#then misty step to a better vantage point if possible

[corvigae]

I think it's very fitting that the incantation for Magic Missile sounds like "Tormented" bc I imagine "tormented" is exactly how enemies feel when I rock up like L + ratio + don't care + didn't ask + hitting you with Magic Missile + hitting you with Magic Missile + hitting you with M-

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives Part 26/? - A Reluctant Accomplice Part 27/? - Deja Vu

Well, well, well, what’s this?  Peggy doing the exact same thing she just got arrested for?

-

Agent Russel returned to the Automat the next day and sat down at his booth, drumming his fingers on the table and looking around nervously.  It was so obvious that Peggy sent Angie over to discreetly ask if he thought he’d been followed.  From her vantage point behind the counter, she saw him shake his head.  Only then did she and Kay come to join him.

“What did she say?” asked Peggy.

Russel took out the page Kay had given him to give her, and shook his head.  “She didn’t even look at it.  She was, uh… I told her I had a message for her, and she immediately asked if it were from Peggy.”

Peggy didn’t have to ask – she knew those had been Dottie’s exact words.  Russel himself didn’t call her ‘Peggy’, but she knew Dottie did.

“Does she know where I am?” Peggy asked cautiously.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so,” said Russel.  “We haven’t told her much.  But she said to tell you that if anybody’s making deals it’ll be her setting the terms.”

Peggy hadn’t been expecting that.  She glanced at Kay, who also appeared puzzled.  “And what are those?”

“She says she’s willing to rescind her testimony and claim it was coerced,” Russel said, “she’ll even say Jack Thompson beat her up if you want her to.  But you have to get her out of jail and get her in contact with somebody she will specify.  If you try anything funny, she’ll get back in contact with Thompson and Masters.”

Peggy and Kay exchanged another look.  Not at all what they’d had in mind… but was it something they could work with?

Kay seemed to think so.  “In that case,” she said, “we’re gonna need one more favour from you.  Don’t worry, it’s nothing illegal.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Russel said.

“We need you to come up with a reason to unlock the cell door at a specific time,” Kay told him.  “Say, eleven PM tomorrow night.  We’ll do the rest.”

“I think I can figure something out,” said Russel.

“Great,” Kay nodded.

“Leave a message with Angie if you can’t manage it,” Peggy told him.  “We’ll check in before we try to do anything.”

“I will,” he promised.

They left him to eat his lunch in peace, and changed back into street clothes in the employee washroom.

“You sound as if you have a plan,” Peggy said to Kay, as they got back in the car.  They’d left the green Ford at the side of the road somewhere in New Jersey and taken a powder blue Chevrolet from behind a petrol station.  They couldn’t afford to be linked to a specific vehicle.

“I have part of a plan,” Kay replied, taking a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment.  These belonged to whoever owned the car, and had therefore been ‘borrowed’ along with it.  “There are drains in the floors of the cells.  I saw them when I was in there.”

“Yes, there are,” said Peggy.  They backed out of the alley and turned onto the street outside.  “They’re far too small for a person to fit through, though.”

“That’s fine,” Kay said.  “I’m told you have some experience navigating the storm drains of New York.  I need you to find a place where we can get down there and find our way to under the cells.”

“I can probably do that,” said Peggy.  “Anything else?”

“Yeah.  See if you can find us some gas masks,” Kay told her.  “Let me know where to drop you off, and then I have to do some shopping.  I’ll meet you back at the same spot in… let’s make it two hours.”

- 

In the evening, they returned to the empty farmhouse in the Pine Barrens.  Peggy had located a manhole they could climb down without being observed, and used a ball of Kay’s knitting yarn to mark the route from there to underneath the police station.  From the drain right underneath it, it was not possible to actually see what was happening in Dottie’s cell – the opening was too small and high above them.  Kay assured her this didn’t matter.  She’d also obtained gas masks and rubber boots, buying both from a man selling questionably obtained army surplus behind a shop.

Kay, meanwhile, had purchased a number of chemicals, including bleach and acetone, and a variety of cooking and baking utensils.  In the farmhouse she put a mask on and did some complicated chemistry, producing a volatile, milky-white liquid that she carefully poured into the now-empty bleach bottle.  Even after that was done, she patiently waited five minutes after capping it for any vapor to disperse before she took the mask off.

“What is that?” Peggy asked, removing her own gas mask.

“Can you guess?” Kay wanted to know.

Peggy considered what she’d used to make it.  “I assume it’s similar to chloroform.”

“Close.  We call it nepenthyl,” Kay replied.  “Release it into an area and it’ll knock everybody out for five to eight minutes.  I don’t have the equipment to make it really pure, so there’s probably some chloroform in there too.  This won’t be enough to actually hurt anybody, though.”

Peggy smiled.  “Did you sit up at night in that little room above the Botticelli Gardens, making the peppery stuff you sprayed me with?”

“Yes,” said Kay.  “I needed non-lethal options.  Who lives and who dies affects the future… I don’t want to kill anybody unless I know they’re going to do evil things.  You have to live, and so does Howard, and Sousa, and Wilkes… and Thompson, even if he’s a pig.”

“So you were joking when you suggested killing Masters,” Peggy observed.

“I suspect Vernon Masters has already done evil things,” Kay told her, “but I’ll look into that later.  I want to cross the big names off my list first.”

Peggy recalled the list of Project Paperclip scientists she’d recited while in jail.  All of them were already most certainly war criminals, still alive only because the government considered them useful… and yet, were they not human beings nonetheless?  “It doesn’t bother you at all?  That you have to kill people to make your better future?”

“You know where I came from.  It took me years to learn how to be bothered by it in the first place.”  She shrugged one shoulder.  “But in this case, no.  I saw the world they helped make.  I lost friends, and my friends lost family, because of their direct successors.  My conscience can handle it.”

- 

There was no message left for them at the Automat the next day, so Peggy and Kay took their equipment down into the drains below the police station and used an old fire hose to make sure the fumes of nepenthyl would go directly through the grate in Dottie’s cell.  Then there was nothing to do but wait.

At a quarter to eleven, they heard footsteps and voices coming from above.  Peggy held her breath and strained her ears to hear.  One of the voices sounded like Agent Russel… or was she imagining it?  She looked at Kay, who pressed a finger to her lips and listened for a moment.

“Agent Russel,” she murmured.  “What brings you here at this time of night?”  A pause.  “The head office wants some full-body photographs of her.  We need a record of scars and other distinguishing marks.”

Peggy kept very quiet.  Kay’s hearing was obviously much better than hers, but this couldn’t possibly be easy.

“Ma’am, please remove your clothing.”  Pause.  “Why, Agent Russel.  Are you trying to seduce me?”  Pause.  “Ma’am, I don’t want to have to force you.”  Pause.  “Really?  Because I think you’d enjoy that.”

Dottie knew.  Of course she did.  She was playing along.

Kay checked her watch, and then set the timer on the valve that would release the nepenthyl.  “Let’s go,” she whispered to Peggy.

They climbed up onto the street, and waited for a taxi to pass before pushing the manhole cover open.  Peggy got out first, and then reached down to help Kay.  They waited silently behind the building while the clock ticked down.  At eleven o’clock, Russel would get tired of Dottie’s taunting and open her cell.  Thirty seconds later, the chemical would release.  Hopefully everybody’s watches were in rough agreement, or this would all go very, very badly.

At three minutes past, Kay said, “now.”

They put on their gas masks and barged into the lobby.

Immediately they heard a scream.  The receptionist was still awake, holding a damp handkerchief over her mouth and nose with one hand, and the telephone receiver in the other.  For a moment she stared at these masked intruders in wide-eyed horror, and in so doing, she let the handkerchief drop.  A moment later she was unconscious on the floor behind her desk.

“Hello?” a tinny voice on the phone asked.  “Hello?  Iris?”

They had to hurry.

They ran down the steps to the holding cells.  The air here, where the majority of the drug was lingering, was still misty, but they could see light up ahead.  Peggy stepped over the unconscious bodies of policemen until she spotted Agent Russel’s blue blazer.  He was lying there still gripping Dottie’s wrist with one hand.  She had fallen on top of him.

Kay pulled out a roll of olive-coloured duck cloth tape and used it to bind Dottie’s hands and ankles, then wrapped more of it around her mouth.  Then she lifted the unconscious woman’s legs while Peggy took her shoulders, and they dragged her back upstairs.

In the lobby the receptionist was still unconscious.  The telephone was still off the hook.

They threw Dottie in the trunk of today’s car – a burgundy Oldsmobile – pulled their masks off, and drove away.

Only then, with everything done, did Peggy allow herself to notice that her heart was beating fit to burst from her chest, or that she was gasping for deep, non-filtered breaths of air.  They’d really just done it – they’d broken Dottie Underwood out of jail for a second time.  If this didn’t work out… if Dottie were recaptured and decided to turn Peggy in again, there’d be no getting out of it.  Once was special circumstances.  Twice was a pattern.

Once they were well away from the police station, they pulled into an alleyway.  When they opened the trunk, Dottie was waking up, but still groggy – Peggy pressed a rag soaked in the nepenthyl against her face to knock her out again.  Then they used the rest of the role of cloth tape to wrap their prisoner up like an Egyptian mummy.  There was absolutely no way Peggy was losing control of her again.

After that, they could take a more leisurely drive back out to their campsite in the abandoned farmhouse.  Nobody seemed to notice them as they passed through small towns on the way, and not enough people went through the Pine Barrens area to notice that three different cars had been parked there in as many days.  Upon arrival, they left Dottie in the trunk and went inside to get what sleep hey could.

“I think we’ll let her talk first,” said Kay, yawning.  “Then we’ll emphasize that we are now in charge, and give her our terms.”

Peggy wasn’t even sure what those were anymore.  “As long as we can have breakfast first,” she said.

- 

In the morning they took their time, at least partially out of spite – Dottie had caused Peggy so many problems over the past couple of years, it served her bloody well right if she had to sit there tied up in a car boot for a few extra hours.  This also afforded them the chance to listen to the radio and get some more news.  The escape of a dangerous criminal did merit a mention, with a description of Dottie followed by an admonition not to underestimate her.

“And now for the news you’ve all been waiting to hear,” the announcer said.  “Captain America is in Washington, DC, for one more day, during which time he will visit the Smithsonian and dine at the White House with President and Mrs. Truman.  After that, he’s off to Annapolis, then Harrisburg, and will complete a tour of New England before heading south again.”

What was Steve thinking while all this went on, Peggy wondered.  Was he thinking of her?  Of his friend in Russia?

What about Daniel?  Peggy had no way of contacting either of them… and might never again.  Wouldn’t that be the easy solution, she thought.  If she never saw either man again, she wouldn’t have to worry about breaking anyone’s heart.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Six; Hopes.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Brief mentions of violence and gore in this chapter !!! 

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Hellford park was a domineering house. It was as proud as it was beautiful.

 A high and grand edifice of squared buff sandstone with the very same in all its trimmings. The roof is welsh slate. And the front of the house echoed it’s Palladian and baroque design. The Doric order pillars out front hold up a looming triangular outset to the building. There are three floors. Three towering floors all full of windows.

 The house sits vast in its horizon. Dominating. She had walked up through the woods from Pembleton. A good twenty minutes of walking down the front drive merely to get to the place. Through a resplendent wrought iron black gate that looked nearly eerie in the morning fog. The cawing of throaty crows echoed around the tall dark trees that nearly eclipsed the sun. She opened that creaking gate and slipped on through. Feeling like a doomed trespasser on Lord Ren’s land.

 When the walk along the paved road clears of the governing country nature, each side of her not now lined with massive oaks, and the dark wood thinned out, the sun shone down on her in speckles through the spreading tree tops.

 She listens to the cooing call of wood pigeons in the far off trees. The sizzle of wind ruffling the dead leaves on their branches. Sizzling and spitting and rattling in the air. And the cold bitter landscape seems buttery warm, the colour of dandelion sunshine lifts every facet of nature. Melts the snow. Makes the countryside all merry again. Thaws it from the unfeeling and cruel fingers of frosty winter.

 Though she can still see wisps of her breath flutter the air. And she tugs her rabbit lined gloves up her wrists to keep warm. Her soles crackle along the road in the misty frost.

 She’s on yet another errand this morning. In her battered blue wool coat, her quite hopeless brown boots. She hadn’t seen the need for a bonnet, and now her ears are feeling the price of such a poor decision. Tipped with icy pink.

 The dappling sun tangled in her hair. Where it’s scooped back off her face in a semi braided coiffure. She had her plain wool dress on. It was a boring shade of chowder grey pinstriped with white. But it did it’s occupation of keeping her warm better than her old pelisse did.

 She comes up to the view of the house. Admiring how vast and proudly it stands. Resolute even under the strong sun. The sky behind its roof is a net of crepe cotton blue splashed with smeared white clouds.

 From the vantage point on the road, where she is, far far far down below the humongous beast, the vast wall of windowpanes wink icy in the sunlight across at her. The huge pond to the front of Hellford Manor, is deep glass green, and navy skipped with gold from the mirrored reflection of the sky.

 Her steps rap sharply on the hard road, clapping off the house and bouncing back to her. Mingled in with sounds of the woods, of the birds and the trees and the wind ruffling through it all.

 She steps up to the cavernous entryway and the door that’s eight feet taller than she is. Doesn’t know if she’ll get a reply knocking here- she hopes she does.

 She knocks her gloved hand loud and clear on the door. Taps her knuckles loudly three times. Hears it ricochet off the house behind and in front of her. Probably drifting through that elegantly extensive marble foyer that was bound to be inside. Manor this grand was bound to have a colossal foyer for entertaining.

 She stares up at the great big white painted door in fervent hope. A few seconds pass. Nothing but the silence of her own anticipation.

 She’d brought Lord Ren some welcoming gifts that high society hereabouts has decided to bestow on him. The ladies and matrons of prominence are thankful for his mentioning he’d keep an eye open for the terrorising wolf on his land.

 Mrs Phillips sent him a box of Turkish dried fruits and sticky figs drowned in honey. Miss Smith sent a bottle of port and a selection of sweet meats. Her own mother had declined to send him anything.

 Iris was affronted at her sudden distant behaviour when days before she’d been clamouring for her daughter to prostrate herself at his mighty feet. So she snuck to the kitchen earlier and secreted away two dead partridge’s when she wasn’t looking.

 Cook was on her side covering for her. She’d spin Mrs Ashton a cunning tale that the cat got into them and she had to discard them. Let’s hope Iris’ mother didn’t decide to take action against the innocent tabby.

