Cacopheny woke when the warm light of the sun fell across his face.

The sun.

The real sun, not an imagining, not an illusion, not a shadow of the real thing. And it was shining on him. And it was warm. He forgot to even flinch back from it, so surprised and relieved he was to recognize the warmth that tingled across his skin, to recognize what it meant. It meant... he was no longer running. He was no longer jumping between shadows, freezing himself one moment at a time, fleeing from-- from--

From--

He vaguely remembered staggering out of shadow and into a cool, empty night. He had hardly registered his surroundings. Maybe it was the cold; though he'd finally learned how to ignore it, or protect himself from it, or perhaps he'd just gotten so numb that he didn't notice it anymore, it still kept his vision so narrow and his senses so focused that it wouldn't have surprised him if he didn't see someone he knew, standing right next to him. Maybe it had been the light; after the seemingly endless murk of the shadows he'd been traveling through, the even just the heavy moon and brilliant starlight had hurt his eyes and made it hard to see. It could even have been his terrible weariness; he had been too tired to think straight, so hungry that he no longer felt it, and trembling with exhaustion.

He had, in fact, passed out as soon as the trembling stopped, because no one and nothing had come to make him run again.

That didn't mean they wouldn't come, now that he'd rested. They might even wait until he'd found a stream to greedily drink from, or stolen and devoured a loaf of bread, or a ripe melon, or something, anything to keep him from collapsing from hunger alone. They had waited before, when he was too tired and weak to go on: there was no point in driving someone who had no more ability to run on fear. In fact, they probably would come, because he still heard that horrible, echoing inner silence that they brought with them, making him truly alone in the face of their-- their ruin.

But maybe... if he was lucky... he was done running. He could allow himself to hope, at least a little, at least for a moment, until they appeared again. It would make it worse when they did, but he didn't care.

The majority of a night spent asleep made him feel a little more alive, at least. He finally opened his eyes, then squinted them mostly shut again immediately until he could push himself over and his long, matted hair fell across his face, a shield against brightness. He knelt there, on dry, packed earth, and stared at the ground beneath his hands, waiting for-- something. Anything. Nothing. He didn't know.

The silence inside and out still pressed in on him-- there wasn't even a breeze to break it by whistling through trees, over grass, around rocks, or stirring his hair-- but he didn't bother protesting it now. After all this time-- days, surely; weeks, even-- he knew it didn't do any good, begging for voices that weren't there, and he wasn't desperate enough to try, anyway. And what if breaking that oppressive silence himself, breaking their silence, brought them back? He wouldn't risk that, not now, not yet....

Nothing happened for several long minutes, nothing except the steady beating of his heart and his own careful breathing, and he tentatively looked up, looking around. It was just past dawn, the source of the brightness that he squinted against just climbing over the rocky crags all around him. The sky was dry and washed out, even in sunrise, and everything was an equally washed out brown. In contrast to the color, the things themselves-- from the rocky landscape to the pebbles beneath his hands and knees to even the wisps of clouds-- were sharply defined and rugged, as if the land was harder and more defined for its lack of color.

And, he realized slowly, he knew it.

This place. He knew this place. He'd been here before, this little scoop of shelter against the cliffside, this little cul-du-sac of stone and light, with that odd little overhang and the deep shadow beneath it that his eyes could not pierce, too dazzled by the sun--

Cacopheny scrambled to his feet, and away, forgetting how exhausted he still was, how hungry, how afraid of attracting attention. Here. He couldn't be here. He could not be here.

But he was. Had they driven him here? Driven him here, on purpose? Or was this just where he'd run, without thinking, as someplace they could not ruin again? He had never given any thought to his destination-- stupid, stupid mutt-- he's just run, blindly, and somehow wound up here.

Here. Where Chiya and Ketvia had led him away, for the first time in his life. Where he'd first seen the sky, which had terrified him. Where the first sunlight to fall on him had blinded him, the last, small thing that cracked his equally small ability to cope with any more that day. Where, below that shadowed overhang, was the place he had grown up-- if one could call it growing up.

