Chapter Text
Castiel’s current waking up routine involves dragging himself out of bed, almost tripping over the clothes he’d discarded on the floor the previous night, and knocking his elbows against the sink when he brushes his teeth. It is such a familiar procedure that his partial consciousness almost tricks himself into believing that he’s back in his university apartment, and he’s merely preparing for another day on the podium or in the library.
He’d barely been able to afford that apartment but he’d figured, at the time, that that was it for him and he’d better lay down his roots properly or it might never happen at all. All the framed works on the walls were chosen by him, and all the books on the shelves were those he'd enjoyed enough to keep. There was only one window, which could never be opened completely, but it had an excellent view of the lake. The bed had an uneven corner, which he propped up with a folded piece of cardboard that had to be replaced every few months.
Castiel is not in his apartment.
In many ways, this cottage is better. All the windows are functional, and Anna always was better at finding good deals for furniture and household things. Castiel’s currently sleeping in the room Anna calls the study because of the writing desk and empty book shelves, though when he’d arrived she’d been using it as a storage room for the previous tenant’s things. There is one bathroom, which they share and smells perpetually of rose water.
It’s at the point when Castiel is washing his face that he remembers: ah, yes, he is not at the university. He is hundreds of miles away, in a country not his own, in a town called Rexford that he has only fleetingly started to get to know. It has been four months since he’d left the university, and over a month since he’d gone into hiding from Michael.
These facts wash over Castiel as he trims the edges of his beard with a small pair of scissors. He hasn’t been officially declared missing because the authorities have bigger things to worry about. (Personally, Castiel suspects his fleeing the scene of he crime has embarrassed everyone, Republic and royalist alike, so they'd prefer to pretend that it never happened.) Castiel has trouble moving the two small fingers on his left hand because he’d prioritized getting as much distance between himself and Ilchester over getting his wounds checked out by doctor. He is grateful for the small miracle that he found Anna as quickly as he did, after only a day of loitering around the rendezvous point she’d mentioned in her last letter.
Or was it she who found him? His memory of those few days are a little hazy now.
It is important for Castiel to think of these things, because his reflection is one he barely recognizes. This may be part of his disguise but it's almost as though he’s borrowing someone else’s skin. Add that to the whirlwind of recent times, how he’d been tossed from one hand to another with barely a chance to catch his breath, and Castiel could forget who he is if he’s not careful.
In reciting his recent history to himself, he is grounding himself.
The beard is Castiel’s idea, but the red hair is Anna’s. She’d had indigo streaks the last time he'd seen her, but now she’s gone for completely red locks. Castiel had known this from her letters, but he hadn’t expected how suitable it would look on her. And since Anna has adopted red hair as part of her new identity, it’s only fitting that her visiting brother have red hair as well.
He’d protested at first, saying that it was enough that he’d grown out his facial hair. He’d only been recognized twice during his escape from Ilchester, and both times he’d been dismissed as a look-alike, because why would a prince be wandering around back alleys unwashed and wearing ill-fitting clothes? Admittedly that was before the Council finally announced that the alliance has broken down and put the entire North-West coast under martial law, but Castiel has been very careful.
Still Anna insisted, so now when Castiel looks in the mirror it’s to a face framed with dark red hair, the bangs almost overgrown enough to cover his eyes. She’d dyed his facial hair, too, taking the challenge with aplomb. She does that.
Outside, Anna is up and making breakfast, humming under her breath as she sets the plates out. She smiles when she sees him. “’Morning, you.”
She was always the better cook between them. She’s gone local, too; her current liking for heavy breakfasts is in line with what Dean enjoyed and what Castiel saw across various diners along the highway. She chatters away as they eat, her voice as soothing as a cool lap of water.
“The trellis is looking good,” Anna says. “I’m thinking of going down to the port to pick up some seedlings, perhaps tomatoes or cucumbers. I’m not sure, I’m partial to both, really. Though I’ll have to finish up with the pump first.”