 She’d also put in some of cooks chutney and her famous jam. She was a crass red faced, battle axe Irish woman of stout size and many years. But she liked making sure the people around her were well fed. She was a kindly woman to Iris.

 Many times as a scolded young girl, belittled for improper behaviour, or something petty Caroline nitpicked over,  she’d find herself hiding from mama in the kitchen. Wedged between the stove and the butchers block. Red faced and sobbing tears.

 Cook - Mrs Murphy as she doesn’t like to be commonly known as - would crossly stop whatever she was doing. Whatever soup or sauce she was preparing, whatever un-plucked game bird awaited stripping by her hands, or whatever haunch of meat needed seasoning, she would stop.

 Wiping her hands on her grubby apron. She’d pour Iris a cup of chocolate, sit her by the open stove and put a warm rug around her shoulders. Tell her to dry her eyes on her handkerchief. She always had one to hand. “There now. Dry your eyes. Pet.” In her soothing County Kildare, Irish brogue.

 “Here’s to hoping the road rises up to meet you yet.” She’d always say. Her way of wishing all the pain and obstacles to her happiness be plucked free right out of her life. Mrs Murphy knew, even back then, what strain Iris was being put under to be the perfect daughter. Drowning under expectations at such a bonny young age.

 So when Iris went to her this morning, interrupting her making her brown onion soup and scotch collops ready for supper, she asked for some donations to a man whose been kind to her, and to the scared flustered hens of matrons in the village. Cook raised a brow. “I see.” She said cannily. With an all-knowing understanding to her tone.

 Steered Iris into the cold larder and gave the game, the jam and some other goods. “This wouldn’t be that infamous Lord I’ve been hearing whispers about, now, would it?” She asks with a hand on her hip. Iris blushes.

 “He’s- merely an acquaintance.” Iris insists sweetly.

 “Aye. And I’m the goddess queen of the upper Nile.” She smarts flatly.

 “Be off with ya now pet. Before your mother gives you what for.” She says gruffly. Plonking two rosy pink apples in her hands for her journey to Hellford park. Before jabbing her thumb the back door over her own shoulder. Continuing rolling out her pastry with sticky-flour and buttery hands. She watches Iris head out with the baskets. One on each arm as usual. She smiles when she leaves.

 A good girl she was- much rounder temper than her silly sisters. Cook loves Iris like a daughter. And in damn sure more of a maternal way than her dragon of a mother ever did.

 Surprisingly, Iris didn’t have to wait too long at Hellford’s grand oak door before it is shuddered open with a whine from the other side.

 The very pleasant face of Kylo’s butler greets her. A red dastar turban covering his head. His arrowhead shaped goatee was black shot through with silver. Straight as a yardstick. And oiled finely. He appears very well groomed and meticulous. A fine warm scent of lime blossom and something like citrus or oranges woven into his cologne.

 She smiles warmly at him. Hands across her calling card through the gap of the door. “Good Morning. I’m so sorry to disturb you- but I’m just paying a call to deliver some-”

 His warm face breaks into a warm beam. One of honesty and recognition. “He told me we should be expecting you, Miss Ashton.” He smiles gladly. Already apprised of her being here. Widening the door for her.

 “Please do come in...” He urges. Iris likes the warm cadence to his voice. The distinctive accent of his sounds like honey syrup or spiced cloves. Comforting and rich. A voice that promises nothing but warmth and friendliness in its offering.

 Where he widens the door, Iris catches a glimpse of the exotic threads of his clothing. Something akin to a silk coat covers his top half. Indigo ink silk with buttons that glimmered like raindrops in rain. It’s almost military style in its fashion. He is a lean, towering man with broad shoulders. Though not as powerfully foreboding as the man he serves. His coat covers most of his legs. His knees are clad in loose fitting black trousers of thin substance. Puffy at the knees. Tucked into impressively shiny black boots.

 The sun catches on a bangle on his right wrist when he moves. Hitting against the silk of his peacock blue sleeve. When she stopped in, she sees the coat is embroidered with twirls of silver thread stitched into vines. It was such a beautiful garment. She’s in awe of it.

 She steps in from the cold, thanking him, and the huge house engulfs her. It’s warm for such a colossal place. And she was right. The foyer is entirely marble.

 Marble pointed tile floor. Walnut panelled walls and wainscoting coat the house. Set with gilded gold frames resting on them, surrounding impressive paintings. Black votives of candles stand lit and flickering amber flame. A gigantic mouth of a limestone fireplace is directly ahead on the wall. It’s twice as big as her bedchamber, that one hearth alone. Roaring flames lit within. Around the neatest pile of logs that blazed. Not even a spec of ash was out of place. There’s no decoration. Hardly any vases or relics. That’s strikes her as odd.

 “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ashton.” He bows his head respectfully and tucks his hands behind his back. “I am Raajaa Jomar. Lord Ren’s butler.” He introduces himself.

 “Pleasure to meet you. Mr. Jomar. I only called by to give Lord Ren a few tokens of gratitude from some local families.”

 He smiles and accepts the baskets from her. “Of course. How kind. Do follow me to wait in the parlour. I will see to finding his lordship.”

 He leads her through the impressive house. Walking her deeper into the expensive bowels of the place. She walks demurely behind him. Aghast at the display of wealth that lines every wall. It hangs in the dripping crystal and spotless chandeliers. The way the tiles underfoot gleam like they’ve been scrubbed mercilessly.

 Paintings ooze oil and grandeur dour wealth from their spots on the walls. Ancient portraits of powdered wigs and styles of the 1700’s. Robes a la Francaise and beauty spots on powdered faces and craggy noses, casting a disapproving eye out at her.

 He brings her to a double door entrance of a richly furnished parlour. Decorated with red and white. Fire roars in the pearl marble of the hearth. She steps onto the fine cushion of a scarlet Aubusson rug. Sees her reflection in the huge antique mirror above the mantel. The room is trimmed in old French antiques. Side tables and end tables around the garnet red settees that bleed gold gild at their tops.

 “Do please make yourself comfortable Miss Ashton. I will arrange for a tray of tea and refreshments be brought to you.” He bows his head politely again.

 She feels like calling out to stop him. She was only here to pay call delivering a basket after all. Which she now sets both things down on the immaculately polished low table, set before her. She sinks into the luxuriously soft settee. Plump velvet feather cushions catch her back and prop her up.

 She feels rather nervous. Here, in this grand place in her shabby coat and ragged boots.

 She’s looking out the white glass of the terrace doors into the finely trimmed dutch gardens. Neat shrubs arranged in symmetrical patterns with paths cutting through to the lawn. A fountain crowns the central spoke of the flowerbeds. Blooming waxy tulips in summer spring up there. In punching reds and fierce oranges.

 In no time whatsoever, a waify scurrying maid appears in the doorway. Thin arms laden with a silver tray of a tea service. She smiles a beaming polite grin over at Iris. Who bids her a good afternoon. She sets the tea and a plate of warm jam tartlets before her, and they discuss the weather. She bobs a cute curtsey when she’s done and nods a parting and a good afternoon at Iris.

 She found it slightly odd to have someone curtsey to her. Sat here in her shabby boots and too-small-pelisse. She almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Not in cruel jest to the sweet maid’s behaviour- just that in her household, she barely outranked their maids. She helped out with the cooking, the cleaning, as did her sisters.

 That didn’t seem to place her worthy of a curtsey. She had no title after all. Was likely never to bare a title or be among nobility.

 She drinks some of the excellent tea. A fine rich blend no doubt. She nibbles the corner of a sticky jam tartlet and listens as the carriage clock on the mantel strikes twelve. Dinging softly around the opulent room. Along with the crackling of the fire spitting spewing out embers and ash in the hearth.

 She idly awaits company- drains another cup of tea. And stands to better admire the frosted gardens from the big windows. Lifting the scarlet red curtain out of her sight as she admires.

 A different maid enters across the room. Clunking the heavy door. “If you please, Miss. I’ll take you to his Lordship. Mr Jomar says he’d do it himself only on account of him getting caught up chatting to the cook.” She explains.

 Iris leaves her baskets in the parlour on the table. She goes directly with the girl. Who leads her through the house and out across a courtyard, and points to a little track road down to the working stables. She apologised that she had to skip back to the kitchens to attend to some errands. Iris says it’s quite alright. She can find her way from here.

 She walks up the pea-shingle paved road. Seeing the U shaped courtyard ahead, under the stone arch of the gates leading into the stables. Stalls surround the shape of it. Running around the perimeter. She can smell hay and animal sweat and the stench of hops. As she walks closer a repetitive clunking noise rings in her ears. The clatter of wood tumbling onto stone. Coming from the direction she’s intended toward.

 She passes under the arch, cool shade of it tickles the back of her neck. She comes into the clearing of the cobblestoned courtyard. Horses stamp and shift in their stalls surrounding the walls. She spies Erland in his stall. Munching on something he’d recently been fed. Carrots most likely.

 She comes into plain view of the whole stable- and then she lurches right to a sudden stop. A gasp punched out her lungs. Chest seizing up.

 She’s now stood facing a very shirtless Lord.

 Chopping logs with a heavy axe. Blade of it glints wicked sharp in the sun as his thick arms swing it over, crossing it over his body to strike sharp down the centre of the log before him on the stand. The wood tumbled and clunked to the ground.

 Chest gleaming slipping shimmering with sweat from his exertions. Stood in his obsidian breeches and boots to match, even in the winter cool of the courtyard. His shirt lay discarded on the nearest stall door. Folded cotton crumpled there.

 She idly wonders as her eyes take all of his naked state in, why he was doing this himself when he probably had tens of hundreds of servants who could do it for him. She knows she not supposed to look. But she’s seen the bare beauty of him now and her eyes don’t wish to be rid of it-

 She didn’t have any concerns that his frame was in any way unimpressive. But seeing him in such a bare manner merely reconfirmed what she already knew. He is broad in the shoulder, wide at the waist.

 His chest doesn’t taper it remains a solid stack of muscle. His thick thick build of his arms flex. The trapezius lines slipping outwards from either side of his neck are intimidatingly big. As is the reach from his shoulders down over his pectorals.

 He is a hugely broad warrior of a man. Crude. Monumental.

 A few seconds have passed since she stumbled onto the sight of him. Though it felt longer. He raises his eyes to the movement of her. Though he hadn’t needed too. He could sense her walking up the front drive to come to him. Felt her presence here ever since she set foot on his land.

 He unsticks the heavy axe from where it lodged chipping into the wood block stand below the logs he’s cutting up. He lets it hang down by his side. Grins wickedly across at his guest. Wall of muscular chest panting. Abdominal muscles flexing. His breath spirits silver out his smile up into the bitter air.

 His smile is sinful and his eyes are shady with promiscuous motive. “Miss Ashton...” He greets her rakishly.

 Fully aware of what the sight of him will do to her. How much it will stir her blood, get her blushing. The potent effect of him enchanting her lust. Dazzling her weak mortal senses.

 “Your lordship. Do forgive me. I’d no idea you were-um. So-“ Her eyes flicker across to his chest again, darting away quick. But he saw her snatch a look through blushing hot cheeks.

 “Informally attired?” He finishes for her confidently.

 She gulps and nods. “Yes- I do beg your pardon.” She’s now turned three quarters away from him. Giving him a ample view of her profile. Looking rather like she wants to scamper back to the safety of the house. Those pink cheeks and her flustered breathing that pulses out her neck in a sudden unexpected rush of lust... It gets his temper straining at its hold when he senses it.

 It’s captured the side of him that she should absolutely not want to rouse.

 He lays the axe down. Standing it against the brick wall near the log shed. Shifts closer. She can hear his boots scrape on the cobbles. Dusted with hay and splintered wood chipping’s from his laborious work. His fine booted soles crackle and shift with it. He brings his shirt into his free hand. Leaves it folded down by his side.

 “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He seeks smugly.

 Her brain malfunctions. Caught on his choice of word. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pleasure-

 She wills the impertinent thought away.

 Feels him coming closer. The way his eyes stab into her coat. Rake along the back of her neck like dragging flint knives being drawn along her skin. She tries not to shiver too much at the not-entirely-unpleasant sensation.

 “I just paid a call to deliver some tokens of gratitude from obliged Pembleton residents.” She offers.

“There’s um. Port and figs in honey. Some partridges. And some very excellent jam... Miss Smith, The Phillips and us Ashton’s all send our compliments.” She babbles.

 He chuckles warmly. Stepping ever closer. Sparing her blushes and gazes. He slips the rumpled cotton of his shirt over his head and lets it fall, untucked, down to his thighs.

 The open v neck tips to hang between his nipples. Dusky bronze discs of them. And the coarse smattering of dark hair brushes his chest too. She shouldn’t know that about a man.

 “That’s very generous of you. I’m very fond of partridge. Do be sure to thank your family for me. For such a thoughtful offering.” He insists in a drawl that gets her smile increasing.

 She chuckles. Feeling safer about meeting his eyes now. “Miss Smith was delighted. With your assurance of looking out for the murdering beast. She has decided to forgo the extra bolt on her bedroom door.” Iris explains.

 “I fear she’s now quite enamoured with you. She said she means invite you over to take tea, very soon.”

 Kylo raises a brow that instantly told Iris how very ridiculous and inconsequential her found the always-flustered Miss Smith.

 “I might accept the invitation on the provisory condition that you accompany me. To keep me from beating my head against the wall in sheer desperation.” He smarts.

 Iris chuckles lightly. She tries to swallow it down but she can’t.

 “She is a little trying.” She confesses. She was a harmless woman. Just admired the sound of her own voice rabbiting on too much. And she fretted about every beast, man, and creature put on this earth. Everything was cause for suspicion with Miss Smith.

 “She’s the most trying woman in all of the British Empire.” He declares lowly. His smile crooks up on one side.

 Iris thinks for a second. Looking down at her shoes. “I do so hate to disagree with you, your lordship. But I fear that title must instead be awarded to my mother.” She smarts.

 He chuckles rightfully loud. It’s warmer than all the winter sunshine that slopes down on them. Crinkles form near his eyes and his divots beside his mouth.

 “Anyway-“ She begins. “I should take my leave. I’ve lingered far too long. You must have matters to attend...” She smiles. Dipping into a short curtsey. Flicking her eyes back up to him after she does.

 “Nothing so urgent could possibly draw me away the honour of your visit.” He insists. Making unabashed eye contact with her. Face so open and genial. Eyes all melting honey and granite.

