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He’s been in this strange place for days now. Weeks? Maybe. Time ceased to cohere long ago; for the Outsider, days seem to pass both in a blink and at a snail’s crawl. However long it’s been, the Outsider’s used his time to linger at the outskirts of a market, to plant himself invisible in people’s homes. He’s used his time to gather information (it’s more difficult here than he’s used to; here, the information doesn’t simply come to him; here, he doesn’t have the Void’s eternal, invasive input to consult), trying to understand the world he’s come into, seeking signs of the man he’d followed here and why, why Daud had been set on finding this place.
How the Outsider had come here remains unclear. He knows it’d started with taking a renewed interest in Daud’s activities. His wayward Chosen had been fueled by some strange mission for the past several years, at last catching the Outsider’s attention. It’d been a seemingly impossible mission Daud was on: for some reason, he’d been bent on making his way to a place called Whitestone. A place across - what was it that researcher had said - worlds, dimensions, universes? Daud had been certain such a jump could be made, the the researcher, a woman of seemingly infinite patience, had agreed.
They’d spent years working on a contraption geared toward somehow bending the fabric of space, a venture worthy even of the Outsider’s continued attention. When everything was finally ready, the scientist had activated the device, and as the Outsider leaned in, close as he could from his place in the Void, there’d been a sense of suction, the sound of a snap, a broken string or something more vital. He’d closed his eyes against a rush of light, felt its needling burn around him, and when he opened his eyes, he’d been elsewhere. Felt the unfamiliar brush of breeze against his skin (he had skin? a body? was it possible?) and for the first time in centuries found himself beyond the Void.
Here in this new place something’s… Different. Wrong, perhaps, though the Outsider can’t say whether it’s really a bad change. He doesn’t feel entirely unlike the self he’s become used to, but his connection with the Void has altered. Instead of wrapping everywhere around him, forming the whole of his world, it’s woven through him, traced lightly around his form as if in currents of air. And while the Outsider can still transport himself across space, can still fade into and out from invisibility, there’s almost, almost effort to it. Like it takes something out of him to draw on the Void’s powers. Like somehow, the Void is no longer infinite, or his connection to it has weakened.
It’s almost as if the Void has been left thousands upon thousands of miles behind. Worlds behind. And somehow, somehow the Outsider has been drawn here in Daud’s wake.
In all of the Outsider’s attempts to garner information about Daud, one name has rose over and over again: Cassandra de Rolo, apparently a guardian of the city, some part of its ruling family. As rumor tells it, Daud’s been seen in her company; been staying with her in the Castle. (It’s a puzzle of its own; what does Daud have to do with this woman, and is it true she’s welcomed him as warmly as they say? The Outsider cannot envision it. He’ll have to see it for himself.)
Which is why a particular night finds the Outsider stepping calmly across the castle’s rooftops, disappearing and reappearing at will in order to cross from one to the next, moving with a quiet confidence. It’s why he pauses only briefly when he sees the woman’s figure atop the roof, doesn’t question who she is.
Head cocked, he takes a step forward, lithe figure still obscured by shadow, his face almost indiscernible in the dark. Is this the woman, then? Yes. Yes, she must be.
There shouldn’t be anyone else on the roof. Certainly not anyone she’s unfamiliar with. And she does not recognize the voice that speaks to her, that claims to have heard about her. She very nearly reaches for a blade she doesn’t wear, very nearly calls on the bees that heed her summons. (Plants are more distant, less immediately there for her to call upon.)
But she doesn’t. She waits. Turning towards the shadow-cloaked stranger warily. Watchfully. Her nightmares set aside for the moment.
“Have you, now?” She asks curiously. “I’m not sure why that should surprise me. You are in Whitestone at present.” Because when in doubt, sass. It’s the de Rolo way. Even when confronted by strangers on rooftops where they shouldn’t be.
The girl may notice his figure shimmer - a trick of the shadows, or something more? - may notice that suddenly, suddenly this stranger doesn't seem to have his feet quite on the ground. It's an almost-instinctual trick, and though something about the sensation gnaws at the Outsider (it doesn't feel right, doesn't feel right, feels a little too much, yes, like a minor effort, something that's not quite a part of himself anymore), he doesn't linger in worry. After all, it must be nothing. Must be an aftereffect of crossing whatever span to reach this place. It's not worth a moment's further thought.
