#HCWL Chapters only

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 35

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Johan drops her off outside the station, and – childish though it is – she's glad he doesn't come in with her. She gets enough weird looks and stares as it is.

Inside, she takes a breath filled with the scent of stale coffee, musk and nicotine, revelling in the normality of the bullpen's chatter and the click-clack-ding of typewriters as she winds her way to her desk. Fugit's office door is firmly closed; while Elo feels a bit sorry for whichever poor sod's getting an earful, she's glad that for once it's not her. Finally at her desk, she notes that the two to the right have been cleared of the previous occupants' nicknacks and replaced, presumably, with Monday and Yates'. Of her officers, there's no sign, so instead she turns to her desk. Someone has left her a bottle, tall and filled with dark liquid with a red ribbon and tag tied to the neck like a cravat. She picks it up, examines the label: Jamaican dark rum, of a rather exclusive brand. 'You're likely to need this' reads the tag, signed by Captain Fugit. Elo smiles because her captain is probably right about that.

"Lieutenant!" Cobbleskater pipes up from behind her. Elo turns. Well, that explains where her officers are. Cobbleskater is already moving towards his desk, but Farren – Monday and Yates behind him – stay where they are. "Wasn't expecting to see you today," Farren says, his crossed arms accusatory. Elo gives him a tight smile. "Gentlemen," she says, addressing the others, "Breakwood and I need a word. If you'll excuse us." She flicks her head towards the stairwell, raises her eyebrows expectantly, and turns to leave.

Elo finds an empty interview room and flips the marker to 'in use', perching on a table as Farren follows in, closes the door and resumes his angry, crossed-arms stance. "Alright," Elo says. "Lay it on me. Whatever you didn't want to say last night." Farren looks at her, gaze appraising and shoulders tense. Then he huffs and pulls out his tobacco pouch, pulling open the soft green leather to show her all the tobacco has been replaced by rolled-up cigarettes. "I wasn't kidding when I said you owed me another packet of baccy," he says. "When I wasn't out hunting for you, I was making rollies. And this is only half. I've smoked the rest." "I'll put it on my shopping list," she says evenly. The baccy pouch hits the table beside her, spilling its contents. "That's not the fucking point!" "I know." He's waving his arms now, waging a finger at her. "There's summint going on with you, girl. An' it ain't politics or grief, nor battle trauma. There's summint else. An' you think I can't tell! I know you better than anyone else could ever hope to know you. I thought we were past not trusting each other. So why won't you talk to me? I'm your partner. How am I s'posed to back you up if I don't know what's going on? How am I s'posed help, huh? Tell me." Elo waits until he's settled back, his face a mix between stricken and outraged. She says, "This isn't about not trusting you. You're my brother, Brek. I trust you better than I trust my own mother. And you're right, something is going on. But I don't understand it myself yet, and I don't have the words for it. But I promise, Brek – I swear on my badge – that when I know, you will too." She watches his shoulders drop a fraction. Farren plucks one of his roll-ups from the pile beside her and lights it. "This is what you were set up to apologise for last night?" "No." Elo braces her hands on her thighs and stares at the floor as she takes a breath. Then she looks up and meets Farren's eye. "I did a lot of soul-searching up that tree. And I realised I've not been fair to you. I was changed by what happened to me while I was out of the city and the things I did whilst seconded by the Triumvirate. None of it was for the better. You watched your partner leave but that girl didn't come back. You got a stranger in her stead. "You know, I was a one-woman command unit out there. Made all the tough calls. Took all the shit when things went south. I guess when I came back, I forgot to let that go. "So that's what I'm apologising for – forgetting how to be your partner. Forgetting that I have support here. That I don't need to be that person anymore. Not here. Not with you." Elo blinks away the water which mists her vision. "I'll do better, I will. But I'm going to need your patience. Do you remember what I was like as a rookie?" Farren pales, stubs out his cigarette. His voice is rough, as he says, "Yes." Elo ducks her head to the side with a small, allowing shrug. "Yeah. It's not quite that bad. But I– I'm gonna–" Farren's stance relaxes and he reaches out to place a hand on her arm. "I got you outta your shell once, Li'l Bug. I can do it again." Elo squeezes his hand and gives a thankful nod. Telegraphing his movements, Farren sweeps her up in a hug, and if she makes a damp patch on his shoulder– well. It'll be dry by the time they get back to the bullpen.

As they separate, Farren says, "If that's all you came in for, you should go home and get some rest." Elo rubs her red eyes. "Not yet, I want an update on the case first. I'm still your CO. Difference is, now I have my own commanding officer to report to again." Farren huffs what could be a laugh as he collects his tobacco pouch. As they exit the room, she continues, "And then I have to go soothe some ruffled feathers in the Council chambers." "Oh?" "There's been nay-sayers about the trade negotiations since King Storri arrived. Y'know, those who were always going to firmly side against the Icelanders, just like there was during the Brotherhood incident. But now they're trying to sway the fence-sitters by saying that my disappearances are because I secretly don't want the negotiations, even though nothing could be further from the truth." Elo runs a hand over her face. "So they're dragging your ass up there to prove these nay-sayers wrong?" Farren sounds disguised by the idea. "I'm dragging my ass up there," Elo clarifies. "You know I missed Merri and Yourk's wedding because of this bullshit. I will not let this deal fall through."

Back in the bullpen, Elo calls out for Cobbleskater. "Do you have that information I asked for?" "Of course, ma'am. Everything you need to know is in my report." He hands over a manilla folder, and she flicks through the contents, eyes grazing falling graphs. "Thank you, this looks very thorough. And where are we with the translations?" His little sigh tells her everything she needs to know. "I am having a touch of difficulty with it, ma'am. As much as I would prefer you to be resting as we were informed you would be," Cobbleskater gives an apologetic shrug to Farren, "To be perfectly honest, I could do with your help." Farren harrumphs, but Elo ignores him. "Where are you set up? We'll go after I've got any updates on the case." "Room 107," the little man says, rising. "I'll just go… tidy it up." He gives her a strange look, pushes his glasses up his nose and scurries off. Elo c back at Farren, now ensconced on his side of their desks. "Should I ask?" "Best not." He grins, then nods at the bottle on her desk. "Who's leaving you gifts this time?" "Like you haven't looked." "Nope. Irvine rapped our knuckles with a ruler when we tried." Elo snorts, as she slides it into a drawer. "Good." "Well?" "It's a commiseration gift from Captain Fugit. For my promotion."

"Well I, for one, am happy you made LT," Monday pipes up from where he lounges in his desk chair. "Yeah?" Elo shoots him a wry grin as she flicks through the contents of her inbox. "Seems like it's always much more interesting over this side of the office." Farren barks a laugh. "Interesting," he says, reaching for his baccy pouch. "That's one way of putting it." "Do you really want 'interesting' at your time of life?" Yates asks Monday with a teasing grin. "Took you as my partner, didn't I?" Monday quips back. Elo slaps the paperwork back into the in-tray and leans against her desk. "Right then, gents. Updates, please." "Yates?" Farren invites.

Elo looks over at the officer. He's perched at the intersection of his and Monday's desks so she doesn't have to twist to talk to them both, which is thoughtful, but does make her neck ache having to look up so far. "Ma'am, I spoke to Candice yesterday. She concurred with your opinion that the book is handbound with parchment pages. She also said to tell you it's not human leather?" Yates raises a perfectly groomed, ash-blonde eyebrow. Elo shakes her head. "We'll fill you in another time." "…Righty-o. She says your book isn't written in any language she knows of, though she did find correlations between the book's content and the markings on the artefact." "Ah, I thought so," Elo murmurs. "Her expert is supposed to come in today to look at the items, so until then we won't be able to postulate what meaning the artefact had to our vic, nor the book to the boat's owner." Elo cants her head. "You assume the boat's owner was part of the plot?"

It's Monday who answers, running a hand over his copper hair, cut down to a military fuzz. "It's not registered to the owner of Tattham docks." "Facts, then supposition," Elo says. Monday gives an allowing nod. "While the clerk was, ahem, distracted, I borrowed her ledger for a little look-see. The jetty is being rented out by a company called Paragon Autologistics." Elo pauses him with a frown. "Clarify 'distracted'." Monday chuckles, his jowls shaking. Yates' expression sours. "How many buttons you have undone, Yates?" Farren asks with a smirk. "For the record," Yates says, "she started flirting with me." "I see," Elo says, struggling to keep a straight face. And she does; for all that she likes the ladies, even she can appreciate that with his blond hair in its rakish cut and penchant for quality tailoring and loose collars, Yates has his charms. She can well imagine this unknown young lady being instantly smitten as soon as Yates so much as fluttered his long lashes. "Ma'am, I would never compromise the integrity of the badge while on duty," Yates offers by way of argument. "Understood." Elo uses a cough to cover her laughter. "Did you get anything aside from the name?" "There were some financial irregularities on the books," Monday says. "The rent they're paying for a jetty is nominal at best. I've got a friend at the ombudsman who helped discover that Paragon Autologistics is a shell corporation. I've got them running down any other shell corps which might lead to the owner." "This is above board, right – you put in an official request?" Elo asks. "I'm sure Breakwood's told you this is personal for me. I don't want this guy getting off on a technicality." "Relax." Monday holds his hands in a placating gesture. "Everything's shipshape and watertight." A lesser officer might have been offended that she even had to ask, but Elo recognises the slack Monday's cutting her. Presumably, Farren's already been over this. "Thank you." "So our theory is, even if the boat owner isn't directly involved, they're certainly up to some associated shady shit." "That would concur with the information from my informant, that the vic was given a tip-off about something of interest on the boat, which is why she was down there in the first place. It would follow that someone related to the boat had some secrets to keep…" Elo presses a hand against her forehead, quelling the tide of anger that rises inside her as she thinks of brilliant Evie, on the cusp of sussing out some truth, before the Shadowling struck her down. "Knowing what the vic thought she might find would be extremely useful," Yates says. "I'd better go help Cobbleskater with the translations then." Elo forces a smile. "This is really good work, lads. Was there anything else?" "Not yet," Monday says. "I'll get back onto my guy, see what else he's found." "Breakwood's case notes said the vic was close with a woman named Samantha Fallight, right?" Yates says. "I'll hit her up, see if she knows anything." "We'll also give the dock owner a shakedown. He had to be getting kickbacks to make the rent so low." "Alright. Oh and if someone from City Hall comes around for me, set them up in the breakroom with coffee and a pastry until I'm done, would you?" "Sure thing, LT," Monday says. Elo smiles as she stands to head up to where Cobbleskater's working. The fallout from telling a half-truth will be worth it, she thinks. "I'll walk with you," Farren says. "You know, some of these rooms are tricky to find…"

"I know this station like the back of my hand, as well you know," Elo says, waspish, as she and Farren exit the bullpen. "And you hardly need to walk me everywhere–" Farren snorts, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Sure, because look how well that's worked out." "Excuse me!" "Getting shot up, your bike trashed. Vanishing for a whole day!" "Those were unforeseen–" "Doesn't matter. You were right. Everyone up on the Hill's mighty edgy. So to mitigate it happening again, we've been told not to let you alone, not even to go to the bathroom." Elo scoffs. "That is a gross overreaction." "Is it?" Farren takes another long drag of his cigarette, crushing it as he does. "Ignoring what you said about those vultures on the Hill, ignoring that this is the Acting Magister's direct order to help unruffle those feathers – ever since this case started, any time you're alone you manage to find a way to get into trouble, which has been impressive, even for you. So you tell me, if this was anyone else – hell, if our roles were reversed – how would you react, hm?" Elo opens her mouth to protest, but Farren holds up a hand. "No, don't just spout some BS. Actually think." So she does. She thinks about when she discovered Merri had been chased by racists from the Brotherhood of the Cleave. Her first instinct had been to wrap Merri up and hide her someplace safe. Elo tries to put herself in Farren's shoes. If he'd been targeted like she has, if he'd publicly been upset and vanished without a trace for over 24 hours… Elo presses a hand to her forehead, then scrubs it down her face. "One day," she says, "you're going to be wrong about something." Farren gives her a self-satisfied smirk.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 36

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Soon enough, they arrive at the correct room and Elo walks in to find Cobbleskater still frantically trying to sort piles of papers. "Did you leave the window open?" she asks. "Did the wind mess everything up?" Cobbleskater startles, looking up with clear embarrassment. As well he might, Elo thinks, because he's usually just so neat and organised and this… "Were there monkeys?" she says – because this is about as far from tidy and organised as the Earth is to Pluto. "Ah, Lieutenant," Cobbleskater clears his throat. "No, there were no monkeys, as such. I… allowed Ms Green to assist me. She and I have, ah, different working styles." He swallows, looking at her with the face of a child who has been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, pages clutched in both hands. Elo takes a breath. "That's fine. We'll get everything organised, and then you can let me know what you need help with." Cobbleskater nods gratefully. "Right, since you two have got this handled, I'm gonna go help Monday with that shakedown," Farren says and beats a hasty retreat. "Well, I never," Cobbleskater huffs. Elo lets out a bark of laughter and reaches for the first stack of papers.

As they set about sorting the pages, Cobbleskater explains, "We started by using the copy machine to blow up the pages of her journals, then noted which book and page number they were from. We then began to review each page and add the Roman characters under each sigil. Only, somewhere along the way, all the pages got a little… higgledy-piggledy. It's much harder to translate when the context gets lost." He sighs and runs a hand through caramel-blond hair. "With the addition that this is not a cypher, as I expected, and there is no clear marker to show when one word ends, there are some pages I'm not convinced are correct." Elo frowns, searching her memories. "No… I suppose it's not. I think, perhaps, we conjured a whole other language." She stares down at the pages in her hands, an itch forming in the back of her mind. She shakes it away – they have more pressing issues. "Why don't I review what you've already got, while you finish sorting the pages?" Cobbleskater nods and hands her a stack of pages. "We think that the vic separated her journals into three sets – one is a personal diary, the second contains notes on her exposé, and the third… Well, we're not exactly sure, but we surmise it's the rough draft of the report she was compiling. These are the start of the exposé notes."

Elo settles back, reading through the pages and taking note of where Cobbleskater or Candy have marked in red pen a translation they're unsure of, and correcting where necessary. As she reads, Elo finds the flowing language returns – like a skill gone rusty, but never quite forgotten – and as she moves onto new pages, abandons translating piecemeal in favour of writing out a summary which is pinned to the respective page. At the top of each page is a date, stretching back a fair few months. Evie's investigation stemmed, it seems, from a trip to an art gallery, where a piece of fine art was up for sale, described as an original by one of the old masters. And certainly, it looked the part but there was something off about the piece. In between attending bake sales and knitting circles for her fluff column, she delved deeper into the mystery – quizzing the gallery curator, searching for the piece's provenance and, once it had been purchased, badgering the new owner to have the paints analysed at a reputable lab. As she dug further, Evie discovered that not only was the painting a fake, but the gallery was now offering for sale another painting by a different old master, just as plausible as the last. After a fruitless hunt for the suspected ring which was creating these forgeries, and nearly giving up to go to the police with what she had, Evie was approached by someone with a tipoff. There's no physical description or explanation of who this person is, only being identified as 'Deciduous'.

Intrigued, Elo searches Evie's personal diary for a corresponding dated entry. She's further astounded when it begins, 'What I record here, no one will ever believe. I hardly believe it myself, but I would swear under oath this is the truth…'. The entry goes on to describe a creature resembling an Eshen who speaks in the tongue of their school days – something that Evie believed she and Elo had created for themselves. The creature reveals to Evie that alongside the fraudulent paintings, someone in high office is smuggling something dangerous into the city. What and who, the creature doesn't know, but gives Evie a tool – the artefact, Elo realises – which will reveal the truth of who, at least. Unlike Elo – who came to live in Toreguard after the unrest caused by Greydown had been quelled – Evie lived through it and lost her mother as their family fled. The fear Evie felt at the Eshen's statement is palpable through her writing, but Elo can read between the lines; were it a normal person conveying the information, Evie would have gone immediately to someone in authority she could trust – her father, perhaps. Maybe Elo herself. But Evie didn't think she would be believed, so she kept it to herself, continuing to investigate with this new tool. Elo sits back, a hollow sensation growing in her chest. If only Evelyn had reached out… "Ma'am? Lieutenant?" Elo blinks. Cobbleskater is looking at her with a worried frown. "Is everything alright, ma'am?" Elo finds herself faced with the same conundrum as Evie. "I. Um. I reached a part where Ev– Our victim was approached by someone who seems to have been a whistleblower. This feels like the part in the story where things take a turn for the worse." Elo sighs. "I could have helped her. If she'd reached out, she might still be alive." Cobbleskater gives her a sympathetic smile. Elo runs a hand over her face. "My apologies. I shouldn't let my personal feelings cloud my perceptions of events." "It's perfectly understandable, ma'am. Maybe we should call it a day here, and you can return home and get some much needed rest." "Thank you for your concern, but I'm alright to continue a little longer." Cobbleskater nods and returns to where he's collating her summaries of the pages back into one pile for ease of reading. Elo turns back to reading the diary – but finds her pen hovering above the paper. Both her police training and sense of honour say that, by all rights, she should faithfully record exactly what Evie has set down. But there is the nagging feeling that doing so would cause her friend to be branded insane, and Elo cannot abide that thought. Rather than make the difficult choice, Elo reads onwards, learning that Evie spent some time hanging around City Hall, peering through the hole at the center of the artefact to find one of the hundred or so councillors who would match the profile of one who might be putting the city in silent danger. Elo frowns, wondering how that works. In her experience, it isn't possible to read from appearance alone who the bad guys are, and nowhere has Evie recorded what she's expected to find. There is a list of all the current councillors; around half have a cross next to their name. "Hey, LT?" Elo jumps as Monday knocks on the door. "Pryderi!" Cobbleskater grins. "Are you here to help?" "'Fraid not, buddy," Mondays says, not sounding at all sorry. "I'm here for our Lieutenant. LT, your–" he clears his throat in a manner that suggests he can't decide if he should be angry or amused "–man from City Hall has arrived." "Right. Yes. Thank you, Monday." Elo stands. "We'll pick this up tomorrow, Cobbleskater." "I can continue from where you've left off–" "I'd rather you collate a timeline of our vic's movements. I'd like you and Breakwood to go back over her steps and see if you can find this informant." Cobbleskater's head twitches in confusion, but he arrests the motion. "Of course, Lieutenant."