 “I wouldn’t wish to importune you.” She says crossing her hands and holding them in front of her.

 One ink brow curves up. “From my incredibly laborious and eventful morning of, chopping firewood?” He lets her infer her own conclusions.

 “Well. I do have errands to take heed of. Back at Westwell.”

 He smiles like the devil. Like he knew how Satan himself leers- which he very truly almost does. He’s seen the closest thing this earth knows to a demon, grin at him. White pearly smile so savage and handsome.

 “Defer them.” He presses nicely. “I promised you a tour did I not? Come take a ride of Hellford Park with me and Erland.”

 Iris swallows. “You wish me to- spend time with you, alone? unchaperoned?” She checks.

 His eyes glow with that savage glimmer once more. The one that makes his eyes look like the most melting shade of black imaginable. Oh yes he did.

 “I promise to be the very saintly soul of propriety.” He pledges. Cupping a hand over the black vacuum where his mortal heart once laid in his big chest.

 “I won’t stand for indulging in any behaviour on my part if it severely discomforts you.” He vows seriously. She believes him. He was respectful enough to let her truly escape this endeavour if she wanted. He would never inopportune a woman for the benefit his own comforts.

 Even if she stirs him up so violently like the way this woman does-

 She tries not to follow where his hand lay on his body with her eyes. Tries not to look at that divine sticky chest again. Her head swims with comparisons of marble Greek gods swimming in salty tepid seas. Emerging dripping from the cobalt ocean.

 She blushes. Yet again her silly female heart betrays her. She hesitates for a second- she should say no. A polite girl would be a shrinking violet and scurry away at such a bold suggestion.

 She should turn her back and apologise profusely, head on back toward the house. She should walk home, the cool air stinging at her hot cheeks. She should go and think about scrubbing their curtains back home. Or arranging flowers. Or donning her apron and helping cook on with peeling the maris pipers in preparation for supper.

 She looks at his eyes again. Words fly from her mouth before her brain comprehends how it came to an answer. He truly was an enchanting creature.

 “I’d be delighted.” She nods bravely.

 It wasn’t what should be done. But it’s what she so desperately wanted to do.

 Westwell has had 23 years of her looking after everyone and everything in it. They can miss her for a meagre few hours whilst she finally puts herself first.

 “Allow me to briefly adjourn and attire myself correctly. Then I’ll see to having the horses tacked up.��� He excuses himself. Smiles all wicked, and turns to head for the doorway in the brick wall near the logs he was cutting up.

 She flushed and almost fell faint to a dizzy spell. Seeing his finely muscled back as it lumbered away from her. Slicked with sweat.

 She watched the savage blades of his shoulders, as sharp as that axe blade he’d been swinging. Her eyes stuck on the three slashes of scars that rake deep over the left jutting bone hill of his scapula. Where an animals claws had long ago cut and torn into his skin.

 If she knew just precisely how long ago- she’d faint.

 A time she can’t even comprehend. An age away. An age she’s only studied in books. An age he can moderately remember anymore. It was several centuries past him now.

 He remembers towering pine tree tops scraping at the sky. How bitter bitter snow blazed and churned between the tips. The ruddy tang of houses back then cast solidly out of timber and roofed with straw. The smell of the sticky sap bleeding out the wood. The ash from the open fires and the clog of acrid woodsmoke sunk into the fur pelt he wore around his shoulders. The beast that had scarred him on his back and left him to rot away with fever of the wound. Left Kylo clinging desperately onto life by his dirty fingernails.

 He found that creature. He sunk his knife into that brutes belly and gutted it. He wore that black pelt with savagely earned pride. The gloom of longhouse where feasts, battles, births and politics were celebrated. The place that reeked of ash, the stench of smoking meat and the sour reek of stale urine from the odiferous tannery, when the frigid wind blew and shuddered into the village in the right direction.

 Back breaking labour was crucial for survival. Farming and hunting and warring. Truer dignity in hard work than any of these perfumed dandies of the fashionable ton knew about.

 He’d been brought up in those freezing acetous lands. He’d farmed for oats and barley and rye in the summers. Then one winter, he trained as a soldier. Upholding the honour of his family and willing to go and to defend his people.

 Then he went to war- His fate was violently and horribly rearranged.

 He’d marched right on in to fight a battle from which he’d never return home. Never would he be the same man. He was offered instead, a sweet mercy of a deathless death. And he greedily snatched it with both hands- glutted himself on its chance.

 It was all so different back then. Life was so brutal. Compared to the pomp and ridiculous circumstances the narrow minded people in this village are governed ruthlessly by, by things they think matter.

 When he thinks of the contrasts to the two societies it makes him sick. All the stuffy airs and graces and endless bowing and scraping. Veiled insults cloaked as compliments. Velvet draped over daggers.

 He vastly preferred this world back when it was a more feral one. Atleast then he knew where he stood.

 When there were no falsehoods or lies floating out sugared words from simpering sickening smiles. Here, when one thing was said to his face, quite another was hissed behind his back when he turned. Maybe he was just a relic of a time long since over-maybe maybe maybe.

 He goes into the stable rooms, where he left his jacket and other attire earlier. Luckily there’s a washroom out here that was used on hunts if the work got bloody. He washes himself down from the basin and jug of cold water, and clears away the salt of his sweat. Pats himself dry and redressed in his fine jacket, white shirt and white cravat. Atop a burgundy waistcoat.

 When he steps back out, buttoning his thick wool jacket. Silver buttons blazing proud in the sun, he sees Miss Ashton at Erland’s stall. The stubborn animal nudged into her shoulder again as she strokes his handsome velveteen forehead. Remembering her. Thinking she had more treats to bestow.

 He comes across and chides his horse in the Bavarian tongue he was trained by. “Nett Sein. Erland.” Kylo barks across low at his horse as he walks over. Be kind.

 He then adds, chiding him, that he shouldn’t be disrespectful to ladies. Croons to him. Speaking fluently in his own language. Stroking his nose as the horse turns and nibbles at his masters coat shoulder and snuffles his hair with his hot, hay scented breath. Kylo pats the chunky meat of his solid corded neck.

 She strokes a hand over his silken mane. Hair harshly stiff and bushy under her gloves. Parted to one side over his neck and shoulders as the animal bows his head down for the handful of oats Kylo held out for him. Erland snuffles them up in a mere matter of seconds. Chews on the cud’s and almost headbutts his master for more.

 Miss Ashton laughs. “You were right about his stubborn blood. So I see.”

 “One of the most obstinate beasts on four legs.” Kylo promises with a grin.

 “Would you mind riding one of our mares, Miss Ashton? They are generally easier of temper.”

 “Not at all.” She accepts.

 He steps back and urges her over to the next stall. Here, a shimmering white horse awaits them. Brushed coat glistening the way untarnished snow lays sparkling in the sun. Bright and pure.

 This horses mane and snout is an ash grey. The same colour bleeds up past her fetlocks. There’s some dappled patches of pebble grey also on her flanks and rear. She was the sweetest mare with the softest temperament. She stays in her stall but gently cautiously seeks Kylo’s hand to eat the food her offered her. He strokes her neck fondly.

 “This is Kana. Shortened from the old Norse word for Birch tree.” Kylo’s introducing her. The mares ears twitch with her mentioned name. “So named, if I recall because her coat resembles the colours of the trunk.”

 “She’s beautiful.” Iris insists. Rubbing up the flag bone between her eyes. Kana appreciates the caress with an equine little snort.

 Across from them. The stable boy has brought Erland out his stable to tack him for their ride. Kylo and Iris stay stroking the sweet white mare. Stood at her stall.

 “Do you ride them out often?” She asks.

 “Every morning with Erland if I can manage it. Sometimes at night too. If sleep evades me.” He tells. Sleep always evades him. The one curse of immortality.

 “This poor old girl deserves as good a chance as any to stretch her legs.” He smiles.

 Another stable hand comes out and gently leads the white mare from her stall. She stands quietly as she’s tacked. Erland however? He pounded the cobbled floor with a scraping hoof and was twitching with excitement to be ridden. He bays and snorts and huffs until he gets his way.

 When his bridle and bit are slipped on, Kylo steps over and soothingly rubs his shoulder. “You, are an intemperate old beast.” He chides to his horse, as the stable boy lifts the fender to secure the cinch strap around Erland’s strong belly.

 After they’ve tacked her mare, the stable boys see to their other work. Bidding them a good ride. Kylo leaves Erland for a moment and steps around Kana to help Miss Ashton safe into the saddle.

 He takes her hand as she holds her skirts decently and levies herself up to her horses height via a handy wooden footstool. There is still a shimmering spark of contact when his hand closes around hers to hold. Even though they are both wearing gloves. The thrill of it is wilder and more potent than ever.

 She sets herself side-saddle. Takes the reins in her gloved hands. Gets used to the sturdy solid weight of the animal beneath her.

 Lord Ren heads back to Erland and hoists himself onto his strong back. In all his tall glory he didn’t need assistance into the saddle.

 He leads their walk out under the stone arch of the stables, and into the winter sunshine. He pulls Erland up flush to her and Kana’s side when the path widens out.

 They walk a to a slow paced trot through the dewy grass, that follows along the merry ash and taupe brown of the silver and white of birch winter woodland to their right. He was entirely correct about Kana. The sweet horse was gentle and unassuming in her nature.

 Iris sighs happily as she sees the sunlight cast an enchanting amber through all those pale trees. The waxy nectar of tulips drifting in the air from the Dutch gardens nearby. It was like something beautiful out of a dream.

 “You were right about the beauty of the ride. Your Lordship.” Iris remarks as she watches the amber stripes slope through the birches.

 He turns his head and catches that very same view she’d remarked on. He’d seen a million woodlands in his life. Over numerous centuries. And the place he spawned from was between tall pines and a ground eaten up thick with snow. He’s seen every copse of nature on every continent that exists. This view was stale to him. But he appreciates her admiration of it.

 “I suppose it is.” He says offhand.

 “What made you choose to settle at Hellford Park?” She asks him. “If that’s not an impertinence.” She adds. Smoothing her grey gloved hand over Kana’s neck.

 He smiles. “The house seemed of a decent size. The land holdings were vast. And I appreciate having my own space away from society. My worst nightmare is being wedged into a modern townhouse in London. With all the smog and the ton being rammed down my neck. I far prefer the country. The quieter pace of life.” He tells her.

 “Easier for hunting and sport...” He adds.

 “I feel easier knowing nature is on my doorstep. I need only walk out and be in it.” He explained.

 “I can’t bear the thought of a town life. I bless every year that my family haven’t the capital to rent a place in town.” Iris tells him. Probably not something she should admit. But she felt like her honesty was safe with him.

 “The most of town I’ve ever seen is a season in Bath when I debuted at sixteen. We managed to stay with my aunt and cousins. I thank heavens we’ve never repeated the experience.” He makes a firm sound of fond agreement.

 “I’ve seen the way you take to country life.” Kylo smiles at her. She nods across at him.

 “Same as you. Your Lordship. I appreciate the peace and quiet. Able to go and walk in the woods and be where my thoughts and wishes are my own. No one else’s expectations get forced upon me.” She says.

 “Nothing I like better to soothe my mind than walking around the Hampshire wilderness...” She comments as they head along a lane under a glade of golden elm trees.

 “I hope you don’t going adventuring out after dark, Miss Ashton. Even such tame country places can grow afoul after nightfall.” He warns her. Even in this genial little village he’s glimpsed the vile echelons of scum hereabouts.

 “Oh. I never run errands outside Westwell after dark.” She puts his mind at ease. “Mother thinks my evenings are best spent extensively reading of the Mirror of the graces and better improving my embroidery.” She tells him.

 He’s honest in his answering remark. Where most men she associated with would call her fine and sensible for indulging in etiquette novels. Kylo can’t think of anything more intrepid.

 “I can think of a million better ways in which I’d rather indulge my evenings.” He offers sincerely.

 “I don’t tell her that I often escape to my room to read my Johnathan Swift novel and to get a bit of peace away from her and my sisters.” She says with glad derision.

 Kylo smiles at her. “A far better use of your time, I’m certain.” He tells her.

 “Do you have any family?” She asks. And then she winces. “Sorry if I’m irritating you with nagging questions-“

 He smiles. He’ll answer any question she aims his way.

 “I did. A long time ago. It’s just me left now.” He imparts.

 She glances back at the gigantic house of Hellford. Save for staff, he had no one in it.

 “Doesn’t that ever get lonely?” She’s asking.

 “Don’t you?” He questions back nicely. Melting eyes catching hers. Sunlight spun them to amber glowing off dark walnut.

 She can’t help but nod. She doesn’t have many friends in this world. She has a greek harpy for a mother - talons, scales forked tongue and all. Her sisters were about as dense to understand as a Chelsea boot. Air headed and with no substance. And her father, loving though he is, is usually preoccupied in his study or being bullied down by mother. She doesn’t really have anyone.

 “I’ve never been left alone a day in my life. I’m permanently surrounded by noise and people yet- I’ve always felt... lonely.” She admits. Looking down to her hands where she held Kana’s reins.

 “It’s a privilege to finally have liberty to be able to express that to another living creature.” She smiles gladly at him.

 Kylo looks over at her. Brow furrowed. She does so many things for other people. She cares after every member of her dratted family. And she’s got this two tonne grey weight of sadness pressing down on her shoulders.

 It’s no secret he doesn’t care for the piddling and idle emotions of fleeting mere humans. But he so cares for her.

 “You never have to feel lonely if you don’t wish too.” He offers.

 “You have my confidence. And all that my acquaintance and friendship can offer to you. Miss Ashton.” Whether she likes it or not- she does. She has it. He firmly and fondly tells her so.

 “I’m very thankful for it. Vastly thankful.” She promises. “I could use a friend just now. With all the terrible circumstances happening in Pembleton.” She relays with a note of grimness.

 Erland snorts. Kylo pats his neck to sooth him. “Yes. The uh- madman Miss Smith raves about.” He recalls. “I’m sure it is the imaginings of her overworked mind.” He tells.

 Iris supposed that was a very accurate statement. Kylo had only met the awful woman once, too. And he already had sussed her flighty panicked character. That spoke volumes of her temperament.

 “Not to make mention of the supposed wolf thats said to be stalking these parts...” She adds.

 “An exaggerated tale, do you think?” He asks.

