He started with the pistol. Beretta 92F: stripped, disassembled. A tiny brush
to clean each piece; a rag to oil them down. Reassembled and reloaded and set
aside. He washed his hands, replaced the smell of gun oil with a tang of citrus.

He’d been going about this all wrong, from the beginning, from the very start of it. That sinking feeling when he’d realized that it was just him and Tamwood, and there was no one else who could step up to be the Councilor: he’d let that initial feeling guide him for months. He’d distanced himself further. And at Consilium, he’d been chastised for it by his friend, and he’d been ambushed by a wave of new Moros that he should have known about. And the worst part was, Joshua had let it happen to himself. If he’d been half as aware in this new battlefield as he tried to be on the regular one, he might have seen the trouble sooner.

Next, the shoes. With meticulous care the black leather is shined; the polish is rubbed
in until the shoes nearly glow. He adjusts the laces until their lengths match perfectly.
The shoes are set aside, next to new socks, a simple pair of cufflinks, and a tie.

“I’m a soldier, not a politician,” he’d told Gallows, and that was certainly true enough. But what was the one tenet of the Way he had tried to hold to, more than any other? Do not have preferences. Arrows had to be ready to fight any battle, and while the Order as a whole tried to leave leadership to the others, there were always circumstances where an Arrow would have to step up. To pretend that this was not such a time would be to dishonor his Order, his city, and his friends.

Pants, shirt, jacket: all carefully pressed. Wrinkles are steamed away and pantlegs are
carefully creased. One by one each goes up on a wooden hanger and is set aside.

He could sulk about it and ignore his job, or he could man up and do it. Because it wasn't just about him. Others depended on him. And he could let himself down, but Joshua hated letting others down. Animus and Triquetra were just two who needed to be able to rely on him, but there were others. A whole Path of them.

It’s almost over. He shaves from a bowl of water, flicking stubble and foam into it with
each pass. He dries off, sets it all aside, and dresses while taking care not to undo any
of the work he’d just put into each item. The gun is tucked away; the cufflinks are set;

the tie is put into a four-in-hand—undone, reset, undone, reset, until finally the fingers fumble less and the knot looks semi-competent. Even without a mirror in the attic Hallow he knows the clothes fit a little loosely; the pants a touch too long, the sleeves just a bit short, the jacket tight across the shoulders. He chastises himself; he knows he could do better. But as first steps go, this was a good start.

Being the Councilor was not a burden; it was a duty. He’d already abandoned his duties once before. He’d be damned if he’d do it again.

Joshua closed his eyes and felt the Hallow around him, felt some of the power flow into him. Transition complete, he steps out to counsel his Path.