“I can help you look into that,” Castiel says.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. The pressure’s still good so it’s not a priority yet.”
Castiel looks down at his meal. “This is that toasted concoction they used to make at…”
“Yeah,” Anna says quietly. “I thought you might like it.”
“Thank you,” Castiel says, as heartfelt as he can manage. Thank you for being there, for finding him and taking him in, for not pressing for answers where others wouldn’t have bothered to be kind. “Thank you, Anna.”
“You’ve said that already,” Anna says, a little firmly. “I know you’d do the same for me.”
She is thriving here, as wonderfully as she’d described in her many letters. She has this cottage, which she’d managed to obtain after apprenticing under a metalsmith in town. It’s technically on loan but she’s free to decorate it the way she likes, resulting in a home where her hand can be seen in practically every corner. Castiel wishes he were here under better circumstances, and better capable of enjoying her hospitality.
Once they’re done with breakfast Anna washes up while Castiel packs up their lunch – one set for Anna, and one for himself. When they’re ready to go Anna locks up the cottage behind them, and they start walking down the road to the town hub.
“Nora has a delivery today,” Castiel says. “I’ll be staying late to help with the inventory.”
“Ah, that’s right. Is it still okay if I drop by for lunch?”
“Should be fine.”
This is deep into the countryside, past the sweeping cornfields and up into the highlands, where the conflict on the coast feels distant enough that it might as well be only happening in a TV serial. Rexford is officially a town but Castiel refers to it as a village in his head, mostly because the buildings are interspersed with so much greenery. It isn’t quite what he’d pictured for Anna – the peace and quiet seem at odds with her desire for activity, but no doubt there is more here than meets the eye.
It is early enough in the morning that they only see a handful of people when they reach the town center. He and Anna walk past the town hall, where their yellow flag is still up, signifying to all that the Republic is in a state of emergency and residents are to be alert and informed. The Council is still attempting damage control, so information is limited and the newscasts are vague. Castiel may not have told Anna everything about what happened after Joshua House, but she’s still learned more from him than from all the official sources put together.
Most of the townsfolk here haven’t even seen a northerner before. At least, that’s as far as they know, because Anna has been very thorough in hiding her origins, and the local accent she’s adopted is impressive. She’s tried to help Castiel take on a passable accent as well, but that hasn’t worked out so far. Castiel doesn’t mind that much, because it just means he doesn’t talk in public when he can help it.
They arrive at the only Gas-n-Sip in town soon enough. Anna kisses Castiel on the cheek and says goodbye, and then Castiel enters the convenience store where Nora, the proprietor, is opening up the blinds. She and Anna are good friends, which is how Anna got Castiel a job here with very few questions asked. Rexford is apparently sympathetic towards people who wish to get away, whatever their reasons. Possibly everyone here has a reason of their own.
“Morning, Steve,” Nora says. “Can you put the papers out before starting work on the back? Thanks.”
Castiel likes being useful. It’s better than spending all his time in Anna’s cottage, which is all he’d done the first week or so since he’d arrived. Here he has a uniform, a name tag and a cap he gets to wear with the brim down low while he works. He gets to observe the locals and learn of their ways candidly. He also gets to see the newspaper headlines while he’s heaving them up onto the display cabinet.
Royalists Attack The Cape Point
Council: Curfew Still in Effect
Citizens Advised to Stay Beyond the Howard Line
There are a few pictures, but Castiel doesn’t linger too long gawking. He will get his time later, either during his lunch break or after work. He backs away when the first customers of the day arrive - a pair of women who are heading down to the fields to work. They pick up coffee and a few sundry items and say hello to Nora before moving on.
Nora usually stays out front, so Castiel doesn’t mind the cashier unless she or Lila, the other staff member, is on a break. Castiel’s usual tasks involve carrying things around, or arranging things, or cleaning things up. These tasks are comforting and straightforward. Castiel has a great appreciation for things that are straightforward.