 “Well. I do subscribe to my fathers notion that wolves did die out centuries ago- but who knows? An animal that big and vicious, I’m all astonishment it hasn’t been spotted before now. This is a farming county. There’s poultry and livestock for the taking. Why would it bother with drunkards in the middle of the forest.”

 “Easier to stalk. And pick out- I imagine.” He smiles just a little. His gleaming eyes hold back his many dark secrets.

 He hears her inhale a shaky breath. He hears her throat pulsing next to him.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” He starts. “Of the alleged wolf. If, heaven forfend, there is one.” He surmised.

 “Why ever not?” She searches. Face pulled back. A little shocked.

 “Because wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them. The reason those men were attacked? They were half clumsy, gone on drink and weakly vulnerable.” He tells.

 Iris swallows. Brings Kana to a stop. “Lord Ren...” She gulps. “You talk as if you-“

 She takes a deep breath to fortify herself. “As if you know of such a thing...” She finally remarks.

 He stops Erland and doesn’t shy - from her glance or her question.

 “I know merely how wolves operate. Miss Ashton. Nothing more.” He says openly.

 Of course he does. She thinks stupidly. His home. Back in Bavaria. He said it was surrounded by wolves. He’s no doubt seen some people succumb to the packs of them.

 There’s silence for a minute as Kana and Erland chew at their bits. Clacking and shifting its crunch in the air. Erland leans his head over and snuffles Kanas snout. The creak of leather eases out in a squeak from The reins in Kylo’s hands.

 She nods. Cheeks beating. The shame of foolishness slithering up her spine. “Forgive me-“

 “I would if there was something to forgive.” He smiles.

 She ducks her head. Cheeks pink as she tips her chin to her chest. She sighs in bliss as she looks out at the open field before them. Before she gets a niggling flare of a brilliant yet stubborn idea in her head.

 “For once in my life...” She insists, almost angrily, Kylo’s eyes shift to how she shoves herself, adjusting on Kana’s saddle. She bunches her skirts. Leans back and he sees a flash of a white cotton chemise and pearly wool stockings as she swings her legs over, the both of them now astride the saddle.

 “I intend to do something completely and utterly dishonourable and unfeminine.” She says.

 Kylo’s smiling at the sight of her skirts draped up almost over her calves where she’s sat on the horse. He watches her adjust the reins in her hands and skip her feet into the solid stirrups.

 With a gentle kick into Kana’s flank she braces herself on the horse, as the mare proceeds to lurch into a gallop, breaking into the frosty meadow in front of them. Her blue coat flaps behind her. Kylo smiles after her lead. Adjusts Erland’s reins and spurs him on after her.

 For just that afternoon, for just those heart pumping minutes of uninterrupted bliss- Iris feels the sun bleaching onto her face, and the wind stinging and ripping at her hair. She feels her body and her soul stirring. For just those few minutes, she doesn’t feel like a trapped suffocating girl. Like a toy being manoeuvred in the dolls house that was her strict life.

 They gallop up the field and through another one. Coming up a trail that rises onto a hill in the sunny wood. She slows down when she gets to the top. Lord Ren catches up behind her. Erland could really get up a speed when he got going.

 She comes to a stop where the hill levels out. Looking across all the acres of Hellford park. She’s still winded from the ride. Sun and wind having kissed her cheeks a bright pink. Where she ducked past low branches in the forest, Kylo spies a green leaf nestled captured in her hair. Making her comparable to some frolicking wood nymph.

 He draws Erland up by her and Kana’s side. Listens to her panting as they take in the view of Hellford together.

 “Truly is a beautiful house, your lordship. I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

 “A truly fine prospect.” He agrees. Looking out at all his wealth. All his grandeur and land.

 “Finest land holding in all of England I expect.” She smiles. Still panting for breath. He can hear how her blood beats like sweet syrup around her body. He can smell her skin and he is just- a man whose found heaven on earth.

 “Indeed it is. Nothing quite like it.” He admits. Iris doesn’t see how he turned to look and admire her rather than the view. Intoxicated by the tug and pulse of the artery her throat. It thunders her neck and it’s all he can hear or think about.

 Kissing her. Tasting her neck. Her skin. The subtle perfume of her body. Her caresses.

 He might aswell be a man half starved-wild at this point.

 They ride back to the stables. Slowly together. Conversing along the way. She changes back to side saddle as they get closer - didn’t wish for his stable hands to catch sight of her and remark on how unladylike she’d been.

 Kylo slips off Erland and hands him across to be untracked. He marches up to Kana’s side and takes Iris’s hand to help her slip down from the mares saddle.

 Only, fate seems determined to drive them into each other’s arms at every foreseeable opportunity. Her skirts snag on the pommel and this makes her fall onto her feet too fast.

 Kylo’s there to catch her. She’s once again, wedged now between Kana’s back and his chest. She thuds down to the ground with a soft “oof.” Escaping her lungs.

 That escalated when she looked up and found him so, brilliantly close. He towers over her, he’s twice her width in his shoulders alone. But he’s gazing at her so tenderly. His hand had shot to her waist to steady her outside her coat. The span of it reaches from her ribs almost to her hip.

 It’s somehow more dizzying to be nearer him now she’s seen what form lies under those clothes. The sheer immensity of this man.

 He looks up into her hair and smiles a tipped up curl of a crooked grin. His fingers reach up and skim away the leaf caught in her hair. She blushes and laughs a little when he shows her.

 She touched over the spot his fingers had skimmed. The skin still burned with heat and cold from the leather of his gloves.

 “I had the most pleasant afternoon.” She encourages. Swallowing nervously again. He can smell her hot throat. Her hot bare throat and it’s addictive- to be so close as this to his biggest temptation.

 “Thankyou very much for your hospitality, Your Lordship.” She adds.

 “And you for yours.” He thanks her for the baskets she’d bought. He breaks the trance. Turns back and calls to one of the stable boys to ready the carriage to take Miss Ashton home.

 “Oh, please. You needn’t bother. I don’t mind the walk.” She tries to fuss

 “I insist on seeing a lady safely home. It is all of five miles from here to Westwell.” He announces. She smiles in gratitude.

 He parts with her at the coach door, after it’s brought around. He holds her spare hand as her other clutches at her skirts and she steps up into the scarlet black box of it- to think on all that had passed between them since she first saw this coach mere days ago.

 If only she knew how much-

 He kisses her hand in parting. “A delight as ever, Miss Ashton. I do hope you visit Hellford again.” He urges.

 “As do I.” She beams back. Leaning forwards to look at him through the carriage door. He smiles before he steps away. Hands behind his back again. He nods to the driver, who cracks the whip on the horses and the coach lurches away. Takes her home. Safe away from him.

 She passes the ride to Westwell in his comfortable carriage, remarking with a sly smile to herself about the pleasantness of the afternoon. Looking out the window as the carriage shakes and cracks and tumbled speedily along the road, she noticed how the sun is dipping low into a evening sky. Misty purple and burnt peach copper. She wonders if she’s been missed at all.

 As soon and she alights the coach, thank’s the driver and slips inside Westwell’s front door. No sooner than she pushes the door shut, flat to her back on the wood to close it. And she is ambushed by her mother.

 The foyer is dark save for the amber fire. Daylight dies in the window frames. Here there is gloom waiting for her. Her crushing boa of a life wraps around her neck again.

 She is greeted with a pursed thin lipped glare of displeasure. Mother rips herself up to a stand from the armchair by the fire and snaps her book to slam shut. Loudly. Like a slap. Looking across at her daughter.

 Happiness shatters in her chest like a glass vase being dropped. The splinters and shards clog up her once happy heart.

 “Where in the devil’s name have you been?” She demands to know.

 “Paying call to Lord Ren.” Iris says. Moving into the house. Intending for the stairs. She doesn’t wish to be bitten by this poisonous viper. Not tonight. She’s had such a wonderful day to reflect on.

 “I beg your pardon?” Her mother remarks.

 “You heard me perfectly well.” Iris says flatly.

 “I dropped off the basket Mrs Phillips and Miss Smith sent to him in gratitude.” She adds in explanation.

 “I can’t think what gratitude they could possibly owe to that man.” She curses.

 “Why do you think so ill of him? What possible vexation has he caused you?” Iris accuses.

 “Pray tell why do you praise him so?” Her mother narrows her eyes.

 “He is a kind man. And he has the phenomenal benefit of having a working brain unlike all the preening idiots I usually have to comport myself in front of.” Iris explains.

 “I will not tolerate anymore stupidity. Think of our reputation to uphold. You were gone half of the afternoon. And I’d no clue as to where. And now you’re telling me you were in the company of a man, unchaperoned?” She shrills.

 “Yes I was.” Iris spits out plainly. “And there was no impropriety in it. Before you start accusing me of that.” She adds.

 Lifting her skirts and beginning to stomp away up the stairs. Mouth bitter and full of anger dashed with sadness. Mourning her beautiful day.

 “Do you have any idea what this could do to us? To our family name? Running around unsupervised with a man like that-”

 Iris turns back. Fuming. Hair wild. Eyes bright with rage. Glittering spitfire red from the hearth.

 “For once in my life, mother. I did not think! And I was glad of it! I did not need reminding of the fact you use me as a chess piece for this family’s hopes. Seizing my skirts and dragging me from square to square to make sure I catch a man of fortune and hale breeding.” Iris fairly yells. Voice scraping hoarse through her throat.

 Her mother stands in the foyer like some grim harbinger of doom in her plum muslin dress that looks black in the gloom. Her face sternly cross and icy at her daughters outburst. Her pale claw of a bony hand gripping the banister.

 “You will not associate with him again.” She tells stonily.

 “I wrote to Armitage Hux today. He travels back from London tomorrow and I’ve stated he is excessively welcome to come to tea.” She explains.

 “You will put on your best dress and make him welcome. And let him entertain the idea of a marriage match. Don’t be a fool Iris. A man like Lord Ren would never wish for your hand. Learn that now and be done with it. It’s time you took our family situation seriously.” She comments with finality.

 She takes her hand off the banister and walks away. Words ringing in her ears like knives stabbing at her brain.

 Iris’ pounding heart hardens over with grey nausea and glass shards that stab her lungs. Her eyes flood with quivering and filling up of silvery tears.

 She slips up the wooden stairs to her room and collapses into great fits of tears. Muffling her sobs with her hand. She wipes off her face and her stinging eyes.

 Kylo felt her dread, all those miles away at Hellford Park. He felt it like a punch to the gut. 

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~ 

[paperdoe]

An Unexpected Friendship

(Disclaimer: A Lord of the Rings Online fic about a real in-game event. The Great Goblin had incapacitated Rho, but the lynx companion Lore Masters can summon still lived and killed the Goblin King, completing the quest for me :D. People familiar with the game may be confused about the timeline. For clarity, I skipped the Misty Mountains quest pack until I completed the Mines of Moria/Mirkwood storyline, then went back for quest and general deeds. I chose this Great Goblin instead of the world instance one, as the dynamics of the world instance would make a slightly different story than originally planned.)  He had never intended to adopt a wild animal. It went against his laws. 

So the wild animal adopted him.

Daerhovan tucked the lower half of his face into his scarf in an effort to fend of the biting winds howling down from the Misty Mountains. Though he walked across it’s snowy expanses with ease, cold and fatigue were beginning to catch up with him. The last of his rations had been given to those who were tired and wounded after the attack upon Dol Guldur. The giftee’s were concerned and tried to refuse, but Daerhovan insisted. His trek across the Misties would be swift. And he could feed off the land. 

Daerhovan had only wanted to return to Eriador, especially Angmar, to observe how the land was healing after the fall of Carn Dum’s Elite. He wanted to stop thinking about a certain dwarf who’s face and body had been slow to leave his mind. Daerhovan looked up, his keen eyes spotting a good vantage point in the form of a rocky precipice. From atop, hazy images of towering forests and the faint glow of sunlight heralded the location of the Vale of Imladris, though the elven settlement itself could not be seen. Daerhovan’s heart stirred at the prospect of a warm bed and proper food that didn’t consist of stunted roots and stinking Snowbeast meat. Nimbly, he scaled down the short cliffside, being careful to avoid loose rocks when he saw footprints. And blood. Relatively fresh. 

Curious, Daerhovan crouched to inspect the tracks. They were smaller than a sabre, and shallowerer depressions around the pads indicated thick fur. This was made by a Mountain Lynx, for sure. The blood must have been from its prey. 

But as Daerhovan moved forward to study it’s movements, something seemed off. It’s steps were deep, and it’s stride short. The animal had appeared to drag its belly through the snow on a couple of places throughout it’s trek. The blood increased as the tracks went on. 

“Poor thing…’ The elf murmured. Obviously the animal had not caught prey, but was heavily wounded and exhausted. Distracted from his original quest, Daerhovan carefully followed the struggling animal’s journey. It did not take long for him to find it’s end. And it’s end it was indeed. 

A clump of thick ruddy fur was half buried by snow drifts. A rumble of sympathy sounded from within Daerhovan as he gently touched the spotted fur of the dead lynx. What had happened to it? His pondering was cut short as a thin wail sounded from the pile of rocks in front of him. Daerhovan practically leaped to it, spotting an opening from within the pile. The wailing persisted. Peeking inside, he could see a small scrap of fur in the gloom. This lynx must have been a mother, and this must be her cub.

Without thinking, he peered more closely at the inside the den, seeing only one cub, and reached a hand inside the hole, carefully feeling around for the animal. Locating its neck scruff; Daerhovan gently transferred it out of the den and immediately into the warmth of his cloak. The vale was not far. He could make it before the cub succumbed to the cold. In the back of his mind he knew was doing something against his nature. It had always been his belief to let nature live it’s dance of life and death without his interference. So why had he taken a cub, doomed to die without it’s mother’s care? He had seen newborn animals die before. As harsh as the statement sounded, why was this one any different?

These thoughts raced through his mind as Daerhovan swiftly descended from the Mountains. He kept his distance from the Snow beasts and lurkers, making the tail end of the trek uneventful. Daerhovan hoped that Gloin’s camp would be occupied, alas for his luck, the occupants must have moved somewhere else. Grumbling, he checked on the cub; still clinging to life, but barely. He had to quicken his pace. 

As he made his way through the narrow pass towards the North Gate of Imladris, the cold relented it’s grip, and warm sunlight broke through. Red rooftops of elven settlements glinted. 

---

“Leaving already? You’ve barely arrived!”

Daerhovan grinned sheepishly at Maeglir. A high elf like that onto Glorfindel, who also resided in the valley. 

