#HCWL Chapters only

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 44

CW: Major character death, Fire AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42. 43 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The fish-processing yard has seen better days. Nature pushes up through cracks in the concrete. Litter collects in corners. Barrels and other unidentified items rust away in a haphazard sprawl. Crumbling walls, rebar protruding like teeth, are decorated with graffiti. Elo blinks. Some of those rocks in the shadow of the building are not rocks. Just as, when she follows the Eshen girl's path to where the sun's last rays collect on the other side of the yard, what first seems a tumble of logs are not logs. And standing tall, on the darker edge of the divide between the sun and the shadow, is a man. From behind her, Theodarsson exclaims, "Exchequer Brauma!"

Elo wishes she felt surprised; instead there's only exhaustion. It's now clear that yesterday's stunt was Bruama's last attempt at getting rid of her with his hands still clean. He's now going back to the more traditional method. With a breath, Elo sets her shoulders.

"He does not belong here," Brauma says, looking past her at Theodarsson. Elo nods, then over her shoulder calls, "Agent Theodarsson, go get backup." "But, milady–" "This is a city matter, Agent, and places you outside your purview. I will require backup. Please go and retrieve it." "Lady Toreguarde–" "That is an order, Agent!" She can practically hear Theodarsson grinding his teeth behind her. "Yes, milady," he grinds out. There's the crunch of loose dirt on concrete. An empty feeling behind her. Running footsteps, fading into the distance. Elo hopes she hasn't made a mistake.

Automatic steps take Elo towards that log pile that is not made of logs. This is not a tournament fight, but Elo finds herself treating it as such, folding down the extraneous parts of herself that do not matter when fists and weapons fly. The elder, Aster, leans heavily on a gnarled walking stick. As Elo bows sharply from the waist, she thinks their leaves look more autumnal than ever. Eyes of acorn-brown regard her gravely. "Now is the time," Aster says, "when you must reach for your bloom and use what Aukštasvilkas has gifted." "I understand," Elo says, and she does. She's not scared of Brauma, not like she was before. Farren might have been right about Brauma being a supernatural entity – but now, so is she.

She walks back to where he paces along the line of dark and light. Stalks, more like; a cat, with metaphorical fur bristling. He appears more than willing to have this be him or her, ice or fire. But Elo knows it doesn't have to work like that. Even if the book hadn't told her, she knows there's always a middle ground. Bridges don't have to stay burned forever. She thinks back to the mission which gained her the title she carries. How it was not her fighting skills, not her detective's acumen, which won the day – but her compassion. Of facing the man who would wage war on everything she held dear and offering a hand in sympathy. Mercy, understanding, acceptance. These are what make her a hero. Maybe if she can get Brauma to talk, they can work this out.

Elo stops. Spreads her hands: I'm unarmed. Gives him a rueful smile. "D'you want to go get a cup of coffee?" Brauma stops, looks back at her like she's insane. Maybe she is. "What?" "You heard me," Elo says. "A cup of coffee. Would you like one?" "What?" Elo huffs. "This isn't a difficult concept. We ditch this party, go find a food wagon, and get a cuppa Joe each." "You think I can be as easily bought as those simpletons who used to work for me?" Brauma spits, resuming his pacing. "I'm not trying to buy you, Brauma. And I don't want to fight you, not when we don't have to." "Bah! Stupid little girl. Of course, we must fight!" "We're two halves of a whole, you know. Aukštasvilkas has gifted to you the night, the light of the moon, and he has gifted to me the sun and the light of day. We each rule over the other in equal bursts – my power waxes while your wanes currently. Once midsummer passes, I will wane while you wax. We are in concert, keeping each other in check naturally. So why fight?" He rounds on her, roaring, "Because you were not satisfied with your lot! Always poking your nose into the night, stealing its creatures into the day. You have disrupted the balance and I will not stand for it anymore!" Elo forces herself to hold her ground. "I've been aware of this part of myself for a mere nine days. You can't blame–" "Nine days! Ha!" He throws his head back as he scoffs. "You child. Too stupid to know what you have now, too stupid to know it back then. You and Stucker's brat. I never should have been so careless to let you infants see me as my true self." The air around him shivers. A Dvasia takes the man's place. Elo feels her body grow cold. Burning red eyes, cutting through the night. A voice she shouldn't understand… Her eyes grow wide. "That wasn't a dream?" Icemight sneers. "You imbecilic wretch. You don't deserve what you've been given. So now I shall rectify this wrong, and have it all for myself!"

Elo is forced back, as Brauma who is Icemight becomes both and neither. In his palace springs up a whirling dervish of wispy blackness, studded with ice-point specks of silvery, splintered light. A cone of darkness, as frigid and solid as any cave, as ancient as the reaches of space, towers above her, his power drawn from the darkening sky and the rising moon. He plans to drench the world in this darkness, Elo realises. That's what Aster was trying to warn her about. This perceived slight against the natural order of things is the excuse he has been looking for. Her and Evie's mistakes will cost the world its light. Elo feels anger take her, the fire of conviction welling like a gout of bonfire-flame. This will not be permitted. There are too many beautiful things in this world, too much joy and passion, colour and laughter, for her to step back and let him smother and wilt it all under the cloak of night. The sun is lowering behind her. She felt herself reaching towards it, growing like a tree which burgeoned with the new life of Spring, until she was at eye level with Kasskekadmas, and aware of every little thing, the dreamyness of her life sloughing away. She felt keenly the night's breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and canal-waters. She could pick out every detail of Kasskekadmas's face, written in nebulae and clouds of ice, and knew exactly where the line between them lay.

He didn't wait. The sword of frost sailed out, slashing towards her. Elo spun, deflecting with a buckler of fire that she couldn't think too hard about lest it vanish. "I am stronger than you. I have been around since the drawing of time, and you – you are just an upstart. There has been night longer than there has been day!" He came at her again, the sword leaving coldly glittering particles as it travelled. Elo rose to meet it, a sword of flame flickering out to catch the frozen edge. Fire melts ice water's flame. Kasskekadmas growled. Slivers of sharpest ice raked at Elo's face and she howled, an inferno devouring a building. In retaliation, Elo kicked out. The funnel of darkness wafted back like sooted smoke in a gale.

With a snarl, he whirled towards her, a cloud of dagger-like ice. Elo ducked low, heaving up as he passed over, catapulting him away again with a rush of flame. The contact hurt them both, Elo can see that in the contortion of constellations that is his face. His sword flashed out. Elo jumped and kicked, a flaming foot glancing off his shoulder. His sword caught her ankle. Elo landed badly, panting through the pain. "Kasskekadmas, stop. This is stupid. We are evenly matched, as Aukštasvilkas intended. I don't want to spend my life fighting you!" "Upstart! I will fight until you are gone. Until your light is nothing but a memory! Until you join Strucker's meddling welp in the silent ground!" The icy barb that filled Elo's chest had nothing to do with her battle-partner. "You admit you killed her?" Elo asks, sidestepping as Kasskekadmas starts to circle, aiming for another attack. "Do you confess that you murdered Evelyn Isabel Strucker on the evening of March 25th?" He laughs derisively. "What weakness. You still care so much for the laws of mortals. Yes, I killed her. Yes, I confess," he mocks. "Blithering child, running blind, bumbling into my affairs, sticking her nose where it didn't belong!" Hot tears filled Elo's eyes. Her gun seemed to leap into her hands. "I'm placing you under arrest. Lay down your weapon and assume the position or I'll shoot." His laugh was the eerie jangle of a frozen pond. "You have had everything laid at your feet, and still you know nothing." Stars of ice flash up the gun barrel, forcing Elo to drop it. "Your toy could not hurt me before, and it shall not hurt me now!"

Anger, consuming, raced through her veins. Fire erupted from her hand in a blade of sapphire. She jumped back as he swung again. Screaming, she lunged. He twisted, crying out as her sword sliced his side. Ice clove her back. She gave herself to the rage, then, the consuming fire. They trade blow after blow, neither one able to land a good hit, a scrape for every scratch. Elo dredged up all of her grief and hurt, throwing it like a gladiator's net of fire to encase Kasskekadmas. He dodged, but only just, and retaliated in kind. She blocked the ice sheet with the buckler. Rather than chunks of ice to her face, Elo was sluiced with a wave of frigid water.

It is enough to diminish the rage. To remind her that for every blow she strikes, he will land another. Every mark she gives will be returned. He may be stronger now, but the sun will rise and she will be rejuvenated. The day will turn and in the moon's light, he will be renewed. An eternal fight, as she predicted, fueled by their rage and the turning of the world. Rage enough to maybe destroy the world. Unless something drastic happens, they will be stuck in this ouroboros forever.

They trade another flurry. He tags her leg; she burns his arm. She slices his chest; he drives a spike of ice through her thigh.

There is a drawing realisation then. Only one way possible to end this. She thinks of Farren and of Merri and all her other loves – and hopes they'll know she's sorry.

Elo stopped. The armour of her fiery conviction, the shimmering buckler, and the blade of flame dissipated, leaving the night empty and cold. Kasskekadmas reacted as expected. Only a few loping steps to meet her. His aim is true. Elo gasps as the piercing ice slides through her. Her knees give way. His sword still in her, Kasskekadmas has no choice but to follow her down. "How kind of you," he hisses, "to give in to the inevitable." Elo raises her hand to his chest. Her voice is a whisper. "Who says… this is a kindness… to you?" Fire blooms under her hand, burning through his chest. The nebulae of his face swirl in confusion. "Why?" "This is the only way to keep the balance. I would have our people move forward in peace." "I don't…" His ice is spreading, catching her lungs, making it hard to speak, but even after everything, he deserves to know. "Our people have hated too long for something that was no one's fault." Constellations clear into wide eyes. His voice is naught but a wheeze. "The sickness…" "Was from Aukštasvilkas' own heart. It tore itself apart, trying to choose." Elo's vision wavers, dizzying. "But there was nothing to choose. Both our people are beautiful, complementary." "Aukštasvilkas never wanted us to fight…" "But what you started, I will end." Elo pours the last of her fire. He calls the last of his ice. It eats a hole through him, ejecting from his back a narrow blade of light. The water in her fingers and toes and the ends of her hair crystalise. The piercing shriek he utters as he dies joins her last sigh, a puff of chilled air falling from her lips as she dies too.