Elo and Monday start the walk back to the bullpen in silence filled with the sense of Monday trying to figure out how to word whatever he wants to say. "You have an interesting talent for understatement," he says eventually. Elo flashes a grin. "I seem to recall that 'interesting' was why you moved over to our side of the bullpen in the first place." Monday laughs. "True that." They walk a bit further before he says, "So how's it coming? The translations I mean. You find out anything about the little doohickey the vic had?" "Not much. It was a gift from a whistleblower, but there's no indication yet why it was given." "Hm, that's disappointing. But I'm sure you'll figure it out."

As they approach the bullpen, Elo wonders exactly how badly she's set the cat among the pigeons. "He's waiting in the break room with a coffee and pastry, just as requested," Monday says. "Thank you. If you need me, I'll be at City Hall for the next few hours," Elo says and peels off, heading to where Strucker waits.

She can't quite put her finger on it, but the bullpen feels more industrious as she walks between neatened desks, bereft of dirty crockery and reports waiting to be filed. Rather than the boisterous comments she's used to, the air is filled with hushed voices and busy clacking of typewriters. Elo can't help but huff a little laugh at her colleagues' reactions to having their Commander-in-Chief present, even though as she enters the break room she finds anything but a vision of the gruff General, barking orders. Instead, Stucker is sprawled on the sofa, reading a newspaper with one hand and the other clasping a polystyrene cup of coffee, seemingly oblivious to the effect he's having on the officers outside. With his silvering hair, neat cropped salt-and-pepper beard, and a touch of comfort around his middle, he looks more like a father waiting to give his vagrant daughter a ride someplace. The pastry flakes dusting his casual dun-green suit isn't helping the picture. The only signs of his status as Commander-in-Chief are the insignia on his epaulettes and the strips of colour on his breast that Elo has never quite figured out the significance of. A second low huff of laughter leaves her at the sight of such domesticity, but Elo gathers herself enough to knock on the door. "Hey. Sorry if I kept you waiting long. My team–" Elo thinks she will never get used to saying that. "My team had some updates about the case. We're doing well translating the cypher in E– the victim's notebooks and we've got a bead on the owner of the barge. Things are looking positive." When Strucker looks up, it's with a strange expression for a moment. Then he gives a sharp nod, chugs his coffee with the practice of a man who doesn't know when his next will come, and pockets the half-eaten pastry. "Good to hear. Shall we go?" he asks, gesturing to the door.

–––

Then they are in the car, on the way to City Hall. "So what did you learn from Evie's notes?" Stucker asks. Elo bites her lip, glancing out at the passing shop fronts and then to Stucker. "There was a whistleblower. We haven't finished translating… the victim's notes, but it would be a good bet that this is the person who gave her the tip-off about the barge. Sadly, there's no good description of this person, only a moniker. I've got the boys looking over… the victim's movements. Hopefully, they can find where this informant might have come from." Strucker glances at her, that same strange expression. His voice is quiet, tone accusatory. "She has a name." So that is what that face was for, Elo thinks and takes a deep breath. Equality quietly, Elo says, "Forgive me; but she doesn't. Not yet." She keeps her eyes on the road in front of them, on the traffic of her city, surging like blood in veins. "I can't name her until I've served her with the justice she deserves." Strucker grunts – he doesn't understand. So Elo explains: "It's something my partner taught me early on, to help stay focused and professional while on a case. The dead that come over my desk are all victims of the worst transgression man can take against man. The terms 'corpse' or 'cadaver' are too dehumanising. But using their name can swamp you with emotion, leaving you unable to give them the justice they deserve. So instead, you call them 'victim' to remind yourself of your duty. Only once their justice has been served, in whatever way you can manage, can you return their name. Only once they're at peace, can you think of them once again as a person and mourn as appropriate. To do so before the case is solved may mean not solving it at all, and that cannot be abided." Strucker remains silent, the air in the car tense. When Elo risks a glance towards him, she can see a battle being fought there. She thinks he understands now – might be relating it to his own experiences of loss in combat. But this is his little girl they're talking about. It must hurt him so much to hear how she must be dehumanised, all so her killer can be found. "I'm sorry," Elo says; but only gets a grunt in reply.

Air from traffic in the opposite lane buffets the car like a heartbeat as they sit in their separate bubbles of thoughts. It is only as they cross the bridge to the city center that Strucker speaks. "I do understand," he says. "Of course I do. I know that one must remove one's heart from the equation when one's comrades fall. I know how one must push emotion to the side if one would keep moving forward. But knowing and understanding does not mean I have to like it. I dislike it in myself, I dislike watching it in you, and I dislike that it's against my baby girl." "I'm sorry," she offers again. With a sigh and words laced with a pain that's terrible for Elo to hear, Stucker says, "It's your job."

–––

The tension has eased by the time they pull into Stucker's reserved parking space. Next to his, sits Clayrmantle's Racing Green E-Type Jag. Beyond that is a sight that makes Elo's blood run cold – a dark blue Lincoln Continental with tinted windows. As they get out, Elo swallows away any waver her voice might make before she asks, "Who's Continental is that?" Strucker looks over. "Ah, that's Brauma's. I'm surprised the old boy got it back from the mechanic so fast. He made it sound like it had been totalled." He closes the driver's side door as Elo grips the car roof, breathing hard. "Say what you like about the man," Strucker continues, oblivious, "he has good taste in motor vehicles."

As they walk into the Hall, Elo's head is spinning with the implications of the Exchequer having run her off the road. Stucker, still oblivious, launches into a potted history of the Lincoln division of the Ford Motor Company, the statistics and capabilities of the '64 Continental Saloon, and comparisons to both the year models on either side of it and contemporaries from other companies. By the time they reach the Council floor, Stucker's rhetoric has brought back her equilibrium, and despite wanting to find the nearest phone, she must focus on the task at hand – unruffling feathers. With Strucker's introductions, Elo spends the next hour or so glad-handing various fence-sitting councillors. She gushes about her time in Fangthane, exclaiming her fascination with Icelandic culture and the beauty of their lands. She enthuses about King Storri's honour and nobility, declaring what good company he's been these past few days. Finally, Elo exhorts them not to listen to the naysayers who wouldn't know a good thing if it bit them in the ass, repeating that this alliance brought prosperity before – and it would do again if allowed to be ratified. Elo is deep in discussion with the Councilor for Herberg's Fork, talking through her concerns about increased postal pressures, when Strucker clears his throat. "I'm terribly sorry, Councilor Cordova, but Lady Elowyn and I are late for another meeting." "Oh goodness," Cordova says, as Stucker helps Elo up. "My apologies for having kept you." Elo smiles – though from a glance at the clock, they're half an hour late for Strucker's meeting with the rest of the Triumvirate and King Storri. "It's no problem," she says. "I'll be sure to pass your concerns on to the negotiating team. But please, do think about what I've said, and vote 'aye' when the resolution is tabled." "Of course, your Ladyship. And thank you for taking the time." "My pleasure." The two women shake, and Stucker shepherds her towards the Magister's office.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 26

CW: Alcohol AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

By the time Elo arrives at City Hall and the Triumverate's office level, she knows she's later than usual and will be interrupting a meeting if she tries to find Thazar or King Storri. So instead she heads to Strucker's office to check in with Evans. Plus, it's a good way to stagger out bollockings 3-6. Except, luck is not with her today, because Evans sends her straight to the Magister's office.

Elo takes a steadying breath as she knocks on the office door, disappointed her plan is about to go swirling down the drain. She lets herself in and quietly regards the scene painted in front of her. Thazar is supporting himself on the corner of his desk, elbow rising and falling in time with the mournful tune he's eking out of his violin. Johan and Storri are sitting on opposite sofas, reading something. Merri is silhouetted, gazing out of a tall window, with Yoruk reclining against the wall next to her, eyes on his king. Storri has some minor lacerations on the side of his face she can see, probably from where she shoved him to the ground. But he seems relaxed enough, given the apparent attempt on his life. That he was not the target is something that no one in this room, nor the wider City for that matter, need know about. Elo can do without having another ubiquitous black suit attached to her. Likewise, Merri's stance and Yoruk's indolent slump read as relaxed, even though Elo knows they must be anything but. Johan is markedly less relaxed, however. Hunched over at the edge of the sofa, his shoulders are scrunched up and his frown is deep as he reads from a red file folder. So deep is his concentration, that it takes his grasping hand several tries before it finds the handle of his coffee cup. Of them all, Thazar is the most tense. The tune he's playing is a Romanian folk song, about a woman scorned by her lover; it comes to a climax as the woman decides to take her own life, only for the tune to repeat. Elo knows he only plays it when he's deeply upset, such as when Aunt Selene announced her departure to Europe and his instatement as Acting Magister. To hear him play it now is concerning. Despite the radiation of worry and upset, with the light from the tall windows and the music, it's a delightfully domestic scene. For a moment, Elo considers leaving them to it and slipping out – but that will only defer the bollockings, and potentially make them worse.

So she closes the door with a touch more force than is required and gives a little cough. "Sirs, Agents." Meredith's spine stiffens. Yoruk gives her a sideways look. Thazar doesn't stop playing, only shifts his stance to look at her over his violin. Johan's head inches up, his shoulders inch down. Storri doesn't look up. "Kindly put the tray up on the concessions table." Elo gives the back of his head a small smile. "I'm afraid, Your Majesty, I've not come with any victuals. Only an update on my current case for Magister Clayrmantle and General Strucker." King Storri's head shoots up, but she ignores him and instead walks to place one of the reports on Thazar's desk. Thazar does not stop bowing, only tips his whole body as a nod of thanks. Elo nods back. She walks back to Strucker. "Sir." He eyes her expectantly. Elo hands him the report with the footnotes. "This is the latest update I have from my team regarding your daughter's murder. They've requested I ask if you have any knowledge regarding the cypher she encoded her notes with. There's an example at the bottom of the report." "Thank you, Lieutenant," he says. Elo stands to attention as he scans the document. Then his eyes flick to the bottom of the page. A flare of recognition graces his expression. "Huh," he says, "so that's where Bubbles got to…" "I wasn't referring to the cat, sir. Do you recognise the sigils?" Johan quirks a smile. "I'm aware, Lieutenant. Yes – or at least, ones very similar. I'm surprised you don't recognise them yourself." "Sir?" Elo asks, tilting her head. Johan leans back, looking at her over the report. "Don't you remember the secret code you and she used to pass messages in class? That was how I met your Aunt Selene, I believe, before I took over from Elmwood. A teacher caught you passing coded messages. When neither of you would reveal the cypher, he had you sent to the Principal, who called us. If memory serves, she thought it was rather humorous, but you and Evie were quite incensed about the whole thing." Thazar finally stops playing, the tune coming to a natural finish. "Oh," Elo says into the silence. She frowns – she doesn't recall the incident at all. "I must have a key somewhere, then. Or maybe I can remember it…? It's been a long time." She presses a hand to her forehead. "I should go and find it. Your Majesty, I'll see you at one." Elo turns away, gets all of five feet before– "I commend your dedication, Lieutenant, but you are not dismissed," Thazar says cooly from behind her.

Elo turns, watching as he carefully places his violin down. He crosses his arms, glaring. "There are a few matters yet to discuss." In Elo's periphery, Merri turns around and steps away from the window. "Rule number one," Agent-in-Charge Ironforge says, "Always remain with the Principal. It is your duty to ensure they are protected at all points." Right, then, Elo thinks. We're going to do this here and now. It is, of course, the lead agent's prerogative to debrief, assess, and challenge assumptions in the wake of an incident. This isn't the format she was expecting, but Elo will respond as is fitting and professional. Elo faces Merri and brings herself to attention before answering. "Yes, Agent Ironforge." "Explain to me why you did not." Elo isn't sure this is the time and place to point out that the night of the dinner her orders had changed. That night, she was not supposed to be part of the King's protection detail but his companion and the Triumvirate's political decoration. But perhaps, by tackling him as she did, she put herself back on protection detail. "I had every intention of remaining with His Majesty. But that was before I was waylaid by Schriber, the Master of Commerce. His Majesty was by then in the care of Agent Forhoksson, and I believed there were adequate protection personnel present such that I could deal with Schreiber and any other guests remaining on the terrace. It was fully my intent to follow on once everyone was safe." Agent-in-Charge Ironforge is glowering at Elo. "Your police training does do you credit there," she grudgingly admits. "However. Rule two: Do not engage a threat without adequate force or backup. That means you are to retreat and raise the alarm, not tackle the threat by yourself." "And I would have, had the threat not decided to engage me first. I was alone in the garden with no radio and no way to call for backup." "You stated at the time that you fell from the terrace. Why were you over there in the first place?" Elo ducks her head. "I was reaching for my sidearm. I dropped it when Schriber started hurranging me. I was helping one of the guests up, and thought since I was so close, I'd just quickly grab it." "It could have been replaced. There was no need for you to linger on the terrace." "Had I not been reaching for it and fallen into the flowerbed, you would be attending a funeral now, instead of getting the chance to yell at me." In her periphery, Elo sees Johan pale and Thazar shifts uncomfortably. She takes a breath, reminding herself to stick to facts and not indulge in flippancy. "Explain." "The sniper took two further shots – one I narrowly avoided by falling, the second forcing me to flee towards the wooded border. I was then cornered and forced to defend myself." "It was still foolish to go back for your sidearm." "Yes." And Elo can see tension flowing from Meredith's shoulders, as the redhead stops being Agent Ironforge and instead becomes her friend, Merri, who worries. "In future, you will remain with His Majesty's retinue no matter what. Is this understood?" "Yes, Agent," Elo says, and pauses, knowing she is about to be unprofessional. "I'm sorry, Meredith." The glower she receives is practically something out of legend. "Oh, aye. You're sorry now. That's fine and dandy now all is well, eh?" Merri growls. "Next time, do things in the correct manner and you won't find yourself having to apologise to all and sundry for almost getting yourself killed." "Yes, Agent," Elo says again, allowing herself a small smile. Merri gives her a curt nod, but Elo has caught the flicker of a smile on her old friend's face. As Merri steps back to her place at the window, Elo catches the briefest of an approving nod from Yoruk.

"Acting Magister," Elo says with a short bow towards him, "Is there anything you wish to add to Special Agent Ironforge's reprimand?" Thazar regards her for a long while, stern lines creasing his forehead and thinning his lips. "No," he says at length. "Only to say I am glad you took the suggestion on your attire for the evening. Perhaps," he adds with an aggrieved sigh, "a suit might be allowable for the next event." "Understood, sir," Elo says, giving him a quiet smile, internally crowing at the small victory. "You will be taking His Majesty out again for lunch at 1300h," Thazar continues. "Somewhere respectable this time, please, and with double the security. We feel, despite the incident, it is important we show no cowardice in the face of this attack. Until then, you are free to deal with whatever duties are required by your new position." He gives her a slight smirk then. "Congratulations, by the way, on your promotion. The red looks good on your collar." "Thank you, sir," she says graciously. "You are dismissed," Thazar says, and Elo gives him another bow. "We shall speak more at lunch then," King Storri says, his tone carrying the threat of another bollocking. "Yes, Your Majesty," she says and turns to go.

In the corridor outside, Johan calls out for her to wait, so she does. "Before I forget, here." He stands behind the open door to the office, and throws something at her. Elo catches it, and it's the keys to her dragon. "You were right," he says, "the spark plugs were shot. I added a spare to the tool kit under the saddle." "Thank you."

Elo takes herself off to Strucker's office and, with a nod to Evans, slips into the smaller office to ring up Cobbleskater's desk. "Constable Cobbleskater, Special Cases, how can I help?" "Hey, Irvine. It's Elo." "Lieutenant! What can I help you with?" "I got a bead on the cryptography of the victim's notes." "Oh?" "Turns out, it's something we made up in school, which means there should be a key in one of my old notebooks. I think I still have those at my Mom's house." "Your Mom kept the stuff from when you were a kid?" "Um, I seem to remember pitching a fit when she suggested getting rid of them, so they got shoved into storage. But that's not the point. I've got my wheels back, so why don't you and Farren meet me over there. I'll give you the address–" "Um. Lieutenant, I don't think that's wise. You're still injured." Cobbleskater's anxiety radiates down the line. "I promise I'll ride slow and careful." "Ma'am, I–" Cobbleskater cuts himself off. She can hear muffled voices through the hand he's plastered over the receiver. There's an echoing, scratching sound as if the receiver is being manhandled. "Bug, no." "Brek… Hi," she says in the most innocent tone she can muster. "Do not ride anywhere. You will pop your stitches. You might be back at work, but you're still not to do anything stupid. I will call Ironforge and ask if Agent Hembo can come sit on you." "Give me a ride then." "Can't. I'm catching Yates and Monday up on the case." "Send Cobbleskater," she says, frustrated. "His ride's in the shop." "Godsdamnit, Brek! This is urgent." "No, Bug. It ain't. Look." Farren takes a breath. She can hear his chair creak. "The vic was your friend and you're close to her Dad, so I get it. This case feels like the most important thing to you right now, and everything about uncovering her murderer is urgent. But for once, we don't have any other related bodies, so there's no press on to catch the guy before he strikes again. Plus, she ain't getting any deader, but you might. And every time you rush into something while you're still injured, you take that one step closer. So just – take an admin day. Show the King the city, and I'll see you for dinner. Got it?" Elo sighs, because, damn him, he's right. "Yeah. I got it." "Stay outta trouble." There's a hard, demanding edge to their usual light-hearted farewell. Elo huffs. "I will if you will." Farren hangs up, and Elo glares at a painting of a boat on the wall. Then she swears in her mother tongue and sets about collating the past few days into a set of written reports.

Evans, angel that she is, reminds Elo at 12:50 she's supposed to be taking the King out for lunch. Elo panics because she was supposed to get a reservation somewhere, but Evans just smiles and says to give her name at The Naughty Fork and laughs as Elo professes her undying love as she's legging it out the door.

So they go to the Naughty Fork, a place filled with decadent dishes and yuppies. Elo finds Evans has briefed the bistro about the security detachment and arranged for them to be in a private room. Elo will need to get her something to say thank you. While they eat, Storri gives an impromptu lecture on how to allow oneself to be bodyguarded, pointing out what she should have done differently that night and the day after with Hembo. It's a difficult thing, he commiserates, for someone as action-focused as her to put one's trust in what are essentially strangers. Elo finally gives voice to her divided orders on this subject – Clayrmantle telling her to be a guest, Merri thinking she was there as extra protection, Farren assuming she was on duty, her police training overriding everything. So bollocking #6 turns into less of a bollocking and more of a teaching experience, which Elo is grateful for; she's had more than enough people shout at her today. Before they leave, they discuss dinner plans. Elo tells him Farren wants her to come by, so is he okay with a home-cooked meal of questionable quality in Farren's condo? Storri is delighted by this prospect, and Anderssen doesn't think it will be a problem for them, so Elo excuses herself to use the restaurant payphone. "Breakwood's desk, Monday speaking, what can I do you for?" "Sargent Monday," Elo says, surprised. "It's O'Toreguarde. Is Breakwood not around?" "Hi LT. He's just gone to the little detective's room. Anything I can help with?" "Just a message, thanks. Can you tell him I said I'm bringing company for dinner tonight? Only one, so he'll be cooking for three." "One extra body for dinner. Got it." "He catch you up with the case yet?" "Sure did. Yates and I are gonna head down to Tattham docks, see if we can't dig anything out of the office there. Breakwood wants us to run down the ownership details. Cobbleskater's up to his arse in copy paper ready for when you get that key to the vic's notes, and your boy is being pissy about having to file his reports." Monday chuckles. "But, hey, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, right?" Elo huffs out a laugh. "Tell him he gets no sympathy from me." "Roger that, LT. See you tomorrow. And hey – watch your six." "You too."

