Others found him as he wept.

The first inkling he had was when the light touch of Pearl landed on his shoulder, and her tiny arms reached around his head to hug as much of it as she could. The sobs were no longer shaking his entire frame, now it was just quiet tremors that ran through his entire body. His face was blotchy and sticky with tear stains and snot, and he tried to use the back of his hand to wipe away the worst of it.

“I loved her,” he whispered, sounding like a razorblade drawn edge-first over a brick. “More than anything.”

“We know,” said Pop’s voice from behind him. He didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Even if Pearl hadn’t been holding him, he wasn’t strong enough to face the kindness that would surely be in his parents’ eyes.

“It’s really her, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ma said, and he felt her hand gentle on the back of his neck. “It’s her.”

Heat and ice shredded his heart anew, and he reached for the bottle. It wouldn’t help. But maybe if he drank enough it would.

A big green hand intercepted his, and gently guided it to rest beside the bottle instead of allowing him to grip it. He looked up and saw Bugruk in his wheelchair, sitting behind the bar. Rollo, he saw, had been quietly relieved and was now sitting at a too-small table in the back corner.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he breathed.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Cora’s voice came from behind him, and that made him turn in surprise—and the surprise grew when he saw that the little bar had filled up without him even noticing. In addition to Cora, Sally was there as well. Rashun and Sheshek had taken a table in the corner, both watching him closely. Leiliana and Thrash were farther down the bar. Even Chesek—god damned Chesek—was there, drinking from a black-glass bottle. The contrary kobold raised his brows at Sam and offered him a silent toast when their eyes met.

“What?” He blinked and turned back to Cora. “But she’s—“

“Here,” Ma said. “But you don’t have to talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Pearl piped up—right into his ear, and he had to force himself not to jerk away. “You’ve got people for that now. Just say the word, and we’ll make sure you don’t even have to see her again!”

“And before you say it,” Char said gently, finally pulling away from the hug, “there is no shame in asking it of us. You are still trying to do everything yourself, Samuel. And it is beyond obvious that this situation… Is…” She trailed off and looked around, clearly unsure how to continue.

“Fucked up,” Bugruk grunted. “And so far inside your skull you’re getting a venereal disease in your brain.”

Sam barked out a black laugh as Char made a face and said “Yes, that.”

She turned back to him and caught his eyes with her own. “If this is something you cannot do, or even do not want to do, there is no shame in stepping away and allowing one of us to handle it for you.”

He nodded, slowly. Turning to his parents, he asked; “have you talked to her yet?”

“Some,” Pop said. “Nothing of substance.”

“We wanted to know what you wanted to do first,” Ma added. “We’ll speak to her after, whatever you decide.”

He smirked without humor. “I get first dibs, you mean.”

“If you want it, yes. If you don’t… Well. Like Char said sweetie, there’s no shame in it.”

He closed his eyes, shutting away the sight of his well-meaning friends and family, and looked inwards instead. The vision was much less calming; fire and fear and hurt raged in every corner of his being, tamped down only a little by the proximity to people who cared for him.

He forced himself into that maelstrom, seeking meaning among the pain, understanding among the chaos. For a long moment he searched in vain, and was almost ready to just agree and let the others deal with… Whatever the woman who looked like Marie had become. And why she was here. And what she wanted.

But at the center of the whirlwind he found one solid anchor point, untouched by years of loss, unscored by endless questions, small and solid and utterly immovable.

He had to know.

The storm quieted, but did not disappear at that realization. He opened his eyes, fresh tears falling, and sucked in a deep breath.

“Where is she?” he asked the room in general.

In the mess hall, was the general reply. Getting fed.

He nodded, and slowly stood up, disentangling himself from the well-meaning embraces and supportive touches.

And closed his eyes, drawing the steel and ice back to himself. If he was going to do this, he was going to go in prepared.

He hoped.

* * *

Dear Dungeon Man

Remember how last time I wrote I told you David had a surprise delve he was working on? Well he finally dropped it on us last night and dinner, and holy shit is it big.

It’s the wandering dungeon, Sammy. He found it.

