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druidx · 5 months ago

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Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #npc irvine cobbleskater #npc oakrose o'toreguarde #oc Dimple #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

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druidx · 2 months ago

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Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 33

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

It is Yoruk who finds her, as she is coming up to the car park. He is coming the other way, and his face goes from a look of thunderous determination to one of anxious concern when he spots her. "My Lady Toreguarde?" he asks, and his voice is tremulous and low, the sort of tone one might use on a frightened child. "Agent Forhoksson," she returns in the most normal tone she can, for all that she is standing there with no shoes and probably twigs in her hair. "Are you… well?" he asks in that same cautious tone, as he takes a tentative pace toward her. Elo tilts her head in consideration, then with a brief fortifying breath, says, "I am… well enough, thank you." A dubious look skates over his features, highlighted in the pinching of his lips and the curving of his brow. Elo realises Yoruk doesn't know if he should believe her. For all that he is Merri's paramour and Elo her best friend, they do not know each other well. They've only met a handful of times; and one of those, Elo was threatening his life on her friend's behalf. "Agent Forhoksson… Yoruk, I'm sorry for causing such trouble." Elo tries to put weight into her words because she is sorry. "I should have said something, I should have tried, before taking off. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. But…" Elo purses her lips and looks away into the darkly verdant distance. "Have you ever…" She doesn't know how to name it. Elo has never been in a war – not like Aunt Alexis has, with bombs falling all around – so she can't call it shell shock. "Do you ever get…" He's frowning now, head ducked and hands at the ready – a gesture of imminent action should she do anything untoward. Elo presses at the spot between her eyebrows and flicks out a hand. "I don't have the words." "Take your time, my Lady."

Elo swallows, lets her eyes close. Lies are difficult for her to spin on a good day, but she absolutely cannot tell him the truth. And anyway, it's not a lie, not really. She might not have shell shock in the same manner as her Aunt, but Elo has seen her fair share of battle, has lost colleagues to the elements and weapons of man alike; and knows, she has not come away unscarred. Another breath. Lorcian once told her that acting is about stepping into the truth of another's shoes. So she takes a step into the shoes of the past. "I didn't mean to run off with no explanation. But I had a sudden, unassailable fear… Our perimeter, you see, it… it wasn't…" She swallows. "It was drilled into me by my Aunt that complacency kills people. I get… nervous when things are too quiet or too easy. So I needed… I had to go…" In a last-ditch attempt to make him understand, she says, "We had civilians. Children." "Easy, Elowyn." He reaches out, as if to steady her shoulders, but refrains from actually touching her. Elo takes another fortifying breath. "Thank you. I'm okay." Yoruk lowers his hands, nodding. "I think I understand. We use the German word, Kriegszilterer, for when the effects of combat follow you home." Elo stares. "Have you…?" "Yes. When an engine misfires, I instinctively take counter-measures." He gives her a half-smile. "A side effect of guarding our Regent – people like to shoot at him, and he must be protected."

In the distance, the racing wind of traffic can be heard. Around them, the trees shift restlessly and a bird twitters a goodnight. "Father Goodwin gave us the use of the old groundskeeping hut while we searched for you," Yoruk says, his posture now relaxed. He gestures behind her, up the lawn towards the Church. "If you can manage, there is a house full of people who would benefit from seeing you. It's perfectly okay if you're not – I can radio in that I've found you and take you home." Now Elo looks at him properly – despite the low light – she can see the strain around his eyes, the rumples in his suit, the paleness of his complexion. "How bad is it?" she asks. Yoruk lets out a shuddering sigh. His gaze flicks away for the merest of moments. "They'll be better for seeing you." He locks his gaze back on hers, and she hears the unspoken: 'It's bad.' "I think I can manage." He gives her a lopsided smile, and they start walking to the groundskeeper's hut.