No, better to focus on the girl who's wary but who hides most of her surprise. Who chooses retort rather than fear or wonderment. Accustomed as he is to reading people to their depths - the Void opens each and every person in so many ways, draws their insides out for observation - it doesn't take much to notice her itch toward defense. Doesn't take much to notice she's been preoccupied with something, the tenor of her being shifting from some clouded realm of thought into the present.
(Still, for all the clarity with which he sees her, there's something... Smudged, almost. Something not quite open to him. And in the back of his mind, there's a ticking, a tension that suggests something's changed, even in the way he sees people. Maybe, slightly. Maybe.)
He doesn't move toward her. Not yet.
"Isn't that curious." Strange that he should be here. Strange that she should accept his presence with such seeming calm. "Yes, it's been a remarkable journey."
There's a moment's quiet, and then. "You're escaping something."
If Cassandra wasn’t already curious and suspicious and wary, the strange way his figure shimmers and how his feet don’t quite rest upon the roof’s surface would have sparked all of that within her. What is he? Who? How has he come to be in Whitestone? On her roof?
Head tilted curiously, she closes the distance between them. Warily, carefully. But she moves closer none-the-less. To better see his face. (Somewhere in the castle below them she suspects that Daud is face-palming and not quite sure why.) But he’s not a Briarwood. Not any of their allies. So she is quite possibly less afraid of him than she should be. Or simply more confident in her own skill. Perhaps both.
(Somewhere, Daud is no doubt face-palming harder.)
Although how easily he sees through to the truth of her is... unnerving, but she doesn’t let it show. Barely hesitates in her response, arching an eyebrow at him. “And what of you?” she counters. “Lurking on a rooftop in the shadows.”
That razor-thin moment's hesitation is enough to tell him worlds, and the Outsider's mouth quirks into a grin, expression verging on a smirk.
"Lurking? No. Only watching." He hadn't orchestrated these shadows, after all. They simply happened to be here. If the sun had been shining bright, he would have approached her, still. It's true the Outsider appreciates a little bit of show in his appearances, true he might make use of shadows, but he has no reason to hide from her. No, he wants something from the woman. Needs her to see him. Needs to speak with her, and to discern what it is that had drawn his Chosen across all this distance.
He lets her approach him, not wavering from his position. Watches the ways her past swims around her body, clings to her, drips from her every gesture. Sees the way she's laced here and there with blood, yet never saturated by it. As if something about her resists its stain. As if something about her shines, almost. How curious.
"Tell me, Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo. What is it you're escaping?" He lets his awareness wander across the impress of her being, the shuddered lines and clouded recollections that roil so clear before him. He catches images of red, of shadows closing in, of teeth flashed sharp against darkness, of the edges of a despair run leagues deep. Catches fracture and a mangled youth, damage done to one so unsuspecting, innocent.
It's... almost unsettling. Almost causes him disturbance. What an unfortunate life this woman's seen.
“Only watching. Of course. Some might say those are one and the same, at times.” Certainly when you’re watching from the shadows on a rooftop that by all accounts, you should not be on. That does tend to tip the watching into something far closer to lurking. Not that he’s the first person with a tendency to lurk in her life.
The only stranger, however.
And he knows her name. All of it. And what’s more, he says it flawlessly. As though it’s less than the mouthful it is. Which is a rarity. Instead of reacting in whatever way he might wish her to, she steps closer and smirks up at him. “Just call me Cassandra.”
Not one to give straight answers to a random stranger on her roof (or to anyone, truly; Daud perhaps stands the strongest chance of drawing one from her, of pulling honesty from her), she counters his question with one of her own. “Why does what I may or may not be escaping from interest you?”
The Outsider isn't accustomed to the notion of places he shouldn't be. For so long, all of space has been within his reach, echoed through the Void or glimpsed just across its shimmer. For so long, he's seen into everything and everyone. The notion of privacy is laughable to the Outsider, and the notion of place - of occupying only one infinitesimally small area - seems strange. Isn't it only natural that he should be anywhere, everywhere? (Even if it's stranger in this place, harder to see everything.) Why shouldn't he be here, watching her?