That dealt with, Elo takes the King et al on a lazy punt ride down the south canal trunk and weaves east to Sœyler Blar. Though normally she would just hire a boat and punt herself, Agent Hembo and his threat of sitting upon her for stupidity are both in attendance, so she pays someone to take them. On one of the quieter stretches, His Nibs and Anderssen have a go at punting; miraculously no one ends up in the water. They moor up at the public dock, and Elo leads the merry procession down to the Sœyler Blar Brewing Company, explaining that as His Nibs enjoyed those craft beers so much, she thought he might enjoy a tour of the brewery where some were made. They wind up on a private tour, which ends with a lot of sampling and a lot of money changing hands for a lot of beer. Then they're being punted back to the Council landing, and driven in the Official Limo, calling past a wine shop on their way to Farren's and Elo didn't even know that wine could be that expensive. And finally, they are at her partner's condo unit.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 31

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Then she is in the cool, verdant embrace of the trees, ozone sharp in her nose. She leans against the trunk of a tree, its spreading boughs above her. Her breathing is strangely easier here, the pain dulled – though the ice sits like a lump in her chest.

🙢Don't let him take the sun,🙡 calls a rough voice from above her. "What?" Her voice comes out faint and scratchy. A shadow in the tree shifts, and Elo finds a face peering down at her. The creature has bark-like skin and hair like autumn leaves. 🙢Don't let him take the sun,🙡 it repeats. Another shadow shifts. 🙢You must learn to flourish under Aukštasvilkas' golden eye,🙡 says a softer, younger voice. "How?" 🙢Come. Climb.🙡 A gnarled hand is proffered. It has been many years since Elo has climbed a tree, and her wound aches from all it's been through today. But still, she thinks she can manage with the Eshen's help. So she abandons her boots and socks, ignores the sounds of Merri getting closer, and takes their hands to rise through the branches until they stand at the tree's crown.

A frigid breeze is whipping about her, the ice still lodged in her chest, but her breathing is even. Strangely, she cannot see much of the city from here, only the vibrant neon green of new spring leaves against the dim sky, echoing the colour of her eyes and the leafy hair of the soft-spoken Eshen. "What now?" she asks of the two sprites, lingering on the bough below her. 🙢You must not let him take the sun,🙡 the younger replies. "Yes, thank you," Elo mutters. "You said that already." The older of the two clicks their tongue. 🙢The sun,🙡 it taps its chest, 🙢in here.🙡 That is more useful. Not by much, but still. "How?" 🙢Turn yourself to Aukštasvilkas' golden eye,🙡 the older says, gesturing to the sky. Elo thinks it must mean the sun, so she turns to where the dim orb hangs as if occluded by cloud, for all that the sky is clear. "Okay. Now what?" 🙢You must flourish.🙡 Elo grits her teeth, but the Eshen has not finished. 🙢You must be open to what Aukštasvilkas offers.🙡 "How?" Elo asks, pressing down on her rising panic. Then, with trepidation, "Is it me, or is it getting darker?" When Elo was a child, back in her native country, there was a total eclipse. She stood and watched with her parents as the sun slipped modestly behind the moon. The sky dimmed then just as it does now, the breeze replaced by a strange wind, like that which comes before a storm – unnatural and filled with portent. The oldster looks up sharply. 🙢Do not let him take the sun from you!🙡 "I don't understand how!" Elo cries, gripping the tree for support. The ice in her chest is growing as the sun dies. 🙢You must open to the eye of Aukštasvilkas,🙡 the younger one says, urgency in her voice. "Stop talking in riddles. Please! I don't know what that means." The girl turns with ease on the narrow branch, unfurling her arms until they are wide and uplifted towards the sky. Elo blinks and it's as if tendrils of light reach down, caressing the girl. Then she looks back at Elo, moving her arms in a manner that suggests Elo should follow suit. So Elo does, opening her arms in the same manner the Eshen girl, pressing her back against the trunk to steady herself. She has to take a breath against the manic giggle that burbles up, imagining the headlines as she sways in that unnatural zephyr: Hero of Toreguard dead after insane tree climb fall. Nothing happens. There's no warmth, no light. The cold sends chills racing through her. 🙢No, no!🙡 the girl says, with a look bordering on fear. 🙢Open! Like the Gazania!🙡 "The what?" Elo asks. To Elo's blank expression, the girl seems to falter. 🙢It's a flower…🙡 "Uh hu?" The girl sighs. 🙢At the feel of Aukštasvilkas' eye upon it, it will open its bloom to his power. When the clouds obscure his eye, then the flower will close. The flower of your inner being is being closed to his light by Kasskekadmas. You must not let Kasskekadmas win! If you do, then you will wilt and die. You must allow your flower to bloom.🙡

All these riddles! Elo presses a hand to her forehead, thinking she is too pragmatic for this world of fairytales she's landed in. Yet, here she is: standing on top of a tree, while the sun fades from her vision, and an unexplained chill takes hold of her heart, listening to two beings – which should not exist in the first place! – try to explain spirituality to her in the language of flowers and green things that bloom. The blind faith and devotion they're asking of her is not something Elo is capable of. The only things in life which matter to her are the things she can prove beyond reasonable doubt. Love, respect and trust – these are concepts Elo will accept, but in concrete forms: her Mother's attention, Breakwood's strong arm, Meredith's back against hers. And the Gods! Capricious creatures, providers of nothing but empty promises, from what she's seen. Cuthbert is a reasonable, solid god to swear upon – patron of Coppers and courtrooms, beholder of law and justice, motivated by evidence and facts. This World Wolf – what is that? An analogy, a woolly concept of good and evil. It's too nebulous for her. But Aukštasvilkas' twin eyes, the sun and the moon… These are things she understands. Warmth, life, sweet things of the earth; Chill, death, the distant crystalline firmament. These are solid concepts she can grasp. Elo thinks of the sunlight filling the clearing below, the intensity of it making her squint. She thinks of the children's laughter, their high innocent giggles. She fills her lungs with the scent of ozone, of the burgeoning green life. The sky lightens. The cold in her chest thaws. But still, no tendrils reach from on high. 🙢Kasskekadmas is not the only one preventing you from feeling Aukštasvilkas' light,🙡 the elder says. 🙢You are stopping yourself from opening!🙡 "But I am," Elo protests, waggling her open arms. 🙢Not just your arms! You must expose your stamen and your pistils.🙡 "My what!" Elo stutters out, heat creeping over her cheeks. The girl looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. 🙢Not like that.🙡 Her face scrunches as she tries to find a non-flower-related analogy. 🙢Aster means your heart, your soul.🙡 🙢Yes, yes. The petals that cover your inner being,🙡 the older says. 🙢You, girl, usually so clever! But understanding nothing. Use your brain, then; and think!🙡

Her soul… Another useless, nebulous concept. Her old mentor, Sargent Taube, used to say that one's mind was all one ever truly had, and her Mother says the soul is the perfect encapsulation of the self. The two are alike, Elo thinks, both being what makes a person themselves and no one else. She tries to think of her mind and soul as the Eshen oldster said – of a flower, its petals curled protectively around its soft and sensitive center. And she thinks she understands. The Eshen are trying to tell her about her secret self, the one she has locked away from everyone – even herself – so that nothing will hurt ever again. They want her to unlock that. They want her to be vulnerable. She feels herself quail, shrinking away from the thought. She can't.

She's never been good at showing vulnerability. That died along with her parents. But she had been getting better at it, sharing things about her past with Farren, sharing how she felt about work and life. He'd told her once that being a tough nut didn't endear people to her, so she'd tried to loosen up, and it'd won her a few friends on the force. Then Aunt Alexis left. Then she met Merri, Lorcian, and the others. Then Daraja happened, and Captain Withnail was forced out and Captain Tharrus died, and she had to flee to Iceland and they were sent by the Alþingi first to Asia and then to Greenland. And somewhere along the way, that box inside herself that Farren was helping her open, inch by inch, was slammed shut. Because you can't be vulnerable when you're a leader. When people look up to you, they need to see someone strong looking back. And somewhere along the line, she'd realised that was her, whether she wanted it or not. So she'd kept herself – her real, core self – apart. She offered them motivation, encouragement, and protection. But never her friendship. Even her affection for Meredith was set aside in the name of duty. That mentality, she realises, followed her back from those distant lands. It followed her through the trials with Darkhide and the Brotherhood of the Cleave. And even now, when it's no longer necessary, she's been doing the same with Farren, keeping more of her life, her feelings, from him. No wonder he's worried and pissed off all the time.

Elo takes a breath, filled with ice. It took her years to be vulnerable around one man, in small, private moments. And now these moss-ears want her to do it in an instant, for a deity she doesn't even believe in? The sky grows ever darker. She is going to die.

But, no. No. She is, at her core, a survivor. She can unravel this riddle. After what happened in her village, didn't she trek miles through the mountainous forests of her homeland, subsisting on berries and tubers, before Oakrose found her? But then she'd had the fire of vengeance to keep her going. She let that go, once. Maybe she can let this go too.

She's not a leader anymore, not in the same way. She doesn't have to make the hard calls. She doesn't have to keep anyone fighting long past the point they should drop. The buck stops with someone else. Divested of those responsibilities, there's time and space to breathe, to relax. Toreguard is far safer than any wilderness; the crises here aren't world-ending. Here, she's just a girl with a job and superior officers. Just another face in the crowd. A petal lifts. Her chest feels lighter. The things which happened to her were horrible. The death, the abuse, the betrayals. Too many times her life has crumbled before her eyes. But these things are in the past now. Yes, they hurt at the time, but they can't hurt her any longer. Not unless she lets them. Without the shackles of the past, her future is open, and it is bright. A petal lifts. The sky lightens. Farren, Merri, her Mother. Johan, her colleagues, Mrs Higgins. These are people she can rely on. They would help her in a moment if she only asked. She has only to ask, to accept their kindness and set her pride aside; to let them hold her up, as she held her team for so long. A petal lifts. The sun warms her face. Aukštasvilkas too, maybe. If she asks, It will fix the chill in her chest. She has but to ask, to let It help. Elo's throat works. Her vision mists. "Help me." It comes out a croak, barely a whisper. "I- I can't… Not on my own." She sniffs, mucus crackling. With a gasping breath, she takes the last dregs of courage and releases the tree. Barely a breath: "Please."

Through her closed eyelids, the world changes from black to grey to pink. The light is warm. It curls, like a lover's caress, around her arms. Her shoulders, shudderingly, droop. There is heat in her chest like the burn of liquor. Her stomach unknots. There is heat on her face like the crackle of a fire in the grate. She stops clenching her jaw. At first, it's like being immersed in a hot bath, the way she's surrounded by cosiness. Then the heat changes, as fierce as noon in high summer: uncomfortable, drying. Elo tries to step back, but the heat does not lessen. It becomes more intense, a cloying, blistering fierceness, like being inside a building on fire. And again, the heat ratchets up, the very edge of intolerable. She feels like she's been set alight, skin nearly melting, blood nearly boiling from her pores. Heart hammering, Elo opens her eyes. The world around is nothing but a blinding, fluorescing yellow-white. She opens her mouth to cry out, only to feel she is being smothered, her words becoming ash on her tongue. Her hands feel like week-old breadsticks, as she grasps for someone, something, anything to save her from this crushing heat.

Just as she's reaching the limits of her endurance, convinced she will die, there is an explosion – a blooming, a single spark bursting to life, like a seedling cracking from its shell, like lava erupting from the earth. She feels scattered, all her different selves split through a prism, all of them her but not her; only facets of a whole. And just as abruptly, the feeling reverses. She is whole and cooled, as if shaded under the spreading bows of an elm, in the comfort of a lush and mossy bower.

Small hands brace her as she wavers on jelly-legs. The bowl of the sky is a speckled, ombre velvet, the sun sinking into a flare of ruddy violet. A stiff breeze tosses her hair and the leaves around her. The ground is still many feet below. Elo blinks. She is still standing on the crown of the tree. The spires and towers of Toreguard rise in the distance like glittering sentinels. The only thing changed is her.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 6

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting @hannahcbrown @jacqueswriteblrlibrary @babyblueetbaemonster

There is a giant tree ahead of her, an elm maybe – she isn't too good with arboreal identification – but it stands proud and alone in a grove of soft moss and tiny flowers. She can smell the tree, the earth, and the soft perfume of the flowers. She places bare feet on the forest carpet and takes a step– –only to be halted when there is a flare of pain in her head so bad it makes her vision go funny, and there is an alleyway around her. It smells like garbage and piss and the copper tang of blood. It smells like cold, still water, and thick mud. It smells like her city– –but she is also still in the grove and walking towards the tree. She can feel the softness of the moss on her bare feet, even as she can feel the bite of brick under her hand from where she sways. Something is in her way to the tree. It is dark and green, and she grits her teeth against the pounding in her head, because she wants to go to the tree so badly. It's calling out, like it needs her, or she needs it, and she takes hesitant steps forward. One foot drags along tarmac, the sole of her shoe grating, the other treads softly on moss and flowers feeling the prick of rock and twig. One hand touches mist-damped air, and the other the plastic of a bin. She smiles because she thinks she can make it. She will make it. She is so close, how could she not? A needle of pain lances through her chest, forcing her rigid and air-less, as the dark thing ahead whirls around and (no. no, no, no!) it flashes glowing red eyes and (nonono!) has some dark fluid on its hands and it opens its mouth, and she knows exactly what it will say to her and "NO!"

There is a puddle of water on the paper towel. Her hand is frigid and pale, hovering above it, despite the orange blush of the ice box light over her skin. Her shoulder hurts, her head hurts, her chest hurts. She feels dry and crackly, like newspapers left too long in the sun. Elo draws a careful breath. Her chest aches, but that is all. Muscles protest, but there is no actual physical damage to her. She withdraws her hand, and the muscle is stiff. She feels like she has been standing for hours, but a quick glance at the clock on the wall says that – whatever that was – has lasted all of one minute. She wonders if this is what Candice saw when she dropped the artefact. She wonders if this was the last thing that Evelyn saw before she died. Elo pauses, wonders why she doesn't feel as bad as Candice looked at the smallest glance of the thing. It's only then she realises her hand is clenched over, and there is something in her palm.

She twists her wrist, and with some trepidation, slowly unfurls her stiff fingers. There, in her palm, rests the artefact. It is not ice. It's not even wholly stone anymore, but a mix of stone and wood and coloured wire. She stares at it, and wonders how in all nine hells she is going to explain this one.

She wonders if, somehow, she can keep this hidden. If she could not tell Farren, not tell Snips, not tell Fugit. Could say that she couldn't find the thing when Snips grabbed her and she dropped it. But it's not in her nature to lie outright. She has bent the truth a little in her time, but aside from that she has a tendency to tell all. Even when she should at least sugar-coat a bad situation, she cannot, and is blunt and to the point in most things she says. She would struggle to keep anything from Farren anyway. They know each other like the back of their own hands – just as she knows when something's not right with him, he will know something is not right with her. No, she cannot hide this. Elo glances again at the clock on the wall, and somehow she has spent another five minutes just staring at the thing in her hand, in front of the ice box. She does the maths; she's been faffing around down here for a full half hour, and Snips will have finished with Matilde and Candice, and godsdamnit she doesn't have the time for this! The artefact gets stuffed in her suit jacket pocket, and the ice box door is slammed shut and she walks out muttering curses.

"Farren," Elo calls his name as she slips into her desk seat. Her partner looks up, a frown on his face. "There you are," he says. "I was just about to come looking for you. Wondered if you'd got into trouble on the way in again, since you weren't there when I came by to pick you up this morning." There is a hard edge to his words, and she grimaces. "I didn't know you were going to do that," she says quietly. "I left at first light – I wanted to speak to Snips before he left." The glare on her partner's face lightens as he mulls this over. Then he tilts his head with a half shrug and an eye roll – Fine, say his actions, it makes sense to him. "But, ah," she tries to continue. Farren cocks an eyebrow at her, as she struggles with her words. "Something happened. Snips and I–" Both eyebrows shoot up. "–not like that!" She shoots him an incredulous glare. He has the decency to look apologetic. "Snips and you… what then?" he asks. "We had a minor altercation," comes the clipped tones of their mortician over her shoulder. Farren leans back, balancing his chair on two legs, looking between the two of them. A subtle shift of his expression turns the raised eyebrows from something snarky, to surprise, then growing with dismay. He cares about them both, and he's not sure who he's supposed to feel sorry for now. "Come," says Snips. "There is an empty interview room we can use." He walks away and Elo watches. Snips glances back, a frown on his face – because, after all, she was the one who was supposed to be dealing with that. The artefact in her pocket pokes her as she stands to follow, trailing a confused Farren behind her.

Once they are inside the room, Farren shuts the door and leans against the frame, as he is wont to do. She stands to one side, as Snips takes a seat. Elo feels restless, like she wants to pace, but she has better command over herself than that – or at least, she thought she did, as the artefact is a weight in her pocket. She crossed her arms to get away from the sensation, and fixes her sight on the copy machine, just outside the window. "Right then," Farren says. "What's going on?" Between the two of them, Elo and Snips explain what has happened, and Farren mercifully manages to keep his expression neutral. "Just so I've understood correctly," he says, looking between the two of them, "in rescuing the object from the floor, it caused you, Elowyn, to speak a language you do not know. And Snips, you felt this was an appropriate reason to then attack her." His expression is steely, but Snips is not cowed. "I'm afraid I did so without full thought," Snips says, and Elo suspects this is the only hint of an apology she is going to get. "But to one such as myself, the language she spoke–" "Hebrew?" "Indeed. This language is sacred. It should not be used for casual conversation, nor, with some exceptions, should it really be spoken outside a temple. It most certainly should not be used for the blasphemy that she spoke." "I said buggeration," Elo tells him.

