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The sound of song stirred him. A full, matronly voice raised in wordless harmony. Bart awoke and felt refreshed. His pain absent, his body sprawled out in a soft bed of downy grass, the big man stirred slowly with a sort of bemusement. He touched his chest, running his hands across a new, ropy scar that traversed his entire left side from hipbone to shoulder. He should be dead, laid open like a suckling pig... but the wound was healed, ugly and scarred but healed. He also realized then his other hurts were tended, his vision still... oddly lopsided. Meaning his eye was truly gone, he shuddered and reached a hand up to it.

“Ah, ah... that one is tender yet. You should still be slumbering." came a soft voice from above him — intimately close to his ear, its warmth filling his belly with a comfortable, blanketing weight — coaxing him to sit a while. Relax and be at ease.

She was there, the Unicorn. His head was propped against her silken flank as he lay slumbering with her watching over him, a bed made of soft, pure grasses and loamy soil. Bart was rendered speechless. She smiled, and at once his brain had every problem and no problem with something so basic as a smile on such a non-human face, but her beauty, symmetry, and grace overrode a natural impulse to be unnerved by this alien creature... and somehow, he was aware of it. His rational brain was aware of her otherness in spite of everything else… as if her form was giving his thinking mind a choice: was she beautiful or alien to him? Did he wish to see her as such? A cosmic what do you see?

“Alas, there was naught I could do for your eye but heal it well and clean. Even here at the very throne of life with her very handmaiden at your side, entropy will have its say." her soft voice explained with an odd tone of... apology, an undercurrent of parental frustration thrumming in her tone as she lowered her muzzle and gently nuzzled his face and neck with astonishing intimacy; “You will heal, scar over and be as whole as can be in all possible tomorrows. I know you now, so you will." she said, and that powerful phrase struck him again. She Knew him, a word rapidly gaining a capital letter of its own.

“My Lady... I..." Bart began, but her head dipped in once more, her golden eyes upturned at the edges in a doting smile as she gently kissed his brow, right at the juncture of his forehead and nose. Her lips were soft as dew-damp petals of a sun-warmed rose at the cusp of daybreak. His protests fell away as she curled closer around him — the perfection of her form a striking contrast to his scarred limbs and calloused flesh, the warm hum of the forest's life pulled at him like inescapable gravity, drawing him down to lay his head across her soft, silken side once more. He trembled as she spoke, compelled to listen.

“Shh, My brave warrior. Rest a while longer, the world is yet weary of you and you weary of it — things can await you a bit longer anon," she murmured, her lips touching the scarred surface of his brow again, and he found himself cut adrift willingly, letting go of his grasp on consciousness as her power — her love, flowed into him and over him, buoying him on the wash of energies. Flowing away from that one touch into a warm sea with a cool surface. Comfort and security washed over him from fingertips to toes in a ravishing wave that gave out to the cozy warmth of sweet, dreamy oblivion…

~ ~ ~

Bart dreamed during these interludes. He knew he did, even though he never remembered the dreams. He recalled coming awake during one of his long naps only to be shushed like a frightening child back to sleep, remembering a warm, chiding voice saying softly: “I can't fix this part while you're awake dear beloved, now... back to your dreams..." and again he'd known naught but the embrace of dreams. Bits and pieces of a million important unimportances: When to laugh at an awkward joke among friends, how to hold a blade correctly when you shave, the sound of an excited puppy, the smell of the world after a hot rain. Experiences and memories utilitarian and entirely frivolous, reviewed as if for a test. His mind thought of everything all at once, and absolutely nothing at all.

When he swam back up from this happy nothingness, he found himself... whole. His body felt strong again, sitting up in a refreshed, yet still relaxed, dreamy haze — as if the last month or more of travel had been a mere nightmare riding a passing thunderstorm. He sat up and looked at himself.

His body was a network of new scars — bright, red, and savage but well-healed. He realized he was also practically nude, his shredded armor and clothing conspicuously absent save for his smallclothes. He was also clean, his hair was soft and downy as if it had been washed, and his skin felt buffed and moisturized. He was comfortable, the air bore no edge of chill or weight of heat. He ran his hands over his skin, up across his face — feeling gingerly around the void there — the blind spot strangely more tangible with his hand in it. A shudder ran through him, and he drew his hand back from it — twisting at the waist to look around, feeling his body ripple, stretch, and crackle with a thousand tiny protests at the movement. He rubbed his face again as if to banish the cottony drowsiness like any other heavy sleep — a fair head of stubble had sprung up on his chin as well. He'd been out days. He twisted to the other side with more stretching muscles and joints... and then all other thoughts left him

“I wondered when you would turn around."