He hadn't spoken her name expecting any particular reaction. Had chosen the full appellation because that's who she is, what she's called, and he'd wanted to feel the sound of it in his throat, let the words filter through his voice. Still, the smirk is singular. Doesn't strike him as the response that most would give. Again, again, she proves herself an interesting young woman.
"Cassandra."
Again he cocks his head at her, and now the strangeness of his eyes - black through-and-through - might be discernible, might be seen as something more than a trick of the light. "Avoid the question as you like, but you can't avoid what follows you. Do you think your past will ever rest? Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, I see the weight of your broken childhood, the way they held you, the years spent cowering beneath their fangs.
Cassandra goes still, shock, and horror, and anger echoing through her at his words. But there’s no thought to flee. Not anymore. Not from the stranger in the shadows trespassing on her castle’s rooftop. Throwing her past in her face as though it’s nothing. She feels his words like a physical blow, although none of that shows on her face or in her bearing. She’s had far too much practice at maintaining the façade of being fine.
“Only one of them had fangs, actually.” Spoken casually, as though she’s not haunted by the both of them day and night. As though she’s not filled with a slow simmering fury towards the man in front of her. Fury, and hurt, and guilt, and a thousand other things. “I will avoid any question I like, as a matter of fact. I don’t find the need to answer to strange men I find on my roof. But I would be interested to discover how it is you’ve come by your knowledge of me.”
She is toe to toe with him, now, or she would be if he was doing anything as mundane as standing upon the roof’s surface, gazing up at him with sharp blue-grey eyes. Every inch the young noble she was born. Fiercer, though. Stubborn and blazing.
But she’s close enough to see him, to note the endless void of his eyes, and realisation clicks neatly and abruptly into place with certainty. Oh. Accompanied by countless questions and thoughts. The loudest of which is Daud is not going to be pleased. She knows exactly who he is. What. He is. “So.” She says, rather abruptly. “You’re the Outsider. You are a very long way from home.”
And more to the point... why is he here? HOW is he here? She highly doubts he felt the selfsame need to find her that Daud did. It’s... curious.
"Daud's spoken of me." It's the logical answer, and the one he perceives played out across her fingertips. She knows Daud, somehow. From somewhere that isn't here or the Isles. From somewhere the Void has never touched. But when had Daud been to such a place? After Jessamine, it was after Jessamine, after Delilah; something changed in the assassin, changed in the very way he moved through the world, in the experiences he carried. It'd been something more than the empress's death, though the Outsider had been unable to trace the source. It evaded him, somehow. Slipped from his hold the way nothing in the Isles could.
He'd gone somewhere. Met this woman. And of course Daud had mentioned the Outsider; his wayward Chosen has never stopped speaking or thinking of him. Never stopped blaming him, though it'd been Daud's own hand that felled the empress and so, so many others. The Outsider wonders what Daud's told this girl. Almost wonders what she sees in him, his Void-struck eyes, his presence here. So few have ever seen him. Really, she might count herself fortunate.
He doesn't expect that's the case. Given the anger she's flaring, the complicated spiral of feelings caught around her. Perhaps he'd spoken too far, but she's a puzzle, this one. So many unsettled pieces, so much to be stirred up at the lightest prick of a word. It's enticing. And he's never felt obliged to reign his curiosity in.
As far as home goes... It's an interesting notion, isn't it? Is home the Void? If that's the case, he's brought home with him, for he can feel the Void's energy around and through him. Is home the central chamber of the Void, the place his physical form remains frozen? No, no; that's more a tomb. A relic. If home's the Isles, then yes, the girl seems to speak true: he's come a long way, and even he can't say how.
He doesn't mind. Being here is not so different from being in the Isles. Only he's closer to the physical world, here. Only he can almost touch the world that in the Isles only ever shimmered beyond the Void.
He could touch her, maybe, if he wanted to. Feel the warmth of the blood beneath her skin, or come closer to it than he ever has before. Such a strange situation.
Look at those eyes of hers. So filled with fervor.
Such an interesting young woman.
"Yes. He would. How strange that such a man should speak to you. How strange that you should speak in kind, after everything you've witnessed. You've seen great harm. Seen the world fall before you. Cassandra, I wonder if you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
“Not in depth, no. But I know enough. Who you are, on the surface at least.” The bare bones; because she has no doubt that there are untold depths to the god floating on her roof. That has nothing to do with his godhood and everything to do with who he is. “I know your eyes. Have seen your Mark burned upon his hand.”