While he works, he listens to people talk as they pass through. Sometimes they talk about town gossip, sometimes about The Ilchester Conflict (that’s the official term for it) which is usually punctuated with a disbelieving, “Crazy, huh?”
These are civilians. Farmers, teachers, craftspeople and so on, plus the small flurry of schoolchildren that pass through when school is done for the day.
As far as Castiel can see their lives are only fleetingly affected by the events on the coast; their day-to-day is as it’s always been. When Castiel watches them he vacillates between being glad that they’re untouched, to envy that they’re untouched, to absurdly angry that they do not seem to understand the enormity of what is happening elsewhere in their own realm.
People are fighting. Michael’s fleet has landed. Lucifer has declared his presence, claiming to be fighting for the Republic. The Republic’s noble houses have split – some standing with Ellen, others with Lucifer, others fleeing the conflict altogether. A group of hunters have gone rogue with Dean Winchester at the helm, but that is a propaganda disaster so there’s been little to no mention of him or their marriage in the news at all - not since Lucifer blew up Michael’s flagship the morning Castiel fled and everything went to hell. Various patches along the coast are changing hands as the fighting proceeds, though the Council is so tight-lipped that the public only knows which town belongs to whom until almost days after the event.
Castiel has to refill the milkshake machine for a group of children while hundreds of miles away life and death is the balance. The dissonance makes him pause often.
In the aisles behind him he hears a man tell his friend, “They should just go, man. It was a bad idea from the start, you know? There was a reason we put up the Wall in the first place.”
“No, you dumbass, they put the Wall up,” his friend says with a snort. “God, don’t you know your history?”
“Oh come on,” the other says with a good-natured laugh. “Look, we split off from them ‘cause we weren’t down with obeying a King, yeah? Independent state? And we put the freaking Wall up to shut them out!”
A schoolchild chimes in just then, with all the confidence that one can have at that age, “They put the Wall up because they didn’t want to lose more islanders to the Free Will movement. One law, one King, one Wall.”
“That right?” the first man says dryly.
“We’ve been studying this the whole week at school,” the child says proudly. “Next week we’re starting on how the nobles banded together to form the Council.”
“Go on, smarty-pants. You’re Fisher’s kid, aren’t you? Git!”
“See?” his friend says smugly. “They put the Wall up.”
“Smartest thing they’ve ever done for us, then,” the first man replies. “Should’ve just kept letting us mind our own. Hey, man, I get to be pissed, my sister’s out there helping ‘em hold the line, yanno? Haven’t heard from her for days now.”
“Yeah, man, sorry.”
Castiel flips the milkshake machine switch on to the cheers of the schoolchildren around him. They clamor for their prize while Castiel drifts away, his task done, his presence incidental. It’s a welcome change that no one pays any attention to him here.
Anna drops by during Castiel’s lunch break, and they eat together in the back. She talks a little about her morning but otherwise the shared meal passes in a companionable silence, broken only with the gentle, “Eat up,” Anna says when Castiel gets distracted by his thoughts. She means it to be teasing but Castiel hears the order there – he hasn’t put back all his weight yet, but he’s working on it.
Then it’s back to his daily tasks. There’s cleaning, stacking, nodding agreeably when a patron tells Castiel he didn’t clean his windshield well enough. There’s watching the locals move through the Gas-in-Sip on the way to the rest of their lives. Castiel reminds himself that this is what’s worth fighting for, and what people hundreds of miles away are fighting for.
Late into the evening, when Lila is done for the day and Nora is out taking care of her personal business, a hunter shows up at the Gas-n-Sip. Castiel initially assumes the man is a local, but then his sleeves catch the light, illuminating a shield with the symbol of a gun along the frame.
Castiel slips on his reading glasses but stays behind the cashier, watching surreptitiously as the hunter moves between the aisles picking at things.