[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 41

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The sky is overcast, threatening rain, as Elo sits with Farren's phone, legs bunched on the green twill armchair, ear glued to the handset as she waits for the call to connect. "Emerald Star, Christopher speaking. How may I assist you?" "This is Detective O'Toreguarde, TPD. Could you put me through to room 1803?" The concierge pauses. "And may I enquire about the nature of your correspondence?" His Nibs is a high-profile guest; of course, they're screening his calls. "It's Triumvirate business. I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose anything further." Another pause. "And whom should I say is calling?" Didn't she just–? But maybe the concierge is on her side… Elo sighs. "Lady Elowyn." "Very good, your Ladyship. Connecting you now." Elo can hear Farren humming from the bathroom, mingling with the drone of his electric razor. "Good morning, Lady Elowyn," comes a lilting, feminine voice. "This is Unka, His Majesty's personal assistant. What can I help you with?" "May I speak to His Majesty directly?" "I'm afraid he's still asleep at the moment. Perhaps I can help?" "I understand that making travel arrangements to return to Iceland may take some time. I thought, while that was completed, His Majesty and I could take in some more of the city sights. I'm still relieved of my duties as a policeman, and I suspect that neither of us is particularly keen to visit City Hall today." There's splashing coming from the bathroom now. The phone line stays quiet. Elo forges on, "Despite any implications made during yesterday's negotiation meeting, I have enjoyed His Majesty's company this past week, as a friend, and I have enjoyed showing him the city I love. If he's of the same mind, I would like to continue until he leaves." The silence from the other end of the phone continues, and Elo wonders if she's on speakerphone. In for a dollar… "I may also have a selfish motivation. The head of his security detail is my best friend. If these talks fall through I don't know when I'll be able to see her next. I already missed her wedding. I don't want to miss anything else. And His Majesty is the last link I have to my dear Aunt. I don't want to lose that either. "Please, Your Majesty, if you're listening, would you at least consider one final trip out with me?" The line stays silent. "I'm staying with Detective Breakwood at the moment. Or you can always reach me at the station." Elo gives Farren's number and her desk number, waits a few moments more, and sets the handset back in its cradle.

"Guess it didn't go well, huh?" Farren asks from the doorway. Elo scrunches herself further into the chair. "No. He wouldn't even speak to me." Farren bustles around the kitchen, making a cup of freeze-dry coffee. "You know, you were right. You're not expected at work or at City Hall." He keeps his back to her. "You could stay here and take a day?" Elo lets her head fall onto the backrest. Outside, central Toreguard is hidden by the haze of low clouds. The filigreed dome of the Theater d'Olidammara is a flat yellow. On the twin bridges, Comedy's traffic is nose-to-tail but Tragedy flows freely. She could take the day. But then do what – sit around and mope? At the end of Farren's street is a deli/bodega. Elo watches the crowds on the sidewalk dipping in and out with take-out cups or bags of cheap convenience, watching as they hurry on their way to a job or school or to care for someone. She wonders how many of them are also having a crappy week. How many of them also ache and grieve and have to push on. She shouldn't be so selfish. Elo uncurls and stands. "Just because I'm not expected, doesn't mean there isn't work to be done." Farren's shoulders slump as he gives a heavy sigh. "Yeah. S'what I thought you'd say." He turns and holds out a mug of coffee. "Here. Get this down you and we'll head on."

–––

At the station, Elo busies herself with the ever-increasing stack of paperwork in her in-tray; there's not much more to be learnt from Evie's journals, Cobbleskater tells her, and he can handle it himself. Elo suspects he's in a snit because she wasn't prompt with finishing the translations.

It's just shy of mid-morning, she's in the breakroom getting coffee with Ayton, when there's a stir in the bullpen. They peek out to see King Storri leaning against Elo's desk. Merri is idly pawing through the in-tray. Ayton looks up at Elo with a delighted grin. "Oooh, girl! Is that who I think it is?" "Yeah." "And just what did you do to get him to show up here?" Elo looks at Storri, back at Ayton, and presses a hand to her forehead. "Technically, it wasn't me. But I can't talk about it right now. Ask me again when I've got something stronger than coffee in my hand." Ayton's face drops. "Oh, shit. That bad?" "Worse." Elo takes a gulp of coffee, hands it to Ayton, straightens her shirt and steps out, once again fully aware that she has the attention of the whole bullpen on her.

"Your Majesty," she says, giving him a bow from the waist. "What can I help you with?" Storri startles upright, covers his startling with a cough, and inclines his head. "Detective O'Toreguarde. Is there somewhere more private we may speak?" "Of course, Your Majesty." Elo glances at her old companion, and adds with a bite, "Agent Gruksdottir, do you mind?" Merri waves from where she's now poking around in Elo's top drawer. "Not at all. On you go." Elo purses her lips and huffs. Merri glances up, sees Elo's face, says, "Oh," and sheepishly closes the drawer. Elo inclines her head in sarcastic thanks, then gestures the king ahead of her. "This way," Elo says, leading the way from the bullpen.

They find a free interview room, and Elo flips the marker to 'in use' as she ushers the king in. Elo stops on the threshold, but Merri gives a quick shake of her head; she'll remain out here. Elo closes the door and steps away, crossing her arms. "So," she says. King Storri draws himself to full height. "I have acted, to you in specific, in a most unbecoming manner. Having heard your words this morning and knowing that you were the butt of yesterday's farce, I have considered my behaviour and found it lacking. If you are still willing, I would enjoy a final day in your company to further explore the city you and my beloved call home." His beloved… Elo doesn't think she's going to get used to hearing anyone refer to Aunt Alexis as 'their beloved'. She loosens her arms. "Your apology is accepted. And I would love to show you more of Toreguard. I'd still like to apologise for yesterday–" Storri holds up a hand. "I think, perhaps, it best to leave politics aside. I understand your desire to have our two nations on speaking terms again, but," he turns his head away with a shake, "I cannot countenance it. Not anymore. Not after Drakemar, and after what they did to your Aunt, and now what they've tried to do to you. This is the final coffin nail." Elo swallows, allowing her gaze to fall with her shoulders. "I understand. I'll be showing you the city today, not as Lady Elowyn, but as Elo who could have been your step-child." Storri crosses the space between them and clasps her shoulder. "It is for the best." "Right. Well then," Elo looks up and forces a smile. "I know the perfect place to start."

–––

"They did love her, you know," Elo says. "Despite the Triumvirate bowing to the Business Consortium's wishes and placing the Edict, they loved her and the others enough to make these statues." They are standing on the quayside of the Ring Canal, bundled up against the spring drizzle, and staring across the busy water at the statues which stand sentinel at the edge of the City Hall Plaza. The Ring of Heroes, which Elo has delivered a short lecture on, is too far to complete on foot, so instead Elo has chosen to show him Alexis' statue. The gracefully carved marble gazes watchfully out over the city, the long rifle Foreign Policy resting at ease in her hands. A phantom wind twitches her trench coat and cornrows. "They love her still, too. There're always parties on the anniversary of Greydown's defeat. Always toasts to her skill and bravery. Although," Elo's gaze falls away, "with each passing year they love the legend a little more and the person a little less." Storri is immersed in a thoughtful silence. "Why are we not up there?" Merri asks. "Enezeag, Felix and Darrius are," Elo says. "Technically, you're a traitor, and I keep – ahem – forgetting to attend the sculpture sittings." Merri laughs and loops an arm over Elo's shoulder. "Never change, cridhe. Never change."

They move on to the City Museum. It's a beautiful building, made of red brick and terracotta mouldings, and filled with the story of Toreguard's rise, fall, and phoenix-like regeneration. Elo focuses their attentions on the parts her aunts have played in the city's history, how they fought for it and saved it. She draws Storri's attention, too, to the descriptions of Greydown – the man who thought himself above others and brought ruin down on everyone, including himself. The King smiles tolerantly, and Elo has to remind herself of course he knows about it already; it's much more recent history for him than it is her. Storri strides past the section on Drakemar and his emissary with barely a glance. Elo doesn't understand what his issue with Drakemar is. She can't see what's wrong with taking money from a wealthy benefactor and turning it around to rebuild the city and rehome all the people displaced by the bombs and subsequent fighting. There've been some small concessions in governance which benefit Drakemar and his people, she knows that, but isn't that acceptable when, without him, Toreguard would not be standing? But he said no politics, so she doesn't bring it up, and they move on to the museum restaurant instead.

Elo finds herself wanting to apologise to the staff and other patrons as Storri's security sweeps in to clear a whole corner – one with the best view, no less. To their credit, the maître de doesn't bat an eye, and lunch, with a complimentary bottle of bubbly, goes down well; the cheque that Unka hands over, with such a great deal of zeros, probably helps a lot too. They linger up there, with Elo pointing out the dome of Theater d'Olidammara, now glittering in the sunlight pushing through fat clouds, and the university buildings behind it. City Hall takes up most of the view from the other direction, but in the distance, they can just make out the obelisk-shaped spire of the Temple of Heironeous.

Then it's time to move on, but not without one last little stop. The way up to the restaurant is lined with portraits, which had Storri pausing by each to examine and read over the placard. So Elo steers them out via the Ovoxi Hall, a large room of which one wall is taken up entirely by the faux-renaissance painting The Casting of Challenge Seeker. The mighty canvas depicts five heroes standing with their backs to the viewer at the top of a crenellated tower, while around them are littered the corpses of demons. In the tumultuous clouds above a titanic, Olympian-esque figure is visible from the waist up. This Titan has his arm outstretched in the starry heavens, as if he has just thrown the silver sword which glitters like the north star just beyond his grip. Storri reads the info plaque next to the recommended-viewing bench, making noise of exclamation as he learns the piece is younger than Elo, that it was gifted by an anonymous creator and donor almost as soon as the museum opened, and just what it represents. He then steps forward to take in the details of the smallest member of the party, and once he is done, turns back to Elo with a solemn nod.