“She grows stronger each day. I want her to grow up beyond the valley.” 

Maeglir merely clicked his tongue in response, wandering over to inspect the cub, who was currently curled up in a nest of soft blankets. Daerhovan smiled warmly at her, stroking it’s short, tufted ears. Alright, she was adorable.

It had been nearly two months since he found his way into Imladris. More like stumbled in.

In a guest room offered to him by Elrond Half-elven himself; he spent days nursing the cub back from the brink of death. She had been cold, and starving. Sustenance had been difficult to come by at first, but another elf had eventually prepared a formula the cub could sustain herself on. The resident elves had been won over by it’s plight, and helped Daerhovan care for her. 

“But where would you go? You know how dangerous the wilderlands are outside of the Valley. Echad Candelleth, or even Thorenhad would be safer.”  Maeglir argued. Daerhovan grinned warmly at the half noldo. Though they didn’t consider themselves to be good friends, Maeglir still had a protective streak. Daerhovan met his deep blue gaze, indicating Maeglir’s Vanyar blood. “Centuries have I lived in the wilds. I can manage.” He looked down at the cub. “I don’t wish for Verya to be conditioned to the care of those who would only pamper her. She must remain wild.” Maeglir’s eyes thinned shrewdly at the Silvan elf. “You’ve given it a name? That contradicts your statement. You have subjected yourself to bond with it.” Maeglir huffed, excusing himself from the room. Confused mumblings of “Foolish” and “Much better places to raise infant animals” could be heard as the door creaked shut. 

Daerhovan chuckled lightly, turning his attention back to the cub. She looked so safe in her makeshift nest. Was it really wise to take her out of here? Maeglir might have been right about giving her a name ...But he didn’t know what else to call it. Besides, her name reflected the brave and relentless spirit she had displayed so far. He only found it fitting. 

---

Daerhovan already had a place in mind to look after Verya, until she could take care of herself. In the wilds of the High Moor; wild boards, bog guardians, giant flies, and bears prowled, but if the young lynx was to survive out here, she must know her place. His plan was to relocate her to a place nearby and stay with the feline as soon as she could take care of herself. He dared not take her farther west of the Bruinien Gorge, worried that her thick fur would cause her to overheat in the lowlands. 

He brought no horse with him as he and his feline companion trekked upward through the vale, towards the entrance of the Hidden Valley. He wondered if he should carry her up the climb, but Verya seemed to be holding up well. Their exercises around the Vale seemed to have made her legs sturdy enough to increase her stamina. Daerhovan looked up into the trees, mimicking the whistle of the loudest of the chirps of birds that could be heard. Calling it to him. Daerhovan held an arm up as a Stellars Jay answered his call, alighting on said arm. 

Would you scout the higher grounds for me, my friend? 

The bird twittered, and flew off into the forests. 

---

Large bears and boars prowled in the wilds, his feathered messenger relayed. Daerhovan sighed. He’d communed with such animals before, but both tended to be fiercely territorial; despite his assurances he would be out of their way. 

But perhaps there was one place..

---

He had found it once before. A little glade that marked the border between The Trollshaws and Eregion. He’d always been fond of the sights of the Misty Mountains in one direction, with towering trees in another. Grand, but quiet. 

Daerhovan looked down on his companion, beaming. “Welcome to your new home…”

---

Daerhovan rapped his staff against a boulder. Startled, the hare he had been after scampered away, and Daerhovan prayed it would head in Verya’s direction. The felid merely gave it a passing glance before twisting her neck to wash her back. Alright, so maybe hares were still too big for her. 

Days passed without any hunting progress from her, and he began to worry she was depending too much on him to take care of her. Daerhovan tried to keep his distance, quashing his anxiety about leaving the cub alone. 

He sat in the shade of a young oak, pondering what to do next. A flash of blue burst from the bushes across from him, a ruddy feline in hot pursuit. Daerhovan stood up in surprise as Verya gave a mighty leap, slapping down the bunting with one giant paw. She noticed the elf afterwards, and to him it seemed her blue eyes gleamed with triumph.

---

Weeks passed. Verya was beginning to master hunting on her own. Her biggest catches had been hares and the occasional turkey. As an adult she would be able to take on goats and possibly anything slightly bigger. She was also rapidly growing in size, and on the rare times Daerhovan had to carry her (usually when she got stuck in brambles) his arms would start to strain. Her physicality seemed to be adapting to this warmer environment, as he noticed her fur was slightly thinner, despite the fact it was mid Summer. He was worried at first that she may have taken ill, but her pelt was still glossy and well groomed. He still mostly kept his distance, observing her from afar. 

--

Weeks turned into months, and Verya was on the cusp of adulthood. Her weight and height had greatly increased, and she could tackle a man to the ground if she so wished. With a pang in his heart, Daerhovan realized it was almost time to leave her alone for good. His original plan of returning her the the Misties moot now as she adapted more and more to the climate of the Trollshaws. But there was one final test before Daerhovan was confident enough to leave her. 

For the most part she had hunted in the woods of the Trollshaws. But lately Verya had been wandering into the wilds of Eregion. Perhaps to seek out bigger prey? Daerhovan tracked her movements, surprised as she ventured further than she ever had inside the region. 

He finally caught up with her after a couple days since he first tracked the lynx. A freshly killed goat at her paws, jaws tugging on the last strips of meat. Surely she brought it down herself? Only one way to find out. Daerhovan clicked his tongue as he approached, alerting her to his presence. She whipped her head around, hackles raised, but relaxed when she recognized his scent. He spoke softly in his native tongue, praising her for the kill. Reassuring the lynx it was all hers while giving the carcass itself a wide berth. Glancing swiftly at her paws, he saw the goats fur still caught in the sharp claws, and he had his answer. She had passed the test. 

---

The landscape gleamed with silver light as the full moon traveled slowly over indigo skies partially obscured by the dark shadows of towering pines and mountains. In the gloom of the forest, Daerhovan worked swiftly yet quietly as he packed his essentials into his satchel. Verya had returned to the glade after her hunt, and last time he checked, was sleeping soundly in a den she had found, an old badger set fortified by tree roots. It was as good as anytime to leave now. He hated to admit it, but he was dreading the parting. The little glade felt like home almost, and he had grown very fond of the lynx. (Which he had dreaded in the first place, but it couldn't be helped). Looking back at her den, a pang in his heart almost convinced him to stay for a few days more. Why did this feel wrong?

No, she must not grow accustomed to people. He tried to convince himself. With a heavy sigh, he turned back from the glade, through Giant Valley, until he found the Great East Road again. Planning to visit Imladris once more before heading north into Angmar. 

---

“Tell the council your report, Nogmeldir.” Elrond’s clear voice rang throughout the hall. 

The haggard looking elf nodded, clearing his throat. “I talked with those camped atop Vindurhal, and braved the blizzards to the half buried dwarven settlement of Hrimbarg. Elf, man, and dwarf alike confirmed reports of increased activity within and around Goblin Town.”

“Did you find out any reason why this would be?” Glorfindel chimed in, his hard grip on the armchair betraying his seemingly calm demeanor. 

Nogmeldir nodded vigorously. “I was getting to that. They’re rumours, mostly, but it’s said a Great Goblin has once again taken the throne. I found Gloin of Erebor camped close to the lower entrance, and he confirms the goblins have become more aggressive. People have gone missing, with trails of blood and scraps of clothes leading to the mountain they reside in.” The scout gingerly pulled a ratty scrap of cloth from within his satchel. “And there was this.” His voice was soft, but grave as he passed the cloth to Elrond.

Daerhovan, who had also been called to the council shortly after his return to Imladris, peered at the cloth curiously. “Is that writing upon it?” 

Elrond nodded. “Indeed. They are orders to fortify the outer ramparts.” Penetrating grey eyes fixed on Daerhovan. “Telphindor, you mentioned curious workings near Goblin Town on your first trek through the mountains some months before. Do you believe these are the outer ramparts mentioned?” 

Daerhovan thought back to that time, a little before the downfall of Mordirith. He had been sent to the Misty Mountains to scout the water sources to see if reports that they were being poisoned were true. (Which indeed they were, though the perpetrator was unknown.) More concerning news from person to person had brought him to the High Pass. During one venture, he had found the goblins preparing black powder for fire pots. And what seemed like newly constructed bridges and tents of crude goblin-make swathed throughout the peaks and gullies. “I do.” Daerhovan answered tentatively, feeling uncomfortable with all the attention on him. “The goblin forces seemed more organized. And I could see what appeared to be couriers running to and fro from the mountain to the camps.”

Elrond nodded grimly. “Yes, I remember your report. I had thought Angmar was involved.” The lord of Imladris leaned on one shoulder, brow furrowing in deep thought and concern. “Now...now I wonder if there has been another Great Goblin all along.” 

Glorfindel stood, his countenance imposing. “I wonder that too. But now I believe they were indeed in league with Angmar. But since their downfall the Great Goblin could be trying to finish what they started in the Mountains. Whatever that was. And assuming these rumors are true.”

“Then I deem it is necessary to investigate them.” Elrond responded heavily, his gaze sweeping across those present. “One of you must venture into the High Pass. And into Goblin-Town itself.”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the council. Daerhovan noticed those present twiddling their thumbs and looking grave. He knew Elrond, Glorfindel, or Elrond’s sons themselves would go if they could, but he was aware that other pressing matters kept them here. Nogmeldir looked exhausted and cold, as if the chill of the mountains was reluctant to let go of him. Others looked too afraid to venture into the heights. Daerhovan sighed inwardly. It was going to have to be him, once again. “I will go. If it pleases the council.” 

The oppressing silence was broken with breaths of relief and approving murmurs. Elrond smiled, though Daerhovan thought he looked apologetic. “You do indeed know these mountains, Telphindor. I could not think of a better choice. It is decided then. You will scout Goblin Town to confirm these reports. May Elbereth look down kindly upon you.” 

---

The Galladhrim elf leaned over the bannister on the balcony to gaze out across the Hidden Valley. The red tiles of the rooftops appeared washed with silver from the moonlight. Silhouettes of tree tops swayed lazily in the breeze. Daerhovan let his eyes sweep the top of the ridge that bordered the High Moorlands. Was Verya doing alright? Had she established her territory? Did she have enough prey and water to sustain herself on? Footsteps announced Elrond’s arrival from behind, drawing Daerhovan away from his musings. 

“I have sent word to Gloin by way of a raven. He will be expecting you in three days time, at the least. From Nogmeldir’s report, he has moved his camp near to the base of the main entrance of Goblin Town. Practically in plain sight.” Elrond said, incredulous. 

Daerhovan couldn’t help but chuckle at Gloin’s choice of location. That seemed like him, alright. “Lets just hope his presence is intimidating enough for goblins to stay put. They must associate him with Glamdring and Orcrist. Despite the fact he never wielded them.” Elrond nodded, staring at Daerhovan with a serious expression. “You remember the mission?” Daerhovan nodded. “Enter Goblin Town, find evidence of a king, and get out.” Elrond murmurd agreement. “Avoid conflict as much as you can. If any goblin sees you, dispatch them immediately. If they manage to sound the alarm, I fear you will not make it out alive.”

“I won’t become goblin fodder.” Daerhovan smiled, trying not to betray his nervousness. 

“Please don’t.” Elrond smiled in return, placing a reassuring hand on the other elf’s shoulder “Has that lynx you found established a foothold for herself?” Daerhovan shrugged, resting his head in one hand ,watching the moonlight flicker like dancing lights in the nearby river. “I believe she has. I just hope I taught her enough.” Elrond followed his gaze, and Daerhovan thought he saw the elf lord’s eyes widen. In what emotion he couldn't discern. The Lord of the Valley gave Daerhovan a knowing look before leaving the balcony. “Perhaps your paths have yet to intertwine.” He winked as he left. Leaving a confused Daerhovan to ponder his cryptic words. 

---

The alpine winds howled down from the lofty peaks that pierced the gray sky. Though Daerhovan couldn't make out said peaks even with his elven sight. The relentless winds brought barrages of snowflakes swirling around him and his mountain goat mount, blinding them to their surroundings. Maggie bleated anxiously, letting Daerhovan know she didn’t know which way to turn. The elf gently patted her neck, speaking elvish words of reassurance. The gray furred animal was a gift to him from both fellow elf and dwarf during the Iron Garrison’s reclamation of Moria. Though he let her wander free in the mountains she had been born in. Calling to her when needed, and today she was truly needed. Her name was mannish in origin, and Daerhovan stuck with it, finding the sound of it rather cute. The elf squinted into the blizzard, trying to make out shapes amidst the wall of snow. He did his best to quash his own anxiety, less Maggie’s own grow. Cautiously, he urged her forward. As they traveled a large rocky outcrop in the middle of the landscape rose from the snow, offering the promise of shelter. This would be as good a camp as any right now, until the storm cleared. Daerhovan set out his sleeping roll, anxious of starting a fire, never mind the fact that a flame couldn’t last long in this weather. Nickering softly, he called Maggie over. She might smell like...well, goat. But at least they could share each other’s warmeth. 

---

Harsh bleats of fear and anger roused Daerhovan with a start. Instantly he got to his feet, seeing Maggie rearing and stomping towards something yet hidden from him. “Ai! What causes you fear?” He called to her in the special language he reserved for beasts, as taught to him by Radagast. Danger past snowdrift. Smell of blood. The words of the goat came to his mind as clear as day. Daerhovan quirked a brow. Smell of blood? Had a predator been stalking them? Daerhovan creeped forward, staff in hand, but ready to reach for his sword if need be. “Who goes there?” He called, repeating the command in beast tongue. A ruddy head with ice blue eyes and black tufted ears poked from behind the drift, slowly climbing out to reveal herself fully. Verya tilted her head, appraising him.

Daerhovan stared open mouthed at the feline, relaxing his stance. “Verya! How came you to be here?” He crouched, studying her. She looked well enough. Her fur had thickened, her body was larger. She looked as a grown lynx should. He was glad for that. But how did he not notice the lynx had been following him? He remembered that small detail of Elrond’s knowing look from back in the valley. Had he seen Verya then? Daerhovan sighed, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t a good sign if she intended to follow him. Sternly, he jabbed a finger southwards. “Go home. You were not supposed to follow.” 

