When the Imperial army was nearing the end of its already stretched-thin war supplies, the Black Guard had been one of the first to be let go. A group of creedless assassins simply couldn't be trusted, and too many resources had gone into supporting them (laughable; they'd always relied on their own resources, and Rithika knew this better than anyone else), and so, they'd sloughed them off like a pack too heavy for their final trek into the jaws of the Purine beast.
Perhaps it was just as well. Rithika had spent those final months hiding in the darkest corners of Evelon. The war had ended, and she'd barely known, until soldiers started to come home, to turn back into civilians as best they could. And Rithika, having long since shed her Imperial badge, had been accepted easily by the returning soldiers. None of them knew her. She'd always worked from the shadows, killing and then slipping away.
And now she worked as a waitress. It was... strange, how things worked out this way. Her cold grey stare fended off any amount of flirtation from the men who ate and drank here, and her boss was easygoing, didn't ask questions. She'd... even been learning to cook, some, from the chef. It would be an odd thing to call it embarrassing, but... in some ways, it was. Hands that once so easily gripped a dagger now found themselves somewhat stiffly controlling a spatula and pan.
She lived in a tiny apartment in the Slums, and commuted to work each day, in Lamenolai. Having a set address now brought to her another thing that she had come to miss, terribly...
Rithika still remembered it vividly—her strange, almost
fateful encounter with that little Purine soldier, their joint escape from certain death, and then... those gentle hands, patching Rithika's wounds as best they could. How cruel she'd been to the poor little lamb. Rithika smiled now to think about it, even if she still felt a pang of guilt for how she'd threatened Caprice so harshly, for doing her such a kindness.
But... they'd eventually returned to their factions. Their separate sides of the war. And during that time, in the most careful secret, they'd exchanged letters. And in time, those letters had grown... warm. Familiar. Far different than a simple acquaintance that she'd accidentally picked up, Caprice had become something stitched into the heart that Rithika had truly thought she'd thrown away, joining the Black Guard. And those letters—Rithika had almost lost them all, when her faction was dissolved. Retrieving them had been a death defiance in its own right.
They were safe now, in a little box in her apartment. And speaking of her apartment—a permanent address, now, meant... that she could send letters again. And so... she had. It was a shorter thing, for she'd been out of practice, after hiding for so long. Unfamiliar, and yet... unmistakably her handwriting. She'd prayed that Caprice was still alive to receive it, this tiny letter stuffed with apology and assurance that Rithika was alive and hoping that Caprice was safe.
And she'd gotten a letter back.
And the war ended.
In her tiny apartment, now, Rithika carefully transferred a fried egg onto a piece of toasted bread, already melted with cheese, and nudged it with the spatula until it looked close to alright. She set the spatula aside and observed her work, reaching over for the pepper grinder. As she held it in her hands for a moment, it occurred to her that she'd never owned something like this in her life—such a simple luxury. A few twists would make these sandwiches taste very good, she hoped, even when they'd lost their heat in the train ride to... wherever they were going to go.
Right—that. That... that thing that she was preparing for. With the war over, finally, and with their lives finally coming back together... Rithika was going to see her again. For the first time, since the war. For a
picnic. As an assassin, Rithika had nerves of steel, and yet she still couldn't help the fluttery anxiety rooted deep in her chest, as she wrapped up their sandwiches and placed them carefully in a cheap basket, a dish towel carefully covering them. Caprice was meant to bring something, too, if she had the time... Rithika couldn't help but wonder what it would be.
It was easier to wonder on that than to wonder how Caprice would look at her, when she finally saw her face to face. Oh, that fluttery thing in her chest constricted as though it had been struck, and she hurriedly picked up the basket, her cheeks tinting with red. She was quick out the door—until she remembered at the last minute that she'd... gotten a gift, too. Wrapped it as well as she could, which wasn't very well. She hurriedly picked it up and tucked it into the basket, a lumpy guardian over the sandwiches. And so she was even quicker, this time, out the door—quick to the train station, quick to scowl that death stare at anyone who dared shove her, tall though she was. And so she stood by their platform, the one they were to meet at, with the train hissing loud in her ears and her eyes scanning the crowd for some familiar sign of a face she hoped she would recognize.