She can understand some of Daud’s frustration with his god, now, as well. Although she supposes you don’t need tact when you’re godly. (Or perhaps he’s simply never been around anyone long enough to remember what exactly it is.)
“With Daud? Yes. I do. I know what he’s done. Who he was.” Was. Was. A very important distinction that she doesn’t know if the Outsider sees. Noticed in his Chosen. (But he must have noticed something. He’s here, isn’t he.) Let alone understands. “I know who he is, as well. Who he’s becoming. Who he’s trying terribly hard to be.” She tilts her head, gazing up at Daud’s god with brilliant blue-grey eyes. Holding his gaze easily. “He’s better than he thinks he is. The man he was wouldn’t have cared for the broken young women he met upon a bridge late at night. Wouldn’t have concerned himself with a war of the gods. Wouldn’t have done quite a lot of things.” Wouldn’t have been so terribly torn apart by the one time he’d taken part in the arena.
“So yes. I understand exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.” Spoken with certainty. Her faith in Daud has never wavered. Will never waver. (She has more faith in him than she has in herself, most days.)
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He’s been in this strange place for days now. Weeks? Maybe. Time ceased to cohere long ago; for the Outsider, days seem to pass both in a blink and at a snail’s crawl. However long it’s been, the Outsider’s used his time to linger at the outskirts of a market, to plant himself invisible in people’s homes. He’s used his time to gather information (it’s more difficult here than he’s used to; here, the information doesn’t simply come to him; here, he doesn’t have the Void’s eternal, invasive input to consult), trying to understand the world he’s come into, seeking signs of the man he’d followed here and why, why Daud had been set on finding this place.
How the Outsider had come here remains unclear. He knows it’d started with taking a renewed interest in Daud’s activities. His wayward Chosen had been fueled by some strange mission for the past several years, at last catching the Outsider’s attention. It’d been a seemingly impossible mission Daud was on: for some reason, he’d been bent on making his way to a place called Whitestone. A place across - what was it that researcher had said - worlds, dimensions, universes? Daud had been certain such a jump could be made, the the researcher, a woman of seemingly infinite patience, had agreed.
They’d spent years working on a contraption geared toward somehow bending the fabric of space, a venture worthy even of the Outsider’s continued attention. When everything was finally ready, the scientist had activated the device, and as the Outsider leaned in, close as he could from his place in the Void, there’d been a sense of suction, the sound of a snap, a broken string or something more vital. He’d closed his eyes against a rush of light, felt its needling burn around him, and when he opened his eyes, he’d been elsewhere. Felt the unfamiliar brush of breeze against his skin (he had skin? a body? was it possible?) and for the first time in centuries found himself beyond the Void.
Here in this new place something’s… Different. Wrong, perhaps, though the Outsider can’t say whether it’s really a bad change. He doesn’t feel entirely unlike the self he’s become used to, but his connection with the Void has altered. Instead of wrapping everywhere around him, forming the whole of his world, it’s woven through him, traced lightly around his form as if in currents of air. And while the Outsider can still transport himself across space, can still fade into and out from invisibility, there’s almost, almost effort to it. Like it takes something out of him to draw on the Void’s powers. Like somehow, the Void is no longer infinite, or his connection to it has weakened.
It’s almost as if the Void has been left thousands upon thousands of miles behind. Worlds behind. And somehow, somehow the Outsider has been drawn here in Daud’s wake.
In all of the Outsider’s attempts to garner information about Daud, one name has rose over and over again: Cassandra de Rolo, apparently a guardian of the city, some part of its ruling family. As rumor tells it, Daud’s been seen in her company; been staying with her in the Castle. (It’s a puzzle of its own; what does Daud have to do with this woman, and is it true she’s welcomed him as warmly as they say? The Outsider cannot envision it. He’ll have to see it for himself.)
Which is why a particular night finds the Outsider stepping calmly across the castle’s rooftops, disappearing and reappearing at will in order to cross from one to the next, moving with a quiet confidence. It’s why he pauses only briefly when he sees the woman’s figure atop the roof, doesn’t question who she is.
Head cocked, he takes a step forward, lithe figure still obscured by shadow, his face almost indiscernible in the dark. Is this the woman, then? Yes. Yes, she must be.