She sat there, a comfortable sprawl across a gentle berm of grassy earth, her impossibly white pelt shining with a liquid gloss in the light as she observed him — a still-wet painting of overwhelming beauty. She seemed to ripple and thrum even still, a statuesque weight to her poise, a regal presence that made his heart swell with strength and his legs tremble with weakness. She smiled again, those golden eyes so impossibly intelligent, impossibly human — simply impossible.

“My Lady!" Bart gasped, turning and falling to one knee in supplication, getting a soft laugh from the preternatural creature.

“My, so formal. I suppose we did get off to something of an abrogated beginning... it has been some time since I've had one stumble into my boughs in such a state," she said, a flicker of sorrow crossing her features — and to see it was to feel it. He felt her sorrow like a ripple through a pond. “Only once before, in fact. The First time," she said, her voice weighty. Considering. Bart felt urgency overtake his wonder, raising his gaze back to her in earnest,

“I am at my Lady's service if she would Know Me, and have me. Until the Pale Dawn calls me." Bart said, almost babbled really — his words rushed and nearly panicked as he knelt. Bedclothes and nudity be damned, his memory now unfettered reminded him that he had duties — people counting on him. He'd already lost days, how long had Parias been on the rampage? What could be done yet? Renergized for the fight, he drew in a breath to ask her for her blessing… and it died in his throat. The Unicorn's face was concerned, and a touch of disappointment lingered in the set of her mouth. He wavered and fell silent as she spoke.

“Be at peace, my Beloved... you are safe here. Safe in all ways. I have not robbed you of anything, free will, duty, or time. Do not fret, where my demesne lies within these boughs and glades so does my authority." she said and there was a reassurance to her smile that Bart could practically _taste, “_If I dictate the pace — even the sands of time do not balk at my commands." she said and Bart... sat back heavily — unsure how to parse such knowledge. The Unicorn tilted her head, her golden eyes dilating with concern as she realized his lack of understanding with a faint nod of her head. A smile graced her mouth and she leaned forward a half step.

“Within my woods, time moves only as I need it to... a boon granted me by the Erlking — out of fealty, and for services rendered," she said with a relieved sigh, her entire presence seeming to soften as she spoke so much more casually. It was enthralling, and in a way — contagious, as she relaxed so did he, his whole being suddenly at ease as she smiled upon him.

“Then… I am not too late?" he ventured, needing it said aloud. The Unicorn's smile turned understanding and warm.

“You have the time you need to heal, your enemies shall not find you nor your distant charges in this time. You are a dutiful man my Dear Knight, and your urgency speaks well of you." she paused and pursed her lips, a warm smile tracing them as she shifted closer to him, her silvery-white mane floating across one of her golden eyes, both upturned at the edges as she gave a warm, welcoming smile.

“Shall I tell you my name? I have no reservations. For only once before has a soul come to me in such a state, and then as now — I find no fault in their spirit, only turmoil in their heart." she said and the big man froze — could she look upon him, could she know the Wendigo had claimed him? Surely such a thing had to be a beacon, surely... surely it was fine? Bart could only nod, the Unicorn drawing her fluid frame up to a regal sitting posture, taking a breath she closed her eyes... and when she reopened them, they were fixed upon him. None other, her attention rapt and fully focused upon every fiber of who and what he was. He was unable to look away from that golden gaze. It held him, demanded he see.

“I am Cithara, the Queen of Love, Holy Beast of Our Lord in Ivory's Sacred Triune, the Lady in White." She said, and as she spoke her name, true and from her own tongue, Bart felt something in his very essence vibrate in concert, demanding he listen as he saw — to bear witness to this ancient, sacred name with body, mind, and soul.

“Will you Know me, Ser?" she inquired, and there was a weight of ritual about the words. Bart's entire mind was focused upon this creature, this singular being that represented all that he held dear in this world, every concept, ideal, and rationale he had walked, breathed, and lived before him. How could he answer differently?

“I am Bartholomus Mueller, Knight-Brother of the Radiant Order of Our Lady in White, Soldier, Miller, Son... and I have always Known you, my lady." Bart found himself saying, hands spreading behind him as he felt very vulnerable yet also as if he were a thousand feet tall as she looked upon him like that, as she Knew him. Something clicked into place as he spoke as such from the heart — and she laughed. A joyous sound. Oh, she laughed — a sound of genuine delight and such absolute satisfaction as the feeling of correctness sank in, he swore she would have clapped would that she had hands.

“You are a disarmingly honest man, Bartholomus... “ said with warm satisfaction, ending on a considering pause — rolling the length of his name around in her mouth; her eyes were distant a moment before she asked in a small, coy tone. “... May I call you Bart instead?"

“O-of course My Lady," he said — stunned for a moment as she Spoke his Name perfectly, only a part of it — but the ease with which she had done so rang him like the sweetest bell. She perked forward at him, eyes alight with glee and her smile turned practically girlish for a moment before she paused — and her nose pinked up with a blush. She raised her foreleg in a bizarrely human mannerism, brushing it shyly across her nose before shaking out her mane again, raising herself back up, composure reasserted.