"I am surprised," Yoruk says as they walk along the moonlit lawn, "that you managed to evade the search parties for so long. I realise you're a highly trained special forces agent, but General Strucker says he called in the best Rangers he had available." Elo raises an eyebrow. "I've been gone a couple of hours, and the Triumvirate felt they needed to pull in SpecOps to find me? I know everything's on tenterhooks between our nations, but that's a little overkill, don't you think?" Yoruk's steps falter and Elo senses his change in stance – the tension is back in his shoulders, the cautious, watchful air about him returns. And oh, isn't she glad it was he who found her, and not, say, Merri. "Elowyn," he says carefully, "it's been a day. Merri said you ran into the woods and vanished. She followed your trail, found your boots, but you were just gone. No trace at all." "I hope she's kept my boots safe," Elo says, unthinking. "They're a nice stout pair, I'd hate to have lost them." Yoruk stares and gives an exasperated, consternated huff. "Yes," he says flatly, "Meredith has your boots." He rubs at his chest. "How did you evade the search parties? It wasn't just Strucker's Rangers combing the park, but Kóngurinn minn called in a unit of our Special Forces to help." "Oh. I, uh, climbed a tree," Elo says. Yoruk goes quiet beside her, and she can feel his consternation building. "I climbed it quite far," she offers, as he goes still. "You climbed a tree. Quite far." "To the top, in fact. And I swear to you, I thought I was only gone a few hours." He swears in Icelandic – and Elo knows that curse; it's the one Merri used when one of their team had done something particularly reckless. "Is that everyone in the Groundskeeper's hut – Strucker and some SpecOps units?" Elo asks to change the subject as they start walking again. Yoruk huffs. "Would that were the case. Kóngurinn minn is a stubborn beast and declined to leave the park until you were found. Of course, this means that Meredith, I, and the rest of his security had to stay. Your General used his executive powers to coordinate the search himself instead of delegating, so is accompanied by a small staff. "Your Magister is a far more sensible man. He assisted your Mother in returning her brood home and has stayed away to smooth things over with your council. I understand there is some nervousness about what your sudden departure could have meant." He looks away, but Elo senses words unsaid. "What is it?" Yoruk purses his lips. "Someone leaked that you were sat next to Kóngurinn minn, just the two of you, at the edge of the party, before you fled." He looks back, face blank. "I have to ask–" "His behaviour has been above reproach at all times." The words are hard, caustic. Tension leaves Yourk's face. "Thank you." "Fucking optics," Elo says, pressing a hand against her head. "How did this happen? How the hell did I become the fulcrum of this deal?" "Do you want the supportive answer or the honest answer?" Elo shakes her head. "This is all the Exchequer's doing. I just don't understand why." She rubs her forehead again. "I hate politics." Yoruk reaches out slowly to pat her arm, and they resume walking.

The Groundskeeper's hut, a basic brick building more shed than home, comes into view. "Ah, I forgot to mention," Yoruk says. "Your Mother returned this evening in the company of Officer Breakwood and one of her children for an update." "She brought one of the kids?" "Apparently, the little girl with mousy hair–" "Dimple?" "–Insisted on coming along." Elo finds her steps slow. "Let me get this right: That tiny hut up there is housing a King, a General, two dozen various armed SpecOps and associated admin, a copper, a retired architect, and a little girl; none of whom will have slept well, all of whom are tense because of falsely engineered politics, and who probably want to wring my neck?" "Yes, I believe that covers it." Elo stops outright now. "Cuthbert brace me, I'm going to get mobbed." Yoruk halts and says gently, "Not if you don't want to be. I know what it's like to be deluged by concerned family who may not understand the delicate state you're in. I must report to Kóngurinn minn and your General, but I will do so discreetly. Wait out here." Elo realises she has been holding her breath, eases it out in a low hiss. She will have to explain herself to everyone eventually, but to do so one at a time instead of all at once – that would be a gift. "Thank you, Yoruk." The tension lightens around his eyes as he inclines his head – as much of a smile as he can manage in the circumstances, Elo supposes. "You're welcome." He slips into the hut, leaving Elo to loiter outside. Light from a window above pools around her like a spotlight, and she reflects again she's glad it was Yoruk who found her – Farren would have worked too – but not her Mother or Merri. She loves them both dearly, of course, but Yoruk and Farren understand, and she is so, so grateful that Yoruk has not made a fuss.

«So. They made you a full moss-licker then,» says a quiet voice from a small bush off to her left. He sounds faintly jealous, for all his snarky words – like he was hoping that maybe it would turn out she wasn't a moss-ears after all, but a green-skin like him. "No, Snotgrut," Elo says. "I don't know what they made me, but I am just me. I am not a moss-ears or a green-skin. I am both and neither." He harrumphs at that pronouncement. "Listen," Elo says, suddenly urgent; she has recalled the promise made. "I said I'd meet you and them on the tow-path at Silver Hooks at dawn tomorrow, so they could explain their side of things. But I have a feeling I won't be be able to get away. Can you tell them the time's changed – I'll meet you all at dusk instead." «Youse want me to willingly find out the moss-ears?» "Yes. I know you can do it." «Youse want me to be your… messenger boy?» he spits the words. «To a bunch of no-good, namby-pamby, bloody–» "Please, Snotgrut," she says quietly. There is a waiting silence then, and she can picture him shuffling, indignant, and trying to figure out if she's worth it. "What do you need to be convinced, Snotgrut? More clothes, more coffee? I can get you both." «Bah. Already bought me, dincha?» He makes a disgruntled noise. «We'll see you tomorrow then.» Then there is a subtle silence that tells her the Dvasia has gone. Elo leans back against the wall, a wave of weariness overcoming her.