The mortician levels his gaze at her, giving a derisive sniff. "While that is the English simplification, what you actually said, in this language, had a far deeper and offensive connotation. It is one that is heavily frowned upon by one such as myself, and I was..." Here he pauses, shrugs, and somehow looks the more tired for it. "Well, I was many things at that moment. Shocked and appalled that something so vile would come from your mouth, of all people. Hurt that you would say it in front of me, and angry for you to use a language I consider sacred to speak in the first place. Then, I perceived that you mocked me, by continuing to transgress against me and my beliefs. I wondered what manner of demon had overtaken you this morning, that you would do such a thing." "A demon?" Farren says, his question incredulous but cautious. He doesn't want to cause further offence. Snips closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. "An... ill thought, a rankling in the soul, ah... Getting out on the wrong side of the bed, perhaps." He finally quirks a smile, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Elo finds herself relaxing at that sight. "Okay," Farren says, thoughtfully. "But you know now that Elo never intended to cause discomfort, harm or hurt. And she did you a solid, by not letting the object touch you when it fell from her grip again." Snips nods, looking a little abashed at that, but Elo finds the tension is back in her shoulders. She did not 'do him a solid'; it's her literal, actual job, to protect people from harm. But Farren hasn't stopped talking, so she turns her attention back. "But what I'm curious at, is how just touching the thing made her speak a language she doesn't know." Farren gives her a look, and while it's not pitying exactly, there is a healthy enough dose of concern there that she does not like it. Despite it, she knows she has to tell them about what happened – about the totem in her pocket. "Did Candice hear her speak?" her partner asks, and she sees Snips look at her in confusion. She shrugs in response. "I don't know. We… weren't exactly paying attention to her reactions." "Did she say anything when you took her to Matilde?" Farren says, looking at Snips, and the mortician is frowning in thought. She has to tell them now!

"No, she was just in a state of shock. Perhaps when Matilde has seen to her, we could ask?" Farren nods, looks like he's going to speak again. "There's something else," Elo blurts. Both turn towards her. "I–" It will just be easier to show them. She walks over to the coffee table that sits between the two sofas, and without saying a word, drops the totem onto the table. The reaction from them both as she pulls back her hand is… not what she was expecting. Snips has frozen, his eyes are wide and she doesn't know what to make of it. Farren is breathing deep and slow and deliberate, as he takes measured steps forward. "Elo, where did you get that?" he asks. She frowns. There is something not quite right about this. "I took it from the fridge," she says, "I tried to put it back, but it. Uh." He's looking at her as if she's sprouted wings. "It… didn't… want me to?" she finishes lamely. "There is no possible way that Candice would have that in her refrigerator," Snips says with a surety that confuses her. "What... What do you two see?" she asks then Simps says, "You have the amulet case which has hung over the crib of my family for many generations. It is a very special item, which I had locked away in a bank until I had my own family." He swallows. "You should not have this item." Elo blinks at the pain and betrayal in his voice, but she keeps her own breathing steady. "And Farren, what do you see?" she asks, looking over. Her partner stands, tense and hands outstretched, as though he wants to take a weapon away from a scared child, but the expression on his face is one of confusion. "There is a vial that contains two fluids in front of you." He speaks slowly and carefully. "They are separated by the thinnest of membranes." He stops, trying to get his breathing under control. "If you mishandle it in any way, it will explode." She spasms. She tries her hardest not to, because that is exactly the reaction he is trying to avoid from the way his hands are reaching out. But it is an instinctive reaction at being told she is close to exploding, despite what her eyes tell her is not what it is telling them. "Shall I tell you what I see?" she asks after she had brought her jumping heart under control. "It is a totem or token of some kind. It is in three parts. The outer is a triangle of wood, and it is carved with symbols that I think are letters. In the center is a stone of blue, and it is carved on one side with a winged creature, and the other is a tree. The stone is held to the frame of the triangle with three wires – gold, silver and a green so dark it could be black." She rests her fingers gently on the surface. In her periphery, Farren jerks – because despite everything, he thinks she is touching a volatile explosive. "What do you hear when I do this?" she asks. "English," says Farren, as Snips says "Hebrew". She nods, then slides the artefact from the table, slips it back in her pocket, and rocks back on her heels. She glances at Farren, who is more relaxed now he cannot see what he thinks he is seeing. He stares at her for a long moment, then presses his hand to his face. "Oh, Bug," he says. "I know you're the queen of the strange, but I really think you've outdone yourself this time." Elo huffs out a laugh. You don't even know the half of it, she thinks.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 5

CW: Cadaver and unintentional (character) anti-semitism Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. AO3 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting @hannahcbrown @jacqueswriteblrlibrary @babyblueetbaemonster

The next morning dawns bright and clear, and Elowyn is up with the light, taking the longer route to the station. She slips in as the night shift filters out, making her way down to the Tombs, intent on catching Snips before he leaves, having worked through the night as he often does.

She knocks on the door to the morgue and lets herself in. "Morning, Snips," Elo calls. "Is it?" Snips looks up from collating notes at a desk in the corner, blinking owlishly as he removes his glasses, looking from Elo to the clock. "Ah, so it is. What can I help you with, my dear?" "A… woman came in last night," Elo says. For some reason, it's harder to remain dissociated in the light of day, when dark thoughts are held at bay by the sun. "Ah yes. You've been assigned the Strucker case?" Snips asks, brightening. "Good. The General deserves to have you on the case." So does she, Elo thinks, but she says nothing about that and just nods. "Farren said you were looking over the body last night. I figure you haven't had chance to do the write-up?" "Not completely." Snips taps neat fingernails on his stack of notes. "I've completed my assessment but have yet to formally collate those thoughts into a report." "Right. Well since I'm here – what do you have for me?" Snips pulls on a pair of gloves, throwing another to Elo as he beckons her towards the bank of chillers at the back of the room. "I assume Breakwood gave you my initial findings?" "Blunt injury to the head and stabbed through the chest." Snips opens one of the freezers, pulling the victim's tray out. Elo has to take a step back. From this angle, Ev– the victim looks so peaceful, as if she might only be asleep. She's as beautiful as Elo remembers. "As should be obvious," Snips says in the cold tones of a career clinician, "there is blunt force trauma to the right side of the head. From the red flecks found in the wound, Candice has confirmed that whatever struck her was a metal implement. What is less obvious is the chest wound." He pulls the sheet aside to illustrate the wound while maintaining the victim's dignity. "See there?" he asks, pointing to the small incision just under the victim's left breast. It is small and circular, maybe a centimeter in diameter. "It goes all the way though. I have Candice searching for something that could have caused it. It's a very precise and unusual weapon. Not something I'm immediately familiar with." "I'll be honest," Elo says, "if you hadn't told me that was a stab wound, I would have assumed it to be a gunshot." "There's no residue and no damage to the surrounding tissue," Snips says as they dispose of their gloves. "Plus the angle of entry is upwards. Unless her attacker was laid on his back, that angle is extremely difficult to achieve with a gun." "You also said something about it being very precise?" "Mm. The placement of the wound is directly between the ribs, straight into the heart." "Something not possible with a bullet. I see." Elo nods. "Is there anything else I should know about the body?" "No. I've nothing more for you, but I know Candice wanted to speak about the artefact recovered from the victim's hand." "Thank you, Snips." Elo pats him on the shoulder. "Get some rest."

She's halfway to Candice's office when there's a cry and a crash. She breaks into a run, revolver jumping to her hand.

The door is open when she gets there, and Elo peeks in. Candy is crouched on the floor, clutching her hand. "Candy?" The woman gives a breathy whine. Elo swiftly checks down the rows of shelving. Finding no intruders, she hurries to Candy's side, crouching next to the small woman. "Candice." The tech is clutching her clenched hand to her chest. Elo brushes lilac-streaked hair away from a pale face. "I'm– I think… I'm okay," Candice says. "Let me see your hand." Candy blinks. "My… my hand?" The smack of leather soles sounds in the corridor, and then Snips is there. "What happened?" he asks, hurrying over. Voice tremulous, Candice says, "I was getting the artefact out, and I… I don't know. I came over all dizzy and the tray slipped. I tried to grab it… It fell somewhere." "Help me get her up," Elo says to Snips. "Sit her on the chair." The mortician does as bid and between the two of them they manhandle Candice onto her chair. "Now, show me your hand," Elo demands. Snips gently takes the offending limb, uncurling the arm from Candice's body and easing the palm open. There is a burn mark there, and Elo sucks in a breath as she sees the imprint of text. Snips is being more practical, and snaps for her to get ice, even as he's reaching for where Candice stores her emergency first aid kit. Though she's not clumsy by nature, her job is more hazardous than most office workers, so she keeps a kit close at hand. Elo hurries off to get the ice

Snips is unravelling gauze as Elo returns with ice from the back of the ice box. It's not the cleanest, but trapped between the gauze, it will do for now, Snips says. Elo nods, seeing he has it well in hand, and turns to where the tray fell. The artefact has slipped from the tray and slid partly under a set of drawers. Once again, to Elo it appears to be made of that light blue stone, and it is fortunately unbroken. She takes the blue tissue from the tray, using it in lieu of gloves to pick the artefact up. A thrill runs up her arms, like a static shock, and she almost drops the thing as her muscles clench in protest. "Buggeration!" she swears Snips looks up sharply. "What did you say? Where did you learn that word?" he demands. Elo blinks. "Learn what?" she asks. "Buggeration? I don't know. Some students from England–" "How dare you speak these words!" He's now left Candice, and his eyes are flashing dangerously. "I demand you stop it this instant!" "Stop doing what?" Elo asks, and she's surprised at the venom coming from their usually mild-mannered mortician. "I'm not–" "That!" he snaps, his face contorting in a snarl. "When did you learn Hebrew? Why are you speaking it here? It is a sacred language, and I demand you stop immediately." He is stalking towards her, his body rigid, his shoulders hunched, like he's going into a fight. "Snips…" Elo is confused, and – she is not frightened, she is not – but it's so surprising to hear this vitriol coming from him, that she is shocked. She takes a step away from him. "Snips let me put this thing back in the fridge at least." "No!" he grabs her wrist, teeth bared. She instinctively pulls away, but his grip is strong – stronger than she would have expected. "Now," he growls. "You shut your mouth now, you impertinent welp. You will be silent!" He twists against her struggling away, and her grip slips, and the artefact falls from her nerveless fingers. "Snickersnip!" She finally comes back to her senses, and twists her body, putting herself between her mortician and the artefact, pushing them both away, to avoid further burning. They hit a set of shelves and it rocks dangerously for a moment before righting. Snips is staring at her, shock and confusion written all over his face, as she presses him against the shelves, her arm twisted awkwardly between them. The rattle of something settling on the shelf above them and Elo's ragged breathing seems overloud in the sudden silence.

Snips' grip goes slack, as does his jaw, so Elo steps back "Snickersnip, what are you talking about?" she demands. He is staring at her, his eyes wide, and she thinks it's because she just body-slammed him into a set of shelves. "You… you were speaking Hebrew." "I was not," she tells him, as emphatically as she can manage. "I was speaking English. I don't even know what Hebrew is." "No, you… You were definitely…" He remains leaning against the shelves, looking confused and pained. "Did I injure you?" she asks quietly. Silently, he shakes his head. "Good." Elo turns away from that look of dismay and confusion, because the damnable artefact has fallen on the floor again, and she cannot see it. It's a key piece of evidence, that she is assured is melting, and she must find it, and get it back in the ice box before it vanishes completely. "Did… Did I injure you?" he asks, equally quietly, as she scours the floor. Elo's words come out harsher than she means, as she says, "Might have some bruising. Nothing I've not had before." A bark of laughter escapes. "You're a lot stronger than you look." She turns her attention back to her search for the artefact, thinking that it didn't seem like ice to her. Melting ice feels brittle, and it felt solid enough to her hand. It didn't even feel cold or damp, and she wonders how sturdy it really is. She has a gut feeling something very bad would happen if it were to break. "Sargent–" "Look after Candice," she snaps, frustrated at Snips. She is still confused and alarmed at how he acted. She knows what languages she speaks, and she has never even heard of this Hebrew, let alone spoken a word of it. The vitriol was most unlike him, and it makes her wonder just how well she really knows him.

She finally spots the artefact. It has skittered under a cabinet, and she can just see the corner of it. Elo glances back to see Snips having done as she'd commanded. Candice still looks pale, and her glassy eyes stare ahead blankly as Snips speaks to her in a quiet voice. Fortunately she seems to not have been affected by their sharp words and resultant tussle. The mortician is not paying attention to her, which she is glad for – she can do without another confrontation – but even so, as she kneels down to retrieve the thing, she doubles over the blue cloth and hoicks it out, preparing for that shock. It doesn't come. She lifts it from the floor and dumps it back in the tray. It has not changed back to ice, to her eyes at least. It remains that solid, pale blue stone. Without speaking, she returns it to the ice box.

When she gets back, Snips has Candice standing, clinging to him with her free hand, like he is the only thing keeping her up-right. "I'm going to take her to Matilde," Snips says. "When I return we need to talk." "Snips-" "No. No, don't you 'Snips' me," he says, doing a passable impression of her slightly wheedling, slightly threatening tone. "We need to talk. So you can choose to remain here, or in my mortuary, but I will return, and I shall be… cross if you aren't here." "All I was going to say," Elo replies, capitulating internally, "is that maybe this is a conversation to share with Farren. He should be in by now. How about I meet you upstairs, and we'll commandeer an interview lounge?" The mortician narrows his eyes at her. "I won't skip out on you. You have my word on it – my bark and my blood as my bond." They both blink. She doesn't know why she said that, except that it feels right to do so. Snips looks taken aback, but then he nods. "Very well. You will need to tell Constable Breakwood what transpired here eventually, and it would be best to deal with both things at once, rather than having to repeat the conversation." They nod tightly to each other, while Candice stares at them both. "Come now, my dear," he says to Candice. "Let's get that nasty burn seen too." He is far more gentle with Candice than he has been with Elo, as he leads her away.

Elo watches them go, and tries to think. She has never, in all the time she has spent as an officer at this precinct, heard of Snips behaving like that to another member of the department. Some part of her is still reeling from having him turn on her like that, but the copper in her pushes it away and tucks it down with the knowledge that it is Evalyn Strucker who lies dead on his autopsy table, and she has a job to do. But the artefact… It scritches at her mind. It will not be forgotten so easily. She is afraid that they are all correct, and it is melting away into nothingness, but part of her refuses to believe it's true. Part of her wants to turn and take it from the ice box. She wants to cradle it in her bare palm and touch the surface with her fingers. She wants to speak the words engraved into it, if her mind can ever wrap its way around them.

She blinks and finds herself stood in front of the icebox, her hand resting on the handle. Elo gives a sharp exhalation and steps back. This is stupid. She has things to do, a murder to solve and a murderer to find. She does not have time to stand around, giving in to the childish flights of fantasy. It might have been fun, once upon a time, to think that she was special, that those red eyes meant something when she was younger, that the gobbledygook language she spoke to her friend with was something unique and particular to only them. But now she is an adult, with no time to indulge. There are real threats out there, and her friend is waiting for her to bring the killer to justice. Nothing less will stand. Disgusted with herself, Elo turns away, the fire of vengeance burning in her blood, and finds it is almost, almost, enough to drown the scritching that starts again in the back of her brain. Every step away from the artefact in the ice box makes it worse and by the time she has crossed halfway over the floor it's intolerable again. She snarls at herself, and actually scratches the back of her neck, by the base of her skull, to make the damn thing stop. It does not help.

Muttering expletives to herself, she turns and strides back to the ice box, hauling the door open and glares at the thing inside. She expects the satisfying rush that comes from scratching, the deliciousness of release, but if anything the itch is only worse. She's stopped thinking halfway over the floor, the irritation in her mind is that bad, and she stares with hate, with longing, at the thing lying there on a steel tray and medical blue paper towel, the speckled stone blushed over with yellow from the fridge's bulb, and because she truly has stopped thinking about anything other than getting release from this itch, she reaches in with bare hand, and grabs the artefact.

A lot happens then.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 3

CW: death mention, grief Chapters: 01. 02. AO3

Dripping, she walks into the station's bright lights. Due to the rain, the night is warm for spring, and she does not shiver as much as she might. Clive, the desk sergeant gives her a concerned look as she passes, but she nods and mumbles a good evening. She passes through to the bullpen, ignoring the looks from her fellow officers and those about to be booked alike, to stand by her desk. The lanky man slouched at the opposite desk doesn't even look up.

"Cap wants to see us," he says, thumbing through the report he's reading. "Cap can wait. You still keep a spare set of clothes in your desk?" "Yeah, but they ain't gonna fit you, Bug. Try Cobbleskater? You're about the same size as him." He stops reading then, the report tilting away but still not looking up, as he re-processes the conversation. She watches his face go carefully blank, his shoulders tensing, as he looks up. Even after the time they spent working together, after all the preparation he gives himself, and the knowledge of all the stupid situations she manages to find herself in, he cannot contain himself. "Holy Cuthbert, Elo!" He leaps to his feet, rushing around the desks, yelling for Cobbleskater. "What the hell happened?" "Highly probable that someone tried to kill me," she tells him, pulling off her drenched coat and draping it over the chair. "You're sure?" "Oh my," says a little man, appearing at their side. He pushes his glasses up his nose, and his fingers twitch. She nods at him. "Irvine. You got a spare set of clothes I can borrow? I never replaced mine after the last incident." "Yes. Yes, of course. Won't be a tick," he stammers and shoots off. "What I'm sure of, Farren, is that someone tried to kill someone." Elo turns back to her partner. "Took the cut-through over the canal. Shortcut Bridge is missing, so I took the rope swing back-up. Rope was weighted and glued. Partly cut as well, I suspect. Glue dissolved before I sunk enough to surface. Whoever it was meant for, it was meant to look like an accident." She pauses. In the harsh light of the fluorescents, what she thinks she saw feels unreal. The mind can play tricks, hyped up on adrenalin. But Farren knows about the dream. She told him about it, as she blubbered over the corpses of the men sent to stop her from testifying on the Brotherhood case. She sniffs, still disappointed in the reaction she'd had. Not her finest moment. "Probably meant for someone else" he offers, drawing her back to the present. "Maybe." She forgets about the eyes and the skittering thing. "Don't think there's many as go that way anymore though. Mostly kids." She blanches, the same time as he does, as they have the same thought. He puts a hand on her arm. "They'd be lighter though. Less likely to make the rope snap." He doesn't look like he's buying his own words, but he soldiers on. "You might be a short-arse, but you're still a grown woman. More muscle – denser packed." She snorts. "You calling me fat, Breakwood?" He grins as Cobbleskater reappears at his elbow. "Here you go, Sarge," Cobbleskater says, handing over a stack of fabric. She nods in thanks as an office door slams open. "Breakwood, O'Toreguarde!" Everyone in the room winces at the volume and projection of that voice, and she feels all eyes turn to her. She is still dripping. "Ten minutes, Cap," she calls back, over her shoulder. There is a collective sucking in of breath. "Make it five," he says, and the door slams closed again. She intends to only be three.