"I’ve heard about you, Cassandra."
no subject
But she doesn’t. She waits. Turning towards the shadow-cloaked stranger warily. Watchfully. Her nightmares set aside for the moment.
“Have you, now?” She asks curiously. “I’m not sure why that should surprise me. You are in Whitestone at present.” Because when in doubt, sass. It’s the de Rolo way. Even when confronted by strangers on rooftops where they shouldn’t be.
no subject
The girl may notice his figure shimmer - a trick of the shadows, or something more? - may notice that suddenly, suddenly this stranger doesn't seem to have his feet quite on the ground. It's an almost-instinctual trick, and though something about the sensation gnaws at the Outsider (it doesn't feel right, doesn't feel right, feels a little too much, yes, like a minor effort, something that's not quite a part of himself anymore), he doesn't linger in worry. After all, it must be nothing. Must be an aftereffect of crossing whatever span to reach this place. It's not worth a moment's further thought.
No, better to focus on the girl who's wary but who hides most of her surprise. Who chooses retort rather than fear or wonderment. Accustomed as he is to reading people to their depths - the Void opens each and every person in so many ways, draws their insides out for observation - it doesn't take much to notice her itch toward defense. Doesn't take much to notice she's been preoccupied with something, the tenor of her being shifting from some clouded realm of thought into the present.
(Still, for all the clarity with which he sees her, there's something... Smudged, almost. Something not quite open to him. And in the back of his mind, there's a ticking, a tension that suggests something's changed, even in the way he sees people. Maybe, slightly. Maybe.)
He doesn't move toward her. Not yet.
"Isn't that curious." Strange that he should be here. Strange that she should accept his presence with such seeming calm. "Yes, it's been a remarkable journey."
There's a moment's quiet, and then. "You're escaping something."
no subject
Head tilted curiously, she closes the distance between them. Warily, carefully. But she moves closer none-the-less. To better see his face. (Somewhere in the castle below them she suspects that Daud is face-palming and not quite sure why.) But he’s not a Briarwood. Not any of their allies. So she is quite possibly less afraid of him than she should be. Or simply more confident in her own skill. Perhaps both.
(Somewhere, Daud is no doubt face-palming harder.)
Although how easily he sees through to the truth of her is... unnerving, but she doesn’t let it show. Barely hesitates in her response, arching an eyebrow at him. “And what of you?” she counters. “Lurking on a rooftop in the shadows.”
no subject
"Lurking? No. Only watching." He hadn't orchestrated these shadows, after all. They simply happened to be here. If the sun had been shining bright, he would have approached her, still. It's true the Outsider appreciates a little bit of show in his appearances, true he might make use of shadows, but he has no reason to hide from her. No, he wants something from the woman. Needs her to see him. Needs to speak with her, and to discern what it is that had drawn his Chosen across all this distance.
He lets her approach him, not wavering from his position. Watches the ways her past swims around her body, clings to her, drips from her every gesture. Sees the way she's laced here and there with blood, yet never saturated by it. As if something about her resists its stain. As if something about her shines, almost. How curious.
"Tell me, Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo. What is it you're escaping?" He lets his awareness wander across the impress of her being, the shuddered lines and clouded recollections that roil so clear before him. He catches images of red, of shadows closing in, of teeth flashed sharp against darkness, of the edges of a despair run leagues deep. Catches fracture and a mangled youth, damage done to one so unsuspecting, innocent.
It's... almost unsettling. Almost causes him disturbance. What an unfortunate life this woman's seen.
no subject
The only stranger, however.
And he knows her name. All of it. And what’s more, he says it flawlessly. As though it’s less than the mouthful it is. Which is a rarity. Instead of reacting in whatever way he might wish her to, she steps closer and smirks up at him. “Just call me Cassandra.”
Not one to give straight answers to a random stranger on her roof (or to anyone, truly; Daud perhaps stands the strongest chance of drawing one from her, of pulling honesty from her), she counters his question with one of her own. “Why does what I may or may not be escaping from interest you?”
no subject
He hadn't spoken her name expecting any particular reaction. Had chosen the full appellation because that's who she is, what she's called, and he'd wanted to feel the sound of it in his throat, let the words filter through his voice. Still, the smirk is singular. Doesn't strike him as the response that most would give. Again, again, she proves herself an interesting young woman.
