There was a cheering word or two, a waving of hats, and then the barriers fell back into place.

A quarter of a mile away, having reached an elevation, the exile stopped his horse and turned in the saddle.

As he strained his bloodshot eyes toward the city, the mask of intoxication fell away from his face, leaving it worn and wretched.

The snow lay everywhere, white, untrampled, blinding.
The pale yellow beams of the sun broke in brilliant flashes against the windows of the Priory of Jacobins, while above the city, the still sleeping city, rose long spiral threads of opal-tinted smoke.
Five years.

And for what?
Friendship.