This man isn’t built like Dean, more gangly than solid in his grey-brown jacket, but hunter ranks must be filled with various kinds of people. He is the first hunter Castiel's seen in Rexford since he’d arrived here, and he doesn't know whether to be nervous or... something else. According to Nora they used to pass here regularly on the way to the ports, but with the conflict on the coast, most of them are mobilized. The man now approaching the cashier cannot be deserter, not with his badge so prominently displayed.
“Hey, do you take post?” the hunter asks. When Castiel nods, the man takes out two letters, squinting at them with tired eyes before handing them over. “Pretty quiet ‘round here, huh?”
Castiel clears his throat. Careful to keep his voice a soft whisper to mask his accent, he says, “I think they’ve closed the Howard Line. No mail passing through.”
“Oh, it’s still open. As long as there’s a… right, a special stamp. Thanks for reminding me.” He rummages in his backpack, finding a broad stamp that he uses to mark the side of his envelopes. “There. It’s okay, I’ll pay for whatever it needs.”
Castiel takes out his reference file to check the postage rates. The hunter seems too exhausted to bother studying Castiel closely, which is good, but then his eyes widen when he notices the radio on the side counter.
“That working?” he asks. When Castiel nods, the hunter adds, “You mind if I…”
Castiel gestures for him to proceed. Nora lets the store’s radio play one of her favorite easy listening channels, only switching to a news channel whenever she feels like checking in for bulletins. The hunter fiddles with the knob now, replacing the soft music with static as he rolls through the channels. Castiel watches him curiously as he sticks the thin stamps down on the corner of the hunter's envelopes. He seems to be focusing really hard, which is unusual.
At last the man stops, though Castiel can’t hear any music. The hunter looks at his watch, tapping the face gently.
Then from the radio comes a faint voice, “Nineteen-hundred. One skirmish at forty seven point three at oh-two hundred when See tried to take over the Hook again, but it didn’t take. At least four wendigos in the force, plus sightings of a dragon but we’re not positive on that yet. A couple of mild injuries overall, all of ‘em sent to the Red Cross at Four-Point. A statement should be coming out early tomorrow morning. Elle has sent messages out from Campbell Court, declaring that what he’s pushing is his blood right over Em. The word is, uh, that he’s suing for the Crown and is gonna make a break for St. Lebanon. Elle’s gonna request that the Council act as a neutral third party—” the speaker snorts, “—to oversee a trial over who has a stronger right for the throne.”
Castiel has a stamp stuck on his thumb where he should have pressed it on the envelope. He hasn’t moved since the voice started talking, frozen in place by the sudden lead weight of his limbs.
That’s Dean’s voice. It wasn’t an instantaneous recognition but the longer he’d talked the stronger Castiel’s surety solidified. He would know that voice anywhere, he’s heard it too often in his sleep. Mild static wouldn’t be able to mask it, not in the least. He’s still talking, and Castiel can almost see Dean sitting right there, hunched over a microphone, hands gesticulating wildly as he tries to explain his point. He sounds a little subdued but that drawl, that turn of the syllables – that has to be Dean on the radio. Castiel only understands about half of what he’s saying – Elle must be Lucifer, and Em is Michael – but this is new information.
“Em is fortifying the line, but has allowed supplies and letters to come through. Over thirty civilians are out past, safely on the highway heading South. The Eye-Thirty-Two is getting packed so whoever can move further out, please do, but if you can’t, don’t force yourself and don’t sweat it, okay? Remember, no one can make you move if you don’t want to, so know your rights. Go to the nearest station or admin hall, there should be a list of evacuees and how to get in contact with them. If there isn’t one, ask for it, it is mandatory that every cross point have one.”
“It’s not illegal,” the hunter says suddenly. Castiel jolts in surprise, and the hunter is looking at him with a sharp frown. “Just listening in isn’t illegal.”
It’s a pirate radio station, then. Dean is doing this clandestinely, because at least half of what he’s just said isn’t in any of the newspapers Castiel’s seen. People are using creatures as part of their attack forces? Lucifer is suing for the Crown? Claiming that because he’s older than Michael he has more right to be King?