The last time he'd been here, he hadn't had a name. He was just someone's-- Her-- captive.

Her belonging.

Slave.

Pet.

Love.

If he went in... would She be there?

For a moment, staring at it and shivering violently, with his claws cutting into his palms inside his clenched fists, he imagined that She would be. Why wouldn't She be? Returned to Her old home, Her old fortress, Her old room in the wake of Her defeat years ago at the hands of a family of daemons. She had escaped then, and She would have needed somewhere to return to. Even She, who needed nothing, needed a home. So... what if She was down there? Waiting for something-- waiting for him?

The last time he'd been here, She hadn't had a name, either. She was just... Herself.

Now they both had names.

If She was in there-- if Rao was in there-- waiting for him... did he want to find out?

Of course he did. Of course. Hadn't he always? Hadn't he lived for Her whim? Hadn't he left people who wanted him to be happy simply because She'd invited him to? Hadn't She always meant the world to him, and then some? Hadn't she been his world? Hadn't She.... She who had called him Her own, who had claimed and called him. She who had raised him to revere Her and fear Her. She who had never cared if he were happy, never cared if he were comfortable or well-fed or not hurting. She who had never cared for anything except Her own comfort or pleasure. She who he had loved, but who had done nothing but hurt him. She who he had loved... and hated... in equal measure: loved, hated, desired, despised, worshipped and feared. ... yes. She.

He was still shaking, still staring at the open passage into the mountain, into the caves under the mountain, but it wasn't the same. Something had changed. He didn't have a voice for it, in the silence, and he didn't know what it was. But it felt like Almadir. Hot and bubbling and tense and trembling. It felt like bared teeth and growling and--

He was angry.

The thought shocked him. How dared he be angry? At Her?

At Rao. At a person. A person: named, fallible, mortal, like any other.

Wasn't she? His Mistress could be named, fallible, mortal person, couldn't She? A person who had owned him, used him, imprisoned him, and hurt him. Broken him-- because he knew very well that he was broken, and probably always would be. A person who didn't even acknowledge that he had a name.

Apparently the past five years had changed him, because yes, he dared. Even if She was more than mortal, the Goddess he had spent most of his life serving, he still dared. He didn't know why or how, but he did. And for once, there were no shadows to mock him for his change of heart, or shout at him for his disloyalty, or even congratulate him for thinking himself able to be angry with Her-- with Rao-- with that person.

No shadows. Because--

He spun, anger turned abruptly back into fear, because there they were, standing out sharply against the dull landscape, in full sunlight that did not reflect in hair or eyes or skin. They were all black and gold and thin smiles and shadowless feet-- because they were nothing but silent shadows, themselves, and how could shadows cast a shadow? And their knowing eyes, accusing eyes, promising eyes. Promising that ruin all over again, accusing him of trying to escape it, knowing that his brief anger was futile. What could he do with it, anyway? How long could he hold onto anger if he were actually faced with Her? If She were here, now, waiting below the surface-- if She called him? If She wanted him back?

Not long at all, twin pairs of eyes told him.

They advanced on him, with their unspoken purposes and menacing truths, and he stumbled back, away from them. It took him until the shadow of the overhang fell across his face to realize he'd been backing up towards the tunnel, towards the rooms below where he'd once lived, towards--

"No!" he cried, grabbing the stone edges of the entrance with both hands, bracing himself against entry.

But they kept on coming ignoring him.

"Please, no, I can't!" he pleaded. "I don't--"

Still the slow, measured step-- each in stride with the other, perfectly mirrored.

"Why?" he wailed. "Why do you want me to go down there? What would be the point?"

They said nothing, not that he had expected them to, but he couldn't help the fearful whine.

"I can't-- I won't! Don't make me! Anywhere but here-- please! I don't-- I don't-- I--"

They were almost close enough to touch him, now, and he squeezed his eyes shut, holding tight to the stone, so tight that he heard a claw crack.

"I-- I don't want to!"

When he opened his eyes one tense but somehow anticlimactic moment later, he was alone.