Verya gave no sign that she understood him. (his comprehension of feline and canine speak left something to be desired still) A different tactic would have to be used. Baring his teeth, he thrusted his head as close to Verya’s as he dared, snarling in her face. (Thank Eru his friends weren’t here to witness his more beastial manners…) Her tufted ears flattened against her skull as she backed up from him, and he thought she finally looked unsure. He just hoped his display was enough to convince her to turn around and stay away from him. With a long, final look at the elf, Verya trotted off into the white wilderness. That familiar pang of regret stung his heart. Surely it was right to send her away? She was wild. She had to remain so. Even if Daerhovan had to put the fear of people into her mind. The more she feared people, the less was her likelihood of being skinned by an opportunistic poacher for her valuable pelt.  

Daerhovan returned to Maggie, stroking her muzzle. He could sense the animals relief, and she began to calm down. A quick study of the landscape revealed that the storm had passed, and the sun shone, albeit weakly, through the mist. Daerhovan realized he was in the middle of the Northern High Pass. The distant walls rising up to form a bowl shaped valley. Peering northward, Daerhovan thought he could recognize the mountain where Goblin Town made their home. The blizzard had delayed his journey, time was of the essence now. 

---

Daerhovan pushed Maggie onward through the snowy expanse. Hoping to hope that Gloin and his party of other dwarves would still be where Elrond and Nogmeldir said they would. If the goblins had taken them...Daerhovan banished the thought. The mountain loomed higher now. It was a majestic sight, but Daerhovan knew it’s walls were riddled with traps and hidden passages. He grudgingly admired the goblins skills of stealth and booby trapping. His study of the mountain was cut short as Maggie stopped, rearing where she stood. Daerhovan gripped her neck fur, fighting to stay on her back. Danger! The feline returns! Her words rang through his mind. Daerhovan hopped off Maggie, peering behind him into the whiteness. Sure enough, Verya leapt out of the drift she had been hiding behind. He stood still as she began to stalk towards him, caution lined in every smooth movement of her body. He could hear Maggie screeching in panic, her instincts torn between staying with her master and fleeing from the smell of blood upon the lynx’s fur. In the end the latter won, and she turned tail to flee. Daerhovan spun around, calling after her sternly.

Verya paused, gauging the elfs reaction. She padded even closer ,until she was near enough to but her head against Daerhovan’s leg. Purring, she rubbed her jaw along his kneecap, then stood on tiptoe as she wound her body around his shins. Daerhovan groaned. The lynx had more of an attachment to him than he wanted. And now she had scared off his ride. 

“GO!” He shouted, startling Verya. His voice ringing throughout the valley. She assumed a stance to prepare to flee, but still met Daerhovan’s gaze. Ice blue into pale green. Daerhovan’s frustration felt ready to spill over. “Go back!” He shouted once again, taking a step forward, trying to look imposing. His tone of voice seemed to get through to Verya this time, and she bounded away. But not before looking back once again before she vanished over the hill. Daerhovan breathed out a sigh, digging his fingers through his hair. Looking around he saw no sign of his mount. No matter, Gloin’s camp couldnt be far now. 

---

“There’s Elrond’s help! Figured you would be delayed in the storm.” Gloin’s voice called to him through the archway of stone that lead to the mountain’s entrance. Daerhovan raised a hand in greeting, seeing a familiar goat standing among them. Surprise lit his eyes. “Maggie!” He rushed over, studying her body for any sign of harm. “Of course he greets the beast first.” Gloin grumbled. “More like she found us. Why did she beat you here?” The old dwarf inquired gruffly. Daerhovan paid no heed to his question until after he was sure Maggie hadn’t come to harm, satisfied when he saw nothing, he answered; “She was spooked by a lynx while I was dismounted. Though she fears for nothing, as lynxes are too small to take down goats of her size.” 

“A lynx eh? The boys and I will take care of it for her. If it shows it’s snarling face here.” One of Gloin’s companions promised. 

“No!” Daerhovan exclaimed. The dwarves stared at him in confusion. “No...Please don’t harm her. Just scare her off if you have to.” Gloin merely shrugged. Daerhovan looked up at the Mountain’s Throat, yawning before them nearby. No less creepy than the first time he stumbled upon it weeks before “Any news?” He asked. 

Gloin shook his head. “All’s been quiet lately. But by my beard I know something more than usual goblin activity stirs within.” He replied, rubbing his chin. “Your mission as described by Elrond doesn’t make much sense to me. I prefer to find out head on, if you know what I mean.” Gloin huffed. 

Daerhovan shrugged. “Better to keep the goblins in the dark about our plans, I suppose.” He stroked the pommel of his sword, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. Gloin side eyed him grimly. “Then do what you came here to do. And don’t lose your pretty head.” 

---

Peeking as far as he dared over a crumbling wall, Daerhovan cursed inwardly at the sight of many goblins blocking his path. Thanks to his skills of stealth he was deep, deep into Goblin Town. Currently he was hiding inside a small alleyway of a long forgotten dwarf structure embedded into the stone. A broken wall the only thing between him and the enemy past it. Down the hallway of ragged stone yawned yet another tunnel. Though Daerhovan’s elven eyesight could see it opened up into a more spacious cavern within. But how in Elbereth could he get past the goblins in this hall? Perhaps a rock thrown far from his position to distract them...No. He would be spotted for sure. From what he saw, the hall was in want of more hiding places. Maybe it was time to turn back. He had evidence of some sort of ruling head, after all.

His trek through the shabby hole the goblins called a town had proven fruitful as he lay in other hiding places for goblins to pass through. Reports of the enemy forces being more organized rang true. Even more surprising was the presence of orcs. Orders that had been haphazardly tucked into belts were littered on the stone floors, though he was unable to decipher most of them. But they were always signed with the signature of a name that was rough on the tongue. Could whoever be giving these orders be here? Or were they from afar? Daerhovan stared longingly at the tunnel. (Or at least, where he thought the tunnel was from behind the wall.) His mind blanking on what to do next. It felt wrong somehow to turn around. All his instincts seemed to be telling him his answers were close. 

His mind tumbled with these fruitless thoughts until a sharp voice cracked the air like a whip. Daerhovan ducked further, heart racing, fearing he had been discovered. Whoever had shouted spoke in a language he couldn’t understand. A dialect of Black Speech no doubt. Grumblings echoed throughout the cavern, followed by the shuffling of feet heading away from him. Still as stone, he waited. The sounds becoming muted, as if they were being blocked by something. Holding his breath, Daerhovan peek over the wall again, finding the room...empty? It seemed like a jest. Surely the goblins were lying in wait for him in some hidden nook he couldn’t see. Or maybe he had just come at the right time. Straining his hearing, the pitter-patter of goblin feet grew ever fainter. The sounds floating from the adjacent tunnel to his right. Hardly believing his luck, the opportunity was now present, and Daerhovan couldn’t waste anymore seconds. 

He crept out from behind his refuge, soundlessly stalking towards the tunnel ahead, but not before peering around the other passage to make sure other goblins weren’t keeping watch. With the coast clear, Daerhovan disappeared into the gloom of the tunnel. 

The cavern loomed into view, seemingly empty to his eyes. He paused to hear for any signs of life. But all was quiet. Stepping inside, he could see a vast pit in the center of a room. A thin, rickety bridge spanning across. Up ahead a crude looking seat made from bones and ratty leather stood out. Perhaps a throne for a king? Daerhovan didn’t have time to process the sights when wild laughter suddenly rang throughout the room. Heart in his throat, Daerhovan turned to flee, bumping into a strong orc blocking his path. Goblins swarmed into the room from unseen passageways. His hand had just reached the hilt of his sword when a blow from behind him forced him to his knees. Another blow making the world go dark...

Shrill voices pierced through the fog of his mind as Daerhovan came to. 

“Kill him!”

“Skin him alive!”

“Hang him from the rafters!” 

His senses quickly came back into focus as he realized where he was. Goblins thronged around him in a semi circle. Daerhovan yelped in pain as the hair nearest to his forehead was yanked upward, forcing his head back. A massive, wicked looking goblin met his gaze, sneering in triumph. “I’ve known many fools in my life, elf.” He spat. “But they pale in comparison to you!” A vicious kick to his face sent him rolling over to one side. The Great Goblin planted his foot on the cheek he struck. “Many have dared to slink through my halls! Few have managed to reach my throne. I’ll give you that much!” Daerhovan struggled to sit up, sure that his fear was almost palpable to the goblins around him. But he kept his face calm, glaring at the Goblin king as he finished his little tirade. “Many kings have there been in the past But none so cruel or merciless as I! For I am Ashûrz The Savage!” He crowed, a wild light dancing in his yellow eyes. His subjects shrieked their approval. 

Quick as a snake, the goblin King snatched Daerhovan’s collar, bringing the elf’s face close to his. Daerhovan’s stomach heaved from his hot, rancid breath. “You’ll make a worthy feast for my beasts and I. And then your skeleton can join the rest of my trophies.” The goblin gestured to a series of cruel cages hanging from the roof of the cavern. Daerhovan felt a flood of revulsion and horror as he made out corpses within them. Some had remains of gristle still hanging from their bones. His fear intensified, Daerhovan drove his fist into the Goblin King’s jaw. Howling, the goblin let go of the elf’s collar, rubbing the spot his fist had struck. Snarling, Ashûrz screeched into the crowd. “My sword! Bring my sword!’ One of his subjects nearest to the throne lugged the weapon over, Ashûrz grabbed it hastily, rushing at Daerhovan with a cry. Daerhovan looked about wildy for his own weapons. Spotting his own sword a few yards away, he leapt towards it, The aches of his body becoming unnoticeable as adrenaline surged through his veins. Instead of rushing to stop him, the crowd of goblins backed away, choosing to cheer on their king as he strove with the elf intruder. Ashûrz jabbed his sword recklessly at Daerhovan without any hint of masterful swordsmanship. But he was lightning fast, and Daerhovan found himself on the defensive as he struggled to parry away the king’s thrusts. He couldn’t stifle a cry of pain as the tip of Ashurz’s sword cut through the fabric of his upper arm, the tip ripping more than cloth. His staff! He needed his staff. Where had it gone? With it he could do so much more than delay his demise with his sword. 

With a maniacal shout of glee, the Great Goblin swung his shabby sword in a swinging motion towards Daerhovan’s neck, aiming to behead the elf. Daerhovan managed to duck quickly, but the tip caught his brow. Blood flooded the elfs’ vision, his surroundings disappearing under the red wave. No matter how many times he tried to wipe it from his eyes, the blood kept coming. One arm hung limp from it’s injury, the other was occupied by his sword. He couldn't use anything to stem the wound’s flow without unarming himself. The goblin laughed again at his enemy’s plight, and struck again. Daerhovan feebly fended off the attacks, using his hearing to judge where the sword was coming at, rather than sight. With a strength he didn’t think the goblin possesed, the mongrel knocked his sword aside with his own weapon. Daerhovan’s heart sank as he heard his life-saver clattering some feet away from him. “Prepare the feasting fires, my subjects!” Bellowed the Goblin King. Daerhovan barely had time to process his surroundings as a yowl echoed throughout the room, followed by a cry of surprise from his foe. He could hear scuffling some feet away from him. Daerhovan hastily wiped the blood from his eyes, stemming the flow with one hand. 

The sword had dropped out of Ashûrz’s hands. The goblin himself thrashed on the floor as he fought to shove a ruddy, spotted furred animal raking its claws down his chest. 

“Verya?...” Daerhovan whispered, weak from his blood loss. “How did you?...” 

The Mountain Lynx twisted her head to look at him, as if making sure he was still alive. The goblin King took advantage of her brief hesitation, shoving the feline off. Madly, he crawled towards his sword. Blood poured from the claw wounds marring his chest and arms, but he seemed to take no notice as he thrusted his sword towards the lynx. Dodging nimbly, Verya bared her teeth, leaping forwards before Ashûrz could re-double his attack. Her fangs met his throat, sinking deeply into the rough skin. With a gurgling cry, Ashûrz clawed feebly at Verya, attempting to drag her off, but she held fast. Only when he sank to his knees, sword hand letting go of his weapon, did Verya unlatch herself. His throat torn open and choking on his own life force, Ashûrz slumped to the cold, stony ground. Dead within seconds. 

Triumphant cries transformed into screams of horror as the goblins processed the death of their king. Daerhovan tensed, as did Verya, expecting the goblins to swarm over them in vengeance. But without a leader the crowd seemed confused. Fierce shouts sounded from the tunnels behind. Daerhovan slumped forward. Hardly able to process what was happening as the goblins retreated, only to be cut down by a party of dwarves led by Gloin himself. He could feel Verya’s warm fur pressed against him as he blacked out for the second time today.  

---

Cold air filled his lungs as Daerhovan awoke. And though the frigid air bit the skin of his face, it was quite a welcome feeling. A “Mrrow” heralded Verya’s presence as she padded over, looking over Daerhovan’s face. Purring loudly, she rasped her bristled tongue over the elf's bruised cheek. Chuckling, he gently fender her off with his good arm. “Yes, yes I see you too. I’m awake now.” Grunting, he sat up to study his surroundings. He was in a stony hall. But the rock was masterfully carved, lined with the furs of animals and the geometric art of the dwarves embroidered on richly hued flags. A fire in the hearth near the end of the room struggled to maintain it’s flame in the cold, The place was quite a contrast to the dark, craggy hallways of Goblin Town. Wasn’t he just there?

It was as if his body was as slow to remember as his mind, for the aches and pains of his battle and beating from the Goblin King made themselves known. Daerhovan groaned as he examined his incapacitated arm, crudly bandaged with rags that were fastened with rope. Verya shifted closer, sniffing his wounded arm. Daerhovan could swear her feline face looked concerned. The door shifted open, bringing in more cold air. Daerhovan tightened the bed sheets around him more closely as Gloin ambled through. “Well if it isn’t the Goblin King slayer! And the elf! Glad to see you in one piece lad.” He strode over, looking apologetic. “Sorry about the bandaging. We’re low on healing supplies out here. Oh, and sorry about your staff. The goblins claimed it as a trophy, and your life was more of a priority.” 

Daerhovan gazed at Gloin quizzically, the fate of his staff quickly shoved to the back of his mind. “What happened? How did I get here?” He asked, skipping pleasantries. 

“Some of my men carried you out of the mountain while the rest of us cleaved a path through the goblins back to the entrance. There wasn’t much to cleave though, to be fair.: Gloin explained, trying in vain to strengthen the hearth fire. “We quickly bound your wounds once outside, and carried you on a makeshift stretcher to Hrimbarg. Thank Mahal your goat was still there to help.” Dropping the fire tongs with a curse, Gloin gave up on tending to the hearth. His attention landed on Verya, amusement dancing in his old eyes. “You’ve quite the loyal companion there, I must say. Refused to leave you alone along the whole way here. Heh, nevermind the fact that she slayed the Goblin King single pawed!” 