Outside the museum, Elo hails a punt and asks the punter to take them a circuitous route to the covered markets at Olmsafon. As they travel – down the North Trunk then turning East into progressively smaller waterways – Elo finds herself giving a running commentary of each district and item of import they pass. Sometimes it's a grand event, sometimes it's a silly memory, but it builds up into a verbal cloth, woven of all the threads that tie her, and tied her Aunt, to the city they both love; a cloth which Elo, with all the skills she can, drapes around Storri to show him Toreguard and her people are worth his attention and alliance.

The markets are bustling as the punter pulls up to the docks. As they disembark, Merri shoots Elo a distinctly unimpressed look, which Elo accepts with a repentant tilted head. It's possible, having lost track of the days, she hadn't quite thought this one through – with so many locals doing their weekly shop and tourists enjoying the ambience, it makes the King much harder to protect. But equally, Elo reasons, if someone deliberately meant to do him harm they would need to know his movements in advance; and considering that none of them knew an hour ago where they were headed, Elo thinks it's probably safe. And anyway, she thinks – as she wanders around with him, their arms linked like a step-child and father aught, pointing out things that take his fancy and she explaining some particular oddity brought by the city being such a melting pot of culture, chatting with the vendors, sampling victuals, and buying an increasingly extravagant amount of goods – he's relaxed and having fun. She does not like the amount of grief that he had been subject to by Brauma; Merri said he was here in part to take a break from everyday stress, and Elo should be facilitating that, not causing more.

It's just past four when they exit the markets. A car is called to take all the parcels back to Storri's rooms, and then they move on for afternoon tea at a rather hidden, and thus exclusive, cafe that Aunt Selene liked to frequent. Elo hasn't been here in a while – it's one of those places that, on a copper's salary, is quite a lot out of her price range – but it's just as delightful as she recalls. They're tucked into a snug by themselves, bestowed with pots of tea, stands of petit four and finger sandwiches, and told to holler if anything more is needed. So they sit and chat, and Elo tries to absorb having Merri by her side, storing up the feeling like a squirrel stores food for the winter.

They've been having a ribald conversation on the knife-edge of decency – the sort they used to have, back when they travelled together – when they both become aware that King Storri has not said anything in some time. He's staring down at the tartlet on his plate with some intensity. "Kóngurinn minn?" Merri says gently. He sucks in a breath as if he was very far away. "While I am aware it was I who requested no political discussion, I have been thinking…" Both women set down their cups and pay attention. "Elowyn, it has been a joy getting to know you this past week. You are an expert conversationalist, knowledgeable in many areas and the love you feel for your city is tangible. That you have anticipated my want to learn more about the home of my beloved is a grace. As you wished not to lose connection with Agent Gruksdottir, I too, should not like to lose connection with you. "Thus, I would like to offer you citizenship of Iceland." Elo feels her mouth drop open as she stares. "That is… an incredible offer. Thank you." The cogs in her brain whirr at this opportunity, and she pounces on it. "I would be honoured to accept… "Except, and I am in no way trying to downplay or dismiss what you're offering, but I must ask. What of Toreguard's people – don't they deserve to see Iceland too? To see her sprawling mountains, volcanoes and geysers. To eat puffin in Fangthane and drink brennivín made from glacier waters. What of those who want to watch an aurora in the spray of a waterfall?" Storri's brow furrows. "You never give up, do you?" At this Merri laughs. "She'd fight to the bitter end if you let her." Storri takes a bite from his tartlet. "And what of your own people?" Elo asks. "I'm sure they'd relish the opportunity to eat as you've eaten. Cakes and curry and the Conquistador's Revenge. Puffin gets wearisome for every meal." An eyebrow raise. "It's not that bad," Storri mumbles. Elo looks at Merri. "With respect, Kóngurinn minn, it does get tiresome very quickly when it's your main source of protein." "And that is nothing to speak of when compared to a village's grain being turned to hardtack right after harvest." Something shifts on his face then, brows furrowed as he stares at his tartlet. He remains quiet and thoughtful, and Merri makes some comment, and she and Elo take up whatever thread they'd been talking about.

Storri sets his tartlet down, half-eaten, his expression so serious that it is just shy of a glower. Elo and Merri leave off their conversation again. "I will not truck with either the Master of the Exchequer nor the Acting Magister," Storri says. "Even if your tastes swayed towards men, even if I did not see you as the child of my beloved Alexis, even then your age would not allow me to accept you as a spouse. I remain infuriated with those prune-shriven runions for their blatant disregard, disrespect, and cavalier, vinegar stunt. "The actions of those black toads aside, you have shown me this day that Toreguard is as fair as one could hope, filled with as exotic sights and sensations as any traveller could dream of. The vibrancy of her people and the care and enthusiasm in which you have shown these things has convinced me that perhaps not all hope is lost for this city. "I will persevere with negotiations, but only with yourself or Strucker. I have no desire to engage with any other of your council." The elation rising in Elo's chest during Storri's little speech dies a cold, hard death. "You are aware that, despite my pretty title, I don't have any real power? You will have to deal with Clayrmantle eventually. After Greydown, it was decreed that no singular person would ever have that much executive power again. So while the Senate can vote in favour of a resolution, in order to pass, it requires the signatures of at least two Triumvirate members. Something as large as this may even require all three." The King regards her with a flat stare, eyes flashing like embers, and Elo thinks she's screwed the whole thing again. But these are the facts and there is no escaping them. He says, "I will not deal with Exchequer Brauma. I cannot guarantee my behaviour will befit my station while around him." "Alright. I can sit in and moderate any meetings with Clayrmantle. And, while I can't guarantee this will be accepted, I can request that the Secretary to the Treasury be the Exchequer's proxy in meetings that would require him. Is that acceptable?" Storri lifts his chin, considering the colourful bunting along the snug's picture rail. "This is acceptable. With this in place, I feel we could finalise an accord between our two states." Elo smiles, letting out a slow breath, feeling her spirit soar. He turns his gaze back to Elo. "I have one final condition." She feels her heart still in its victory dance. "I would expect that I will have to return several times to complete this deal. At each of these visits, you will take me to a different eatery or watering hole, and let me dine in anonymity with you." Elo grits her teeth, assuming a grim expression. "Agreed. Then I also have a further condition. I request a new artwork featuring your country that I can display in The Shield and proclaim you the donor." Storri nods in regal consideration. "It is done then," he says. His eyes never leave Elo's as he speaks, though his lips tremble in the suppression of a smile. "Unka will have the contract drawn up when we return to the Emerald. I will have this deal in writing." From the other table, Unka says, with laughter in her tone, "Já, Konungur minn." Merri stifles a chuckle. At that Storri breaks, his grin wide and mischievous, his laughter a roll of thunder, starting small as a chortle and rising to guffaw, and Elo finds herself following right along with him. "Oh, my child. Your face – it was a picture!" King Storri chuckles, as Elo finds she has to wipe her eyes at the mirth spilling from them – such is her nervous relief. "You rotten old troll!" she gasps out, grinning. "You had me really worried for a moment there." Storri finally finishes off his tartlet. "I look forward to being able to festoon your community hall with the finest art my countrymen have to offer." Elo smiles widely at that. "And it will be my pleasure to introduce you to all the flavours my city can offer your palette."

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 40

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

When she finishes filling in the blanks, Farren sits back, leaning against the mortuary table leg, looking like he's aged 10 years. "I won't lie," he says eventually. "This will complicate things." Elo shifts, her butt having gone numb from the cold tile floor. "You're taking this better than I expected." Farren scoffs. "What'm I s'posed to do, huh? Send you off to the nut house?" Elo pulls her knees under her chin. "Anyone else would have." "Yeah, well, I ain't anyone else, am I?" The clock ticks. "No. Thank you." Farren waves it away. "You'd do the same for me," he says, and Elo knows he's right. "I don't know what to do next," she says instead. "You leave your summaries as they are. No one else needs to know about… the other side of this. I'll catch the boys up with the sanitised version tomorrow and keep them on-task, digging up what we can to help support this theory." At Elo's raised eyebrows, he holds up a placating hand. "I'll tell them we've got reasonable cause to believe Brauma ran you off the road and about his ridiculous stunt at City Hall – it's not gonna paint him in an innocent light." "Yates has contacts with the Art and Antiques Unit. Take a copy of… of the vic's exposé and see if he can get them to share any intel they might have about the smuggling ring." "That's a good shout. In the meantime, I don't want you anywhere near City Hall for the next few days." Elo huffs. "You'll get no argument here. I think my secondment is probably over anyway." "And I think you should get a uniform to drive you home." The clock above Snips' desk says it's nearly 19:00. "I thought we were going to get dinner?" "You need sleep." "I'm fine. And I still gotta eat."

Farren grumbles but in the end, they clock off and go around the corner to the Scholar for their usual. It's not until they're exiting, that Elo notices the colour of the sky. "Shit! Oh shit, piss and blood!" Farren looks back with a raised eyebrow. "I was supposed to meet the two factions tonight at dusk and get some answers." Farren picks up his pace towards his car. "Where're we going?" "My tenement. Someone put Shortcut Bridge back together – I said I'd meet them there." As the engine roars to life, he looks over. "Where someone tried to drown you? Bug." "I thought it would be more convenient." Farren huffs and rolls his eyes as he pulls away from the curb.

Farren pulls up alongside the brownstone row which holds Elo's tenement building. "You should wait in the car," Elo says, even as they're out and walking towards the alley which leads through the brownstones to the towpath and canal at their back. "And let you engage with potential hostiles alone?" "I don't want to spook them." "I'll hang back. But I'm not letting you do this alone – they already tried to kill you once." "I managed before, I can manage again." "You really have been out in the wilds too long," Farren says as they near the alleyway's exit, the darkling waters of the canal just beyond. "Remember the Rule of Two? Withnail would hoist me by the hamstrings if he ever found out I knowingly broke it." "Withnail isn't a captain anymore." "You think that'd stop him?" Elo falls quiet. Along the strip comes the distant shouts of someone having a domestic. A TV blares to drown it out. There's the heavy thud of a ball against a wall; kids having a kick-about. From the canal comes no sound at all. In the dim light and lengthening shadows, it's impossible to tell if anyone's waiting down there. "Stay here, at least?" Elo says. "Right you are." Farren leans against the wall, jacket brushed back from his weapon's holster. "Holler if you need me."