The sound of the door opening alters her to another's presence. She lets her head loll in that direction, to see Strucker leaning a shoulder against the wall. He keeps his distance, hands tucked into his pockets. "You good?" he asks. "Yeah," she says with a sigh. "Mostly." Strucker nods, fixes his gaze on his shoes. "Storri's lad said it was an effect of battle trauma. I know I'm not the best for it, but if you want to talk any time…" "I know. Thank you." "Though I want a promise in return." "Oh?" "Quit trashing your bike. Spark plugs are cheap; bodywork isn't." Elo startles, pulling away from the wall. "You didn't have to–" "Like hell, I didn't." He sounds cross, but it's not just anger Elo hears there – there is a rough edge of affection too, and she is surprised by it. "I lost one of my little girls this week; I told you before, I don't intend to lose another, especially not through faulty machinery. If that means I have to fix your fool-ass back up with a ride, then so be it." He huffs. "That Atillia of yours is a rare beast. You need to take better care of her." Beneath his words, she hears the hidden meaning. But the implication he considers her family is unexpected. Perhaps it is by association with her aunts, or just that they have grown closer through tragedy. "General– Sir, thank you. I am deeply indebted–" "No. You aren't. My wife had a saying: 'Family is who you make of it'." He pauses. "Actually, she had a few sayings on that account, but another favourite was 'family looks after family'. You may not be my kin, but you're sure as hell my kith, so I shall pay for the bodywork of your dragon to be fixed, under the promise you don't wreck her again." He swings away from the wall, eyebrows raised. "I promise, I'll take better care. Thank you, Johan." She gets a curt nod in response and then he leaves.

Strucker is replaced with King Storri, who tilts his head, and says in a gentle tone, "How are you, sá litli?" "Better than I was, Your Majesty," she says. "I am glad to hear that. I was concerned I'd done something, but Agent Forhoksson said it was the effect of battle trauma." He leaves the comment hanging; if she wants to expand, she can. Elo thinks she owes him that. "Yes, Your Majesty. A type of… paranoia, that requires me to ensure my position is secure. It's worse when I'm with civilians. I left to climb a tree – the better to survey the landscape. I'm told I managed to stay up there for a whole day. I apologise for any inconvenience or worry caused." She doesn't intend it, but it comes out a touch acerbic. "I did not mean to pry," King Storri says, gentle but not condescending. "For all I may not have seen such things as you, I understand. My father was prone to bouts as well, though his were more… violent than yours." Elo makes a noise of sympathy, hearing what has gone unspoken. Her fingers seek out his as he leans against the wall next to her, giving a quick squeeze. The King lets out a surprised murmur of his own, squeezing back before allowing their hands to drop back. He takes a breath, continuing, "Yes, I was concerned for you – as I said, I feared I'd offended you or that you had taken ill… But you are now here before me, as whole and hale as I could wish, so any inconvenience or worry you may have caused me is rendered moot, I feel." King Storri pulls away from the wall, and with a warm smile, clasps her shoulder. "I am very glad you are well," he says and returns inside.

Farren's visit is short and sweet. He has a cigarette hanging from his lips as he looks her up and down, and he reeks of cheap tobacco. "Farren, I owe you–" He holds up a hand and removes the cigarette long enough to say, "Damn right you owe me. I need a new pouch of baccy after all this." "Brek–" "No. We'll talk about this later." "Why not just have it out now?" She was going to ask his forgiveness, but his attitude has struck a nerve. "Because you're exhausted." "I'm–" "It's written all over your face. And," he takes a puff, "I don't wanna say something I'll regret." Elo's mouth works. In the end, she can only say, "Alright."

Finally, Elo's Mother comes out, Dimple tagging along. Elo graces the girl with a faint smile before Oakrose is hugging her eldest daughter. Elo feels the older woman's shoulders shaking silently, knows she is trying not to cry – with relief or further concern, Elo doesn't know. But she holds her Mother regardless and strokes her back, offering assurances: Elo is just fine now, and she's very sorry for making people worry but it's all okay. A night bird calls, as they stand there. From inside the hut comes the thud of something being dropped. With one last quick squeeze, Oakrose releases Elo, offering a watery smile, and returns inside.