The general chatter of the room returns as she disrobes, right there in the middle of the bullpen. It is a common enough sight that her colleagues pay no heed to the precinct's most unlucky-lucky officer, as she buttons up Cobbleskater's shirt, and pulls on trousers that don't quite fit her figure. The shoes are a conundrum – his will not fit, and hers are filled with water – so she chooses nothing in favour of speed. She has run through the streets of this city in nothing more than a well-tied bed sheet before now; the short walk to her Captain's office is nothing. She spares a quick glance at the pile of wet clothing, but Cobbleskater notices. "Go. I'll deal with it," he says, giving her a push. "Thank you, Constable." One day she will remind him he is not her personal valet, maid or typist. But, she also suspects, that will be the day he will be zipping up her body bag.

Farren falls in alongside her as they walk to the Captain's office, and she feels gratitude. He doesn't touch her, or otherwise try to comfort her, but she can feel his heat and his presence, and both warm her. Quite how someone that skinny can contain so much heat is beyond her, but right now she needs it and she doesn't care. Then he is pushing open the door marked 'Capt. A. Fugit', and they are both standing at ease in front of the desk as the balding elder in front of them stares at her. "What–?" "Potential assassination attempt, sir." She can feel Cobbleskater's shirt starting to stick to her still-damp skin as her Captain harrumphs. Two cut-crystal tumbles land on the desk, chinking together. The smell of heather and peat fills the air as he pours a measure of whiskey into each glass. "Your knowledge of the city's waterways is far too intimate," Fugit says. "Yes, sir." "Go see the medic on duty when we're done here. I won't have you coming down with something right when we need you." "Yes sir. Wouldn't dream of it, sir." "Breakwood, make sure she gets sent home in a car." "Yes, sir," her partner says beside her. Elo would protest she doesn't need special treatment, but her dunking shows that's a lie. Some of the other officers think she's cursed. Others have told her she has a guardian angel. More than once she's found a good luck charm or protection amulet on her desk. She usually thanks the giver, drops it in a drawer and forgets about it. None of them have ever helped, and one was used to strangle her once. So, there's that.

"The case, sir?" she asks. "I assume there was a good reason for waking me in the middle of the night to get my ass dumped in the closest body of water?" Captain Fugit quirks a smile at her. "Yes, Sergeant." He pushes the tumbler of liquor across his desk, followed by a manilla file-folder. "All the details are in there. The body is with Snickersnip in the morgue right now." Elo frowns as she takes the folder. "What happened to the crime scene?" she asks, opening the folder. "SOP says– Oh." Fugit murmurs in agreement as she scans the page, flicking through the scant photos. "Oh indeed," Fugit says. "Standard operating procedures do not account for the scene to be situated on a slowly sinking barge. The attending officers gathered as much evidence, physical and photographic, as they could while they believed it safe to do so. But by the time they arrived, the ropes holding the barge were already strained to tautness, and it could have gone at any moment." Elo nods, looking at the photo snapped from above, taken from Spit Bridge if she's not mistaken. She's seen it happen before. The barge would have a breached hull, allowing the slow ingress of water, dragging it down into the canal. The hawser tethering the barge to shore would have become increasingly taut as the boat sank and, if not cut first, at some point they would have catastrophically snapped. "It's clever," she mutters to herself. "Anyone with even a passing knowledge of the canals – and that's half the city – would stay clear. The ropes alone make it too dangerous to stay close by. Brek, remind me to buy the attending officers a beer." She glances up to see the hint of a satisfied smirk on Fugit's face before he tucks it away; she suspects he may again be considering her promotion to Lieutenant.

There is a lot more information to be gleaned from these images and the report before her, but she can read them at her leisure later. She'll also want to talk to the attending officers. But right now, she has another question, one that's easier to ask than try ferreting from the report right now. "Who's the vic?" she asks. Fugit's shoulders tense, and Farren looks down at her with a curious glance. "You don't recognise her?" he asks. "The face isn't clear. Should I?" "Do you not watch the news?" She snorts. "I find I am in it often enough that it becomes repetitious to watch." Fugit clears his throat. "Her name is Evelyn Strucker," he says. For a moment, Elo fancies his voice has taken on the quality of a smith's hammer, the way it hits her so. "No," she says, the air leaving her all at once – a terrified little bleat. "It's a coincidence. Someone with a similar name?" It's a stupid thing to say. She knows very well she's doing one of the very things she hates to see in others, but she can't seem to stop the words from falling. The look Fugit gives her is answer enough. "Snips confirmed – she is General Strucker's daughter," he says. She reaches then for the whiskey on his desk. Takes a shaking mouthful of the golden nectar. Allows its fire as it flows down her throat to distract and comfort her. "Does the General know?" she asks. Fugit shakes his head, as Farren shifts his weight closer to her. "No," her captain says. "He's away, on a mission. According to his secretary, he can't be reached."

Elo holds herself rigid and stiff, grip tight on the tumbler, because if she doesn't, she will fall and cry. She hasn't seen Evelyn since they were younger, coming into adulthood. They've both been busy, lives drifting apart, updates shared through parents. Elo thinks back to when they were children, coming into their teen years. The daughters of dignitaries left to their own devices in City Hall, while their guardians – her Aunts and Evie's dad – were stuck in the stuffy council chambers. She thinks about the hours they spent exploring the shining white edifice; how Evie had the canteen chef wrapped around her little finger, how Elo found a way into the best hidey-holes. The last time she'd seen Evelyn was at some social function. Elo herself bore them grudgingly, but it was where Evie shone. Elo can recall it clearly: the glitz of the ballroom all around, the patter of music and dancing, and Evie, resplendent in a daring pale-blue dress, the diamonds at her throat and ears so perfect and inviting–

Elo realises with a start Fugit and Farren are both looking at her with concern. "What?" she asks overloud, blinking back to them. "I asked if you were okay?" Fugit says kindly. "I'm fine," she lies, and takes another drink, knowing neither of them believe her. "Should I reassign the case?" her Captain asks. "No!" She sets the glass down. "Although, I must declare: I knew the victim. We were childhood friends." And it's not a lie, but it does bend the truth a little. Fugit is frowning at her. "Do you believe this will compromise your ability to do your job in a safe and neutral manner?" "No, sir." "Breakwood?" the Captain asks, glancing to her left. "I'll keep a weather eye, sir. I always do," Farren says. Fugit's dark eyes flick left and right as he scrutinises them. With a satisfied nod, he says, "I'm sure I don't need to tell you both, this case will get a lot of scrutiny. You must proceed a hundred per cent by the book. The General is due back at the end of the week, according to his secretary. I want to have answers for him, if not the culprit. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, sir." "Crystal, sir." Fugit tilts his head to the door. "Dismissed."

Then they are back at their desk, and she shivers. Despite all the people in the bullpen, it is still cold. "Coffee?" Farren asks, and she gives a tight little nod.

She covers her face with a hand, pinching at the temples and tries to breathe. Evalyn Strucker is lying downstairs on a marble slab. Evalyn Strucker, the Princess of Toreguarde – for all that they are just a city-state with no actual royalty to their name – has been murdered. Her body has been desecrated, her starlight has been snuffed out. There will be no more parties for her to woo the crowds. Her father will know a pain no parent ever should. There are no more sands in the clock; they have been stolen, and that is an injustice that must be righted. There is a woman lying on a slab downstairs and her life has been taken, and it will not be allowed to stand. People are killed in the city every day, and though this victim is one of many, Elo will allow this to go unpunished as little as any other crime that is brought for her investigation. The Sargent lets the flood of anger fill her veins, even as tears drop slowly down her face. It will keep her grounded while she seeks justice for this victim. A light has been snuffed out this night; Elo will know why and by whom.

"Coffee." The sound of her partner's voice and the heavy thud of a full mug on her desk bring her back. Elo quickly scrubs her face, but Farren just nods. He's seen this ritual before. He has his own ritual, one that involves a dozen of those vile roll-ups he smokes and a much-abused punching-bag in the gym, but she suspects he has already prepared himself. Dissociation makes you keener, he'd told her. As cold as it is, the thing on the slab isn't a person anymore – they are a victim, and all victims deserve justice. Be angry, be sad, be cold. Do whatever gets you through, but make sure the fire of unrequited justice moves your every action so that the victim gets closure. Only when you have all the answers you need, when someone is behind bars, can you give the victim their name back, and you can allow yourself to think of them like a person again. Be cold, she reminds herself. Be keen. The victim demands justice. She takes the coffee, burns her mouth trying to drink too fast, sits down and looks at him. "What do we know?"

Farren gives her a rundown of the report. The victim was found on a barge moored at Tattham dock, just down the river from Spit Bridge, and the attending officers were called because of the sinking. The victim was only found because one of the officers went aboard to see if the barge could be saved or made fast in some way. She was on the main deck, partly covered with a tarp. There was little blood – she wasn't killed there, but she hadn't been moved far. Her wounds were simple and would have been swift, but the murder weapons eluded them. The first injury was blunt-force trauma to the side of the head, the second is a small puncture mark, over her heart. "Snips will have more about her wounds," Farren says. "I know he's hoping there will be particulates from whatever she was struck with that Candy will be able to trace." "Why did they call us now?" she asks him. "If there's no crime scene, if the body has already been worked over by Snips and Candy, and the attendings have made their reports, what was so time-sensitive that they called us out of bed? Did Fugit just want to be able to say he had his best officers working the case before any journos showed up?" But Farren is giving her a long, steady look. The dark fuzz on his chin catches the light in a way that tells her his jaw is tense – he's thinking how to tell her something she probably doesn't want to hear. "It's probably best if I show you," he says finally and rises from the chair. Elo frowns; she really isn't going to like this then.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 25

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Room 23 is a basic meeting room, one level up. There's nothing particularly remarkable about it, except it's where Elo tucks herself away when they are struggling with a case. Maybe it's the smooth chalkboard or the windows that catch a lot of morning light. It could be the big table in the middle of the room that is perfect for laying out her thoughts. Whatever the reason, it feels like a home-away-from-home as she walks in.

From the shelves in the corner, Elo takes a recording device, slots in a new cassette tape and hits 'record'. As she prepares her workspace, she explains the details of the case in a penetrating and measured tone. "Detective Sarg– Lieutenant Elowyn O'Toreguarde, Special Cases, recording observations on examination of new evidence for the Evelyn Strucker murder, case number 1-2,1-1, 2-0, 1-7." She snaps on the gloves, lays out the towel and, with care, pulls out the book and the cloth. "Evidence being recorded is a book of some kind. It was delivered sometime last night by an acquaintance of my Confidential Informant on this case. The cloth is a maroon colour, although it's still damp. My CI said that the book may be a key part of why the victim was killed, as my CI alleges it was on the same scuppered barge as she was. Quite how it has been retrieved, I don't know. It does not appear very water damaged, so one assumes it was kept somewhere water-tight." Elo picks the tome up, examining the cover and spine, and continues, "It appears to be hand-bound in a type of red stained leather, rather like that case from a few years ago with the Kurtulmak worshipper and his homemade text of human skin. Once my initial observations are complete, the book will be passed to our forensic tech, Candice Green, for her analysis." Elo pauses and regards the thing in her hands. "Cuthbert's Scales, I hope this one isn't human skin too."

With a small shudder, she places the book back on the towel. "The cover is tooled with strange lettering vertically down each side, and in the center is a tree reminiscent of the Wiccan 'as above, so below' image. That is, the top half is in the full flush of summer, but the bottom is bare branches, indistinguishable from roots. It's really quite beautiful," she adds reverently, smoothing her hand over the cover. Elo grips the cover, bracing herself as she opens the book. Only the front page greets her. Her sharp-gasped breath is slowly released. Flipping over a few more pages, she continues her narration, "While the pages are damp, they're not sticking together, nor is the ink running. They're made from a coarse material, quite unlike paper. Ms Green will be able to confirm their exact composition. "Many of the pages seem to be filled with text in the same style as the front cover, following a vertical pattern, such as in Oriental writings, and are interspersed with crude drawings of plants and creatures, perhaps mythological in nature." She flicks a few more pages. "The whole book seems to be written in the same language. It's a unique writing style… Makes me think a little of the sway of rain falling down a window pane." Elo blinks as the text swims in her vision. For a moment, there is a strange kind of recognition, as one might get trying to read German; sharing the Latin alphabet and the same linguistic root as English, the false friends are inviting. She feels like if she had enough time and space, she could intuit how to read the poetic, dancing words. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. Gods, she needs another cup of coffee.

To distract herself, Elo flips to the center of the book. "Ah, now this is interesting. The center spread of the book contains a double-wide illustration of a wolf, displaying a use of perspective which is not present elsewhere thus far. It's depicted face-on, standing aside two coloured islands – one purple and one green. The wolf is black and grey, and its eyes are two different colours also – one pale blue and the other yellow." Hoping to find some hidden clues to explain… well, everything, Elo leans forward to examine the picture. The wolf twitches its head and winks at her.

Elo yelps and falls back, shaking her head to clear the spinning in her vision. "My observations must pause for a moment," she says. "An injury sustained previously seems to be affecting my… vision. I'm going to crack a window and get some air…" She doesn't pause the recording – it is enough to state what she is doing – as she cracks a window open, taking a breath of cool air. It helps for a moment, but as she returns, she is overcome with a wave of dizziness and a sick, lurching feeling, as though she has taken a corner too hard on her motorbike. She immediately sinks to one knee – because it is always better to jump than fall – and stays like that for a moment. When she feels able, Elo stands and reaches to sit on a chair. Another wave of dizziness hits, and she feels nauseous. Despite the blazing spring day outside, the room is getting darker and she feels cold in her chest. She hunches over, clutching her head, trying to draw a breath, to keep herself warm. "Hey, Bug? It's gone a lot longer than– Elo!" Then the darkness is receding, rushing away from her. Warmth returns to her core as he holds her, and she uncurls to give Farren a shaky smile. "I'm fine," she warbles. "You are not fine. Gods, I can't leave you alone at all, can I?" Elo takes a deep breath, gently pulling away from where Farren still has an arm around her shoulders as he kneels in front of the chair. "I'm okay, really. I just got a little overwhelmed for a moment." "You're ice cold," he points out. "Elowyn, go home. Get some rest." "I can't," she says, a stubborn frown pulling at her brow and lips. "I have work to do." "You'll get nothing done at all if you work yourself into a pit now." "Brek, I know my limits. I haven't had enough coffee today, is all. Please, stop worrying over me." Farren sighs heavily. "But Bug, who else is gonna do it? Despite what you keep saying, you never look like you know when to stop. You don't worry about yourself, you never have, which leaves me to pick up the slack." She stares at him, mouth agape. She'd never thought of it like that. "I must be such a burden to you," she whispers, not meaning to say it out loud. "No," he says, cross. "You are not a burden. But, just for once, maybe accept that there's the possibility you can't do it all? You haven't quite been yourself since we were given the Strucker case." Elo blinks. Now she thinks about it, she has to admit he's right. Between the case, the King, and the Fairy Stories running around her city, she has felt a touch pushed. It's made the odd dream-like quality of her life more pronounced. "A little longer," she says. "Give me a little longer. I'll take it easier. I'll focus on His Majesty's sight-seeing and leave the case to you and… the team. And I won't go off hunting dragons on my own." She isn't quite sure why she said that last part, but it gets the message across. Farren gives a reluctant nod. "Alright, Bug. That's fair. But the moment you need to stop, you tell me. You know I've got your back on this?" "Yes. Thank you." "Good." Farren nods to where the book still lies open on the table. "What d'you want to do about that?" "Oh, crap! The recording!"

She stands too quickly, gets a wave of dizziness for her trouble. But it feels more like a blood rush than whatever happened before, and subsides quickly. She reaches over to switch the recording device off and pops out the magnetic tape. With a flush rising to her cheeks, Elo waves it at Farren and slides it into the case. "I'm afraid," Elo says with an apologetic wince, "your declarations of worry and the affirmations of my stubbornness are now part of the chain of evidence." He grins. "Both those things are already a matter of public record. I hardly think one little recording is going to make much difference." She gives him a wane smile. "Did Candy get a hold of that professor yet?" "Yeah, but last I heard there was some argument about a consultation fee, so he hasn't been by yet." "Hm. I think the text in the book matches the one on the artefact, so he'd better take a look at both. I also want her to evaluate what this thing's made of. And if it's anything other than normal materials, tell her to stick it in a report because I'm not sure I want to know." "Worried it's human leather?" Elo gives him a tired, pensive look. With a grin, he says, "You got it, Bug." Elo slides the book and cloth back into the evidence baggy, laying the cassette on top. "And it should go without saying it needs to live in the safe as well." "Roger that." Farren gathers the evidence and towel. "Might wanna warn Candy what's on the tape, so she doesn't get–" What – embarrassed? Psh, says the little voice, Farren isn't wrong: the whole precinct is well aware already. "…surprised." At that, her partner just grins. As they walk downstairs, Farren says, "Since Irvine is the only one who can operate the copy machine, I sent him to make duplicates of our interim report. Cap said the Acting Magister needed to be kept in the loop, as well as the General." "Thanks." Elo is grateful for all the work he and Cobbleskater have been putting in during her absence, she is. But it feels weird, this giving orders, hardly doing any real police work. Then they are in the ground floor stairwell. "I'll run this down to Candy," Farren says.

Elo nods absently as he trundles off, whistling some pop song. She wonders if this is what it'll be like from now on. She isn't sure she likes it. Despite what Fugit said about the City needing her, it feels less and less true. Like she can stand back, take a breath – and won't be missed all the while. The thought leaves her feeling cold. "Yo, O'Toreguarde, you forget where your desk is?" Elo blinks. Hughes is walking backwards on his way to the gym with Komens. "Ah, leave her alone," Komens rumbles, smacking his partner with his towel. "She's been away with the fairies a lot." Hughes snorts. Elo sighs – because if nothing else, it's accurate. Komens looks back at her as he passes through the doorway. "Keep your head up, kid." Elo gives a tired smile. "Trying my best."