Elo trots down the concrete steps and stands on the towpath. It's preternaturally still and quiet. The water is flat and glossy, like the nail paint Candy uses, and smells of weeds and cold. "Snotgrut?" she calls when no one appears at her entrance. "Aster?" Grit on the path grinds under her feet. A window opens, spilling pop music into the air. The wind is a breath on her cheek. Then the shadows ripple. "Whatcha, Boss." Elo squints. "Legnok? "'S right." He sounds pleased that she remembers. "Where are the Eshen?" "Scarpered. 'S too dark for 'em, innit?" "Oh." Elo sits down on the steps and presses a hand to her forehead. "Bugger." "They weren't too happy when they left. Were wus you, anyway?" "At work. Lost track of time." "Snotgrut's a bit pissed an' all." "Yeah. I can imagine. Gods damn…"

Elo stares down through her hand-blinkered vision at a dandelion pushing through the concrete, suddenly envious of the teens she can hear singing along to the radio, full of carefree spirit. She remembers her teen years – Aunt Alexis driving her, blindfolded, around the city, windows down and quizzing her about where they were based on smell and proprioception. A rare flare of resentment bursts in her chest. It's tamped back with a deep breath; after all, Elo asked for this life. Alexis could have said no. Instead, she'd used every resource at her disposal to ensure Elo was the most prepared for it that she could be.

Elo hauls in another breath, then stands, reaching for her wallet. "Here." She hands over some bills to Legnok. "I promised you a beer if I ever saw you again. Bark, blood, bond, et cetera. Go round to the Scholar, old Davie's not gonna ask for ID." Legnok squints down at the greenbacks in his hands, his face a mixture of awe and suspicion. "There's enough there for two," Elo continues, "because – and I'm sorry to ask this – but d'you think you can get the Eshen leaders back here, same time tomorrow night?" The bills vanish into Legnok's shirt, and he scrapes out a bow. "Blood as my bond," he says. The shadows lengthen, Elo blinks, and he's gone.

"Well, what happened then?" Farren asks when she returns to the alley. "I was too late. The Eshen had gone." "Who were you talking to? Snotgrut?" "No, another Dvasia. I guess he was hanging around to let me know that everyone'd gone. I've asked him to try and get them back tomorrow night." It's full-dark now, and Elo shivers in the cool of the Spring night. Farren grunts, and the ember of his cigarette flares. "Time we got you home, eh?" Elo wants to argue – it's still early, they could chat – but inexplicably feels a wave of weariness, as if the night is dragging on her bones. Instead, she murmurs what could be an agreement and waves him ahead.

The radio is chirping as they draw alongside Farren's car. He slides into the front seat, door open, for Elo to lean up against, peering in. "Dispatch, Alpha Charlie Five responding," Farren says into the handset. "Detective Breakwood? Do you have Detective O'Toreguarde alongside?" "Affirmative, Dispatch." There is a note of relief in Sally's voice as she says, "Roger, Alpha Charlie Five. Requesting your position for General Strucker." Elo's face contorts on its own, but Farren reads everything he needs to in her grimace. "Dispatch, we are just leaving the Skiving Scholar," he lies smoothly. "O'Toreguarde is very much off-duty at this juncture, and will be sleeping it off at my apartment." The traffic rushes past. "Roger. Have a nice night, Detectives." "Affirmative, Dispatch," Farren says with a grin.

Elo remembers to breathe, as Farren replaces the handset. "Thank you," she says, straightening. "I guess you'd better head on home." "Not without you. Come on." Elo tucks her chin down and frowns. Farren scratches an eyebrow. "Elowyn, do I really gotta remind you that someone's out there trying to kill you? Allegedly one of the most powerful people in the city. Allegedly a supernatural entity. You really think it's a good idea for you to be alone, at all?" Elo opens her mouth to protest. "You've got spare skivvies at mine. And if you say anyfin along the lines of 'it's fine, I can manage, I'm used to it', then so help me, I will handcuff you to the doorframe and we'll both sleep in the car." Elo swallows. "Scooch over then," she says and slides into the car.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 39

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The room Cobbleskater has commandeered is empty when they arrive. Farren dithers, unwilling to leave her alone; but Elo knows he has his own work, back in the bullpen. "Off you go." "Bug…" "I will be fine. I'm hardly going to get in trouble staying in one room, am I?" Farren raises an eyebrow. Elo scratches her neck. "That was… I wasn't feeling great that day. Look – I need you to follow up with Yates and Monday. I promise I will not get in trouble." Farren grumbles. Elo sighs, tired. "Don't make me pull rank, Brek." "Fine. I'll come grab you for dinner." With that, he huffs off, back to the bullpen. Elo rubs her forehead and then settles down to work.

She collects the pages she'd been reading before Stucker arrived and sets about typing a modified version of events. Somewhere between the first round of cross-country shooting and the second round of swimming Elo had made her choice. She justified it by thinking of her own safety. If Brauma knew that she knew he was the Shadowling it might force his hand into a confrontation she isn't ready for yet. She has to play it safe a little longer. That it comes with the benefit of no one questioning her friend's sanity is a bonus.

Elo sits back, scanning further pages of the exposé and diary to see if Evie had any evidence that Brauma was the one behind the smuggling ring. Tired eyes lose focus, and instead she stares at the journal, contemplating the glyphs tumbling down the pages like autumn leaves – and feels that tickle in the back of her mind again. Here is a language that Evie and Elo thought they'd invented, a language that turns out to be spoken by a subset of creatures neither of them had even dreamed existed. No wonder Snotgrut was surprised when she said she couldn't read it; her memory just needed a jog. The Dvasia speak something different – Elo knows this. But the book downstairs has only one script… Which makes her wonder what the Dvasia were doing with it. And why would the Eshen approach Evie, yet the Dvasia set a trap for Elo? Elo tilts her head. It's almost like they were confused…

In a rush, Elo stands. Her gut churns as she rushes along the corridor. "Oh!" Elo narrowly avoids crashing into Cobbleskater and sending them both tumbling down the stairs. "Lieutenant–!" "Be right back! Need to test a theory!" Elo calls back. She jumps the final basement steps, using the bannister to propel herself towards Evidence, shouting an apology to the three other people she nearly collides with. "Mikey!" Elo beams as she comes into the Evidence lockup. "How's the wifey?" The officer looks up from where he's been reading at his desk inside the cage. "Not too good, Sarg– Sorry– LT. She's picked up the sniffles from one of the kids." "Sorry to hear it. You make sure she gets plenty of vitamin C." "Will do, LT. What're you after?" "I need to take another look at the items from case number 12112017." "Right-o. Paperwork?" Elo grimaces. "I'm so sorry. I had an epiphany and forgot to fill it out. I won't have them long. They're only going to the mortuary." The officer purses his lips. "I swear, I'll fill them out when I'm done testing my theory." A frown. "Are you okay, LT? It's not like you to come without the proper chits." "Yes. Fine." He doesn't look convinced. "Just… a lot of pressure. With this case. And… and the Icelanders." The Officer's head tips up in understanding, and he readjusts his belt as he stands "Ah. Well then. I'll fetch your items. A book and a… doodad, right?" "Yes," Elo breathes a sigh. "Thank you." "Just this one time, mind you." "Of course."

Once she has the items in hand, Elo scurries to the mortuary. At this time of day, Snips isn't in, and the fluorescents switch on with a whine. Elo places the book on an empty slab, flicking through it and skimming the pages with her newly recalled ability to read the flowing script. She stops when she reaches a picture of an Eshen with a crown of elaborately-petaled blue flowers. Willowsprout's hair was green moss tufts. Aster – the elder of the two Eshens in the tree – had hair of russet and umber leaves. The girl had a collection of white morning glories tucked into her long, green grassy hair. Of the few she's seen, none of them have looked like this. With growing anxiety, Elo casts a look at the bank of chillers, then at the artefact in its little evidence baggy. She takes a staggered breath. Walks to the chillers and pulls open Evie's tray. With the artefact in hand, Elo looks through the little hole at the center – and gasps. Her Evie is transformed. Her skin is a rich carmine-brown, smooth as a birch, though missing the lustre of life. Her hair is curled brown leaves, crowned with flowers that have faded to cobalt with their dryness. For a moment Elo sees her alive, skin glossy, leaves and petals wafting in a leisurely breeze, smiling with all her teeth. An ache in Elo's chest forces her to set the artefact down. Fingers grasp at her temples, covering her eyes as she gasps for air. Her theory still needs to be tested. Recovering herself, Elo takes a breath and turns to where the stainless steel reflects her – too gaunt, too bruised – face. With another deep breath, she raises the artefact, closes one eye – and nearly drops the thing in shock. They look exactly alike.

With a shaking hand, Elo looks again. No. No, not quite. Not exactly. Evie has dark flecks across her cheeks and shoulders. The leaves on Elo's crown of flowers are serrated; Evie's are smooth. Evie's nose is that bit narrower, and Elo's cheeks are rounder. She lowers the artefact with a shaking hand. Mind spinning too fast to catch a coherent thought, she pushes Evie back into the chiller, puts the artefact back in its baggy and turns to the book for answers.

Elo reads the accompanying text – and, quite frankly, it reads like the synopsis of a pulp novel. "Chosen one…" she mutters. "Born to lead, blah blah… time is right, etc, alongside–" That draws her up short. The text says an Eshen, like the one in the picture, will have the same power as Kasskekadmas and should rule in tandem with him; each to their own sphere of course, but in harmony. From what Aster said, from what Evie's diary says, from the effort Brauma is going through to be rid of her… They all have assumed the same thing – that it would be Dvasia or Eshen to come out on top, not both. Elo looks again at the bank of chillers. But why are there two of them who look like the Eshen in the book? It doesn't make sense. Unless it was expected something like this might happen. An heir and a spare. But who–? And then the answer comes to her, and really, Elo could kick herself. Because, of course, Evelyn was meant to be the heir. Beautiful, brilliant, charismatic Evie. Evie, who could charm the birds from the trees, who sparkled like a diamond in a crowd, beloved princess of Toreguard. Who is now gone. And only Elo left, scratching around behind her. That explains why the Dvasia were confused, why they laid a trap for Elo. Why they were so startled when Evie turned up on the docks. But – the thought stops her cold – but the trap they'd laid for her on the canal must have been set up long before Evie went onto the boat. Elo was the one who should have died that night. Does… does this mean– Did Elowyn get Evelyn killed?