I know, I know, you’re probably saying ‘But Marie, you gorgeous creature, the wandering dungeon is just a fairy tale meant to scare kids to sleep!’ And that’s what I thought too! (You’re very perceptive, by the way)

But David says he’s got a line on it, that it’s real and he knows where it’s going to be in three days time. Can you imagine, Sam? If we take down the wandering dungeon? We’d be set for life! Bards would sing about us! It would be EPIC!

So listen, we’re setting out tomorrow, because it’s gonna take two full days of travel to get there. Don’t worry though, I’ll still be home in time for that birthday party I know you’re planning for me. And if I’m a little late, you’d better save me a piece of cake or I’ll—Well, you know.

I’ll see you soon, Sammy. And boy will I have all kinds of stories to tell you!

Love

Marie

* * *

The walk from the bar down to the mess hall was the single longest stretch of time in Sam’s entire life. The storm howled inside him, battering against the steel and ice with every step. And every step, he almost turned around and fled, desperate to escape the coming meeting.

Only the memories kept him moving forward. Only that one quiet anchor point kept him from flying apart.

He had to know. He had to know why the Marie of his memories had left him, and come back as this woman who had her eyes and her smile but was something else entirely.

The dungeon hallways were mercifully empty as he made the journey. He could see his parents’ handiwork in that, even catching a fleeting glimpse of mobs scuttling out of sight as he descended the stairway and turned towards the mess hall. Good. He wasn’t in a mind to meet anyone, even silently.

She was sitting at the bench closest to the kitchen, a plate of sandwiches and a stein of some beverage in front of her. In the kitchen, he heard the rattle and rustle of Araxes, once again taking it upon himself to be the chef for the dungeon. At any other time, the idea would have brought a smirk to Sam’s lips.

Not today.

She looked up when he entered, and those eyes slammed against the steel and ice and nearly staggered him. All else about her had changed, but those eyes were Marie’s eyes, seawater blue and sparkling with inner light. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass, but this time it didn’t. The storm howled on, and when he opened his eyes she was still there, and so were her eyes.

“Araxes,” she said quietly, and gods if her voice wasn’t the same as well. “Thank you for the sandwiches dear, but I think I need some alone time now.”

“Of course, my dear,” Araxes’ voice practically simpered as he emerged from the kitchen, wearing a frilly pink apron with the words ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ on it.

“Ah,” the lich said when he saw Sam. Eyeflames flickered and went back and forth between him and the woman who had Marie’s eyes. “I see. You know, the oven could do with some cleaning, I could probably busy myself in there and you wouldn’t even know I was—“

“Araxes,” Sam said, and both lich and woman flinched at the sound of it. “Get out.”

“Right.” The lich wiped his phalanges off on the apron and scuttled past the woman and then past Sam and out the door. “Holler when you need me again.”

And then it was just them.

They watched each other as Sam navigated the rows of tables and chairs, moving ever closer to the one she occupied. He saw her swallow, saw her eyes drop for a fraction of a second before coming back up. She tugged at the fingers of one hand, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He felt the ice crack, felt the steel rust. Prayed they would hold for long enough.

“Um. Hi, Dungeon Man,” she said with a timid grin. “Long time, huh?”

“That was what you called me when we were friends,” he said, reaching her table and just standing there, looking down at her through unblinking eyes.

“Are we not friends anymore?” She asked it like she wanted to laugh, like she was making a joke, light and airy and not really hoping for an honest answer.

“Friends don’t disappear for years. They don’t walk out on people who love them. Who would weep for days if something happened to them. They don’t disappear without a word or an attempt to contact them or even a letter.” That last word came out harsh and gutteral, and rocked the woman back in her seat like a physical blow.

“I want to believe you didn’t have a choice,” he continued softly, rigidly, unyielding, unblinking. “I want to believe that it was beyond your control. That you didn’t just leave us—me—thinking you were dead for years, when you weren’t. I want to believe that.”

But he didn’t. Not with the power she possessed. Not with the way she’d come in like a thunderbolt and fought Araxesendenak to a standstill. You didn’t have that kind of power and also be unable to make a choice.

He could see it in her eyes. In the way they dipped away from his stare. In the way she had to drag them back to meet his.

The storm raged.

And then the message appeared.

***SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR OVERRIDE***

***PREPARE FOR TRANSLOCATION***