Only Cowards Stay While Traitors Run

Most stories begin with 'once upon a time', but the beginning had long since faded away from them. Distance from the start of their journey, however, did not create an end. No one could ever be as lucky.

The fade to black was merely the blink of an eye. Respite, perhaps, for seconds only.

After all, the road is long.

Chapter One: After the Black

Eight months after the double eclipse, the Cain homestead on the banks of the sluggish creek looked a different place. One would never know to see the house and barn, so new against the bluest eastern sky, that their feet were resting on ground that had once been the field of unspeakable heartbreak and torture. Not that the house saw many visitors, as far off the road as it was. In the past eight annuals, only three souls had set foot on the property since the day the blood had been spilled and the door had been closed – and sealed tight – on he who had been made to suffer the events that had taken place there.

After his release, he'd walked away from the ruined cabin, content to let nature claim it and bring it down to the ground.

He'd meant to never return.

The next seven days had changed his mind. When finally he'd been freed of his charge, and the world had come to remember the Light, and his feet had slowed and his gun-arm relaxed, he'd realized there was no place in the world for him but where he'd started.

He had no desire for titles or positions or land, all of which had been offered to him in abundance. Wyatt Cain refused everything – everything, even what DG had – no, there was no use dwelling on that.

There was recompense to be made, though he didn't know where to begin or even if he understood the depth to which his guilt ran in his mind. He had not yet earned his forgiveness. That, at least, he and the kid had in common. Maybe the only thing. Well, that and an inane attraction to that which could hurt them the most.

Almost two months, he'd stayed with her, with all of them, despite his ever-mounting urges to leave. He hadn't intended for the time to stretch on for so long. As the hours after the double eclipse had brought on sunsdown, and then sunsrise, and nothing around him had crashed headlong into chaos or destruction, it was in his mind to make his leave and join his son at the Resistance camp. That wasn't the way things went for him, things never seemed to go the way he'd planned.

DG and Glitch, they'd needed him to stay. Through the move from the Tower to the abandoned palace in Central City, through every day that passed after the double eclipse for weeks, DG had insisted that they stay together. She wasn't ready, she'd said, and out of worry and a weak will, he'd stayed. Cain had thought after the Furball had made his discreet exit to return to the sanctum of his own people, he'd have been able to make his escape as well.

Two full weeks of doubt and deliberation had finally made his decision for him.

Glitch, settled and distracted over hope of reconnecting permanently with his dismembered grey matter, had given his blessing – though Cain had never asked for it and didn't require it – with no more than a grin, and a hand-wave. Confident, in his own way, that Cain would never wander too far or for too long.

DG, well... wasn't something he liked to think back on. Most times, thinking back to her and the goodbye he'd forced through his lips had him wondering if he'd made the right decision after all. Not that wondering about it ever did him any good. He knew he'd destroyed what it had been with the finality of the door he'd closed behind him.

It couldn't have – never mind.

The cabin couldn't stay standing, not if he was to stay there. The land had been his daddy's, an old hunting shack where his old man would go to hide from his wife, and drink to his heart's content. This latter weakness is where Cain started. Two days after arriving, drunk, angry, and disillusioned, he'd taken his hurt out on the overgrown remains of the barn. In the clear light of morning, with a pounding headache to accompany his gnawing conscience, he'd determined to finish what he'd started. With what tools and equipment hadn't been ransacked by the Longcoats, Wyatt had finished demolishing the barn, and then turned to the cabin.

In the empty dooryard, he'd amassed the broken pieces and burned it all. For two weeks after the bonfires, the scent of smoke and ash had still lingered around the place.

The iron suit, he'd dropped into the creek after dragging it for miles through the marsh. It was heavy enough that there was no need to weight it with rocks; had he been able to, he would have filled the damn thing with stones anyway, to haul from the shell of his former home to the tin box's final resting place three miles upstream. Extra punishment for the guilt that would not subside.

Adora had wanted to leave the cabin behind, she had told him – screamed at him, begged with him – that she felt safer on the move, but he'd felt safe enough, and that had been that.

Safe enough.

About a week after leaving DG behind in Central City, after much more self-inflicted torture and tears, he'd come to the realization that he couldn't leave things the way they were. It wasn't right to the memory of his wife, or his father, though the old man had been long dead when the Sorceress had taken over.

The land needed a fresh start; a day's ride away by road, in Central City, the Gales were doing what they could – all they could – to mend the hurt of the people they had failed to protect. It was obvious everywhere that the very land on which the country was built needed to heal, and he knew, without question, that DG and her mother – and hopefully one day, Azkadellia – were up to this tremendous challenge.

It wasn't much, but he could take care of this secluded patch of land. It wouldn't make things right, but it was a start. It was also a good way to keep his mind busy and his hands occupied enough to stop himself from going outright insane from the nothingness of the exile he'd chosen for himself.

That had been almost six months ago. Now, after working himself into an exhausted stupor every night, the house was nearing completion. The barn was another story, but at least it had a roof on it. Through incapacitating heat, driving rain, and snow drifts that had reached the windows, Cain had worked steadily on the house. With his own two hands – and more and more frequently, with the help of his son – he'd cleared the land, dug the foundation, laid the floor and raised the framework.