Of course, it's Farren who finds her, sitting with her back to the chiller bank and knees drawn up to her chest and a thousand-yard stare. And of course, he has the audacity to be prissy about finding her there. She doesn't want to hear it. "Breakwood." It comes out hollow and tired, and his demeanour changes instantly. His eyes flick to the book then back to her. "What did you find?" "It's weird," she warns. "I can deal with weird." "This is orders of magnitude above our normal weird." He holds out a hand to help her up. "Let's see, then."

So she directs him to put on gloves and take out the artefact while she pulls Evie's tray from the chiller again. Elo leans against the chillers. "Hold the artefact up to your eye, and look at her through the hole in the center." Farren raises an eyebrow. Elo nods downwards, so Farren does as he's bid and looks– –and jumps back, eyes wild. "The fuck? Holy– What is that thing?" "It's still Evelyn Strucker." Farren is breathing hard. "How do you know? It could be something wearing her skin, or, or a simulacrum, or… " Elo chuckles hollowly. "You watch too many movies." "How do you know?" he asks again. She takes a ragged breath. "Use it on me." He does so, hand trembling. Blinks through it for a second. Lowers it slowly. His face is a rictus. "What. The fuck?" Without waiting for an answer, he looks at his reflection through the thing. "What do you see?" Elo asks, curious despite herself. His mouth works. "I look exactly the same." He looks back at her. His voice has the faintest of tremors. "You weren't kidding, huh. About the weirdness levels." "They're called Eshen. We're… Eshen." It sounds strange to say it out loud. "They're a race of… tree people." "Is that why your… alternate selves… look so similar?" "No. At least I don't think so. I think one of us was supposed to… lead these people, and one of us was the spare. I don't know which, the book doesn't say. But it was probably her." Farren raises a hand. "Hold up. What?" Elo forges on. "There's an alternate faction, they live underground. They're the ones who tried to kill me with the canal dunk. But I, um." Elo's voice shakes. "I think that trap was set before Evie died. I think she walked onto that boat and they killed her, thinking it was me, because I was the spare. Farren," Elo looks at him with eyes bereft, "I think I got her killed."

Then there's cold tile against her knees. Breath short, erratic. Farren clutches her shoulders. She can see his lips move, but can't hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. He cups her face in his hands, and she wonders how she never noticed how like molasses his eyes are or that little nick of a scar on his cheek– "Elo!" She makes a startled squawk as he shakes her. "This isn't your fault. D'you hear me? You didn't stab her. You didn't know about… this Eshen stuff. You did nothing that would have caused her death. The fault lies solely on the one who–" "Brauma." Elo focuses her watery gaze back on his face and hiccups as she labours to get her breathing under control. "I think she was killed by Lerrald Brauma." "The Master of the Exchequer?" "Yes." Farren gapes, eye round. "Bug… That's a huge accusation." "It was him that ran me off the road. I recognised his car in the VIP parking lot this afternoon. Strucker confirmed it's been in the shop for the past few days. I bet if you talked to the mechanic that fixed it, they'll tell you the undercarriage was wrecked and they found lumps of gold fairing inside." "Okay, but that only proves he ran you down." "Why else would he! Evie's journals say she spoke to an Eshen who told her that someone in high office was responsible for the forged art smuggling ring. The boat she was killed on was part of his operation." "This is all circumstantial." Farren drags a hand down his face and fixes her with a stern look. "I'm clearly missing parts of the story. You better start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out." She stares at him, stricken. "It's insane, it's like something from a bad movie. You won't believe me, you'll think I'm high, I promise I'm not taking anything! I hardly believe it, I don't– Maybe I'm going crazy, everything's falling apart–" His hands are back on her face and shoulder. "Bug, breath." He strokes hair away from her tear-stained face. "Shh, come on. I always consider everything you say with an open mind. When have I not?" Breathing under control, Elo gasps out a laugh. "Red Sonics vs The Hurricanes, four years ago." Farren gives her a mock scowl. "One time," he says. "That was one time!" But he's smiling and relaxed, and so she relaxes too. They sit on the cold tile floor and Elo tells him everything, from the nightmare to what she's omitted from her summaries of Evie's journals.

[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 48

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

The morning of Elo's trial comes. Too soon, she thinks, but when has time been on her side?

From the court gallery, she's watched some of the minor trials of those who helped Brauma with his art fraud and the movement of weapons into and around the city. None of them have confessed to his end goal, so she supposes she'll never know the exact devilment he planned. But all of them so far have been guilty, and that's something to feel good about.

Now it's her turn, and the car is pulling up to the courthouse entrance. Farren twists from the front seat. "Are you ready?" "We can still pull around the side," Cobbleskater says, looking at her in the rearview, eyebrows raised. The way he's been so cautious in his driving makes Elo think he's more nervy than she is. But he's just being loyal, and she's grateful for it. Her ex-team and a handful of friends were the first to volunteer for this unhappy duty of escorting her to what feels like the gallows. She'd never admit it, but she's pathetically grateful they won't let her do this alone. "Thank you, but no. I won't have them thinking I'm a coward." She takes a deep breath, letting it out with slow control. "I'm ready." "Right-o," says Monday. He climbs out on the road side and makes a signal, as Yates is climbing out the pavement side, pushing people out of the way. Farren reaches in to beckon her out. "Remember," he says into her ear, "you keep your eyes on me, you ignore anything said by anyone that's not one of us, and you do not stop." "I understand." Then they're moving through the crowd, Monday, Yates, Hughes and Komens making a corridor. Elo keeps her eyes on Farren's back, her face empty, and tunes everyone out. There are seven steps up to the portico. Six green marble columns support the portico roof over two large oak doors, dark with age. Brass handles gleam dully with the patina of a thousand hands.

For her, they've pulled out all the stops. The doors are opened, and they're met at the darkened maw of the courts by a masked figure in a robe of claret. Farren states her name and the figure moves back, ushering in her in. Before she passes the threshold, Farren catches her arm. "I suppose it'd be too much to ask for you to stay out of trouble?" "Yeah, a little." Elo huffs out a laugh. "Brother, I'm already chest-deep and sinking in it. But you… You keep your feet dry, huh?" Anxious resignation settles on his face. He cups her face in both hands and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Know that you go in love," he says quietly. On tiptoes, Elo kisses his cheeks. She has to swallow past the tightness in her throat. "Despite all the waters ahead, I will find the bridge that brings me back to you." Farren gives a sharp nod and lets her go.

The masked figure leads her through the dark corridors, pausing to give her an opportunity to use the conveniences. Then she's led into the trial room, to the center of the floor, between twin puddles of light streaming from tall windows, high on the ancient walls.

For all they have clawed out of the dark ages and into civility, adapting and improving what is Law with each generation, for something tantamount to treason, things must be done in the traditional manner. The room is pentagonal. At its apex, towards which she faces, are three stern-looking wooden chairs on a small dias, and above them a small bell. Normally, the Magister would take center place. But today, given the nature of the offence, the Bank comes to the fore. General Strucker sits to the left, and Magister Clayrmantle to the right. Elo's eyes skate past who sits at the center, unable to look at him until bade otherwise. Behind her, without turning, she hears the Advocates enter and take up position. While she knows her defender, she will never see the face of her accuser, as is traditional. The doors slam closed behind them. The court is sealed. Another ancient rite – no one will enter or leave until the matter is settled. Any testimony will be presented in sworn affidavits and auditory recordings. For those present, there will be no rest, refreshment, or other comfort until a verdict is pronounced.

Drakemar clears his throat. "Elowyn of Toreguarde, Constable of Police Precinct Eighty-Eight and Freeman of Toreguard, you stand here today to bear witness as your fate is decided on the matter of the death of Lerrald Brauma, former Master of the Exchequer." Elo struggles to keep her confusion off her face; there is something… wrong about the man's voice. It is as light and benign as many other men's and yet she hears a rumbling beneath it, something that reminds her of old caverns and the growl of a tiger. Her gaze is fixed on the rise of the dias, so she only catches the shadow of his gesture to the Advocates. From behind her, a high, female voice says, "We, the people of Toreguard, claim the defendant is guilty of murder in the first, and move for the punishment to be hanging by the neck until dead." "Your Eminence, we, the defence, claim justifiable homicide and move for punishment to be commuted to community service," says Advocate Yevlyn. And just like that, they are off, like horses from the gate, galloping towards the post that will spell her freedom or her doom.

There are arguments and counter-arguments, and so many counters for the counters that Elo gets lost trying to follow it all. Evidence is brought forward – the book, the artefact, reports, statements and recordings. She listens to it all, numb, as they relive the case, watching the sun twist in the little pools ahead of her, sloping in from different angles as the day wears on. Tries not to feel the tremble in her legs, the pain in her lower back, the tension in her bladder as she shifts her weight again and again, determined not to crumble under the strain of this lengthy judgement.