"Cassandra."
Again he cocks his head at her, and now the strangeness of his eyes - black through-and-through - might be discernible, might be seen as something more than a trick of the light. "Avoid the question as you like, but you can't avoid what follows you. Do you think your past will ever rest? Cassandra Johanna von Musel Klossowski de Rolo, I see the weight of your broken childhood, the way they held you, the years spent cowering beneath their fangs.
"Your life has not been easy."
no subject
“Only one of them had fangs, actually.” Spoken casually, as though she’s not haunted by the both of them day and night. As though she’s not filled with a slow simmering fury towards the man in front of her. Fury, and hurt, and guilt, and a thousand other things. “I will avoid any question I like, as a matter of fact. I don’t find the need to answer to strange men I find on my roof. But I would be interested to discover how it is you’ve come by your knowledge of me.”
She is toe to toe with him, now, or she would be if he was doing anything as mundane as standing upon the roof’s surface, gazing up at him with sharp blue-grey eyes. Every inch the young noble she was born. Fiercer, though. Stubborn and blazing.
But she’s close enough to see him, to note the endless void of his eyes, and realisation clicks neatly and abruptly into place with certainty. Oh. Accompanied by countless questions and thoughts. The loudest of which is Daud is not going to be pleased. She knows exactly who he is. What. He is. “So.” She says, rather abruptly. “You’re the Outsider. You are a very long way from home.”
And more to the point... why is he here? HOW is he here? She highly doubts he felt the selfsame need to find her that Daud did. It’s... curious.
no subject
He'd gone somewhere. Met this woman. And of course Daud had mentioned the Outsider; his wayward Chosen has never stopped speaking or thinking of him. Never stopped blaming him, though it'd been Daud's own hand that felled the empress and so, so many others. The Outsider wonders what Daud's told this girl. Almost wonders what she sees in him, his Void-struck eyes, his presence here. So few have ever seen him. Really, she might count herself fortunate.
He doesn't expect that's the case. Given the anger she's flaring, the complicated spiral of feelings caught around her. Perhaps he'd spoken too far, but she's a puzzle, this one. So many unsettled pieces, so much to be stirred up at the lightest prick of a word. It's enticing. And he's never felt obliged to reign his curiosity in.
As far as home goes... It's an interesting notion, isn't it? Is home the Void? If that's the case, he's brought home with him, for he can feel the Void's energy around and through him. Is home the central chamber of the Void, the place his physical form remains frozen? No, no; that's more a tomb. A relic. If home's the Isles, then yes, the girl seems to speak true: he's come a long way, and even he can't say how.
He doesn't mind. Being here is not so different from being in the Isles. Only he's closer to the physical world, here. Only he can almost touch the world that in the Isles only ever shimmered beyond the Void.
He could touch her, maybe, if he wanted to. Feel the warmth of the blood beneath her skin, or come closer to it than he ever has before. Such a strange situation.
Look at those eyes of hers. So filled with fervor.
Such an interesting young woman.
"Yes. He would. How strange that such a man should speak to you. How strange that you should speak in kind, after everything you've witnessed. You've seen great harm. Seen the world fall before you. Cassandra, I wonder if you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
no subject
She can understand some of Daud’s frustration with his god, now, as well. Although she supposes you don’t need tact when you’re godly. (Or perhaps he’s simply never been around anyone long enough to remember what exactly it is.)
“With Daud? Yes. I do. I know what he’s done. Who he was.” Was. Was. A very important distinction that she doesn’t know if the Outsider sees. Noticed in his Chosen. (But he must have noticed something. He’s here, isn’t he.) Let alone understands. “I know who he is, as well. Who he’s becoming. Who he’s trying terribly hard to be.” She tilts her head, gazing up at Daud’s god with brilliant blue-grey eyes. Holding his gaze easily. “He’s better than he thinks he is. The man he was wouldn’t have cared for the broken young women he met upon a bridge late at night. Wouldn’t have concerned himself with a war of the gods. Wouldn’t have done quite a lot of things.” Wouldn’t have been so terribly torn apart by the one time he’d taken part in the arena.
“So yes. I understand exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.” Spoken with certainty. Her faith in Daud has never wavered. Will never waver. (She has more faith in him than she has in herself, most days.)