Back at her desk, Elo finds a Manilla file folder containing three sheets of paper filled with Cobbleskater's neat handwriting. "Ah, Lieutenant?" The man himself materialises at her elbow. "I rather stuck my foot in it, didn't I? About your promotion." "Yes, you did." Cobbleskater heaves a sigh. "I would like to apologise for that." "Accepted. You weren't aware he hadn't yet been told, so your first mistake was forgivable. However, you must be more observant. The way he reacted should have given you a clue about that fact, so you could have stopped talking then." "Ah, yes, I see," Cobbleskater frowns, thinking it through. "Not to worry, I shall amend my behaviour in future!" He smiles at her, and she has to smile back – he is that damn cheerful. "See that you do," she says with an approving nod and a smile in her tone. "I've organised a patrol car to give you a ride to City Hall. They're waiting for you in the breakroom, whenever you're ready." "Thank you, Cobbleskater. Your efficiency more than makes up for any personality issues." And if anything, it makes him beam larger under the hand of her praise. Elo sucks in a breath. "Would you mind doing me a couple more favours?" "Of course. Anything I can do to help." "Thank you." She smiles and hands him some cash from her wallet. "Can you find who our attending officers were and get them a beer each as my thanks for finding Ms Strucker?" He nods as he takes the money. "I've already taken the liberty of locating them. Just in case." "You are a scholar and a gentleman." He accepts this with a smile and an inclination of his head. "And the second request?" "I want you to look into what might have caused Iceland to suddenly reinitiate trade." "You want to know why the King is really here." "Yes." He smiles. "No problem." "Cheers, Irvine."

Elo wanders into the breakroom then. The patrolling officers due to take her to City Hall greet her with an affable nod. They've not been in long, so a doughnut and coffee are pushed her way.

While they all finish up, Elo takes the time to skim the report from Cobbleskater. In the victim's apartment, it says, they found a stack of notepads and journals, all written in a strange code, like nothing either of them has ever seen. There were books about mythology and maps of the city marked out, again in a code of coloured circles and crosses. They found nothing else pertinent to the case, and the report continues with conjecture. Judging by the disastrous state of her apartment – with the pantry nearly empty, sink filled with dirty dishes, and clothes strewn around – the Detectives believe her state of mind was frenzied by the feeling she had discovered something big. This was echoed by the handwriting in her journals becoming messier towards the end of her work. Her editor knew nothing about whatever she was working on, and had no inkling either, as all her fluff pieces were submitted as usual. They will not know what the victim was working on, Cobbleskater reports, until they can find a way to decipher the text. At the bottom of one of the sheets are two additional notes. One is about a cat – since it appeared in no ill health and could freely come and go, the Detectives topped up its food and water and left it alone. The other is a sample of the code, with a request for more information from the General regarding it. If Elo squints, she thinks maybe it looks a little like the text in the book… But then the patrolmen have finished their doughnuts, so she can't double-check.

They make a stop-over at her tenement, where she leaves the bag of clothes in her room with 'For Snotgrut' pinned to it, and then on to City Hall.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 38

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Fury sits heavily on Elo's chest. If she returns to the Magister's formal office, she knows she will throttle Brauma, forcing a fight with the Shadowling for which she is not yet ready. But more than that – her ire is a slavering beast, growling and pawing to be released. Elo doesn't know how long she can contain it. So she does the only thing she can think of.

"Special Cases, Breakwood here," Farren answers on the fourth ring. "Make it snappy–" "The fucking Exchequer!" Farren's tone changes, instantly serious. "What happened?" "Insulted the King and tanked the negotiations! Brek, I'm gonna–" "Do nuffin' but get your arse out of City Hall and down to that little garden on 3rd and Francis. I'm on my way."

So she leaves. In the elevator, the operator tries to squirm to the far corner, away from her. And in the street, she's given the widest of berths. The verdure of the garden does little to calm her. By the time Farren pulls up, she's worn a dusty path from pacing. He has to catch her and hold her still. "Bug? Bug. What happened? How the hell could the Exchequer have insulted His Nibs so badly it killed the talks?" "That fuck! He tried to–" The words choke her. "Elo, what did he do?" "He tried to betroth me!" Farren's tone flattens. "What?" "To King Storri!" Elo's eyes are burning with angry tears. Farren's hands tighten on her shoulders. "Was King Storri," he asks, voice only just level, "offended by the offer, or by you?" "The offer." Farren's grip relaxes. He gives a decisive nod. "Into the car with you, girl," he says, giving her little choice about it. A small spike of anger flares at his grip on her arm – everyone is too keen today to strip her of agency – but it quickly abates as she falls into the passenger seat. Farren is only doing it because he cares. Merri cares. Strucker cares. "Where are we going?" Elo asks as Farren pulls out into the flow of traffic. "The Training Grounds." Of course, she thinks. Way back, when Elo and Farren were first partners, Elo had tried to hide the source of her one, true, vice from him. But Farren, at the end of the day, is a detective, and a damned fine one at that. It didn't take him long to figure out what none of her previous partners had cared to; nor why she only vanished to the Kord Training Grounds at stressful times. So it makes sense that he would take her there now, when the fear and the anger make her unfit for polite company.

–––

The tires crunch as they pull into the Training Grounds' parking lot. The campus is large, perched above them on a semi-artificial mound in the suburbs. Some sections are open-air, mirroring the arena they share with the Plot Hook in the city center, but much of the campus extends underground. As they get out, Elo notes Farren's grimace at the 200-step staircase. "Y'know," he says, "I think Kord is my least favourite god." "We wouldn't have such fine facilities without him," Elo points out, and they start their way up the Trial of Heaven.

For all that she dislikes the pantheon as a whole, Elo's quite fond of Kord. He's usually depicted as a warrior, the platonic ideal of every combat form and athleticism. But more than that, they share a creed – use not your strength for wanton destruction and scorn cowardice in all its forms – which she can respect. These days his disciples are more likely to be olympiads than berserkers, showing their skill in the arena rather than the battlefield; but they are no less fervent about following the dictates of their faith as they are to proving themselves. Elo's been a member of the Training Grounds since Aunt Alexis felt she was old enough to wield a weapon (quite how her Aunt managed to make it free for life, Elo never asked). Every ounce of combat she knows was learnt here, at the feet of sensei and sabumnim, grandmaster and sharpshooter.

At the top of the Trial, they bow to the statue of Kord, and Farren peels off to ask about available training while Elo changes into her gym clothes. When she returns, she almost tells Farren not to bother, because she feels calm again. Then some slab of muscle who's not paying attention knocks into her, and she has to abort the movement as she begins a spin-kick to the face – and realises she's maybe not as calm as she thought.

Farren has her run an assault course designed to train for the modern pentathlon: she runs, she shoots, she swims. She crosses swords with a trainer and jumps obstacles on horseback. After she receives feedback from the various trainers in attendance, Farren has her do it again. Only then does he let her take a dip in the jacuzzi. "Feel better?" he asks when she finally joins him at the cafe. "Much. Thank you, Brek." He squeezes her hand. "You're welcome." Around them, the cafe buzzes with conversation. Farren sips his coffee. Elo scrunches her nose at the strange green concoction he's bought her. "What are you going to do about the situation?" Farren asks. "Stay as far away from City Hall as I can get?" Elo shakes her head. "I don't know. Let His Nibs cool off. Call the hotel tomorrow, see if I can convince him to spend one last day looking at the city. Security and transport for so many people can't be that quick to arrange. Even if I can't convince him to resume talks, maybe I can show him we're not all like Brauma." Farren murmurs in agreement. "You wanna come back with me to the precinct? Maybe write up more of your translations from the vic's journals?" He looks down, deliberately playing with a pepper shaker. "Cobbleskater was a bit peeved that you were hustled out before you'd finished writing up the 4 pages you were looking at." Farren lifts his gaze to side-eye her. "You know how he loves his processes and orderly paperwork." Elo gives a dry chuckle. "I guess I got… caught up… in the story. Forgot to take notes." She takes a swallow of her drink. "Sure. I'd rather be doing something productive than sitting around brooding." Farren flashes a grin that doesn't quite make it to his eyes. They finish their drinks and head back to the precinct.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 2

CW: nearly drowning Words: 411 Chapters: 01. AO3

Then she's walking down the street, between the tall buildings, passing from island to island of light shed from street lamps. It's raining; the sparse drops cut through the light in an almost hypnotic way. 

She cuts through a narrow alley of dark soot-stained brick, trots down a short set of steps and onto the flagged towpath next to the canal. There is an improvised bridge up ahead that will allow her to pass over the canal closer to where the station lies. 

She has run this route a hundred times, she knows every nook and cranny along this path, so when she reaches where the bridge should be, and finds it missing, she is perturbed, but not worried. Maybe someone finally reported the ramshackle thing, made of old boards and stolen scaffolding.

It was quick work though, she thinks as she backtracks to where a tree clings to the bank. The bridge was still there when she came home in the early evening. She shakes the thought aside as she unhooks a rope swing from the tree. It's been a while since she had to use it, but she's in a hurry and has no time for the uncertainty that tries to drape over her like a cloak. 

With a running start, she jumps. 

It is only as she enters the apex of the swing that she realises something is wrong. The weight of the rope is too heavy, it shifts alarmingly as she reaches the apex of the swing.

Then it has snapped, and she is falling, and she cannot remove her hands from the tacky surface of the rope, and the water is closing in over her head, and she thinks she sees the blaze of red eyes on the bank as she sinks through the darkness. 

But there is something they have not banked on, as she sinks through the gloom, and that is that this tack is apparently water soluble. She has sunk faster than she should – the rope was clearly weighted, which also means she cannot bring it back out as evidence. 

Strong strokes take her to the surface; she has lived in this city most of her life, and every child here knows how to swim in the canals. She breaks the surface with a gasp, pushing short water-blackened hair out from her face, and turns towards the tow-path as something skitters away. She grumbles under her breath and strikes out towards the bank.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 1

CW: Nightmares Words: 527 AO3

"What's it doing?" "I don't know! I can't see through objects." "So have a look? You're taller than me." "Fine." "What even is it?" "Well. It's sort of spindly, and green and– eep!" "What? What?" "I think it saw me." "Well, what is it?" "I. Don't. Know! It just had these red eyes and–" «Hey, kid. This ain't no place for youse. Now beat it, before I beat you!»

Burning red eyes, cutting through the night. A grating voice that she shouldn't understand. Dark fluid on its hands and a- She gasps awake, eyes flying wide and fingers curling around the revolver's stock under the pillow. She lies still, schooling her breathing, and her heartbeat. Light from outside the room filters in, casting stripes through the blinds onto her bedsheets. She doesn't hear the movements of another, doesn't feel a second presence inside her room. She rolls over, gun still gripped in sweaty palm and looks to the door half-expectant of a jiggling handle. Last time she had that dream someone broke into her room, moments after those glowing red eyes woke her up.

She stares at it for the longest time. The house is silent; it's late enough the timbers have finished settling. Outside an alley-cat screeches as a glass bottle tumbles, and somebody curses. There is the low thump-thump in her bones of a TV turned up too loud somewhere in the tenement. She allows herself a moment to relax, feeling foolish, when the telephone down the hall rings. It is a harsh, jarring sound, the bells in the receiver clanging and echoing in the corridor. She hears the shuff-shuff of slippered feet, as Mrs Higgins goes to answer it. Her elderly landlady mumbles, listens, mumbles again. The shuffle of the landlady's feet comes down the corridor, and Elo jumps at the knock on the door. "Elo," Mrs Higgins calls through the door, "they need you at the Station. There's been a murder." Her head roils – organising, cataloguing, questioning already – but she finds herself nodding. "Thank you, Mrs Higgins," she calls. She swears Mrs Higgins must be psychic – there's no way her landlady could have known she was already awake. No, corrects a little voice in her brain, she just knows you. There is a grunt of confirmation and the slippers shuff-shuff-shuff away. Elo puts the revolver down in the bed next to her, carefully easing her hand from the stock, and takes a breath. She must be still, and calm. She cannot have her head roiling like this. They do not call her in the middle of the night for just any old thing these days. Captain Fugit only has them call her if they are desperate, if it is too dangerous, or if it's down-right weird. She's hoping for danger, but in her gut, she suspects it'll be weird. She had the dream again; she's starting to believe those red eyes are a warning. Except that's preposterous, she thinks as she dresses. A dream cannot be taken as a warning, a dream cannot know there is danger coming, a dream cannot– She stops herself. It's preposterous. That's all there is to it.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 11

CW: Grief/ mourning, Parent mourning dead Child, Alcohol mention, Blood This one is a bit of a doozy - please ensure tea and tissues are on hand. AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

Elo returns the King to City Hall to find a runner waiting for her in the foyer. She's needed in Stucker's private office.

So she goes, and she stands there as his secretary gives him the bad news. And he looks up at Elo and asks if this is real. So she sends the secretary away, and takes a seat next to him, and tells him: yes. She's sorry – gods, he has no idea how sorry – but yes. And she tells him, as he sits ramrod straight and military still, how she's seen the body and that she's so sorry, it is their sweet Evie lying on a slab in the mortuary of the 88th. She tells him they're doing everything they can – that she is doing everything she can – to find his baby's murderer and bring down swift, punitive judgement on the bastard's head. He asks, in tight, clipped tones, about the officers assigned to the case; she confirms that she personally knows every officer and admin and that she will testify to the tenacity, professionalism, and solve rate for each of them. And she realises, at some point, that none of what she's saying is helping, even as she can't stop the words from pouring forth in a torrent, and she can only switch tack, and tell him that she knows it hurts, that it feels like a piece of himself has died with his little girl and that the stars have faded and nothing is ever going to be right again, and the tears are dripping down her own face as she tells him, once again, that she is so, so very sorry for this loss. And that is the catalyst. He crumples. That's the only way she can describe it. Like a marionette with its strings cut, like his spine has just snapped in half, he caves in on himself, places his head on her knees, and screams.

It is the most soul-wrenching thing she has ever heard from another being, digging deep into her heart and the very fibre of her being. His fingers are claws into her legs, gripping with everything he has as if she's the only thing keeping him tethered at that moment, and who is Elo to judge – maybe she is. So she wraps herself around him, best as she can, saying nothing – because what more can she say in the face of that? – and clings just as tightly.

She has no idea when his screams stop, only that they do. And she has no idea when his tears stop, only that they do. She has no idea how long she has held him for, only that they are both drained of emotion, and he is curled into her – silent, and numb, and blank. Some disaster training kicks in then. Hydration, it says. So she goes to the facilities table and pours a glass of water and makes him drink it. Sugar for shock, it says. So she goes back to the facilities table and makes a cup of milky, sweet tea, laced with a healthy dose of Cointreau and makes him drink that. Rest, says the training. So she tells him they are going to stand up and go to his on-call room, and she helps him stand and guides his feet, and then once they are there, she helps him strip down his vest and boxers, and tucks him into bed with a lullaby her mother used to sing when she was sad. He's out by the third verse. She leaves water and painkillers and a cookie on the nightstand, and leaves the room in darkness with the door ajar.

Then she is standing in front of Evans' desk, telling the secretary to put a hold on all his engagements for the foreseeable or pass them to his second-in-command because as of now, Commander-in-Chief General Johan Strucker is on emergency compassionate leave. Elo doesn't even know if she's allowed to do that but Evans doesn't bat an eye and tells her, without a second of hesitation, that it will all be arranged as Elo has requested.

And then she stands there, lost. Because for all the death she's seen, for all the death she's caused, and for all the cases that cross her desk – this is the first that has been truly personal, and she has no idea what is supposed to come next.

"Elowyn," Evans says, and it seems like maybe the secretary has been trying to get her attention for a while. Elo blinks. "Yes?" "Why don't you sit down?" Evans says and guides Elo to a waiting couch. A drink is pressed into Elo's hands, and she drinks reflexively, tasting rum's rich molasses in the bitter coffee. "Go home," Evans says, forehead concertinaed in worry. "I'll tell the Council's guest you're unavailable this evening, due to personal reasons." Elo shakes her head. "I should stay here." Evans purses her lips and expels a sigh. "There's a camp bed with a spare blanket and pillow in the General's personal office. At least take a nap?" Elo blinks some more, takes stock of how much she is blinking, and accepts Evans' wisdom.

Entering the office feels like returning to a crime scene. Elo pushes that thought away, pulls out the bed and tries to rest.

–––

After a half hour of her eyes drilling into the panelled ceiling, counting the number of petals on the flower bosses, Elo gives up on the idea of sleep and instead calls back to the office.

"Precinct 88, Special Cases, Detective Constable Breakwood speaking." "Farren, it's Elo. How's it going?" "Hey, Bug." She can hear him shifting, imagines him rocking his chair back and swinging his feet onto the desk. "It's going good. We found the first crime scene. You were right – it's an alley not far from the barge's mooring space that leads past some warehouses to a parking lot. It was filled," he says with a not-small amount of suspicion, "with plastic bins." He knows her well enough not to ask, but she knows he must be wondering how she knew the bins would be plastic when most of the city still uses metal. Still, she feels relief that they're getting somewhere, and it seeps into her voice as she says, "That's good to hear." "We're pretty sure we've found one of the murder weapons too. A big red wrench. Type of thing any grease monkey would use. Was tucked under some garbage and covered in blood. It's with Candy and Snips now. They're doing their thing, blood typing and whatnot, confirming it is the murder weapon." Another step closer. "That's good work, Brek." "Final bit of good news for you, we found her car in the lot. It's being brought back to the precinct now. Since she didn't have a purse on her, and we didn't find anything in the alley, we're hoping there's something in the car we can use. Datebook, diary. Anything that points to why she was down there in the first place." Elo tips her head back to rest on the chair and closes her eyes. "I take it back. This is excellent work. Thank you."

There's a wary pause on the line then; Farren figuring out her tone, figuring what to say because of it. "He's been told then?" Elo sighs. "Yeah." "How's he doing?" "Average, I guess. He's asleep right now. I had him put on emergency leave." "You can do that?" Elo lets out a wet bark of laughter. "No one told me I couldn't, so I guess so?" "Huh." There's that momentary watchful silence again, then, "And how are you?" Elo's mouth works. "Numb. Wired. I don't know." "You should take some time." "Can't. I got this other assignment." "At least come over tonight. I'll cook dinner, tell you the latest dating drama. You can insult my taste in women, I'll insult your taste in beer, we'll watch a shitty movie. How about it?" "Oh, it sounds great, brother. But I can't." Elo passes a hand over her face. "I'm supposed to escort this visiting dignitary to dinner." Farren scoffs. "That's why they pulled you off the case? Baby-sitting duty?" "He's quite an important dignitary," Elo allows. She's still under the assumption that no one but those read-in are supposed to know about King Storri's unplanned visit. Maybe they'll make some announcement in the coming days, but until then, the cat must stay in the bag. "Still. It's a load of bullshit if you ask me. You'd be better off with your boots on the ground, doing real work with me." She's about to commiserate, but something in his bitter tone stops her short. "Everything going okay with Cobbleskater?" Elo would rather cause an international incident by telling a king to find his own meals than for a rift between her two constables to jeopardise this case. "Yeah. Yeah," comes Farren's weary sigh. "It's just, y'know. He ain't you, Bug. We got our way of working. And he's… different." "Is this going to be a problem?" "Nah. I'm just whining, mostly." Elo smiles, because she would also prefer to have her boots on the ground instead of flouncing around playing at Lady. "Hopefully, this assignment passes quick, and then I'll be back where I belong." She tries to say it lightly, but it comes out with an edge of self-pity. "Look, just keep going. You're doing good work, and I am very glad for the updates. I know I'm not technically on the case, so have no right–" "The hell you don't. This girl meant a lot to you. We'd do the same for any family member." Elo glances up at a rap on the door. Secretary Evans is standing there, hands spelling out the sign for 'king'. Elo nods. "Thank you, Farren. Look, I gotta go. I'll check in with you tomorrow, okay?" "Sure, Bug. At the station?" "If I can. Stay out of trouble." "I will if you will."