The sun is little more than twin slivers of gold as the advocates fall silent. Everything to be said has been said. Drakemar stirs. Elo watches his feet shift and is surprised when he stands. There is an odd moment, as he steps down from the dias, where the fading daylight glints off his bluchers giving the appearance of claws. Then his burgundy suited legs enter her gaze and he clears his throat. Whatever comes will come, she thinks. "I have heard much this day," Drakemar says. "But there is one more I wish to hear speak." There's a discontented, confused murmuring from the gallery – because in a trial of this sort, only the Advocates and the Triumvirate are allowed to speak. "Detective, what say you to the arguments presented here today?" Elo finally raises her head – and promptly has to clamp her jaws shut to stop the expletive that wants to roll out of her feckless mouth. Because, just when she was about to write off all her memories of fairytale creatures as hallucinations caused by stress or grief or injury, one shows up here and now of all the places. And not just any old one, no no. This is one that, by all rights, shouldn't be able to physically fit inside the building, let alone this room. The space for his wings alone… It's strange though – none of the others have had this echo of themselves behind the physical front she's seen. If they had, maybe she could have stopped Brauma sooner… Her thoughts must show on her face because Drakemar gives a sly smile and a wink that could easily be the drooping of a tired lid. "Constable," Clayrmantle snaps, "you were asked a question." "My apologies, your Eminence," Elo says, her mouth forging ahead with little regard to her brain. "There have been a great many arguments this day. I would appreciate your exactitude as to which you'd like my comments on." There is a smattering of shocked gasps. Elo thinks that if they're going to send her to the noose, at least she's got five for five leaders insulted on her scorecard. "Of course," Drakemar says, inclining his head with an amused smile and gods dammit all, doesn't he have such long, pointy teeth… "I mean to have your opinion on the crux of the matter. Did you murder Lerrald Brauma, or was it a justified act?" "It was justified homicide. I still stand by what I said to my colleague while in hospital." "That conversation was entrapment–" Advocate Yevlyn starts. Drakemar raises a hand and the Advocate cuts off. He blinks down at her with eyes that nictate like a lizard's. "And what was it you said then?" "That I wasn't going to let Brauma become another Greydown. My job is to protect and serve the people of Toreguard. Unfortunately, in this instance, killing the suspect was the only way to do that. We still don't know why he was smuggling ordinance or what he planned to do with it, and maybe we never will. But at least this way I can rest assured he can't use it for whatever nefarious purpose he intended." "How do you know it was nefarious?" "Why would he have the ordinance if his intentions were pure? Why would he go to such lengths as killing a journalist, trying to kill me, to hide them?" "Apt questions. But not, I feel, relevant to the matter at hand."

Drakemar raises a hand, stepping past her to address the gallery, and Elo has to fight not to turn around, belatedly recalling she must not see the faces of the advocates. "So to the matter at hand, then. There is one fact that springs forth as abundantly clear. This woman, who stands accused of murdering Lerrald Brauma, your Exchequer and my Emissary, was willing to offer the ultimate sacrifice based on little more than a gut instinct to do her duty. "It pains me to say I had heard stirrings regarding Brauma's less than savoury activities and yet had not attended to them, believing I had time… Your protector has done you proud, saving you from what I fear may have been yet more wrack and ruin. This is an act which should be esteemed rather than vilified. "That being said," Drakemar completes his circle to stand before Elo, fingers steepled in a considering manner, "a life was taken, and penance must be paid." Slitted golden eyes regard her. Elo straightens her spine and raises her chin to meet them. "A year and a day of exile, as ambassador to Iceland."

Elo's shoulders sag. Her knees tremble, threatening to give way. She won't be marched to the noose. Didn't she say she would take a sabbatical after this anyway? A year is nothing. Strucker flies to his feet. "A year! Drakemar, I must protest– "Yes, I suppose you must…" "She has duties here! A life and friends–" "As I understand it she had friends in Fangthane as well." "A family who will miss her!" "Not half as much as I suspect she will miss them!" Drakemar rounds on Strucker – who, to his credit, does not back down from the fight. Even against a dragon, apparently. "This is a punishment, General. The defence requested community service, so here it is: service to the community she holds so dear – the whole of the City of Toreguard." "Not quite what I had in mind," Advocate Yevlyn mutters. Drakemar continues, "Commencing one week hence, Elowyn of Toreguarde will not be permitted to set foot on City soil for a year and a day. She will only be permitted to speak to the Triumvirate council, or whomever they assign receive her reports." Advocate Yevlyn clears his throat. Drakemar looks past Elo and inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Full and explicit terms will be outlined in writing before the week is out. She will be released under her own recognisance to appear at the Court jetty on the morning of her exile date." "Is that wise, your Eminence?" asks the Advocate for the People. He looks then at Elo, his smile as sweet as a carnivorous plant. "I think Detective O'Toreguarde can be trusted with this." She dips her head. "I accept my penance as mete and give thanks it was not harsher. I will be there." Clayrmantle rises with wearisome movements, leaning heavily on his cane. "The sentence has been issued, and the matter judged. Do we all find this trial settled?" "Aye," chorus the advocates. "Aye," Drakemar purrs, smiling like the cat that got the cream. "Aye…" Strucker says grudgingly. "Then so it is ended," Clayrmantle says, chiming the bell once.

Elo hears the court doors bang open. Drakemar and the Advocates leave amid murmurs buzzing from the gallery. She starts to turn. Her vision swims. Strucker catches her before her legs give way completely. Then she is outside, in the corridor, with Strucker passing her into Farren's waiting arms. She's given a sugar cookie and water with a salty edge. Yates and Monday keep the crowd at bay as Farren practically carries her out the side entrance to where Cobbleskater waits with the car.

[druidx]

Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 47

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

She's laid up in hospital for two more weeks. During the first, her only visitors are unknown TPD Officers and a revolving door of King Storri's Ubiquitous Black Suits. A nurse comes in a few days after Farren's visit with a letter. Elo recognises the blocky scrawl on the outside. The machine she's hooked up to starts wailing, so the nurse tucks it away and gives her a sedative. The second week,she's allowed to see Strucker and her mother, and eventually Cobbleskater, who – much to Strucker's annoyance – sneaks paperwork in to keep her busy; Strucker stops complaining when Elo reminds him of his own work ethic. She learns Breakwood, Cobbleskater, Monday, and Yates busted their asses to tie up the case against Brauma and deliver it, pretty bows and all, to the DA. They raided Brauma's house and found the murder weapon. A short, gangly man by the name of Stone came forward as a witness. Arts & Antiquities held some of the missing pieces to their puzzle. Organised Crime, it turned out, held the rest.

An expensive advocate turns up, but won't say who he's been bought by. He tells her she's been demoted back to Detective Constable. Still a detective, Elo thinks – and is glad they've let her keep that. As the previous lead investigator, she must attend Brauma's posthumous trial for Evelyn Strucker's murder. She may also be called to testify against the others responsible for the art fraud and gun running rings Brauma was orchestrating. Her own trial will be separate. Elo nearly dismisses him, because what's the point of a defence advocate when he's got nothing to defend? But she doesn't, because she knows she'll need an experienced hand to help navigate these waters.

A doctor comes to talk to her about being discharged. Despite everything, she wants to go to Farren's; as far as she's concerned, it's the safest place in the city. But she hasn't spoken to him for two weeks – the longest she's gone without speaking to him while still in the city – and it would mean she has to sleep on the sofa, which the doctor says isn't suitable. So once again, she'll be packed off to Strucker's spare room.

The day she's due to be discharged, Elo's packing up her things when she finds the letter. She's dressed, ready to go, and only waiting on whoever Strucker sends to pick her up. As she holds the letter in her hands, she feels her heart speed up. The doctors have said she can handle some excitement, but not too much. Her heart is still delicate. Bug, the letter starts, in Farren's blocky lettering. I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be a trap. It was just to find out more details. No one was expecting a full confession. I wasn't there to hang you. On my badge, I wasn't. You're my sister, Elowyn. More than that, even. I would never do something like that to you. Never. Understand? Call me, okay? Let's get this squared away. The immediate flush of feeling betrayed had passed quickly enough – Elo had known he would never have done something like that to her, not on purpose. But every time she'd looked at the letter, the machine started wailing and she'd had to set the affair aside. Now she feels an utter turkey. All that time she left him stewing! When she gets to Stucker's, she'll call and set things straight.

–––

She's given another week's reprieve. Time enough to sort things with Farren and say teary goodbyes to the Icelandic contingent – they can't be in the city, Storri says, at the same time as Drakemar, who is rumoured to be dealing with the matter of Elo's trial personally. He tells her he'll be back in a month, to ratify some accord or other, and he intends to cash in on the two dinners she owes him. "Two?" "Two. The pre-agreed remuneration for our alliance, and the one you skipped out on to ensure the other end of our bargain was kept, in that foolish way you managed." "Technically, I never signed that accord." "Strucker and Clayrmantle were your proxies. Not that I would think you the type to go back on your word, but I still expect to be paid in full!" His tone suggests he expects she'll still be around to keep the bargain. "Sir," Elo says, neutrally; she won't make a promise she can't keep.

The reprieve is time enough to settle her accounts and double-check her will before she's swept up in recording statements and giving testimony and pinned to her desk with all the paperwork she wasn't able to do before.

Before her trial, there'll be an inquiry. It's supposed to be an assessment – was this murder or a lawful and justified killing – but they all know, no matter the result, Elo will have to stand trial. She killed a member of the Triumvirate. The public, the senate, and the constitution all demand she appear before court for such an act. The inquiry is led by one Lieutenant F. King Sensible, of the 61st precinct. They've worked together before, briefly, in a special task force to deal with the Brotherhood case. She knows he's a good man and a better cop, who'll make a fair and reasoned assessment before the court, even if it doesn't matter much in the end. She's made copies of all the reports and evidence, refusing help from anyone. Farren is being bounced up to sergeant, Cobbleskater to constable first-class. While Yates and Monday are still their desk neighbours, they've been unassigned. Elo knows the pecking order – and besides, she thinks maybe this way she can distance them from her screwup. She goes alone to give her statement to Lieutenant Sensible and submit to questioning; when they find out later, she gets an earful, even from Cobbleskater. Fugit just looks disappointed – and pulls strings. When she has to go back the second time, her advocate is waiting for her outside the 61st.