Daerhovan studied the lynx, still perched on the bed with him. Wonder filled him as he realized what she had done. “You saved my life?” He breathed, reaching a hand to stroke her ear. Purring, she leaned into his hand, rubbing her cheek against it. “Why?” 

Verya said nothing, as to be expected. She merely blinked up at him, bright eyes stark against the dimming room. Gloin sighed. “That hearth fire doesn't have much time left. We need to get you to Vindurhal, and then Rivendell.” Daerhovan nodded, testing his strength as he climbed out of bed. “I think I can make the journey.”

He rode atop Maggie, Gloin on his own goat in front of him, with Verya bringing up the rear. Atop the watch tower of Vindurhal he redressed his wound, before the party made for Gloin’s original camp in a small, abandoned dwarven fortress just above the Valley of Imladris. Daerhovan was allowed to regain his strength for a couple of days before his return to the Valley. He thanked Gloin and his men heartily for their part in getting him out of Goblin Town, and promised to repay them somehow. Gloin had waved a dismissive hand, reassuring him the death of Ashûrz was payment enough. Not satisfied, Daerhovan offered to let them use Maggie as a mount and beast of burden for at least one month before she was to be set free. They had conceded, trying to hide their grateful expressions. 

Now he was hiking through the steep ravines and canyons of the Misties as they descended into the Valley. The snow line gradually fading, allowing yellowed shoots of grass to push through the soil. Daerhovan could hear Verya padding behind him. Stopping, he turned to face her. Verya halted as well, looking up at Daerhovan curiously. Her head tilted as if she was asking. “Why have we stopped?”  She had never left his side since his rescue from Goblin Town. And it seemed she was sticking with that mindset. Daerhovan sighed. He couldn’t intimidate her again. He had a feeling she would come back eventually. Crouching down, Daerhovan attempted to speak with her in beast tongue. You must not follow. 

Verya chirped in response, though Daerhovan couldn’t decipher her meaning. No feelings and impressions formed in his mind. If she understood him she made no indication of it. Daerhovan huffed in amusement, shaking his head as he gently scratched the base of her ears. A wave of gratitude and affection swelled within him as he remembered what she had done to preserve his life. She hadn’t killed the Goblin King to protect herself, but for him. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to keep the lynx with him for awhile, It was obvious she wasn’t about to let him go either. He would report his adventure to Elrond. And then? He still intended to make for Angmar. Looking into Verya’s eyes, a faint impression began to form in his mind, a thought that didn’t feel like his own. 

I will follow. 

[allxrd]

October 2029: The War Has Come Home

It seemed inevitable, that the fight should come to their front door.

It wasn’t so much a door as their property line, but it was still inevitable. They knew the price they would have to pay when their last dinner guests didn’t make it to dessert. 

Always, Allard preferred one-on-one encounters where he was entirely in control. He’d never brought it into their home, but he’d brought it into the one he inherited from his grandmother in Italy. The only room where dust didn’t accumulate in that house was the basement, where he was the one who decided what came next. 

These large plans, though, he preferred to just plan and not be part of the execution. Too many things got out of his full control. He had a mind for the strategies, not the actions. It was why he loved to watch chess and come up with ways to win, yet rarely played himself. When he actually played, he felt like nothing more than another of his opponent’s pawn. 

Some plans had worked - some hadn’t, and they’d lost numbers equal to their enemies. When they took Hogwarts, everything seemed certain and sure. Now, that victory seemed minuscule compared to all they’d endured in two years. Amid all the planning, hiding, lying, sacrifice, and death, everything that triggered it seemed so amateur. 

Not once had they forgotten what they fought for, though. Not once had they stopped talking about what they would do to repair the collateral damage of their war.

Now, war had arrived to challenge how much Allard was willing to destroy of his own for this fight.

He’d sacrificed already. He’d barely touched his violin in a year, instead training with his element to better utilize it as a weapon and a defense. He’d sent hit-wizards after Aurélie and his son and then sent their bodies to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. He’d barely spoken to his parents, to keep them out of the fighting as much as possible. The mistresses and the liquor and drugs went the way of his instruments, too. There were more important things to dedicate his time to in these past months.

There were two things left in his life that would truly be a sacrifice to lose - his home and his wife. 

Now here he stood next to her, at the top of the staircase, looking out a broad window that gave them a full view of the forces gathering at their property line. Their own allies were stationed throughout the home and the grounds, with several hovering in the clouds above ready to drop at any moment. The sun was still rising, cloaking everything in a brilliant golden hue.

“It looks beautiful.” Lara sounded incredulous, maybe at the fact that they could still recognize beauty or because they could still recognize it in the face of what was about to become of their home.

“We’ll remember it this way,” Allard muttered. He hoped they would, and that they had the chance to remember anything at all.

The sun was rising quickly. The gold was slipping away, and the footsteps on the staircase were the signal that it was time to move. Side by side, the couple walked down to the main floor as dozens of others rushed up around them. Jon was in no rush, the air of a natural, calm leader emanating from him as he passed by. The acknowledgement he gave Lara was more substantial than the one he offered Allard, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on something so petty.

House elves pushed the door open for their masters, and the two made their way onto the grounds before parting ways. Little more than a quiet wish for luck and a brief kiss were exchanged, as if they were merely going separate ways before one or the other took part in some kind of competition. And then Lara was off to her precious garden, and Allard apparated to the roof where several other air elementals were already waiting. 

From such a high vantage point, even more could be seen. The forces that were gathering on the opposing side were larger than Allard expected, but they had their own strong army. Scanning the grounds, Allard could pick out several dozen figures that stood out to him. 

Mia Selwyn was in the garden with Lara, not trailing after Jon like a shadow as she had been months before after they sustained a significant loss and Jon was injured. Their relationship had been strained since the incident with Auror Anton, of which Allard didn’t know all the details. Did it really matter if she was there, wand at the ready to fight for them? She’d never left their side, like some people. And she’d even gotten the vampires on their side. Something else he didn’t know many details on, and didn’t care to considering the ring she started wearing around when it happened.

Sitting casually on the ledge of their relatively knew “reflecting pool” by the side of the house was Joshua Radley. In the sunlight, his hair almost looked blonde again. The man grayed so fast many wondered if he’d just been using a dying potion for some time. There were rumors, though - that he created a spell that was killing him, that he’d been taking a de-aging potion since he arrived in Hogsmeade and was really at least ten years older. Allard noticed it all happened when he stopped spending so much time with Alice Longbottom and more time with one particular strawberry blonde, but whatever caused his physical transition also caused a transition in his approach. What had once always been a dedicated approach alongside Lawrence became borderline overzealous. Allard had personally practiced and sparred with Joshua on multiple occasions. He’d been present when the decision was made for Joshua to command his own small army of Inferi. He’d taken a cue from the past to hide them underwater until they needed to be summoned.

Hovering on a broom near the property perimeter was, of course, Garrett Abernathy. In his backpack were dozens of feet of parchment and hovering next to him was his quill that would take down every note he dictated to it as he watched the fighting around him. Even from this distance, Allard could see the massive coffee stain down the front of the man’s shirt. Ridiculous that someone like him, Mayte or not, was being considered their official historian and scribe. He could admit that some of the notes Garrett took were very helpful, though.

Also noticeable from the distance was the front lines of the self-proclaimed “light side.” He knew exactly who was leading the charge from the ground to the sky. He knew exactly who was there to destroy nearly every important material item in his life.

The golden hue from the sun was gone. Dew clung to any flora in sight. It was cloudy and misty, but the sky that poked through was a stunning light blue. It was so peaceful for a second that there seemed to be no real build up before both sides suddenly surged toward each other. 

Spells and counterspells flew through the air. Bodies were already falling. One portion of the flying faction for the other side came straight for the roof, and the air elementals prepped themselves. In the lead was a face Allard never would’ve recognized six months ago, but since, she’d become a thorn in his side. She was a former Seeker with no family left and nothing to lose - the kind of combination that made an aerial lead actually someone to be concerned about.

The combined power of the air elementals present was enough to generate a small tornado that dragged down Poppy and every one of her followers until they were in a heap with their broken brooms. Allard managed to dodge a curse, but some of the others were stunned or recovering from gashes and other pain-inducing spells. It all happened so fast Allard didn’t even realize they were injured until after their enemies were on the ground, and by then there was no time to waste. He screamed for a medic and mounted his broom that had slid dangerously close to the edge of the roof. 

Another aerial team came in, but the dozens of flyers who’d been waiting in the clouds above the property descended swiftly. Allard hovered in the middle, sending Cruciatus curses at the backs of any successful attackers as they flew by him. A stunning spell hit him unexpectedly and he slipped off his broom almost immediately. For a moment, he was absolutely certain he was going to die. It was an idea he was becoming too familiar with. 

Someone snatched him up by the cloak, counterspelled him, and managed to drape him over the front of their broom before both were deposited on the ground very unceremoniously. Allard scrambled to his feet just in time to put up a shield against a hex, but not soon enough to avoid someone casting a spell to splice him across the back, right between his shoulderblades. It was merely a papercut to him after some things he’d endured, but there was still that initial reaction of a gasp and gritted teeth against the pain. He spun, sending a stinging curse at the person who’d first attacked him. Tambora. Of course. Was it really a fight if a Weasley didn’t cut him up?

The brief exchange of curses and hexes left him with another gash down his bicep, this time with a curse that left the wound burning to the point of feeling nearly immobile. What spell was that? Where had she learned it? File it away, come back to it, fight now. Tambora found a better target, Allard dodged someone else’s curse, Allard moved closer to his home.

Closer and closer, inch by inch. A step backward with every shield he threw up and every curse he sent flying - stunnings, Cruciatus, and even a Killing Curse that missed its target (it was so much less fun in a big fight like this compared to something one-on-one). Everyone was closing in on the home. From the music room there was a sudden ball of fire that crashed through the window. Allard didn’t have time to watch the burning shards of his broken violin fall to the ground. 

When his heel hit the first step of the house, he sent up a strong shield around himself and looked around. He caught Joshua’s eye in the distance as the man was in the midst of a battle that looked very personal. Allard nodded, and Joshua nodded back. He knocked back his opponent. With his jaw agape more than he realized, Allard watched as the Inferi rose from the water. 

Shield still up, Allard quickly Apparated to a room that overlooked the garden. The window was already shattered and much of the room scorched or destroyed in another means. There was a body curled up in the corner, either dead or nearly dead based on the blood that was pooled beneath it. Ignoring the potential corpse, Allard stepped up onto the ledge of the window and looked over the battles ongoing in the garden. The ground was cracked in multiple places, every single plant had turned into a dangerous weapon, and flower petals were whirling in the wind. 

Lara was nowhere to be found. 

All was exactly how it should be. 

Allard jumped down from the windowsill and started to whip the air up even more, gathering all the petals into a mass that was big enough to blind anyone. He sent it upward and brought it down fast on the garden, discombobulating everyone presently fighting and causing enough commotion for the popping that came with disapparating not to be heard. When the petals settled, none of the earth elementals from his side were to be found. Those that remained from the opposing side looked ready to converge on him, but Allard vanished, too.

When he landed in his study, exhausted from the constant apparanting, the ground was already starting to shake. Jon arrived as it became more severe, and Allard opened a cupboard to reveal the illegal portkey awaiting inside. From behind the cupboard he pulled a new broom. Nothing needed to be talked about. Jon was gone before Allard even got the window open. There was the distinct smell of building dust and something burning. Now able to see the back of the manor, he realized a fire had begun in the kitchen that seemed to be spreading fast. On the other side, a back corner of the house had been completely blasted to pieces and left the guest quarters totally exposed. 

The shaking of the ground was so strong by the time Allard pushed off that he lost his footing and fell uncomfortably hard on the broom. Letting out a groan, he peeled up toward the sky and over the roof of the manor again. The flames from the music room were also growing stronger, and people were getting sloppy enough with their attacks on the Inferi and each other that they were hitting the building more than other bodies. Joshua was using the Inferi like cattle dogs, rounding people up and herding them toward the manor.

Allard was breathing hard. He was physically tired, and mentally on overdrive. The cuts on his body were stinging and burning incessantly. He was fairly certain that whatever hit him that he thought was a stunning spell was something more, making it difficult for him to take deep breaths. It was difficult to focus on anything as he soared across his property, and he nearly missed the signal - a bat darting across his line of vision. Placing his wand to his throat, he muttered, “Sonorus,” before pursing his lips and letting out a brief whistling tune. 

Right after, there was a sudden and loud popping sound as half the people on the property disapparated. Allard knew he should’ve kept going, but he came to a halt right on the property line and turned to watch as the ground split in a dozen different places beneath his home to send it into ruin.

[stillsolo]

He’d spent the past five hours huddled up in an inconspicuous, abandoned building where few Corellian soldiers lay sleeping by a dying fire.  The mass of them semi-conscious, a few men wolfing down rations they were long deprived of.  As they rested, Han cleaned off his blaster, spit shining it since nothing else could hold his attention for long.     By the fifth time he’d wiped over the barrel, Han had made up his mind.     Hearing him out, his general grumbled foreseen skepticism and underlined it by sucking his teeth.  Dark brown eyes centered on the young prince.  

❝No, there haven’t been any other reports.❞  Han admitted,  ❝haven’t had any since we evacuated Kor Vella a couple months back.  I expected a helluva lot less damage…  The chances of anyone surviving the blitz on Kor Vella are slim—but I’m telling you—there’s someone in there.❞  Han pressed himself up against a bulk of the stone wall behind him, sliding ever higher to peer over the rubble.  His eyes narrowed in on a site in his mind that had so far failed to rid itself of.  ❝Korvella’s not empty.  Can’t be.  There’re people living in the castle.❞  

❝I know.❞  Wedge sat his plate down noiselessly.  ❝I saw firelight in the east wing not too long ago.  It’s out now, but I saw it.  It’s possible they took shelter there when the war ended—had nowhere else to go.  But the real question is, are they Imperials or Corellisi?❞     The conclusions were too explicit to demand further debate.                  Han nodded at his blood kin, forcing a lazy grin in the gloom.  ❝It’s the only lead we got so far.❞     A lead without good promise, Han acknowledged when Wedge turned to his datapad, likely reporting new orders.  He settled back down, ripples of a fresh ache in his back forcing a grimace.  Next to Han, Wedge soon eased into a wary slumber that left part of the mind far too receptive to his surroundings.   