Dimple lingers, and Elo crouches to be level with the little girl. "Why did you come back with Mom?" Elo asks. Dimple turns her wide brown eyes and serious expression on Elo. "Because one of us had to look after her for you, while you weren't okay." "You drew the short straw, huh?" "No. I volunteered." Elo is taken aback. "Why?" "Oakrose talks about you a lot," Dimple says in her quiet, serious voice, her gaze locked unerringly with Elo. "She keeps a folder filled with newspaper cuttings about you." "I didn't know…" "Oakrose says that you risk yourself all the time so we can be happy and safe. "I know the other children aren't like me. Their Mamas didn't try to hurt them. Their Mamas couldn't look after them or just didn't want them. Which is sad, and I'm sorry that happened to them. But for this, Oakrose didn't need them. So I volunteered and the other children were happy to let me, because they know she needs someone like us, not like them." "I–" Dimple blinks at her, and Elo finds she has no idea what to say to this child whose life has been filled with strife and pain and yet stands, quietly strong, above it. What would she want someone to say to her, if their roles were reversed? So Elo says, "Thank you. You did a good job. I'm proud of you." Dimple blinks rapidly, rocking her weight onto her back foot. "You– You are proud of me?" Dimple's eyes widen. "Yes," Elo confirms, and then she feels a wildness take her. "Dimple, I need to let you in on a secret. Do you think you can help me some more?" The girl's eyes narrow shrewdly. "Depends." Elo takes a breath. "I'm working a case right now, one that's very personal to me. And because it's personal, I think things are going to get worse for me, before they get better. And it's going to cause a lot of upset, and Mom's going to worry. So if you can, I need you to help her, okay? I need you to be there for her, because I won't be able to. Do you think you can do that?" Dimple's gaze fixes on the darkness behind Elo. She blinks carefully, as the sounds of industry filter from the hut. "If it's too much, just say no," Elo says, fidgeting with her hands. Something rustles a bush. "I can do this for you," Dimple says, switching her gaze back to Elo. Then, with the tiniest of tremors in her voice, asks, "Are you coming back?" Elo swallows. "I don't know," she says – there is no point in lying to the child, after all. She hasn't let herself think about that possibility yet, but it's almost inevitable that she will not. This creature she is to fight is older, stronger, and more knowledgeable than she. It is not a conventional person she can deal with by simply using a gun or a knife. She's really hoping the Eshen oldster has some trick up their sleeve. But Dimple is still staring at her, so Elo says, "Expect the worst, but hope for the best." Dimple nods once, her long hair swinging in a curtain around her face. "Are you going now?" "No, not yet. I have things to take care of first." Because she needs information. She needs to know what Monday and Yates found at the docks, she needs to know how to fight the shadowling. She needs to get her will in order – because from what the Eshen said, this fight can only end with someone's death. Dimple gives her a slow, serious nod, and Elo feels herself relax. Talking to the girl has calmed her, and makes her think she can deal with the crowd within. Elo stands and reflexively holds out a hand. "Shall we go back inside?" Dimple looks at Elo's hand, then her, and back to her hand. "You're supposed to take it, dashur." "I knew that," Dimple mutters, petulantly. Cautiously the girl slips her small warm hand into Elo's larger cool one, and Elo curls her fingers carefully around it. Elo leads them around the corner of the hut, straight into a flame-haired shield maiden.

Elo's eyes fly wide with alarm, and she drops Dimple's hand. "Merri!" Her old friend is standing there, arms crossed and silently scowling. "How much did you hear?" "I heard enough," Meredith says, her tone bitter. "And?" Elo asks, her heartbeat speeding up. "And I know it's pointless to argue with you. You'll do what you will," Merri tells her, grim in both expression and tone, some combination of disappointment and dissatisfaction comes from her in waves. "I won't tell on you, and I won't try and stop you. Whatever you're into, I'd only like to help if I can, but," Merri purses her lips and pulls in a breath, "I suspect you won't even allow that, will you?" Merri's eyebrow twitches, her lips never moving from their grim line. Elo feels the movement shoot through her heart with the same damning velocity as a bullet. She swallows, reflecting that they know each other far too well. "Don't think this sits well with me, mind," Merri says. Elo barks out a laugh, startling them all. "I should hope not. I would think the world broken beyond repair if there was even a chance you would be happy with my poor life choices." Elo gives a wry smile. "Thank you for the offer, but this is a Toreguard affair – you can't be involved." Elo offers a hand. "Your silence is enough." No further words pass between them, but they don't need it. Merri eyes the proffered hand with annoyed resignation before clasping Elo's forearm as her sister-in-arms. Then Merri pulls Elo in closer, putting a hand on her shoulder to emphasise the message being sent with that tight-lipped glare, the thunderous frown and the eyes sparkling with something between anger, worry and resentment. Elo nearly laughs again. Because yes, her shield-maiden is worried about her, but that's not what the face is for. Merri is pissed off that Elo is going to go and have a bloody good fight without her; as if Elo's going to the coolest, most hyped party in town without her best friend, because Merri is not permitted to go. Elo raises her chin, offers her friend a tight smile to go with her serious eyes, and knows that Merri will see that while Elo is not sorry to be running off to this fight, she intends to come back. Elo knows Meredith will never be the swooning maiden to her shining knight. But it's still important for Merri to know that Elo will be better than the ravening darkness, and she will win, and she will come back to be with her friend again. By the slow blink, and sigh Merri releases, Elo knows the message has been received. Merri's expression softens, giving Elo an allowing smile and inclines her head.