"I want to go over the fight again," Sensible says. Elo rakes her hands through her hair. "C'mon, Kingy. I've told you everything I remember already. Face it – there's always going to be holes in the narrative. The doctors said I had trauma-based amnesia." "Maybe something'll jog loose if we go through it again." Advocate Yevlyn holds up a hand. "What is the end point of this line of questioning?" Sensible sighs and pulls out a piece of paper to hand over to the Advocate. "In the hospital conversation with Detective Breakwood, O'Toreguarde stated she thought Brauma would 'become another Greydown'." "A conversation, incidentally, which is inadmissible." "But it is part of the record." Sensible turns back to Elo. "What I want to know is how you came to that conclusion, and did it have anything to do with words exchanged during the fight?" Elo glances at the Advocate. He nods. She shakes her head, lost. "Maybe? We exchanged words before we fought. He was itching for any excuse to attack. I think I asked him to stand down. Maybe we mentioned other things? I'm sorry, King, I don't remember. The only clear thing I can recall is his dismissive confession, and knowing that I was winding up dead either way." "And then decided to expedite the process." "Lieutenant," the Advocate raises a warning finger. "I must remind you not to allow your personal feelings to colour your judgement." "Of course, Advocate Yevlyn," he says, not sounding at all contrite. "O'Toreguarde, the fight happened before you knew about the gun-running, correct?" "Technically." Sensible raises an eyebrow. "Technically?" "In the Victim's personal diary, page 130-something, she speaks to an informant who says, and I paraphrase, 'one of the Masters is bringing danger into the city'. The victim interpreted that to mean someone in the council, and was conducting background checks on everyone. I read this after Brauma attempted vehicular manslaughter of myself, but before I knew it was he who attempted it. So I was aware there was a threat beyond the art fraud, but nothing specific." "And your conclusion was that Brauma was that Master?" "Yes. Item seven is the mechanic's assessment of damage done to the underside of Brauma's car. You'll see he notes a high prevalence of gold-coloured plastic fragments. Plastic, which came from the fairing of my motorbike after Brauma drove over it in an attempt to drive over me. "Additionally, Sargent Monday was able to trace the renter of the jetty at Tattham Docks and the owner of the sunken barge back through a string of shell corporations to Brauma." "That was after his death, though?" "Yes." Sensible shakes his head. "It still feels like something is missing. Some final step which made you take that leap. And from what I can see, having gone through all the statements and reports and evidence, it must have happened during the fight." Sensible stops sifting the papers in front of him and looks up with an exasperated huff. "If I may be candid? El, you're one of the most reckless people I've ever met. But I know for a fact that even you wouldn't do something so utterly misguided as getting deliberately stabbed, unless you thought it was the only way to solve a problem. "I just can't see how you got from Brauma's animosity towards you to 'he'll be another Greydown'." Elo throws her hands up. "I don't know what to tell you! After his confession, and refusal to stand down, everything in my memory is just… fire." "Fire?" "I think we should take a break," the Advocate says. "You are causing my client undue distress, and she's still clinically vulnerable." Elo holds up a placating hand to Advocate Yevlyn, and takes a couple of deep breaths, knowing that he's right – she still needs to keep her pulse under control.

"Thank you. I can continue." She looks at Sensible. "Yes, Kingy, fire. The rebar wasn't rebar, but a flaming sword. Every time I landed a punch, it left a burn mark… I can't explain it. It must have been some… hallucination?" "I didn't see anything about this in the medical reports," Sensible says with a frown. "Did you share this with the doctors?" "These false memories weren't as specific as they are now. But yes, I mentioned it in passing, and was told it would go away eventually when I remembered what really happened." "But that hasn't happened yet?" Elo shrugs. "No." "And you've not had any other memory issues or hallucinations since?" "No." Sensible draws a hand down his face. "Alright. We'll end the session. I'll call you if I need any more questions answered." Advocate Yevlyn passes over a business card. "I'd prefer if you called me first. Detective O'Toreguarde is having some memory issues, pursuant to her Sixth Amendment rights." Sensible cants his head at Elo in a disappointed gesture, before wrapping the interview up and switching the recorder off. They stand to leave. "Off the record?" Sensible says as he collects his papers together, "I'll do what I can. But you haven't left me much wiggle room." "That's kind of you, Kingy, but I know what I did. Even if I can't remember why, I'm firm in my conviction that it was the right thing to do. I'll take whatever's coming to me with as much grace as I can." He looks at her with tight lips and grave eyes. "Still, I'll give it my best. I hope things go in your favour." Elo nods her thanks, and they shake.

[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 43

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. 42 Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

Outside, Stucker raises an eyebrow in question. Elo guesses that their argument could be heard from outside – she sometimes forgets how loud she can be. She gives Strucker's eyebrow a shrug. "Broken bridges don't stay broken as long as there's willing hands to mend." An old proverb from a city of bridges seems apt here. Strucker gives her a thoughtful look and a hum which ends on a positive note. "He is on your side. You do know that?" "He has a funny way of showing it." The words are out before she can tame them. Along the corridor, Theodarsson and the aides are politely pretending this conversation isn't happening. Strucker sighs. "He's trying." "And so am I. I invited him to dinner. I'll ask Ms Evans to update Unka on my way out." "Where are you going?" Elo raises an annoyed eyebrow. Strucker answers with a tired frown. "I'm just being cautious." "Well, you needn't. His Nibs has sicced one of his Agents on me." At this, Theodarsson steps forward and bows from the waist. "Kóngurinn minn has instructed me to stay glued to milady's side, lest he take my head." Elo sarcastically flicks a hand towards the Agent, her gaze fixed on Strucker. Strucker is eyeing Theodarsson with what Elo can only think of as a professional assessment. She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath to suppress the irritated huff she wants to give. Before the situation can get any more ridiculous, she announces, "I'm going home to get changed. Clayrmantle's all yours. I'll see you at dinner."

–––

After speaking to Evans about dinner, they leave the Halls and take a punt to Elo's tenement. As promised, Theodarsson stays glued to her side the whole way there, and stands resolute guard in front of her door, even when she suggests he go get a cup of tea and one of Mrs Higgins' cupcakes, because, really – how much harm can come to her in her own room? Theodarsson gives her a knowing look. "You'd be surprised, milady." Which doesn't entirely settle the matter in Elo's head, but at the end of the day he's just doing his job, so she lets him. Then she's washed, dressed, suited and booted, and out the door with plenty of time to speak to the Eshen and get to the restaurant.

"Actually, Theodarsson," she says, stopping him as he's trying to hail a cab, "there's an errand I have to take care of first." He looks askance but follows readily enough as she leads the way down the brownstone row and ducks into the alley. He's still looking askance as they stop at the end of the alley, in much the same place as Elo and Farren the day before. "I have to speak to some informants," Elo explains. "Can you stay here? I don't want to spook them." "Where will you be?" "Down there." Elo points to the towpath. Theodarsson shakes his head. "I can't allow it. It's too far and I won't be able to see you. Kóngurinn minn has promised dire consequences for failing to protect you." Elo frowns. "He's not really going to decapitate you." The smile he gives her is indulgent, the type one might give a child. "He could and he would. What's more, I would go willingly. I couldn't face the shame of my clan if I failed this duty." Elo stares. "Damn, son. And I thought I had an overdeveloped sense of honour." Theodarsson's smile softens. "You are more important than you realise, Lady Toreguarde."

She draws in a breath, thinking back to Storri's lecture on allowing one's person to be guarded. He'd said that it might be best for her to think of her protection officer as extra backup. And it makes sense – she can't count the number of times she's been Farren's backup for an undercover op. How she'd be sequestered in some corner within line of sight, eyes glued to his person, constantly calculating paths and time to reach him, feeling that surge of panic every time the view was blocked out by a vehicle. She eases the breath out, low and controlled, and starts checking sight lines.

"What about the bridge?" Elo points. "If I stay this side of the tree, you've got good coverage of my location. If you're as fast as Andersen, it won't even take you a minute to reach me if there's a problem." Theodarsson squints. "Aye, that might do." He doesn't sound happy about it. "I've run this kind of op before. I know how it goes down. I won't make a move without giving you a signal." He hums; a declinate sound. "Agent." Elo looks him square in the eye. "I'm fully aware your government has a dossier on me, which you must have read before coming here, so you know exactly what I'm capable of. If I can't prevent someone from injuring me, you have my full permission to say 'I told you so' once we're at the hospital." The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk. "Deal." With a sharp nod, Elo moves towards Shortcut Bridge.

The sun is dying into Silverhooks canal, tinting the water a washed-out pink. Elo puts a hand, but not her weight, on the railing as she looks down the shivering surface of the water. On either side, the buildings make dark canyon walls. If she were the sort to believe in omens, she might think it was a warning. "Atnešė," says a light voice at her side. Elo turns to see the Eshen girl from the tree. "Greetings. Where is Aster?" The girl turns with a beckoning gesture. "It is too open here, the elders have decided. We go in there."

The building she indicates is an old fish processing plant. It's been empty for a few years, the owners having moved to better premises and sold it off to a housing company that went bust. Technically, it's been declared derelict. It's old and unstable, no longer fit for any purpose aside from being torn down. Technically, no one should be inside it. Not her, not the fairytales, not the squatters that pass through wanting a dry spot for the night. Technically, being a copper, Elo should report this. But sometimes, what is right and what is lawful are not the same.

"Alright." Elo releases the railing and makes a flick with her wrist. That's the signal Farren always uses to say he's on the move. But while she's run dozens of these operations, Elo has never been on this side of it before. She can't shut down the urge to check over her shoulder, to see if Theodarsson has seen. He signals back, the blade of his hand slicing through the air, telling her to move on. The Eshen girl squints past her. "Who's that?" "Just a precaution." The girl frowns. "He's trusted," Elo says. "Please, lead on." The girl gives one more grumpy murmur before leading Elo towards a hole in the chain link fence.

[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 42

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 10. 20. 30. 40. 41. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting, @hannah-heartstrings, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @babyblueetbaemonster @mr-orion

There's more laughter and chatter as they finish their tea, making plans for dinner and the theatre later now Storri is inclined to stay longer. Then they are outside, waiting for a car to pick the Icelanders up. Elo plans to take a punt back to City Hall; she wants to share this latest development with Strucker and Clayrmantle. Then she can go change, and they'll sign the interim agreement at dinner.

The car rolls up. Storri begins to get in, but stops, looking at her with a frown before rapping something out to Merri in Icelandic that is too fast for Elo to pick out any meaning. Merri replies, and raps out a command to a man no taller than she and built like a linebacker, with dark cropped hair and tattoos peeking from his cuffs and collar. The car drives away, leaving Elo and the Ubiquitous Black Suit behind. "Shouldn't you–" Elo points to the departing car. "Nay, milady. Kóngurinn minn has ordered me to stay with you until you return to Detective Breakwood." Elo draws a breath. "His Majesty needs protection more than I do." The agent laughs. "Not to hear him tell it. Besides, he is aware of your General's opinion that you should not be left alone and intends to honour that. Shall we catch that punt?" "And with whom will I be travelling?" "Deepest apologies, milady. Nirric Theodarsson, at your service," the agent says and bows from the waist. Satisfied, Elo leads the way back to the Market docks. "Theodarsson… Why is that name so familiar?" Elo asks as they walk. "Aside from the fact that our names are patronymic," he says, "you may find it familiar because it's the same as Lord High Commander Grohl Theodarsson, who is my brother." Elo feels her eyebrows raise in surprise. "Well then," she says, "I find myself deeply honoured that His Majesty should choose one of such high esteem to babysit me." Again Agent Theodarsson laughs, an easy grin on his face, and Elo smiles back, liking the fellow.