Elo hangs up and pushes away everything but the task at hand. "Yes?" "The Council's guest is done with his meetings for the day," Evans says. "Right." Elo pushes away from the desk, following Evans out of the office. She stops with her hand on the outer door. "And where-?" "He's waiting for you in the council chambers, with Acting Magister Clayrmantle and the Master of the Exchequer." "Thank you," Elo says slowly. "How-?" Evans aggressively tamps a stack of papers. "It's my job, Lady Toreguarde. I must anticipate General Strucker's needs before he does; have the answers he seeks before he has to ask them. I think you'll find I am very good at it." "Of course. I never meant to imply-" "I know you didn't." The secretary sighs, her shoulders drooping. "I apologise. With all that's happened… my nerves are a bit frayed." "It's perfectly understandable, ma'am, no need to apologise." Elo reaches across and rests a hand on Evans' arm. "I think we're all a bit frazzled. Just remember, you can't pour from an empty cup." Evans gives a faint smile. "Of course, your Ladyship." Elo smiles back. "I'd better go. His Nibs will be waiting."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 9

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

Before she is halfway across the room to announce her presence to Clayrmantle, the unknown person has risen. "So, you are Elowyn of Toreguarde," he says, his voice a low rumble, like lava flowing from an eruption. She halts on the rug bearing the city's seal, responding automatically, "Yes, sir." "Interesting," he murmurs and starts to pace around her.

He's clearly sizing her up, so she takes the chance to do the same. He is compact – not much taller than she, but far heavier set. He sports a large beard of the same lustrous black as his hair, also intricately braided and sealed with jewelled clasps. He is outfitted in a suit of dark green, tailored well to show off his figure. It is not until she spies the narrow circlet of malachite and gold, nearly vanishing in the tides of his hair, that she realises why he seems so familiar. Despite this, she cannot quell her annoyance at being eyed like livestock, and before he has completed even half his circuit, she raps out, "Do I meet with your Kingliness's approval?" She does try to keep the snark from her tone, because if he is here, then it is only to discuss matters of state and standing here, in the heart of the city, she feels keenly the cloak of representation which settles over her shoulders like an old and unwelcome friend. And if he is here to settle matters of state, then it will not do for her to jeopardise that with her appearance of incivility. As he continues his circuit, Elo can only hope that the familiarity is not mutual. This is not the first time she has been shanghaied by the Triumvirate, and she recalls with painful clarity the last time she was in his presence. When she, fresh from the field of battle, forgot herself and yelled at him like he was some basic footsoldier. Just because she was tired and sore, cranky from pain and trauma, hopped up on adrenaline and cortisol and fear – these are not justifiable excuses for insulting King Storri Norgandsson of Iceland.

"Majesty," he murmurs, coming to a halt in front of her. "Pardon, sir?" "My title. You should refer to me as 'Your Majesty'." He lifts his chin. "I will allow the oversight this time. I would not expect a police officer from a city-state with no royalty to know this, nor expect them to be adequately trained to comport themselves in a diplomatic situation such as this." She knows it's bait, she does. But sometimes her mouth likes to bypass her brain. "If we are going to be stiff about our titles, Your Majesty," Elowyn says, drawing herself up. "Then I feel it's only fair, that as one whom has the Freedom of the City, I should request you refer to me as 'Lady'." The King quirks an eyebrow. "Is that so?" In for a dime, in for a dollar. Elo draws herself up further– It's only then she spots the twinkle in his eye. Over the King's shoulder, Clayrmantle is smiling in a soft and hesitant way. In her periphery, the DA has stopped reading his report and is trying to suppress a grin. Elo doesn't bother looking at the Master of the Exchequer; he was scowling the moment she opened her mouth, and she doubts that's changed. But if Thazar is smiling, then it means this is teasing. Or at least that all is well. –Elo relaxes her pose. "Indeed, sir. However, it is not a right I generally pursue. Sargent O'Toreguarde suits me just fine." "Very well, Sergeant." He inclines his head in return. "As we are on more friendly terms than last we met, I will permit you to dispense with my title. You may continue with 'Sir'." Elo's mouth slackens. Heat rises to her cheeks. Her eyes go wide. She thinks she may have stopped breathing. The King chuckles. "Relax, Sargent. I do not hold against you that which was said in the fever of battle." His eyes harden a fraction. "I only require it to never happen again." Elo swallows, gives him a bow from the waist. "Of course, your Majesty. Thank you."

"Well," Clayrmantle says, stepping away from his desk, "I'm glad to see you both getting along, especially after your last encounter." He puts a hand on Elo's back and gestures for her to sit next to the DA. "I think now would be a good time to explain to Lady Elowyn why she's been summoned – and in such a secretive manner. I'm sure you have questions." This last is addressed to Elo as she takes her seat; she doesn't miss the twitch of Clayrmantle's eyebrows nor the emphasis on her title.

The King sits between Clayrmantle and the Exchequer on the opposite sofa. Clayrmantle begins, "You may recall, Madam, the incident a few years back which drove Iceland to break off trade with us." "Vividly," Elo murmurs. After all, she was in the middle of it, trying to prevent an all-out war. "The Icelandic government is now at a point where they feel ready to broach negotiations for a resumption in the Single Market." Elo tips her head towards the King. "Your Majesty is making a bold statement coming here in person." "I do not travel without a retinue," King Storri says. "But yes – in this matter, I feel, boldness is required. One must lead by example, my Lady, if one is to inspire action in others." "Quite so," the Exchequer says. "Semper audacior, indeed." "To that end," Clayrmantle says, "while his Majesty is in the City and not attending meetings, we want you to provide him with an escort." His eyebrows flick up – a warning not to be glib. "Security support will be provided by his own detail. I believe you know the special agent in charge, Meredith Ironforge?"

Elo's heart jumps into her throat. She follows the line of his hand to where a woman is stepping away from the line of ubiquitous black suits. She is not much taller than Elo, with blazing ginger hair and the body of a competitive weightlifter. Beneath the ubiquitous black suit, Elo can see the shape of her body armour, the tattoo of Thor's Hammer gracing the underside of her wrist. Elo swallows, doesn't know what to say. They haven't seen each other in years, parting on complicated terms. Merri's expression is neutral, no tell to show what the Icelander is thinking, doesn't say anything. Elo feels an uncomfortable weight in the air, knows she must break it. "Gruksdottir," Elo stumbles around the pulse in her throat. "It's good to see you again." Merri's eyes rove over her, culminating in a short nod. "Likewise, O'Toreguarde," she replies and moves back to her place on the wall.

Clayrmantle gives a polite cough. "Do you understand your duties, Lady Elowyn?" "Yes, Acting Magister," Elo says. She gives him something halfway between a smile and a grimace. "And, of course, it won't hurt for him and his to be seen in the company of one of the City's current heroes, letting bygones be bygones, so to speak." The withdrawal of allyship was not a one-sided affair, after all, and tensions among the people still rise when the matter is brought up. Elo will either do a lot of good with this or get into a lot of trouble. Clayrmantle raises his eyebrows. "Will that be a problem, my Lady?" Elo can't help the way her head tips in Merri's direction. "No, sir. Some of my favourite people are Icelandic." King Storri sits back with a pleased murmur. "She's astute," he comments to Clayrmantle. Merri snorts. "She has her moments, Herra." And, oh, if that sound isn't something that Elo has missed. "I try my best, your Majesty," she says instead. "Perhaps you could take his Majesty for an early lunch?" the Exchequer says. "We won't be beginning talks until the afternoon." Elo checks the time. "Sir, there is a personal matter I may be required to attend to soon." "I'm sure it can wait," the Exchequer says with a flip of his hand. Elo narrows her eyes. He must know what she's referring to. "Respectfully, Brauma–" Clayrmantle holds up a hand. "Let me call through," he interjects before things can escalate.

While the Magister makes a call from his desk, Elo keeps her gaze down. Ostensibly it's so she doesn't have to look at Exchequer or King, but her gaze catches on the papers the DA was examining. There's a lot of legalese, talk about 'precedents' and 'foreign incursions'. Someone has highlighted 'invasion force' and added a few tiny question marks between the lines. How very curious, she thinks. "Strucker will be delayed for another hour," Clayrmantle says. "You have time, my dear, to take his Majesty to lunch."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 8

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannahcbrown, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster

There was a time, early in Elo's career, when she was in and out of City Hall like she worked there, and not in the smallest and most underfunded police precinct in Toreguard. Since her quasi-retirement, she's been back less and less. Elo tucks her bike into the overground visitors' car park. As she crosses to the Hall's entrance, she casts her eyes aloft at the classic architecture of the building, rendered in shimmering marble. The grand edifice that is City Hall has always amazed her, but today, having not been back in some time, it feels like she's seeing it with new eyes.

She trots up the fan of steps and is processed quickly through the security checkpoint. On the wall of the foyer hang portraits of the heroes who rebuilt the city after its fall. Elo finds her feet dragging as she walks to the elevator. She gives in and stops to regard them. At the end is Egrim Shiverstaff, the Gods' own medic, in decorated vestments which only see the light of day on high and holy days. Next to him is Gary 'Grizz' Wald, the mountain man – so-called for his thick mane of dark hair. Along again is Fai Lumidas, the scholar, in his heavy robes and mortarboard. On the next row is Ivan 'the Hammer' Jägersson, broad-shouldered and unmovable. Finally, there are her Aunts – Selene Frigidwake and Alexis Dalliance. Selene, with her golden-red halo of hair, staring brusquely over a pair of half-moon glasses. Alexis, with her lips quirked, trying to suppress the smile already showing in laughter-lines carved into her weathered face. A pang of longing shoots through Elo as she stares at their well-loved faces. Aunt Alexis has been gone for nearly five years, vanished without word or trace, and Aunt Sel is on sabbatical in Europe for an indefinite amount of time. Elo's hand rises, plaintive, towards them, curling away at the last second so as not to set off the alarms. Her hand falls back, though her heart still aches; their absences seem all the more acute for the current situation. Elo blinks, finds herself scrubbing away liquid that has accumulated from staring too long and hurries towards the elevators. She makes a mental note to call her Mother soon. Elo was called away during last month's family dinner, and it would be nice, she thinks, to hear a friendly, matriarchal voice.

The offices of General, Magister and Exchequer on the seventy-second floor, below the Chambers proper. A spike of adrenaline hits – as it always does – as the elevator doors open, and Elo steps out to be confronted with the grand, carved door of the Triumvirate council. Elo nods to the two guards stationed either side of the corridor, letting them see her face. There is the minutest posture change; they know who she is and that she has permission to be here. But before she can let herself in, Elo is struck with a fit of nostalgia. She has to lean down to find the little mouse and hedgehog, their heads darker and shinier than the rest of the door, so she can give them a pat each – one from her and one from Evie. If the guards think it strange, they keep it to themselves, and Elo lets herself into the horseshoe arrangement that is the Triumvirate's offices.

Secretary General Evans is waiting for Elo in the ante-anteroom and rises to meet her. Elo absently clocks the height, weight, body mass of the woman as they shake hands. Evans is easily six foot and still built like an Amazonian warrior despite the hints of white creeping into her temples. Her eyes are pinched with worry, yet her grip remains gentle and warm. "Ma'am," Elo says. "I'm very glad you're here, O'Toreguarde," Evans says. "I'm not sure how he'll take the news. Either way, he'll need someone like you at his side." Evans has been General Strucker's secretary for many years, enough that she and Elo have a passing acquaintance. She must be greatly troubled, Elo thinks; she has never heard Evans speak so candidly before. "I'll do my best," Elo replies, mindful of Fugit's warning. The flicker of a smile graces Evans' face. "That's all we've ever asked of you." "Where-?" "The General is still debriefing and will be for the next hour or so. In the meantime, Magister Clayrmantle has instructed that you're to join him and his… guest." "Guest?" Evans gives a faint smile and apologetic shake of the head. "If you'd like to follow me?" "It hasn't been so long I've forgotten the way." "Apologies. Of course," Evans says and continues to lead the way to the Magister's office.

Evans gives a genial nod to Clayrmantle's secretary and shows Elo into the Magister's formal office. Elo hasn't been back since Aunt Selene left. She's gratified to see that the Acting Magister hasn't changed much of its decor – the wide bookshelves filled with esoteric tomes, the swirling abstract art and three-dimensional molecular compounds. Her aunt will be away for an undefined amount of time; she finds she's grateful he hasn't taken advantage of the situation as some might.

Elo scans the room. The security detail in ubiquitous black suits against the walls barely register. Acting Magister Thazar Clayrmantle – a tall, thin man in a pinstripe suit – is perched against the heavy desk which sits at the back of the room, below the seal of the City and its motto, 'semper clarior, semper audacior'. The seal also graces the wide, circular rug at the center of the room, around which curves two large, powder-blue sofas. Seated in them, she can see the side profile of two people and a third with their back to the door. The District Attorney, a man with skin like copper beech leaves and an imposing stature, is reading some report. The Master of the Exchequer, with his thinning pate and simpering expression, is seated opposite the DA. There is not much to be seen of the third – they sit low on the sofa, short of stature or perhaps slouching, with a long length of luscious black hair held in intricate braids which could belong to either gender. Elo decides now is the time to introduce herself to the company.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 29

CW: Blood, Injury, Implied child abuse AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

"Hi, Mom," Elo says to the short, dark-haired, nondescript woman who answers the door of the nondescript house on this nondescript, not-quite-suburban street. Elo watches her Mother's expression as Oakrose takes in the state of her erstwhile foster daughter, with a gaze that swiftly travels from surprised joy to deep suspicion and finally ends in parental dismay. "Oh, Love. I think you'd better come on in," her Mother says with a sigh.

Elo follows her Mother through the dark and narrow front corridor, past the huge coat rack filled with every conceivable boot, jacket, outerwear accessory, bag and Personal-Protection-Equipment that could be thought of, and into the central hallway beyond as her Mother bellows for the first aid kit. Elo narrowly avoids tripping over an abandoned toy train, only to knock into the tall filing cabinet and be attacked by the spider plant that lives on it, as her Mother yells for a child to come clear the train and its tracks away. Then they pass the telephone table, with its pot of half-dead pens, hair ties, treasury tags, and stack of notepads, and into the kitchen.

Her Mother pulls out a chair and bids Elo sit, as a young girl with long brown plaits, freckles, and huge brown eyes walks in slowly, holding a red box out to Oakrose like it's a shield. "Thank you, Dimple," Oakrose says to the child as she takes the first aid kit. Elo makes a pained noise peeling her ruined jacket off, and the child scampers back, hiding behind the burnt-orange door frame. "Dimple's new," Oakrose says to Elo, then to the child, "This is Elowyn. She's one of my oldest kids. Don't worry, she's nice. Come in and say hi." Elo gives the child a lopsided smile and tries for brightness as she says, "Hi there." "Hello," the girl whispers from behind the door frame, eyes wide and wondering.

The smell of freshly baked cookies eases Elo's spirit as her Mother bustles around, making demands: "Take off your shirt. Raise your arms. This is going to sting, so don't flinch– I said don't flinch. This is a bit more than 'first aid', my Love. Really, you need to go back to hospital, I reckon… What in the name of the Green Goddess did you even do?" "Fell off my bike," Elo says, hedging the truth so as not to cause more worry. "I guess I pulled the stitches, huh?" "And then some," her Mother murmurs. "You can fix them, though?" Oakrose snorts. "I've been patching you and half the neighbourhood up since you were just a wee little thing like Dimple. You really should go to the hospital." "I can't. My health package won't cover it." Her Mother raises an eyebrow. "Child, you will be the death of me. Tell me you didn't come all this way for free medical treatment?" "No, I did this on the way over. I left a message I was coming?" "Which kid?" "Ishaan, I think." Oakrose clicks her tongue and mutters, "Boy needs a reminder on telephone etiquette." "I came to look for some old notebooks. I need them for a case." "Ah," Oakrose murmurs. "Something to do with little Evie Strucker's murder, I'll wager." "Sharp as ever, Mom," Elo replies.

Then there's no time for more talk as Oakrose sets to repairing the damage done by that damned Continental. Without the strong painkillers from the hospital, her Mother's stitches hurt more than the doctor's, and Elo bites down on the more vitriolic curses, shouting the names of vegetables instead. By the time Oakroase is finished and handing Elo a shot of something strong and alcoholic, all the other children have fled outside. All except for little Dimple, still hiding with wide eyes behind the door frame.

"That sounded like it hurt," Dimple whispers, as Oakrose putters about, tidying her equipment away. "It did," Elo says. "How do you not cry?" the girl asks. "I cried every time my bad mom hit me. Sometimes it made her hit me more." Something pinches in Elo's chest at Dimple's words. "I shout and curse instead," Elo says. "But that's just me. There're a lot of different ways to let pain out. Crying is one way, and so's shouting. And that's fine. Different people need different things." She wants to make a point to this timid little thing that Dimple isn't broken for crying. Maybe Elo's also trying to make a point to herself that she's not broken for not crying. "We all deal with things in our own way." Elo shrugs, aware that their foster Mother is watching the exchange with a careful eye. Dimple creeps out from behind the door frame and to the edge of the kitchen. "I saw your picture in the newspaper," she says. "Oakrose says you helped a lot of people." "Yes. That's my job." "Is it hard?" Elo thinks about it – thinks about the Master of Commerce, and about Snotgrut and Legnok. "Sometimes," she says. "Sometimes there are people who don't seem like they deserve your help. But they do. Sometimes they need it more than others." "Oh." Dimple chews her lip, staring hard at the ground. Then she looks up and takes another step into the kitchen. "Do you get hurt a lot, as a policeman?" "Specifically me, or policemen in general?" Dimple raises one shoulder in a slow shrug. "Generally, no. As long as you're careful and have a good partner, it's reasonably safe." Dimple stares, as if expecting Elo to say more, but Elo is not about to admit her reckless self-endangerment to a child. Behind them, Oakrose closes the bin with a touch more force than might be necessary. "Dimple, can you put the first aid kit away for me?" Dimple edges forward and comes up on her tippy toes to grab the red box from the table. She stops on the way out of the kitchen, turning back with seriousness in those wide brown eyes. "I think I want to be a policeman too, when I get older," Dimple says with such quiet conviction that Elo feels that nameless something pinching in her chest again. "It's lots of hard work, and you have to be all kinds of smart, but I bet you'll be great at it," Elo says, and wonders if this is how Alexis felt the first time they met, and Elo pronounced her vengeance for all to hear. "All right, Dimple," their foster Mother says. "Sergeant O'Toreguarde has work to do. Run along now." Dimple gives another one of those serious nods and walks, quiet and unhurried, back into the house to put the first aid kit away.

