Fíadh's fingernails scrape through the dirt floor as her mind reels. She sees blood, she hears screams, she smells burning, it all comes back in a flood of-

A warm hand comes into her view, and a soft voice cocoons her in reassurance. It's just a ghost. It's not real. Her thoughts aren't real. The hand is real, the voice is real. She's here and now. A deep breath in. Out. Slowly she rises, refusing the assistance. Instead she pushes up from the ground on her own and brushes her hands on her trousers. Still, she gives Detlef a pointed look that could probably be deciphered as gratitude.

Then the bell tolls.

Quickly she spins toward the sound and furrows her brows.

"Should some of us return?"