?”

“He doesn’t know anything that I wasn’t already going to tell you,” Michael said.

The blur floated forward, appearing to study Luc’s sorry group of prisoners as they walked. “Doesn’t he?” Sobriquet said. “Oh, he does have the taste of your secrets about him, at least in part, but there is something more. I sense that he, like you, carries a few unique tidbits of profound import. I should like to know what those are.”

The apparition swiveled towards Michael. “There’s no need to worry,” it said. “I have no need to press him for your secrets; aside from being impolite it would rather ruin the fun of enticing them from you personally.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Clair said, rolling her eyes and stepping forward. “Amuse yourself later. Let’s tail this poor bastard back to whatever hole they’re keeping him in.”

Despite Sobriquet’s enthusiasm for contacting Luc, Clair did not immediately move to him once they found the crowded, filthy tent in which he was kept. Instead, their group dispersed. Charles and Gerard went to watch the guard rotations at Sever’s camp, while Vernon trailed along to garner what intelligence he could via stray snippets of conversation.

Sobriquet itself was present, if not visibly-manifested; Michael had the impression that its obfuscation of their group grew more challenging when they were not all in the same place - which they were not, as Clair and Michael stayed behind to observe Luc. A stray hummock of grass that bent traffic around it proved to be an ideal perch to watch the prisoners as they lay sprawled on thin straw mats or staring dully at the walls.

The object of their scrutiny had fallen asleep, both arms crossed protectively over his chest and legs tucked upward. He wore a patchwork of scraps to supplement his tattered shirt, including strips of cloth wound around his arms and legs, mismatched gloves and shoes barely visible under yet more cloth windings.

“What’s his name?” Clair asked. “Or is that another secret?”

Michael shook his head. “Luc,” he replied. “Not sure if he’s got a surname, he never offered and I never asked.”

“Seems kind of cold, to kill his loved ones and not even bother to find out his last name,” Clair observed. “Who were they? His parents?” She leaned forward. “His children?”

“No,” Michael scowled. “Ghar’s ashes, what kind of person do you think I am?” Clair let out a sharp laugh, and Michael grimaced. “Don’t answer that. No, they were his - mentors, I guess. He’s an orphan, from Esrou, and these two took him in, raised him. They were-”

He broke off, pondering his choice of words. “They were good to Luc, from what I can tell, but they didn’t care for him in return - actually, they were plotting to kill him in order to coerce me.” Michael smiled and shook his head. “I never really considered it, but I probably saved his life.”

“And look at him now,” Clair said, gesturing toward the squalid tent. “Some favor you did him.”

Michael looked back at the prisoners, pursing his lips. “I think it was inevitable,” he said. “Knowing what I know now. There were no happy paths leading away from where he was, no version of events where he got to keep his paradise. One way or another, he was always going to lose.”

Clair gave him a wry grin. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” she said. “Everywhere you go, it’s always someone else’s dream you’re living. We’re all just riding along, surviving day to day - or not. Your life, your happiness only matters if it matters to the dreamer.” Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer to Michael.

“So be careful with your decisions,” she said. “You get to dream too, with your soul and your secrets. For whatever reason, your choices matter to more than just you. Maybe even as much as - ah, Sobriquet.”

For a moment Michael only stared back - then he found himself laughing. Clair’s face shaded from perplexed to darkly offended before he collected himself, holding up a hand to forestall any retort she might make.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to laugh.” He took a breath, then met Clair’s glowering eyes. “I have had a soul for three months. That’s a matter of public record now that you know who I am, so I don’t mind divulging it. My life until that point - well. You already know what manner of person my father is.”

“So you had an unkind childhood,” Clair said, sounding unimpressed. “There are many who could say the same, although theirs did not leave them with a soul and a titled name.”

“For all the good that’s done me,” Michael said. “I got my soul because my father tied me to a post and whipped me until I died.” Clair’s eyes widened fractionally, but she said nothing. Michael shook his head.

“It’s not hyperbole,” he said. “I died. Saw the void at the end of everything, and I chose to step into it rather than go back to that life. It was the first choice I ever made that was truly my own - and it didn’t matter. Events transpired, and thanks to a particularly talented anatomens I was back in order within a few days - healthy, and ready to live out my father’s dream as his newly-ensouled son.”

“So how does that man end up here, infiltrating an Ardan camp on the front?” Clair asked. “Two murders later, I might add.”

Michael spread his hands. “A long and surprisingly boring story, and one that is unfortunately under the scope of my agreement with Sobriquet. Suffice to say, though, that I found myself moving from one dream to another, and none of them my own.” He chuckled. “Now I appear to be in Sobriquet’s.”