Mother and daughter watch the child go, and then Oakrose hands Elo a black t-shirt with some band name emblazoned on it. Elo's shirt is already in a basin of cold water and lemon juice, her suit jacket at the top of the laundry pile. The shirt probably can't be saved, but if not at least her Mother will have some new rags. "It's Lieutenant now, by the way," Elo says as she pulls on the t-shirt. Oakrose gives her a careful smile. "Congratulations." It comes out as a hesitant question. "It's okay – you can be proud," Elo says with a chuckle. "Everyone seems convinced it's supposed to keep me out of trouble, not get me into more." And then her Mother beams at her. "I am very proud of you, my darling. But if they think an increase in rank and responsibility is going to keep you out of trouble, well." She shakes her head. "They've clearly never met you." "Thanks, Mom," Elo says with a roll of her eyes. "I should go make myself look a little less banged up and call a tow for my bike."

Elo's getting off the phone with Evans at City Hall about retrieving her bike when the doorbell goes. She hears her Mother cry out with joy and assumes that Farren and Irvine have turned up. By the time she's finished, her Mother's settled the two men around the kitchen table with a coffee and a slice of spiced apple cake. There's one set out for Elo as well, and really she's too impatient to eat, but she'll never turn down her Mother's cooking. "So where am I likely to find my notebooks," Elo asks, ignoring the way Farren is considering her attire. Oakrose taps a fork to her lips. "Probably the shed. We had to clear out a lot of stuff when I converted the attic and basement into more rooms. A lot of things got bundled into boxes and moved down there." She eyes Farren and Irvine. "I've been meaning to sort through them for ages. Maybe you boys can give an old woman a hand?" "Of course, ma'am," Irvine chirps. Elo has to cover a snort at the way her Mother is hamming it up, which turns into a cough as she catches Farren's grinning eye roll.

The day is still fair as they make their way down to the shed. The children are scattered on the large lawn; one is holding a tea party, offering mud pies and pretend tea to various dolls and stuffies. Elo tips her head in thought. If it stays nice, perhaps she can take His Nibs for a picnic…

Then Oakrose is unlocking the shed, and Elo is the first to step inside. It is an old, dusty thing. Still sturdy and watertight, but most things in here have seen better days; a mower upturned with no blades, a bike with no tyres. Elo winces as she leans over the bench to pull open the window shutters, as Farren follows her and gives a questioning frown. Dust floats in the air, picked out in sunlight and raised on small updrafts of air. The light reveals yet more clutter and confusion – forgotten pickles, yellowed and stained newspapers, a handful of miscellaneous fixings scattered over the bench. "Start with those crates in the corner there," Oakrose says, pointing. "I could do with those tarpaulins, too." Farren passes Elo the tarpaulins. "I didn't know you liked Cryptic Goat?" Elo swallows. "I like their inventive use of industrial furniture." And it's not technically a lie, because Maddy's played her enough of the band's music that it's a genuine opinion. Farren harrumphs and turns away to start hauling down crates.

The tarpaulins are spread out on the lawn, and Elo unpacks each crate, methodically searching for her notebooks. While she's unpacking, Oakrose starts sorting the contents into piles of similar items so she can repack them and label up the crates. As they work, Elo shares her idea for the picnic with her Mother and the two women scheme.

By 11:20, all the crates have been turned out and they still haven't found the notebooks. Elo is starting to despair of finding them before she must go home for a fresh suit and collect King Storri for lunch. Oakrose, as patient as ever, digs out some clothes for Elo to borrow. Elo takes herself up to her Mother's room to change. The blouse is a bit more bouffant than she would pick, the jacket tight around her arm muscles and the trousers a little too short, but she's sure it'll be fine. Her eyes wander the room while she fusses with the collar. Her distracted gaze settles on the little set of shelves next to the bed. A clumsily crafted cup, made by her in-another-world-twin Ashbury. Wickerswitch's archery trophy. A giant manual on home brewing, owned by Grandpa Birchwick. Ten small journals, decorated with flowers and leaves. A tall, slim reference guide on local flora from her Mother's old friend Turnip. Wickerswitch's trophy for a prize-winning marrow. Elo's Police Academy graduation photo. Elo blinks. Ten small journals, decorated with woodland motifs. With a whoop of delight, Elo collects them up and pounds downstairs.

"Farren, Irvine! I found them!" she calls, coming into the back garden. "Hurrah," Irvine says, smiles all over as he comes out of the shed to put the next crate away. "Finally," mutters Farren, stubbing out a cigarette. "Where were they?" "In Mom's room." Farren gives Elo a long look, considers his cigarette, and relights it. "I'm sorry. I would never have guessed they'd be there." He looks again like he's about to ask after her change of attire, but Irvine is already plucking a book from her hands and opening it. "My gods! Your handwriting is terrible!" Irvine says, holding the book out, twisting it as if that will make her writing legible. "Yes, thank you, Cobbleskater, I am aware," Elo snips back. "But how do you even read this? It's like a half-dying spider drowned in ink and pulled its way over the page to-" "Thank you, Cobbleskater!" The little man blinked. "I only mean to say, Lieutenant, how did you pass through the academy with your handwriting this bad?" "I worked very hard." "But–" "I taught myself calligraphy, if you really must know, and applied the principles of that to my police work." "But why is this so bad?" "Because I spent seventy per cent of my time writing in glyphs, not the Latin alphabet." Irvine looks from the page of glyphs to the page of translations. "Ah, yes, I see." "If you're done, Cobbleskater," Farren says, "our LT's got someplace to be, remember?" "Well done for finding them, love," Oakrose says, coming out of the house. She hands Elo a list. "I've got most of what we discussed sorted, but I'll need you to pick up a few bits." "Thanks, Mom." The two women share a short embrace and then Farren is loading her and the journals into his car.

With Irvine ensconced with the journals on the backseat, already absorbed in learning the translations she has highlighted, Farren glances at Elo as he drives. "So what happened?" "I swear I was being careful." "But?" "Some asshole tried to run me off the road. Trashed my bike in the process." "You get a plate?" "No–" "Let me guess – distracted cuz you popped your stitches?" "It was a dark blue Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and probably a wrecked undercarriage, considering it drove over my bike. I'd know if I saw it again." "D'we need to divert to a hospital instead of the market?" "No. Mom fixed me up." "Cuthbert's Scales, Bug…" "I said I was being careful, didn't I? It's not my fault the universe has it out for me." "I'm sorely tempted to take you back to the station and stick you in lockup." "And you'd start another international incident with the Icelanders. Just go to the market."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 27

CW: Alcohol, Past trauma. Notes: For the incident Elo is remembering, see this story on AO3.AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Elo knocks on the door and pushes it open. "Hey, Brek!" "Hi, Bug," Farren calls from the kitchen. Elo kicks her shoes off and shucks her coat, indicating that Storri do the same. Then she points to the end of the living room, speaking over her shoulder to the ubiquitous black suit who's followed them in, "Window's over there." Farren's condo is modest – a bedroom, a bathroom, and the living room separated from the kitchen only by a breakfast bar and the trellis where the coats go. But the picture window gives a gorgeous view of the city, and it's just him so it doesn't need to be big or fancy. And anyway, Elo likes it because it's cosy. "Man, something smells good," Elo says as she comes around the trellis screen. "What's for dinner?" "Monday didn't give me your message until late, so it's kinda cobbled–" Farren's voice cuts off as he looks up to see King Storri standing next to her. Storri sheepishly puts two bottles of wine, a white and a red, on the breakfast bar. "Good evening, Detective." Farren turns down the hob burner and, in a strangled voice, says, "Bug. A word?" He gives her no option as he catches her arm and hustles her towards the bedroom.

"Yes?" she asks. "When you said you were bringing company, I thought you meant one of your brothers, not the fucking King of Iceland!" "You wanted to have dinner. I'm supposed to be showing him the city. What else was I gonna do with him?" Farren scrunches his eyes closed and gives an exasperated huff. "It would have been nice to know. I could've made something fancy." "He doesn't care." "Bug–" "Listen," Elo takes his hands and speaks low and rapid. "As long as you don't give him food poisoning, it doesn't matter. He's not here for fancy. He can have fancy any time he wants. He's after different. Unique. You know, the first night he was here, he asked me to take him to the Scholar. Not exactly haute couture." Farren frowns. "That's clothes." Elo waves a hand. "Whatever, you know what I mean. We went to this proper restaurant for lunch, and he barely touched his food. At the Scholar, he inhaled two plates of those shitty barbeque wings. I promise – whatever you're making, he will devour it like a starved man. And, y'know, he wants to meet you." "What, why? What did I do?" Elo gives a nonplussed shake of her head. "You're important to me. I was important to Auntie 'Lex, and Alexis was important to him. He's just following the chain, I guess." "Pardon me, Detective Beakwood," Storri calls, "but your onions are starting to burn." "Fuck," Farren hisses.

They leave the bedroom to see Storri stirring the pan lifted away from the heat. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I've got it," Farren says, hustling over, and Storri retreats from the kitchen with a gruff nod. Elo rolls her eyes and goes to the fridge. "What beer does anyone want? We've got Crap, Rubbish and Dear Gods Why Do You Drink This Stuff?" "You are a philistine," Farren says, adding something to the pan. "Give me a Dear Gods." Storri chuckles from where he's leaning against the breakfast bar. "I'll take a Rubbish." "Lousy choice," Elo says, grinning, as she selects a bottle for herself. She pops the caps and passes the bottles as requested. "So what is for dinner?" she asks. "I need to know which wine to open." "The red. I'm thinking of calling it Conquistadors's Revenge. A bolognese meat sauce with Mexican spice because I didn't have any Italian herbs. Corn, black-eyed peas, water chestnuts and bean sprouts, with wild rice." "Conquistadors are Spanish, Brek," Elo says as she struggles to open the bottle. Storri gently takes it from her and finishes the job, adding, "I don't believe bean sprouts are traditionally associated with either cuisine." Farren shrugs from where he's cooking. "I made do with what I had. We only serve unique experiences here at Chez Breakwood." Farren turns and winks at Storri, whose eyes dance with delight, and Elo feels some knot of worry leave her.

Farren breaks away from his cooking to retrieve the wine. "Huh, this looks fancier than normal. Thanks, Bug," he says as he carries it back to the hob and proceeds to splash a good measure into the food. "What are you doing?" the King asks, horrified. "Beef mince is always better with a dash of what you're drinking." "Uh, it's not the usual plonk-de-plonk I get. His Nibs bought it," Elo says. "Don't ask how much it cost." Farren looks again at the bottle and places it down against the splashguard where it can warm up. Elo sees his Adam's apple bob. "Right." Storri looks away from the kitchen then, casting his eye around the small room. "Detective Breakwood, do you mind if I…" he gestures to the room. "Go ahead. And, y'know, this is gonna be a long evening if we stick to formalities. Call me Farren." Storri looks back and tilts his head thoughtfully. "Very well. For this one night only, you may address me as Storri." The two men share a look that Elo doesn't understand. "Alright," Farren says. Storri gives another of his gruff nods and begins to wander Farren's living room.

It's not a large room, but Farren has filled it with things that Elo thinks are quintessentially him. A big forest green sofa dominates the space, in front of a chunky TV which sits against one wall on a console decorated with a kid's craft projects. On the wall to one side of the TV, there's a series of family pictures featuring a woman and a girl, and on the other is a movie poster for some pulp horror flick. Behind the sofa is a low sideboard filled with trophies, and on the wall above hangs a fight poster, Micky Stanford vs Kaleb Cain. The sideboard contains a few books, and next to it is an armchair of that same forest green with a standard lamp glowing behind it. Elo is in the process of setting the table when Storri asks, "Do you wrestle?" "Boxing," Farren corrects. "An interesting sport. Though perhaps not unsurprising for someone in your career to take up?" Elo freezes, a bundle of cutlery and napkins in her hands. The pot burbles in the sudden silence. From where she stands at the end of the breakfast bar, Elo watches Farren turn down the burner and reach for his baccy pouch. "I didn't get much of a choice," Farren says. He leans back against the other counter so he can see Storri and starts to roll himself a cigarette. "I'd done some fight training. Enough that when higher-ups came looking, everyone pointed at me. They needed someone to go undercover, see. They told me this guy called Ragmar was running cage matches, using them to launder money. They didn't have the proof, so I went and got it for 'em. But it meant I had to get real good at kicking the shit of the other guy. Ragmar, he coached me himself. Said he saw my potential. So boxing became my bag." "You must have been extremely adept to have accumulated so many trophies. Though, the poster… Did you know one of these men?" Elo's heart is hammering in her chest. Farren pauses where he's tamping the tobacco into shape and barks out a laugh. "Yeah, you could say. See, I didn't just get the proof to shut down their operation. I got myself a title too." He pulls a wry smile, lifts his hands apart. "You are looking at regional lightweight champion Micky Stanford." He goes back to rolling his cigarette. "So you know, I get myself a title and pull out of the competitive side of things. Ragmar goes away, so the money laundering stopped. But the cage fights didn't. And, I didn't need to, but I kept going back." Farren leans over to light his roll-up from the burner. "And, damned if I didn't need some help to stop." Elo grips the cutlery tighter to stop it rattling in her shaking hands. Storri says, "You speak as if it were a type of addiction." "It was, of a kind." Farren takes a deep drag of his cigarette. "I lost my family during the Greydown incident." "My condolences," Storri murmurs. "I was using the fights as a crutch." Farren is looking directly at her. "Took someone who cared, who had clarity, to make me see reason. Was almost too late, and all." Elo is viscerally thrown back in time. Hears her own voice screaming at some two-bit thug with delusions of grandeur as he digs a knife into her partner's throat. That had been a solid eight on the scale. "Got a broken rib for my trouble. But you know, I count myself lucky that was all I got." Farren takes another long drag. Storri says nothing. Elo releases the cutlery and it clatters on the counter. Over by the window, the black suit's head whips around. She holds up a hand. "Are you well, Elowyn?" Storri asks. "Just hungry," she replies. Farren stubs out his cigarette and returns to the bubbling pot. "Almost ready."

Talk over dinner is much more relaxed. With the ice rather spectacularly broken and the excellent wine, the two men act like old friends – or maybe that's just Farren's natural affability coming through. Either way, Elo contributes little. With the ubiquitous black suit here in the room, many more scattered throughout the building, and Merri in a mobile command centre somewhere below, Elo allows herself to relax into the wine's velvet embrace and forget what perils exist outside this room. They chat a little longer as the food, delicious despite its strangeness, digests. Then Elo hauls herself up and starts collecting plates. "Come on, Storri," Elo says. "You wash, and I'll dry and put away." The King blinks. "I beg your pardon?" "Farren cooked, it's only fair we wash up." "I see," Storri says, with a thoughtful frown as he rises to take the stack of plates from her. "You never had to do your own dishes?" Farren asks, lounging back. "Not even as a punishment?" "My father had specific opinions on what a young prince was and was not to do. Plus, his punishments were…" He purses his lips. "Fitted to the misbehaviour." Farren raises an eyebrow, catching Elo's eye. Elo clicks her tongue, then gins. "Well. Sixty years old and never done your own dishes. 'Bout time you learnt then." "I am not that old," he grumbles, following her.

Dishes devolve into antics, but they get done and nothing gets broken. Soon enough, they're lazing on the couch, a bucket of ice cream passed back and forth and some sport on the TV. Elo's cuddled into Farren's side. The rumble of the commentators' voices, full belly, booze, Storri's laughter and Farren's warmth have her eyes fluttering closed. Farren nudges her awake, and Elo grumbles, snuggling closer. He moves to put a hand on her forehead and checks her pulse. "Gerroff. I'm tired, not dead." "Just checking. You gonna be okay to drive home?" Elo grunts. "We came in His Nibs' ride. I'm sure if I ask nice they'll drop me home." Elo can feel the look they're giving each other over her head. "I believe Agent Ironforge would prefer that to Elowyn making her own way home. Who has been seeing to your dressings?" This last is aimed at Elo, so with a sigh, she says, "Mrs Higgins." "The Landlady," Farren clarifies for Storri's sake. "She'll be asleep by now. I've got some supplies. We can do it here." "I know how to do my own dressings," Elo says. "Where is your kit?" Storri asks, rising. "Bottom drawer next to the fridge," Farren replies. To Elo, he says, "Alright, shirt off." "And you wonder why you don't have a girlfriend," Elo says as she unbuttons her blouse. "Let's have a look at your waist then." "Don't forget about the bullet wound," Storri calls from the kitchen. Farren freezes. "What bullet wound? You didn't tell me anything about getting shot." Elo's mouth works. "I forgot." "How do you forget getting shot!" "I don't know, there was a lot going on." "You told me this was a six. Getting shot pushes that up dramatically." Elo's fists are clenched. "He had a sword, Brek! Fucking three-foot long cavalry sabre." Her shoulders are shaking. "So, excuse me for being a bit distracted!" Then Farren's arms are around her, and she's sobbing into his shirt, and he's murmuring nothings into her hair and stroking her back as her wails are muffled by his shoulder.

By the time Elo comes back to herself, the first aid supplies are neatly laid out on the end of the sofa, and the King and his black suit are nowhere to be seen. "They just stepped out to give you some privacy," Farren says to her wild head-turning. "After I've fixed you up, it's probably best you go home. Unless you want to spend the night here?" "Thanks," Elo says with a watery smile, "But my bed is comfier than your sofa." "Alright." The smile he gives her is affable enough, but there's still worry in his eyes.

So he changes the dressings, and Elo's dropped home by the King's driver. The paper bag with Snotgrut's clothes is empty, and the Dvasia is nowhere to be seen. So she tucks the revolver under her pillow and falls into an exhausted, deep, and dreamless sleep.