"Thought you hated Ekur," he pressed.
Kehrsyn bit her lip and drew in a trembling breath. "I do," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Demok leaned in closer to hear her over the fire.
"He killed my father," she continued, "he tormented my mother, used her for pleasure. I've always hated him and I always will."
A long pause.
"Go on," said Demok.
Kehrsyn drew in another deep breath through her nose, and Demok noted that her trembling was diminishing.
"He's an evil man," she said, "and I'm glad he's dead. I don't mind that Massedar used his… used him like that. But it was an ugly thing to hear, and… I'm… I guess I'm just… put off that Massedar could do such horrid things with such a casual air."
"Sometimes we must do tasteless things," said Demok.
She glanced over at him. He dropped his eyes.
"I guess he did what he had to," continued Kehrsyn after a moment's reflection. "And now we know what's been going on."
Demok nodded. They sat in silence for a while, and Demok tended to the fire. Finally, he stood up and leaned against the wall, facing Kehrsyn.
"Ever know your father?" he asked.
Kehrsyn shook her head, regret and longing marring her features.
"No," she said, "I didn't. Ekur killed him about a year before I was born. All I've ever seen of him is the rock that marks his grave. It's just a rock. Doesn't even have his name on it. Just the pollen stains of countless wildflowers."
"Come again?" said Demok.
"A rock," said Kehrsyn, measuring with her hands. "About this wide around or so, pretty heavy, really, so I figure Momma had some friends help her."
"No, about your father."
"Never knew him, I said."
"Died a year before you were born."
"Yeah, Momma told me that once when she was drunk."
"Pregnancy takes nine months," said Demok.
Kehrsyn's face went pale, and she raised her hands to her open mouth.
"Oh my word," she gasped, "I never thought of it that way…"
Demok regretted his rashness, letting surprise guide his tongue instead of his intellect. He reached for Kehrsyn, but she rose and walked over to the window, her blanched face unmoving. She looked alarmingly like the walking dead.
"I don't believe it," she murmured as she stared, unseeing, at the falling rain.
As the sun rose somewhere to the east, Kehrsyn leaned her hands on the windowsill and began to cry. She tried to hold back her sobs but failed, whining in pain as she exhaled, and inhaling trembling, reluctant breaths.
Demok could do nothing but sit and wait as the city awakened and the air filled with the sounds of pedestrians. Periodically, he stoked the fire. He wished he could help her, but she was lost somewhere in the past, experiencing pain he knew nothing of.
Kehrsyn raised her head to the sky, wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, and turned back around to face Demok.
"I don't believe it," she said. "After all this time, he didn't kill my father." She sniffled and ran the heel of her hand across her eyes again. "I love my father!" she sobbed, her voice crescendoing as she struggled to maintain control. "What am I supposed to do now?"
She buried her face in her hands and began weeping openly. Full-force grief wracked her body, waves of anguish pounding against her throat. Demok hemmed for a moment, then awkwardly reached out to hold her. She ended up resting her head against his breast, but he wasn't sure she was aware of it.
He held her to the best of his ability, his jaw set in a grim line as he stared out at the city, a cold, gray world beset by warfare and hunger with little room for a hopeful, compassionate juggler. He could only see it as an allegory for her entire life.
The tide of her grief eventually receded, leaving her spent and quiet, her arms still pulled close and her head leaning on his breastbone.
"Kehrsyn," he said.
"Yes," she answered, her voice like a little girl.
"Your father is still your father."
"No, he's not," she said.
"He's done more to raise you and guide your steps than Ekur ever did. Even after his death, he was your mother's helper and your companion. He's far more your parent than the one who sired you."
"But-" began Kehrsyn.
"Nothing Ekur can do can change that," interrupted Demok. "Don't you give it away. Hold onto it. Protect it. Your father makes you who you are."
A long pause.
"All right," said Kehrsyn.
Demok took a deep breath. While these personal talks were curiously rewarding, they still made him nervous, scared. He preferred to deal with threats that could be stabbed through the heart or beheaded. It was so much easier, so much clearer.
"And you can thank the gods that you look like your mother," he said, looking to end the moment before he foundered somewhere beyond his understanding.
Kehrsyn snorted.
"Yeah," she said, pulling away from him to sit by the fire once more.
The day was a quiet one. Kehrsyn kept her own council, while Demok cleaned out the corpses downstairs and disposed of them. Periodically he'd stoke the fire, and usually he found Kehrsyn sitting in a chair by the hearth, staring out the open shutters at the continuous drizzle.
Later that evening, Kehrsyn and Demok sat at the table, quietly eating the supper he had prepared. Kehrsyn set down her knife and fork and leaned her cheek on one fist.
She looked over at her companion with vulnerable eyes and asked, "Am I a bad person, Demok?"
He blinked twice, then replied, "Why do you ask?"
"I'm a thief. I steal things. It's against the law, and it's wrong. I'm sure my father wouldn't have liked it, either. I just take things from people. Sort of like my actual father."
Demok took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling.
"You just want me to talk," he said.
Kehrsyn giggled in spite of her serious mood.
Demok crossed one arm across his chest to support the elbow of the other. He ran his thumb across his lip between sentences as he spoke, a professorial tone to his voice.
"Every creature does what is required to survive. You grew up hungry. You stole food. When you could eat without stealing, you stopped. I see no fault."
"Yeah, but I promised myself that I would never steal again," confessed Kehrsyn. "Then, when that sorceress pushed me, I fell right back into it."
"You were cornered. Theft or death. You did what was required to survive."
Kehrsyn sat back in her chair, folding her arms. The chair creaked with age, making a sound of wood snapping.
"But we're supposed to know better," she said. "We're supposed to have values and ideals."
"You do," replied Demok. "You never steal for gain. You steal for survival. Given the chance to make amends, you did."
"But it's still theft, and I still broke my promise," protested Kehrsyn.
Demok considered that, and said, "If you're asking whether you should have died rather than steal, that's between you and your gods. I couldn't fault that choice, either. I don't have the answer to that question. I only have my answer."
"What's your answer?" asked Kehrsyn.
Demok's thumb froze in place.
"I'm a killer," he said, no trace of pride or shame in his voice. "It's my skill. People kill rabid dogs. I kill people. Because it needs to be done."
"That's hardly reassuring," mumbled Kehrsyn.
"If someone were about to use something to cause widespread plague," he asked, "and you had the chance to steal it, would you?"
"Yes," said Kehrsyn.