The past few days had drained him of energy and warmth, replacing both with the familiar bleakness that followed every burst of adrenaline.          Han stayed awake.          Eyes riveted on his kingdom, the Prince allowed his consciousness to drift beyond the restraints of material reality.  Except, numerous times throughout the next three hours, Han felt the thrums of a phantom pain throb against the shell of his skull.  Intensely bright and swift to fade again, these bouts of insurgent emotion rendered him frustrated, inwardly coiled around a sense of hiking urgency. 

The intervals separating those fits shortened and encouraged his alarm, yielding irritation in the form of sporadic flares within his chest.  Each time he felt it, he wanted to simply bolt and do something—anything.        However, he fought the impulse each time.         Morning came as it should have, but he felt no better. The misty vista of trees and open wildlife contrasted strangely with the deluge of sensation; as if the active buzz of lives populating Corellia fluttered in his neural pathways.                                     … // @jaigvision      And somewhere among the multitudes were survivors, barely hanging on, paying the price for his mistakes.   Han kept his senses under constant alert as they cautiously packed up.  He stood off to the side, lacking a purpose to help when his men seemed more than ready to take on the task themselves.         Jumpy and agitated. That was what they all were.    Deprived of sleep and good food, Han figured their reconnaissance mission was at its end. Retracing their steps, Han and Wedge trekked to the scene where they’d first spotted a faint glow in the massive windows. 

They stood in the middle of a plaza, with a view of the window and what lay beyond.  It was dull, tinted dark now that midnight was in full wane, first light peeked past thick clouds.     Everything seemed calm now.     Nothing like the live salvo that had battered Han’s eardrums on their second day; Imperial troopers sent down to slaughter, had survived and ambushed him, their fierce hatred born again from the desertion of their leaders.  

      ❝Yeah,❞ Han answered Wedge’s puzzled look with a scowl.       ❝I think we’re gonna have to split up at one point.  Reinforcements’ll take too long.  By the time they get here, they could be in our cities.❞       For a moment, Wedge considered, then nodded his head in unenthusiastic acquiescence.  ❝You’re right.  I don’t want them anywhere near the last of us.❞  

Although Han could feel starlight in his bones, the evenly spaced, unlit chandeliers hung above their heads brought a darkness to penetrate his soul.         Adrenaline fused his blood in a steady trickle, but Han had barely reached the next corner when a deliberate whisper made both men wheel.         Sprinting back through the tenebrous corridors, Han held his breath, listening.             Nothing.             He flanked a look to Wedge, nodded once, then split in the other direction.         Han rushed into darkness, homing in on the unmistakable sounds of rapid footsteps until he almost pitched down an unlit stairwell.         Somewhere in the Castle’s internal regions, footfalls died, drowned in the thick, muted static.         Han peered over the balcony, the initial clatter of his own armed blaster kicked his heart.  From his vantage point, Han had no trouble spotting faint movement.                                          ❝You—!❞ 

       ━━━     and stopped, high-pitched hum of a blaster charging robbed his breath.  Immediately, Han hit the floor, pawed his surroundings, then scrambled down the lower level.  At the foot of the stairwell with his back against the railing, Han sneered, blaster held high.      ❝Ven ecshe, malcuratulo—!❞      Diving out from the only cover he had, Han rolled and fired, instantly blinded by the furious brilliance of shots meeting mid-air like crossing blades.

[imjustthemechanic]

The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt Part 5/? - Making the News Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - More Impossible Part 8/? - The Shield Thieves Part 9/? - Reality Sinks In Part 10/? - Preparing a Quest Part 11/? - The Marvelous History of Sir Stephen Part 12/? - Uninvited Guests Part 13/? - So That’s What It Does Part 14/? - The What and the Where Part 15/? - Gearing Up Part 16/? - Just Passing Through Part 17/? - Dinner with Druids Part 18/? - Kracness Henge Part 19/? - A Task Interrupted

The Red Death finally shows up in person.

Everybody leaned in to see what Sir Stephen had uncovered, and everyone was disappointed.  There was no sign of a grail or anything that might contain one – only a thriving colony of tiny black ants, running around in a fenzy as they realized their roof had been lifted off.

“Do those bite?” asked Sharon.  She was looking at Nat.

“I'm an archaeologist, not a myrmecologist,” Natasha replied, mostly just to show off that she knew the proper word.

“Well, you're both digging critters,” Sam pointed out.  “We thought you might know.”

“I can tell you that eighty-eight percent of all archaeologists do not bite,” Nat told him, deadpan.

“What about the other twelve?” he asked.

“If you step in our trench and leave giant modern boot prints all over our freshly-excavated twelfth-century ground level, we will definitely bite you!” she said.

Even Sir Stephen's miraculously enhanced muscles couldn't hold the stone up for very long, and the rest of them quickly crawled out from under it so he could set it down again.  If they were going to dig in the anthill, they were going to have to prop the stone on something. Sir Stephen's immediate idea was to use another one of the circle stones, but Natasha and Sharon joined forces to forbid it.

“You think we've got problems with the evil wizards and stuff,” said Natasha.  “The last thing we need to add to that is Historic Scotland on our asses.  Those guys make the KGB look merciful.”

“The fact that I haven't arrested any of you yet makes me an accessory to pretty much all the illegal things we've done so far,” Sharon added.  “I will not be an accessory to the destruction of a World Heritage Site!”

“I cannot stand and hold it up for hours on end!” Sir Stephen protested.

“What about that building we passed on the way in?” Sam asked. “It didn't look very world heritage-y.  We could take some of the rubble from that.”

They climbed back over the fence and headed back down the slope for a look.  The derelict building appeared to be a relic of one or other of the world wars, and there clearly hadn't been anybody looking after it – it was covered in lichen and grass, and the concrete walls were crumbling away in the fierce Orkney weather.  When new it must have looked much more solid than the bladelike standing stones a short walk away, but it clearly did not have their staying power. 

“What do you think?” asked Sam.

“There's no sign,” Natasha said.  If this place were protected, nobody had bothered to lable it as such, which would allow them to argue that they hadn't known.  “If worst comes to worst, we know a hell of a lot more about what went on here during the world wars than we do about the stone age.”

Sir Stephen selected a large chunk of concrete, with rusting rebar protruding from its broken ends, and tried to lift it.  He couldn't actually get it off the ground, but he could flip it over.  A half dozen of the crows swooped in to get at the worms and insects that had been living under it, while Sir Stephen grabbed the near edge and stood it up to flip it again.  He continued to progress in that way, rolling it end-over-end up the slope.

“How are we gonna get it over the fence?” asked Sam.

There was only one possible solution to that.  “We'll have to knock the fence down,” Nat admitted.

Sharon looked back at Sir Stephen.  “I don't think that'll be a problem.  You okay back there, Sisyphus?  Can we help?”

“I don't think all of you together would have the strength to assist me,” Sir Stephen grunted.

Nat let Sharon and Rushman get ahead of them a bit, while she and Sam fell back to walk on either side of Sir Stephen.  He was obviously straining himself every time he lifted the piece of masonry.  As fast as he healed, he probably didn't have to worry much about injuring himself.  Nat was more afraid that if he slipped, the chunk of concrete would fall and squash him.

He rolled the chunk over again, letting it hit the ground with a thud.  “May I ask, Natalia,” he said, “what is an archaeologist?”

Nat was amazed he had the breath to talk with.  “It's somebody who digs up old ruins and tombs to see what's in them,” she explained. “It helps us figure out how people lived and what happened in the past.”

“Tombs?”  Sir Stephen looked up at her and frowned.  “Do you not let the dead lie?”

“Depends on the dead,” Nat said.  “If there's somebody still around who says don't dig up my ancestors we usually leave them alone... usually.”  She could think of more than a few unfortunate incidents when such protests had been ignored.  “We can learn a lot from them.  What people ate, how long they lived, what they believed about the after life... we can find out if they moved around a lot, what diseases they suffered from...”

“Would you not be upset to think that in a thousand years somebody might dig up your bones to examine them?” asked Sir Stephen.

“Honestly, we fantasize about that,” said Nat with a smile.  It was a favourite topic of conversation among the archaeology faculty at Dundee and probably in other places as well.  “We've all got different plans for how we'll lie to the future with our corpses.”

“What about written histories, can you not use those?” Sir Stephen asked, panting as he turned the stone over again.

“They often don't tell us what we want to know,” said Nat. “Anyway, any written history was written by a person with their own point of view, and they'll leave things out or even make things up in order to support their argument.”  Zola had said that truth was something people made up, but for archaeologists, truth was something to dig up out of the muck of lies and omissions and misconceptions it got buried in, just like digging old bones out of the dirt.

They reached the fence.  The gate was obviously the weakest point – Sir Stephen stood his piece of concrete on end, turned it edge-on to the gate to focus the force on the smallest possible area, and gave it a tremendous shove.  It crashed through, ripping the gate right off its hinges, and then to everybody's horror it kept going, turning a couple more times before toppling on its side like a rolled coin, just inches short of colliding with the nearest of the standing slabs.

Everybody breathed a sigh of relief, and Sir Stephen headed in to stand the slab up again, while Natasha realized she could hear something.  Her phone was ringing in her jacket pocket.  She pulled it out and put it to one ear, covering the other with her hand in an attempt to block out the sound of the wind. “Hello?” she said.

She did not immediately hear the reply, because her companions seemed to decide this would be a good moment to hold a conversation.

“We've got a problem!” Sam said.  The biting wind meant everybody still had to shout to be heard.  “Sir Steve's the only one who can move the slab, but he's also the only one who can hold up the fallen stone!  How are we gonna do this?” 

“Maybe the rest of us together can hold the stone up while he puts the slab under it?” Rushman suggested.  “There's not ten of us, but we can try!”

“Everybody shut up, I'm on the phone!” Nat told them.  She tried again.  “Hello!  I can't hear you!”

“Dr. Rushman!”  It was the voice of the Sea Dog.  Nat had given him her number to ring if he thought the weather were about to change, or if somebody were coming.  “My radar's got three airborn targets coming in from the south!  They look like helicopters!  They could be for the refinery, but they're off course if they are, and you asked me to let you know about things like that!”

“Okay, thanks!” Nat said.  “Give me a few minutes, and I'll let you know if we're coming back!”  She put the phone away, and went to the edge of the cliff to see if his radar targets were visible to the naked eye.  With her hands around her face to protect her eyes from the wind, by squinting at the horizon she could just barely make out three little lights in the misty drizzle.

“What do you see?” asked Sir Stephen, as the others joined her.

“We've got incoming,” Nat replied.  “Could be nothing, but we better lie low just in case!”

Everybody looked at the crushed gate and the slab of concrete, and realized there was no way to fix it before their visitors arrived. They didn't want to go back to the boat before they knew for sure who their guests were, though, so they returned to the ruined building to crouch among the moldering walls.  From that vantage point they would be able to see if the helicopters turned away or passed over... but they didn't.  As they drew closer and closer they also descended lower and lower, and it started to look worryingly indeed like they intended to land not far away.

Even with the wind whistling by, Natasha could hear Rushman's labored breathing.  He sounded as if he were about to have an asthma attack, and she wondered if that were possible.  She'd never said anywhere that her father suffered from such an ailment, but she'd also never said he didn't.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

“I'm too old for this!” he panted.

The first helicopter came in to land on a level area just beyond the ruined building and, unfortunately, between it and the wharf where the Sea Dog was waiting.  The rotor whirred to a stop, the door opened, and Zola stepped out, having to slide down from a sitting position like a child getting down from a sofa.  He was back in his black suit and tie, apparently not a bit conscious of the weather though the wind was stirring his mutton chops.

Behind him were two more men.  The first, Nat was startled to see, was Mr. Pierce, in a suit and tie and a long beige coat that was not at all appropriate for the cold weather.  He turned up his collar and folded his arms across his chest, shivering.  Then, as the other two helicopters also set down, Pierce moved aside to let a third man disembark. Natasha, peeking over the broken walls to watch, almost stopped breathing.  Here she was, for the second time in a week, seeing a statue come to life. Johann Totenkopf was a little over six feet tall and perhaps in his fifties, with pale skin and a receding hairline.  His face was fierce, his nose long and his eyebrows sharply tilted, his forehead and mouth deeply lined from long ears of frowning.  He was dressed in entirely normal clothing – a dark green down parka and a fur hat.

He looked around at the landscape, then turned as a man in a black uniform, a rifle in his hands, came running up to say smething to him.  Whatever it was, Nat couldn't hear him over the sound of wind and engines, but she had a good idea what it might be.  The broken gate and the slab of concrete would make it perfectly obvious that somebody else was here... and there weren't very many places that somebody could hide.

Nat wasn't the only one watching.  Sir Stephen was beside her, and she saw his hand go to the sword at his belt.  “The Red Death,” he growled, and began to stand up.  Nat had a horrifying mental image of him running straight at the man then and there, and she quickly tackled him to prevent it.  Sam and Sharon made the same observation, and had the same reaction.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nat hissed, once they'd wrestled Sir Stephen to the ground.  “You'd be dead before you got over the wall!”

“His sorcery cannot harm me, and none of his followers has so much as a dagger!” Sir Stephen protested.

“They've got guns, you moron!” said Nat, and then realized that might not mean anything to him.  Sir Stephen had been shot before, but at the time he must have been disoriented from suddenly popping into existence, and the warehouse might already have been on fire.  Maybe he hadn't realized where the shots had come from, only that they hurt.  She'd handed out guns to her companions, but hadn't demonstrated them for him.  He might have no idea what they did.

The helicopters had all shut down by now, and voices were drawing closer.  Everybody scrambled into corners of the walls so as not to be seen.

“The stone's been lifted and then put back!” somebody was saying.

“It's Rogsey,” another voice replied – this one, Natasha was sure, had to be the Red Death's.  “It can be no other!”  Like Sir Stephen, he spoke modern English with a little old-fashioned grammar thrown in for flavour.  He also had a strong German accent, almost to the point of being stagey.  Not a real person, Nat thought.  A figure from legend, who talked the way the average twenty-first century reader of the medieval poems might imagine him talking.

“Rogsey?”  That was Pierce.  “How would he get out here?”

“He might well have swam!” snarled the Red Death.  “I care not!  Find him for me!”