Jeb had finally come to see him when he was raising the trusses, just when the weather had started turning cold. It was the first time his son had returned to the property since being dragged from it with his mother eight annuals before. Silently, his son had spent a long time staring at the bare bones of the house, and then he'd climbed the ladder to help his father start tying the trusses down to the frame.

Jeb came a lot more after that, but he remained the only visitor. Not that Cain minded a single bit; it wasn't exactly solitude if people kept barging in on him. His son's face was just about the only one he ever thought he would welcome. If there was another, Cain knew better than to expect her to show up on his doorstep.

In the end, much later on, he'd kick himself – and hard – for ever thinking he knew what to expect.

The only one of the old structures that still remained was the dock, and it was here that Cain stood every morning, whether he was awake before the suns or not. This morning he had been, and he listened to the muddy creek water lap gently against the posts beneath his feet as the sky lightened. Finally, the first sun broke over the marshes, and the trees beyond.

As it grew brighter around him, it crossed his mind to get to work shingling the barn before it was too hot to be out in the suns. Not just yet, though; he stayed anchored to the planks beneath his feet as his mind absorbed the natural quiet around him. The birds were kicking their incessant morning songs up a notch, and would be in full force before the hour was out. Spring was gradually fading into summer, the weak growth and pale greens like the promise of a fresh start. He never passed up a day to stand alone listening as the world awoke, even if some mornings a few minutes was all he could afford.

In the suit, he'd heard nothing but the ticking of the contraption that kept him alive, and the faint screams that resonated day and night outside his prison. He'd been spared the repeated frantic pleading of his wife and sporadic shouts from his son, but he'd remembered them with a clarity that did not keep him from torment.

Torment, he knew it to be real. A pain felt so palpably that it never ceased its bearing on him. An entity of its own, one that would never release him from its grip, even were he deserving.

Sighing heavily, Cain looked down into the lazily churning creek. Had it been to this very spot that he'd wandered like a lurching undead, dazed and disbelieving after DG and Glitch had released him from the suit. He vaguely remembered walking straight off the dock into the water, fully-clothed, letting the grime and tarnish wash away. Skin always cleansed much easier than the soul.

Memories followed his every step here; he wouldn't have had it any other way, despite the daily pain and punishment he inflicted on himself simply by remaining. Not all were bad, but all were wrenching in their own way. Haunted by it, he was; the annual following the Last Stand that had almost claimed the lives of his family, the Longcoats that had taken his life from him, and the two saviours whose stumbling through the woods had inadvertently given it back to him.

It never changed. It always started with what had been torn away from him, and always returned to what he'd walked away from. Better not to –

As he looked up at the sky, Cain's attention was drawn to the quiet drone that was quite out of place in his morning. Turning his head slowly, he looked back toward the road that led away from the homestead and into the trees. Sure enough, as the sound grew louder, it was easy to discern the beating of hooves, riding hard and fast toward him.

Jeb wasn't due, he was posted in the south, and there was nothing in this world or the next that would send his son hurrying that much.

Frowning now, Cain left the dock and walked up the short slope that ran up to the dooryard. Just as he came to the center of his yard, he saw the rider break out of the trees, By the time he'd reached the busted gate, he'd barely slowed; he reined his mount to a skittering halt, dropped out of his saddle, and ran toward Cain.

"Offer you some coffee?" Cain said by way of a greeting.

"No time, thank you, sir," the young rider said breathlessly. The crest of the royal family was emblazoned in green on his grey uniform, displayed prominently over his heart, two roads diverging from a central circle. "Are you Mr. Cain, sir?"

"Yeah." Cain nodded, and found an envelope being crushed into his hand. He stared down at it, not needing to see word or seal with his own eyes to know where it had come from. "You waiting on my reply?"

The young man shook his head before giving a small, respectful bow of his chin. "No, I think you'll be wanting to reply in person, sir. Good luck, sir." He turned on his heel and headed back to his mount. He gave Cain another nod before he was kicking up dust and heading back the way he'd come, leaving Cain behind to chew over what had just happened.

With another wary glance down at the envelope, Cain turned and went into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. Though the messenger had said nothing to indicate things were anything but fine in Central City, he'd been agitated and nervous. Which, to Cain, meant he'd known something was amiss, even if he weren't privy to the information directly.

By the time he'd broken the seal on the envelope and pulled the single sheet of paper out, he had a headache budding in his temples. He sat down hard on the nearest chair as he read the short note, and when he'd finished, he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the stove. He didn't need to read it again to know what had to be done.

He stood, and looked around the small kitchen of the small house. Through a door he'd hung not two weeks before was his bedroom, where his meagre belongings rested in a set of drawers he'd fitted during his long winter. It wouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes to gather his things. He could be ready within the hour.

Even though nothing had explicitly signalled reason to worry, he knew well enough that his friends would not ask for his help unless they were already in deep. Proud fools, just like himself.

Growling, Cain shook his head, and went about closing up the house. It was almost a full-day's ride to Central City, and he knew, as much as it tore him up inside, that he needed to hit the bricks.

Author's Note: Feedback is always appreciated. To quote Rachel Berry: "I need applause to live!"