Merri leads the way back into the hall, Dimple's hand slipping into Elo's as they follow. In between tool racks and gardening supplies, the inside of the hut is littered with signs of military occupation – sleeping bags fill the long-empty bedroom, the kitchen is home to a hot water urn and empty pizza boxes, the bench in the workshop is covered with maps, radios, and a miscellany of other equipment. Under the too-bright striplights, a mob of people in fatigues talk and gesture, all falling silent as they catch sight of their quarry waltzing in without a by-your-leave. "Pack it up, boys," Merri says. "Case solved, time to go." There is immediate babble. Some of it is aimed at Elo, some at Merri and Strucker. Orders are barked, activity flurries. Some of the Toreguard Rangers and Storri's Ubiquitous Black Suits approach to shake her hand, clap her on the shoulder, and share a few words. The volume is intense, Elo doesn't hear them, doesn't hear herself, lets her mouth take the lead. She's probably repeating herself, but no one seems bothered.

As suspected, Elo is not allowed out of eyesight. Farren and Oakrose stick to her like glue all through the general hubbub and walk to the cars, then she is being hugged again by her tearful Mother before Oakrose and Dimple are escorted home by one of Stucker's Rangers. Storri, after some brief words, is whisked away by an aggrieved Merri, and Farren allows Stucker to pull rank on him; Elo is to stay with the General overnight.

––––

After a diversion to Elo's place to pick up some necessities, they arrive at the Strucker household.

Elo is struck – as she usually is – by just how damn big it is. Unnecessarily so, perhaps. But once upon a time, it held three people and the promise of a fair few more, and all those required to attend those people. Once upon a time, it might have been a good size for the lives that should have lived here. But that was once upon a time. Now, as they come into the magazine-perfect foyer, it just feels cavernous and empty. Cold light from an over-counter spot spills from the kitchen. Strucker throws his keys into a bowl on the telephone table and runs a hand over his face, as though weary beyond belief. Elo stands awkwardly by the door. He called her kith, sure, but it's been a long time since she slept here; a guest, and yet not a guest. "The housekeeper's left a plate in the ice box we can reheat," Strucker says, holding a note in his hand. "If you're hungry, that is. Or you can retire, if you like. I don't have a bed made up, but it'll be short work–" "I'm fine with just a hot drink and sleep," Elo says, feeling as weary as he looks. "Don't worry about making a bed up, I'm fine with just a blanket." "You may be, but I am not. Allow me to fuss, just a little?" Strucker asks, his expression going from a frown to something faintly pleading. "Alright. I shall make the cocoa while you make the bed, deal?" "Deal," Johan smiles at her, a soft thing that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

So off they go, in that huge, too-quiet house – him upstairs and her to the kitchen. And she makes their cocoa sweet and milky, because it seems like the thing to do after such a day. Days. Whatever. Then she takes the drinks through to the den, because it was always cosier than the sitting room, and fishes out a record from his collection by a band she has been told is good, and puts it on, letting the coffee-sweet sounds of trumpet and piano and the soft voice of the singer fill the air. As Strucker comes in, she sees his face pinch a little. "That's a good song," he says, but his voice is pained. "I can turn it off, if you prefer," Elo says, and then cringes because she has just recalled who it was that told her this band was good. "I'll turn it off," she amends, moving to do just that. "No. Let it play. Just for a bit," he says and sits down, reaching for his cocoa. She joins him and they sit in silence. It is comfortable and companionable – and if it is a bit mournful, and a few tears leak out here and there, and the tissue box has to be fetched… Well, there's only them there and no one else has to know.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #npc yoruk forhoksson #pc snotgrut #npc johan strucker #npc storri nargondsson #oc dimple #pc meredith gruksdottir #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words

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