“Don’t make it sound so dire, you volunteered for this expedition,” Clair said. “I wanted to leave you back at the safehouse.”

“That was the second choice I’ve made,” Michael said. “So thanks for letting me come along. It would have been demoralizing to get thwarted twice in a row.”

Clair snorted. “If you wanted to spite your father there were likely easier ways to go about it.”

“Maybe.” Michael stretched, then stood. “But this was the one I chose.” He nodded his head towards the tent. “It looks like the last of them just fell asleep. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I am,” Sobriquet’s faint voice said, coming thin and reedy from no place in particular. “He will see Clair, and Clair alone. No one will hear you speak - but if he tries to inform a guard, kill him and run. There are limits to what I can hide.”

Clair nodded, while Michael swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. For all that his past interactions with Luc had been complex, even hostile, he did not relish the thought of watching the man die. He had been kind to Michael, and although they had found themselves at odds there had been little malice in Luc’s actions. In many ways he was as much Spark’s victim as anyone on that island.

He followed Clair as she walked over to the sleeping workers, threading her way past the bored guards and between the tangle of sleeping bodies until she stood over Luc’s supine form. She looked down for a moment, then nudged him with the toe of her boot.

Luc’s eyes flew open to settle on Clair, but he made no move to rise or pull away.

“Hello, Luc,” Clair said. “Would you like to leave this camp?”

“How do you know my name?” he whispered. “Who are you? Are you-” He bit back his words, looking unsure.

Clair gave him a self-amused smile - Michael somehow found her theatrics very reminiscent of Sobriquet, for all that the apparition lacked expressions. “You don’t have to whisper,” she said. “Nobody can hear us. We’ve been watching you for some time, and I think we can help each other.”

Slowly, Luc sat up. “I’m listening,” he said. “Though I have little here to offer, yes?”

“Those wooden tokens that you all wear,” Clair said. “We need four of them, and clothing to match. Anything you remember about the inside of Sever’s compound would be helpful as well.”

Luc gave a weak laugh. “You want to be a prisoner too?” he asked. “A dangerous thing, in there. Those butchers will kill you on a whim. Raise your head, look at them too long, stand in the wrong place - you will find yourself with a slit throat, or worse.” His eyes glittered feverishly, and he leaned forward. “You work against these Ardans, though? You hope to hurt them?”

“Yes,” Clair said. “That’s the plan. Do you know where we can find the disguises we’ll need?”

The mania faded from Luc’s eyes, and he sank back down. “No shortage of the dead,” he said. “We all take from the fallen, and there’s more every day. They pile the bodies just outside the camp to the north, with the rest of the garbage.”

Clair nodded, then extended her hand down to Luc. “Show me,” she said.

A haze of uncertainty passed over Luc’s features, his fists clenching in their tattered gloves. “It’s death to be wandering loose,” he said. “We should wait until darkness.”

“And how do you think I got here?” Clair said. “Nobody will see us.”

Luc reached up once more to make tentative contact with Clair’s hand, flinching when he encountered her fingers as if he hadn’t expected her to be real. His expression firmed, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Then we should go,” he said. Clair motioned toward the tent’s exit, and the two of them left with Michael following behind.

The guard gave no reaction to their departure, which seemed to brighten Luc’s spirits further. He even managed a slight smile as he turned to look at Clair again. “You never told me how you knew my name,” he said. “You’ve been watching me, yes, but nobody here knows my name either. It’s just ‘you’ or ‘prisoner’ when they call me.”

Clair returned the smile; Michael recognized it from when she had flirted with the checkpoint guards. “What if I told you that I met a friend of yours?” she said. If she saw Michael’s alarmed expression, she gave no hint of it.

The smile died from Luc’s face. “Then you would be lying,” he said, reaching under a fold of his rags. He withdrew a loose bunch of wooden tokens threaded with rope, clacking together as they moved. Some were bloodstained, others gouged or scratched. “These were my friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Clair said, a hint of genuine emotion in her voice. “You were brought here together?”

“We lived together,” Luc said. “Before this. Were kept together.” His face darkened, and he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clair nodded. “The War takes from everyone,” she said. “That’s why we’re trying to end it, at least in this corner of the continent. We need your help to do it.”

“The War?” Luc snorted. “The War never took anything from me. It was Ardans alone. I lost my life twice over and never even saw the front.”

“If not for the War they’d all be in Ardalt, doing whatever tickles their fancy,” Clair said, shooting a surreptitious glance back at Michael. “Not bothering good folks from the continent.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” Luc chuckled. “They have a need to meddle. Ardans are forever upending the natural way of things and leaving chaos in their wake. It’s a mindset more than a nationality, contagious and vile.”