“—it’s in, so please remember that they’re in this with us, okay? The regular Isle folk, the civilian northerners, they’re just like you and me. They didn’t know ‘bout any of this, and they’re caught up in just as much as we are. It is not as simple as kicking all of ‘em out, ‘cause this is just as all tangled up with us. If I hear of any more roughing up out there and I’m gonna kick your asses personally, ya'hear?”
There’s a rustle in the background, as though someone else is moving on that side of the mic. Castiel imagines Dean rolling his eyes and smirking, aware of the power of the microphone.
“Still gonna kick your ass,” Dean mutters. “Anyway, any hunters not on the front, you’re still on duty, y’all gotta watch out for everyone else. And if any of you regular folk see a hunter, don’t tell ‘em to go to the front, ‘cause there’s still a line to watched back home. All of us have to work together if we’re gonna get through this. If you wanna help out, get in touch with your local authorities to see what’s needed – supplies, helping hands, a spare bed, all that. Don’t head out to the active areas yourself. Like I said, it’s getting pretty packed so resources are limited. If your loved ones are out there, it’s best to stay at a location they know to find you, so they can find you. There’s plenty of transport moving in and out of the hot zones.”
Dean speaks clearly, with emotion but not emotional. This isn't the voice he'd used for their television interviews — it's lower, more casual and more intimate. It is a voice you want to hear in a crisis, of someone who seems to know what they’re doing, and is looking out for you. Dean isn’t pulling his punches, and goodness knows what he’s saying isn’t necessarily what people want to hear, but that candor is its own kind of comfort.
“Everyone’s worried. Everyone here wishes they didn’t have to be. You are not alone. Handyman from the front, clocking out. Good night.”
Castiel doesn’t realize he’s clutching his arm – the one with the damaged tattoo – until the transmission cuts out. He loosens his grip, and is relieved to see the hunter also shake himself out of his stupor, the dark of his face clearing when he remembers where he is. Castiel quickly gets on putting the stamps on his envelopes properly.
Dean is out there fighting the good fight. Yet he is also able to take time out of what is no doubt a highly stressful situation to talk to and reassure his people. Castiel cannot imagine anyone capable of forcing Dean to do this – he must have volunteered, or it was his idea in the first place.
What is Castiel doing? He’s pressing stamps and stocking shelves in a convenience store.
“Right,” the hunter says, jolting Castiel out of his thoughts. “So what was it? Plus gas?”
“The protective circle on your bag,” Castiel says quietly. “The link is chipped.”
“What? I don’t…” The hunter hauls his bag over his shoulder, squinting at it. “Huh. Wow, good eye. Phew! That could’ve gotten me in trouble. Thanks, man, you’re awesome.”
Castiel nods and turns his face away from the hunter’s scrutiny, ostensibly to put the remaining stamps back in the cabinet. “Thank you for that radio channel. I didn’t know about it.”
“Oh, it’s still a work in progress. It’s easier than you’d think to set that up, but it’s getting good range that’s the problem.” The hunter pauses, and Castiel busies himself working the cash register in tallying up his purchase items. “You got someone out there? On the front?”
Castiel nods.
“That’s tough, man. Hang in there.” The hunter hands over his money for his things, and his voice is kind when he says, “It’ll be over soon.” He doesn’t actually know that for sure. He’s just saying that to be positive. Castiel still wants to believe him.
The hunter leaves the Gas-n-Sip after filling up his truck. Castiel watches him go, writes down the frequency of the radio channel before switching back to Nora’s favorite station, and then waits for Nora to return so he can close up for the night.
Castiel manages to wait until he’s safely made the trek back to Anna’s cottage and closed the door before he pushes his left sleeve up, revealing ink and clumsy scars along his forearm. It’s funny – the first weeks after his marriage he’d barely noticed his tattoo, but now he’s studied it so well, so thoroughly. He knows all the points where his and Dean’s names intersect. He knows all the lines that are broken and half-broken. He knows well the change of texture where his fingertips move over the dark swirls to unused skin.
