She'd been dreaming of the other girls. As Homura rose from her slumber in the middle of the night, she couldn't help but wonder why. A small distance away slept Theodor—she idly considered getting up and leaving without him, but knew at this point it was a futile endeavor. Whoever he was, she could not escape him. He would show up an hour down the road as if she'd never left him, and all she'd have to show for it would be a lack of sleep. By this point Homura had just learned to accept his presence, the alternative was a path to madness.
At the very least tomorrow they would reach Frost Creek, and while Homura was sure Madoka had long since left the town, it still put her one step closer to the one person who meant more to her than anything else.
Her thoughts drifted back to the others, wondering if they'd made it here too or if they were dead like everyone else. She… honestly wasn't sure which she was hoping for. Obviously she would prefer they weren't dead and were keeping Madoka at least somewhat safe but at the same time part of her couldn't help but wonder if things wouldn't be easier going forward if they weren't around anymore to mess things up.
… What an awful person she was.
She'd left Miki in a mind prison. Homura wondered what had happened; had Sayaka survived, would she still be in there? No one else knew she'd copied the Incubators' work.
… No, no, clearly Sayaka would be free. Homura wasn't the devil anymore. Her powers were gone; obviously the isolation field would have stopped working with it, right?
Right, no. Of course. That much was obvious.
It wasn't that she'd outright wanted to do it—for all her justified irritation and anger towards her, for all her dramatic bluster, she hadn't felt outright malicious towards her—Homura's feelings were more accurately summed up as "disdain" and "pity". And irritation. And annoyance. And disgust. And okay maybe she had wanted to put the girl in her place a bit because honestly she needed to be. Miki's punishment had been measured and deserved.
Miki had left her no choice—her constant and tiresome meddling had left the demon with no other choice than to punish her and hopefully rehabilitate her as a productive friend to Madoka. She was not a hero of justice, she was not the right hand of god, she was just a dumb, selfish, spoiled girl who needed to learn her place and Homura had needed to reinforce that to her when it became clear that simply wiping her memory over and over was not going to be enough.
The thought that the others might not have survived sent an odd sense of loss surging through Homura that she couldn't quite place. She'd spent so long thinking of each of them as almost expendable fixtures—always there but easily replaced; they'd just be back next loop… she'd never really had to grapple with the idea of there being no more do-overs—even in Madoka's world there had been the fact that Madoka had taken Miki with her. She'd certainly known of course, but the difference between academic knowledge and really understanding, feeling a concept were very different.
Sleep didn't find Homura again as instead the girl found herself watching the twin moons slowly shift through the sky towards the far horizon, an odd sort of contemplation filling her thoughts.
Ambroise considered himself a humble, understanding man. Six hundred years both as a self-proclaimed vampire lord and as a reachman had taught him that. Centuries fighting endless guerrilla wars against the nord occupiers. Centuries of being looked down on because he wasn't a proper vampire lord with a noble lineage, but was instead a "filthy mongrel" who had been bitten by some feral nobody. Centuries of slowly building his clan, slowly mastering magic, slowly rising in the ranks of society until he was on the Reachking's small council.
And so Ambroise understood. He was not a vengeful man. He was not a raging storm. He was kind, understanding, forgiving. More than that, he was a patriot. He fought for his people, fought for their way of life, fought for the right to worship their gods. So when Uela had returned, injured and without her sisters in tow, babbling incoherently, he understood. He'd debriefed her as best he could and then sent her off to recover. Really it had been his own fault; he'd known exactly what he was dealing with, and he should have sent more forces to apprehend the fallen goddess. The only reason he hadn't was because he'd not wanted to make a scene, too large of a force would have been detected and treated as a declaration of war by the Nordic kingdoms.
But that caution had cost him. Now his quarry was safe in Winterhold, far outside his grasp. Well, all but one, but no one seemed to know where the other fallen goddess was—it was as if something was hiding her from view. Alas. Now he had to wait them out. They had to leave Winterhold eventually, but now that the Psijic Order was guarding them, his objectives had become far, far harder.
The vampire sighed as he made his way down the stone steps from the king's palace in Markarth, the drizzling gray sky above shielding him from the wrath of the sun-another reason to love the Reach. All around him were more reasons: children playing, proper reachmen shopping without fear in the streets. Proper shrines to Hircine, Molag Bal, Malacath, Namira, and others instead of the feckless Imperial and Nordic pantheons. The austere and gorgeous stonework built by the dwemer who had inhabited this city before them. The grand gray and white mountains and waterfalls that encircled the fortress city.
The Reach was a paradise, finally pure and clean of foreign meddlers. But it was always under siege; by the Nords, by the Bretons, by the Redguard, by the Orcs. No one on Tamriel could suffer the Reach existing, and the peace and prosperity they'd attained was fragile and required constant vigilance.
But the capture of Madoka Kaname, or Homura Akemi could change that forever.
"My lord."
Ambroise turned as one of his loyal subordinates came up to him. Anton was a young reachman, in his late twenties. As a child his parents had been lynched by the so-called "Vigilants of Stendarr" (the third such terrorist group to call themselves that) just for being worshipers of Hircine. But now Anton lived in a kingdom where being a werewolf like himself wasn't just not frowned on, but was seen as respected and worthy. Anton was proud, and like his master was a true patriot of the Reach.
"Yes?" Ambroise asked his subordinate. Some of the more "noble" vampire clans may have taken offense to a vampire building a clan around "filthy" beasts like werewolves, hagravens, mongrel vampires, and minotaurs amongst others, but they were not Reach. The "noble" vampires could never be Reach, and their opinions were irrelevant.
"We've located a shard," Anton said lowly, coming in close to his master, "The Order, one of Valtir's contacts, has it."
Ambroise tensed, "… Where is he?" the vampire asked, now very interested.
"Solitude," the younger man replied, "We think he's waiting for Valtir or Madoka."
The vampire scoffed at the Order's attempts at being subtle, "Probably trying to avoid Thalmor detection." he mused, "… Have you ever been to Solitude, Anton?"
"No, sir."
"Beautiful city," the vampire said, "Maybe one day the Reach will extend there as well. For now however… prepare a raiding party. You're going hunting."
Anton grinned ferociously, "Yes, master."