–––

Elo feels a strange trepidation on entering the marble Halls which only grows as they ascend the elevator. Theodarsson seems to sense her unease, putting himself between her and everyone else they come across. If Storri thinks his behaviour around the Exchequer will be unbecoming, then Elo will be a feral beast… Fortunately, they do not run into the Exchequer, and Evans directs Elo to Strucker's main office.

"Come!" calls a voice from within the office after Elo has knocked, though it does not sound like Strucker's. She enters to find Strucker, Clayrmantle and some military aids discussing something over the coffee table. "Apologies," she says, "I can come back later–" "Elowyn! No, no, stay–" Clayrmantle starts up, but collapses back with a wince as he puts unwanted weight on his leg. Strucker raises an eyebrow at Clayrmantle then looks at the aids, "Would you give us a moment?" The aides rise and trickle out. Theodarsson raises a questioning eyebrow. "Wait outside, please," Elo tells him softly. "I'll be safe with these two." He glances at Strucker and Clayrmantle, then back to Elo. "Scream if you need me," he says, and closes the door behind him.

Elo steps forward, stopping at the end of the two sofas with arms crossed, and for a moment, she is lost for words. She's been avoiding thinking about how Clayrmantle's actions have made her feel – all of her ire has been aimed at the Exchequer – and facing him now leaves her confused. "You clearly have something to tell us, or you wouldn't be here," Strucker says, sounding techy and tired. Elo clears her throat, pushing the confused feelings into a mental box to be dealt with later. "I thought you may like to know that I've been able to fix some of the damage caused by the Exchequer's stupid little stunt. I've managed to get agreement from King Storri to continue negotiations, pending certain conditions. And at the end of our discussion, he intimated that the broad strokes of the deal between ourselves and the Kingdom of Iceland was finalised." "You closed this deal," Magister Thazar says with the merest hint of askance in his otherwise flat tone. She can't work out if he's questioning that she did it, or that she is implying the deal wasn't already as good as closed. She opts for the safer argument. "I convinced him we're not all feckless barbarians." Clayrmantle has the grace to wince. "And what are these conditions?" Strucker says. "That the Secretary to the Treasury will be the Exchequer's proxy in meetings that would need him, and that I moderate any meetings between King Storri and the Acting Magister." Clayrmantle clears his throat. "And did you offer him anything else in this agreement?" "That on his subsequent trips, I take him out to dinner to sample a new cuisine." Elo clears her throat. "I'm aware my presence in these meetings will be symbolic at best, and the exact terms of this alliance will be negotiated by others, so you needn't worry about me overstepping my bounds. I remain as I ever was to you – a pretty centrepiece for your political table." "You think that's what you are to me?" Clayrmantle tucks his chin down, the corners of his mouth drooping such that any other time it might be comical. "I think you've made that quite clear over the past few days." Clayrmantle moves like he's been struck, wincing back, hurt clouding his face. Somewhere a clock strikes the hour.

When it's clear Clayrmantle isn't going to continue, Strucker says, "And what did he offer you?" "Assurances, mostly. That he would persist in negotiations, and that the Exchequer hasn't tainted his view of the whole city. And he could be considered a patron of my community organisation." Strucker hums thoughtfully. "And was anyone else witness to this?" "No, but he's having the agreement drawn up as we speak. We'll sign it at dinner. Join us, if you like – eight o'clock at Bourdains on Goldneedle Street. You can read it over, make sure I haven't signed away the keys to the city." This last comes out cold and acerbic. Where Clayrmantle looks like a kicked puppy, Strucker merely frowns in fatherly distaste. "I think I shall. I do not want to see your kindness taken advantage of." "What could he possibly gain from altering the fine print?" Elo snaps. "Iceland needs this deal just as much as we do. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardise this, not when they're on the edge of a famine." Strucker's eyebrows raise and he shares a glance with Clayrmantle. But Elo isn't done. "Their grain returns are down twenty-eight per cent from last year and twelve from the year before that. That includes animal feed. "They can't grow much else – potatoes don't do well in stony soil, and rice is right out. And as hardy as their sheep are, even they need extra feed over the winter months. If Iceland's soil keeps deteriorating at this rate, they'll have no staple crops within the next five years. "We're the closest neighbour-state that always has an excess of grains and other staple foods. They need us as much as we need their tradesmen and tourists." Now, both Strucker and Clayrmantle look startled. "How do you know that?" Clayrmantle asks. "Because it's standard procedure to know all you can about a situation before going into it." Elo takes a breath. "I had one of my team look into why Iceland has suddenly decided to reinitiate alliances after all this time, and that's the answer he came up with. It seems from your reactions, his conclusion was accurate." The silence is deafening. "Johan," Clayrmantle says with a sigh. "May we have some privacy?" Strucker looks between the two of them. "Can I trust you to at least keep it civil?" he asks. Elo rolls her eyes and Clayrmantle looks indignant. Strucker chuckles and stands. "Very well. I'll let you settle this."

Once the door closes behind Strucker, Clayrmantle waves to the couch he'd vacated. "Please, have a seat." Elo takes a step forward but changes her mind. "Thank you, I'll stand." "Elowyn," he starts but purses his lips and looks away from her. "No one was supposed to know about the decreasing grain yields." "Then either Iceland isn't trying very hard to hide it or my guy deserves a raise." "Politically, this makes things more tenuous–" "Cut the crap. You didn't ask Strucker to leave because you wanted to impress upon me the necessity of state secrecy. You know full damn well how good I am at keeping your secrets." For one of the three corners of her city's government, Clayrmantle is like a schoolboy and suddenly very interested in his shoes. In the back of her mind, Elo knows that later she'll be embarrassed at having yelled at yet another head of state, but right now she doesn't care. "Listen. I know that in the past I was naïve and that our relationship is not as deep as I thought it was. I know now that I'm just a convenient accessory, inherited from my Aunts, and nothing more than a pretty thing to truck out to visiting dignitaries. And I'm sorry you feel that way. But it absolutely does not excuse what you did. What you let the Exchequer try to do." "Elowyn–" "You tried to sell me off." The words ring hollowly in her chest, like her entire being is a void, waiting to be filled with an anger that doesn't want to come. "Right now, I don't think I even want an apology. I just want you to acknowledge what you did was wrong. You were going to let Brauma dispense with me like an object, like I wasn't even human, like I was nothing. He tried to rob me of my personhood, and you just let him do it. What's worse, I would have let him do it, because I would do anything for this city and he knows it. And he exploited that love to get rid of me. Because if you dislike me then he positively loathes me, and can't wait to see me gone. And I can deal with what he did, because of that hate. But you… I thought we were friends. But you were just as prepared to sell me off as he was." Elo presses her lips into a grim line. Getting it all out there hasn't made the rage come; if anything she feels colder, emptier.

Clayrmantle's attention has become riveted on her through her diatribe, his eyes wide and shocked, running his hands over the handle of his cane, his legs, smoothing and clenching. Now that she's stopped, he rushes to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane. "Elowyn, I had no idea, no idea at all you felt like this. I'm so sorry that my actions have given you cause to think I consider you only as, ah, how did you put it? A pretty centrepiece for my political table. I assure you I most certainly do not." "Then how do you explain dragging me off a case just to play tour guide? How do you explain the dress debacle?" She uses a pointing finger to emphasise her words. "How do you explain letting Brauma sell me off? Gods!" She runs her hands through her hair. "I am so lucky King Storri is as moral as he is. Anyone else, you would have let them cart me off without so much as a by-your-leave, no matter the fact he's over twice my age, no matter the fact I'm not attracted to men, no matter the fact I didn't want to go!" And – ah, there's the anger. Like a cup of boiling vinegar, hot and bitter. Clayrmantle hobbles over to her, "I– I didn't know. I would have stopped it if I did. But you seemed so happy talking to him, showing him around, I thought–" "He's in love with Alexis! I was happy talking to him because it meant I got to know about my Aunt's final days. And as for showing him around, that was the job you tasked me with to help win this alliance." Clayrmantle reaches out, and Elo shies away. "Elowyn… My dear… I can only apologise for my overstep. I would never want to foist upon you a situation you did not want. Not even at the cost of the city would I want to deny you agency. I cannot apologise enough for misreading the situation. You have my solemn vow I will never do anything like this again." Elo steps back, her anger a flash-in-the-pan, leaving her tired and hollow. "Thank you for that assurance. And I accept your apology. In truth, I wasn't expecting that much contrition from you. I suppose I'd assumed you were only doing what the Exchequer told you to do." Clayrmantle grimaces. "Strucker assumed the same. Even went so far as to call me Brauma's puppet." He rubs the back of his neck. "Quite a lot of words were bandied about after you and His Majesty left yesterday. And indeed those words continued today, with lawyers in attendance. We are investigating what punitive action can be taken against a member of the Triumvirate." Elo nods carefully. Relief doesn't take the place of anger, just a gnawing concern. "I am truly sorry for my actions," Clayrmantle says. "As I've said, I accept your apology."

In the stretching silence, muffled chatting comes from the corridor without. Elo says, "I must get on. I need to go and change for dinner." Then a wildness overtakes her. "Why don't you come as well? To dinner I mean." Perhaps food and booze can be a bandaid over their troubles. "I would love to," Clayrmantle says, and wavers on his feet. Instinctively Elo reaches out to steady him and help him back to the sofa. He looks sallow and drawn, and there's a flicker of concern for his health. "Maybe take a nap, or something, before dinner?" He hums in agreement. "Good afternoon, Lady Toreguarde." Even as Elo dips into a leggy, florid bow, she knows that this rift will take a lot longer to heal than one dinner. She'll need time to work through the pains King Storri has brought with his presence. But that will come after Evie's murderer is delivered to justice. Maybe she'll take some time off, take Storri up on his offer of a visit to Fangthane. But that's the future and there are things still to sort in the present. "Good afternoon, Acting Magister," Elo says and leaves the office.

[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.