In the days when he’d been on the run, taking naps where he could and hiding in abandoned buildings, whenever he’d found some privacy he'd held his arm against his chest, trailing his fingers over the ink. Its strong lettering was proof in the flesh that Dean was alive and well. A handful of times he'd snapped awake from a nightmare where the tattoo had faded, which would only happen if Dean was not of this world, and he'd fumbled blindly in the dark to open his sleeve and squint at the skin, only relaxing when he could see the old Enochian letters.
Castiel just heard Dean speak on the radio so he knows that he’s alive and well, but he needed to see the tattoo anyway.
“Hey, you’re home!” Anna’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “Just a sec.”
Anna has a radio in the living area. Castiel finds it quickly, crouching in front of the piece and squinting at the tuner. When Anna comes into the room Castiel immediately says, “There’s an underground radio channel. They were broadcasting unauthorized news from the coast.”
“Oh! That’s… that’s awesome.” Anna lowers herself down next to him, watching avidly as he slowly turns the knob to the right frequency. “How’d you find out about it?”
“A hunter came to the store.” Castiel waves off Anna’s exclamation of surprise. “It’s fine, he didn’t recognize me. He asked to tune in to a station, and there it was.” Castiel checks his written note a few times, making sure that the frequency is correct. There’s only static now, though, so he says, “I think transmission is only at certain times of the day.”
“That make sense,” Anna says. “Perhaps they have to move as well? Wow, just thinking about the logistics of it…”
“Is it all right if we leave it like this? Just in case?”
“Sure. Or… I could get another radio? And you can keep it in your room so you can listen to it whenever you want.” Anna shushes Castiel’s automatic protest. “It’s no trouble, really.”
Castiel feels – odd. A little off-kilter, as though he’s one of those balancing objects that has just been nudged off its center of gravity. Almost every day since Naomi collected him from his university apartment, he’s been propelled forward by a goal: make it through the wedding, make it through the honeymoon, get the hell out of Chambers House, get the hell away from Michael.
He thought he’d feel some sort of relief at having gotten out, but it hasn’t come. Castiel is now unmoored, for he has no more bearings to follow, no horizon to chase. There is not even a desire to return to his apartment because… then what? Go back to teaching? Pretend that none of this is even happening? He isn’t even sure what’s the situation like in the kingdom anymore, now that communication has been so spotty and the airwaves full of news of the Ilchester Conflict and nothing else.
Castiel is thankful that he made it here, to this place of quiet and relative safety that Anna has offered him, but he hasn’t been able to exhale. He doesn’t deserve to exhale.
“People are getting hurt out there,” Castiel says softly. “People are having to flee their homes because of power-hungry megalomaniacs with the uncanny ability to spot weakness.”
“Castiel,” Anna says, unnerving as always, “it’s not your fault. This is Michael and Lucifer bringing their grudge out in the open. This is the Republic’s politicians using that grudge to pursue their own ends.”
“Yes, but I—”
“If they hadn’t picked you, they would’ve picked someone else. Hell, if I hadn’t left they’d probably have picked me.”
“And you would have detected what was going on immediately,” Castiel says. “You would’ve seen the cracks, you would’ve asked the right questions. You wouldn’t have gotten him caught up in this because you wouldn’t have been so stupid as to have…”
“He?” Anna echoes softly. “Is that… Are you talking about Dean Winchester?”
Castiel pushes himself off the floor, face hot and the ache in his arm flaring up with inappropriate timing. He sighs when Anna immediately follows him, shadowing him as he tries to escape to his room.
“It’s fine that you don’t tell me everything about what you went through. That’s all yours, but I am here for you in any way I can be.” Anna catches Castiel’s elbow just before he slips into his room, her grip surprisingly tight. “Was Dean... unkind to you?”