Michael received another arch look from Clair. “It sounds like you have some rather specific grievances with them,” she said.

“They stole my life,” Luc hissed. “Both specific and general, yes?” He clenched his fists, dried mud crusting from his gloves as they were squeezed between his fingers. “Acted as a friend, to keep me unawares, but all the while had nothing but contempt for me.”

Michael felt the anguish in Luc’s voice on a visceral level. He had never meant to cause the man any pain, but the fact remained that he had done so. It was as Clair had said - Luc’s life was not a priority for any of those making the choices that mattered, so he had been discarded.

Luc flung a hand outward angrily. “And me! I did not see it, despite so many clues. I was blind, so blind that it took a bumbling idiot to upend my life before I was able to glimpse it - and by then it was too late.”

Clair shot another amused glance back at Michael, who had frozen in place. “Tell me about this bumbling idiot,” she said. “Your description reminds me of someone I know.”

“Ah, another Ardan - a real one this time, straight from Calmharbor. Michael.” Luc rolled his eyes, oblivious to Clair’s sudden, delighted smile. “Raised on a pile of money. Half the time so unaware he was nearly walking into walls, the other half spouting platitudes. And special, yes? Because of course he was.”

Luc made a disgusted noise. “Managed to set a raving madman on me, and when I ran for help the man who raised me took me back to the idiot and told him he was the most precious person in the world.”

Clair lost her struggle against the laughter she had been holding back, nearly doubling over in mirth; Luc paused bemusedly in his rant to look.

“Sobriquet,” Michael said. “Let him see me.”

There was the faintest of shimmers in the air, and a faint chuckle near his ear. “I fail to see why I should,” Sobriquet murmured. “I’m rather enjoying his story, and I don’t think I’ve seen Clair laugh like this in years.”

A slightly-manic grin had taken root on Luc’s face as well as he watched Clair laugh. “It’s ridiculous, yes?” he chuckled. “And then he shot the mad spector, strapped me to a table-”

“Sobriquet!” Michael said insistently. “Let him see me!”

“-started ranting about killing everyone on the island and making the perfect human,” Luc spat. “Then the other man who had raised me came in-”

Michael stepped forward and shoved Luc, sending him stumbling back a few paces and interrupting his tirade. Shock and confusion replaced the anger on his face - which returned after a moment when his eyes locked directly onto Michael.

“I suppose the game is up,” Sobriquet sighed.

“You.” Luc stalked forward, fists clenched. “Of course it’s you, you meddling-” His fist lashed out and took Michael across the jaw, dazzling his vision and pitching him sideways into the dirt. Luc hauled him up bodily by the collar, drawing his fist back for another blow - then collapsing nervelessly to the ground as a sparkling hand materialized to tap him on the forehead.

“As entertaining as this has been,” Sobriquet said, sounding somewhat strained, “I must ask you to be quiet and still for a short while. You are becoming increasingly taxing to conceal.” There was a pause. “That means you as well, Clair.”

Clair straightened up from where she had knelt half-paralyzed by laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just - precious-” She clapped a hand over her mouth once more.

Sobriquet gave a buzzing sigh. “Take a moment if you must,” it said. “But move our new friend out of the path, at least. There’s little I can do if he gets run over by a cart.”

Clair nodded, pressing her lips together, and Michael rose to his feet with a scowl. “You let him punch me,” he said.

“Just once,” Sobriquet replied. “It seemed healthy. Besides, it’s quite a step up from him swearing an oath of vengeance and haunting your footsteps until the day he could bathe in your blood - or whatever other nonsense you had convinced yourself he would do.”

“It seemed reasonable at the time,” Michael muttered, bending down to slip his arms under Luc’s shoulders and pull. He felt another wayward pang of sympathy; the other man was horrifically light. Clair collected herself enough to pick up his dragging legs, though she evidently did not trust herself to speak yet.

Sobriquet hummed. “Nobody could deny that your life is significant,” it said. “Least of all after hearing that story, I should say. Nevertheless, you should allow for the likelihood, the possibility, the merest sliver of chance that you are not as important to others as you imagine yourself to be.”

“Yes, fine,” Michael scowled. “I will allow that I was in error, although I doubt that will stop you from harping on about it forever.”

“That’s mere embarrassment speaking,” Sobriquet said. “I have no doubt as the sting fades, you will find the memory of this day to be quite precious indeed.”

Clair dropped Luc’s legs and collapsed to the ground once more. Michael sighed, set his feet, and kept pulling.