After that, there was no war.

The enemy angels somehow seemed to think there was no use in fighting it anymore, so the remaining angels went home, the troops were sent back, and everyone living in the capital city of Kahpem-La could go back to life as it was before the war that wasn't really their war at all.

There was some debate, and, in the end, it was decided that the queen would rule. This offended some, but not most, and what most people in the city did not seem to realize was that she was doing most of the ruling already. Even while her husband had been alive, he'd been gone too often to take care of much, and Chaza could not imagine anyone better suited to being Honorary King of Kahpem-La (because Queen did not have quite the same ring to the townspeople's ears) than her.

Chaza, though, knew that even though the townspeople would forget and forgive that it ever happened, she wouldn't. She couldn't. It wouldn't be right, wouldn't be good, wouldn't be fair. Not to Yelin.

She couldn't speak the name, but it was always there, underneath her tongue, hiding in some dark corner of her brain; when she spoke Takan's name, she wanted to whisper Yelin's too, just because no one ever did anymore. He had been buried and no one had said anything, and Takan hadn't said a word about his "game", his choice, but she knew, because the walls were not thick and she'd been pressing her body against the door, scrabbling for an entrance.

Finally, weeks after, she got enough courage to speak of the dead boy, to bring him up. "He died for us, didn't he?" she said softly, startling Takan. "He didn't realize it or choose it, but he did. He died for us."

Takan was silent for a long time, and although Chaza itched to know what he was thinking, she couldn't ask. Finally, Takan said, "Do you think he would have? Did he - did he want this?"

"I don't know. I didn't know him well enough to guess that sort of thing. I guess I'll never know, now."

They kept walking, close but not touching, their hands, for once, not holding one another. Chaza wondered if there would always be something between them now, some invisible wall she'd never be able, or want, to break down. After a while, because she couldn't think of anything else to say, she smiled a little and murmured, "I'm sorry about your wings."

"Oh well." He glanced over his shoulder, surveying the wound, the wound that never would quite heal. "I didn't need them anyways," he said, laughing; and, despite herself, Chaza laughed too.