“No! No,” Castiel says quickly, looking at her in alarm. “I was angry at him but it was all – it didn’t matter – they were just doing what they thought was right and I – I probably would have done the same, but… Anna, he’s out there and I can’t help. I’m useless.”
Anna exhales softly, and gently releases her grip. Castiel doesn’t close the door in her face, but he can’t meet her eyes either. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told her everything, because it’s not as though he doesn’t trust her or fears that she would judge him. Perhaps telling her means saying it out loud, and saying it out loud would make all of it real. Even the parts that he isn't sure really happened.
“You sounded quite fond of him in your letters,” Anna says carefully.
“That’s not what’s important,” Castiel snaps. “What matters is that I got him involved in this, it’s my fault that…”
He’s already said too much, and if he says any more he might never stop. He can feel it expanding like a balloon in his chest – the things he did or didn’t do, things he said or didn’t say, all the stupid decisions he’s made because he thought he knew better. Pride always did run in the family, and that pride has held Castiel’s tongue since he’d left Ilchester – not even before his sister has he been able to confess the turmoil in his head. Anna has been exceedingly patient with him. He does not know how she does it.
Anna silently opens her arms, firmly drawing him into them. Castiel doesn’t resist, burying his face in her hair.
“I wondered when you’d get here,” Anna says. “You always did prefer to keep it all up inside.”
“Shut up,” Castiel says. He shudders at the realization that he’d unintentionally imitated Dean again.
It isn’t even fair that Castiel be this upset. Dean’s made his own choices, and Castiel expects that Dean wants to be in the thick of it, where he can make a difference. He’d probably even find it refreshing, as terrible as that sounds, because where his hands had been tied before by diplomacy and the lie of the marriage, he is now free to do what he needs to do. There are so many others affected by this situation, too, many of them less lucky and less resourceful Dean. Even Dean knows that, hence the radio transmission to get the word out to those who don’t have the resources he does.
“Okay,” Anna says gently. “Tomorrow we’re going to get a radio for you. Do you want to come with me to choose one?”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “And I want a map, along with any newspapers you still have. I want to be able to visualize what’s happening out there.”
Anna leans back a little, her expression contemplative. “You sure about that? You haven’t really…” She bites her lip, and Castiel knows she means to say that he’s been distant and unfocused since he’d arrived, and not all that receptive to her attempts to talk about the conflict. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know.”
“I know.”
She studies him for a long moment. “Let me show you something.”
Anna’s cottage is a single-storey building, though she has made excellent use of all the space in it. She takes him to her bedroom, where there’s a nook on one side that he hasn’t seen before. There is a narrow table there, newspapers stacked up and loose pages separated into a pile. There is also a cork board on the wall with two maps tacked to it.
One on the left is of the North-West coast, Ilchester highlighted in yellow, a handful of colored pins marking certain points. On the right is a map of the two nations, the islands of the Northern Kingdom spread out at the top, and the broad irregular shape of the continent below. The Republic itself takes up about a third of the continent, and its borders with the untamed wilderness are marked with thick black lines.
“You’re already doing it,” Castiel says. “Of course you are.”
“Just a little. Only what I can get from the papers and bulletins, but if that radio station of yours comes through it’ll be such a huge help.” There are letters on the desk as well, many of them in different handwriting. At Castiel’s questioning glance, Anna adds, “I’m keeping in contact with others like us. Other… immigrants from the Kingdom.”
“Ah, yes. I recall you mentioned you’ve met quite a few.”
“Most of them are trying to get in touch with family and friends back home. I can... I have my ways of communicating across the sea, it’s partly why I settled down here. I help that happen for others where I can.”
Castiel is not surprised. He can only laugh softly at the admission, and make a face when Anna ducks her head guiltily.
“We’re watching out for each other,” Anna says. “In case things get… difficult with the locals here. People shouldn’t be forced to decide where their loyalties are, not like this. It’s just a tricky situation overall.”
“Let me help you,” Castiel says. “I can help you.”
Anna smiles slowly. “That’ll be wonderful.”