“I apologize, dear Bart," she said in a more placid, warm tone, “I never quite know when I will be visited by one of my boys, and I find my excitement sometimes difficult to contain. You and your brethren bring such light to my existence." Bart could feel her joy radiating off her like heat, and it filled him with such an eager, instinctual desire to please, to serve this being that he drew himself up properly to kneel before her — as if her joy were an altar he might give supplication at.

“My Lady, I have called your name for strength in some of… the most horrible things I have experienced. Each time, it has granted me the might to carry on." he said, and still awash in her presence, dazzled by it — he raised his lone blue eye to her in adoration, “To see the source of that strength be made real and tangible… “ he trailed off and put his hand to his heart; “… and to have it speak my name, it is an… affirmation most grand."

“Oh, dear one." she breathed at that, her chest swelling with a little tremble as she took in his kneeling form, “You are so full of conviction. I like that in a man," she said, her voice low, warm, and thrumming with approval… and a bit of a tease, a tone that made his guts turn to butterflies, and took his breath from him as she simply seemed content to gaze upon him for a long, enjoyable moment. Under her gaze, he felt something… give.

“I… have struggled, so… so very hard to kneel here My Lady." Bart suddenly breathed out in a near sob, his gaze dropping to his shaking, scarred hands “I have seen such things, fought such nightmares. I have… lost things, people." he felt the weight of all of it bearing down on him. He was mortal still, no matter how he struggled to deny it, tears welled in his eyes as he spoke “I… feel still as if I am yet to be found wanting."

“Oh my dear boy," she breathed, drawing in close to him in comfort and succor, her warmth driving the cold thoughts away, “Never, never believe that. I see you, Know you. Your deeds needs not be without flaw, for I see your heart and it's works." she said, and a cool feeling of… cleansing washed through him, the doubts swirling away on that torrent of love, “I am glad it is you that sits here, my beloved. I see in you a story I dare not even imagine not being part of," she said, and the approval and faint awe in her tone assuaged the pain, the guilt, and the doubt.

Bart settled back into the grass, feeling light and naked inside and out as he wiped tears from his eyes, the sensation intensified twofold by the tableaux itself — as like being the subject of some aristocratic painting lounging in eternal grass, with an eternal creature, in eternal spring, wearing naught but his smallclothes. A fact he suddenly was quite keenly aware of, his nakedness of spirit also being of body, as he saw her golden eyes wander unabashedly up and down his form, a rapt curiosity about her as she seemed intent on memorizing him, hair for hair, wrinkle for wrinkle.

“So many scars for one so young..." she murmured intimately as he moved to cover himself shyly, her eyes looking over them. “Not all bad, some of them clearly have a noble history..." she said, her gaze lingering over his crooked nose, causing him to blush mildly as she smiled, gliding closer to him. Her proximity made his head swim, he lost track of his thoughts, eyes, and mind both drunk upon the sight of this magnificent creature. What did he see? He saw a wholeness to an ache he'd never truly realized he had. Her presence put him at an ease he'd never known.

“What happens now?" Bart asked after a moment, looking up at the cosmic creature across that intimate distance. She'd moved closer again and lay alongside him, her tail dragging across his sprawled legs at the ankle, its silken mop at the end dragging across his bare flesh in a rake of decadent softness. She seemed to be loathe to be far from him at all, and since he had woken, she had slowly drawn more and more intimately close to him.

“Now? You stay with me beloved, until you are ready to choose," she said, leaning her muzzle in close and idly grooming a wild hair back behind his ear, such a curiously equine behavior it caught him off guard — which earned him a giggle.

“I am aware of the dire news you carry, but I am yet an imperfect being. The world can wait a few days, I have a new paladin upon whom to lay my grace." she said, seemingly somewhat embarrassed by such an admission; “It is so infrequent an event, I make the most of each and every one of your visits. I see so few of you again once you leave." she said with a quiet sadness, sitting nearby him, making sure her tail still lightly touched him.

“I am Love's creature, it's Queen... and sometimes, love is selfish. In this little way, I allow myself to be a bit selfish. You dear, lovely boys sacrifice so much of yourselves just to get here, and make an impossible choice that will see you like as much an early grave as the storybooks." she said, looking up at the clouds through the gap in the trees above them, a great primordial glade that seemed to vanish into green shadows at its edges, she seemed at the edge of old tears as she spoke. “You deserve much for such heavy burdens, so I am selfish. I steal a little time from each of you, keep you here to touch and hold and care for. For just a few days, I do it as much for you as I." she concluded with a tired, content smile as she openly moved a little closer to Bart, lowering her head to rest upon his shoulder — a sensation that filled him with a deep contentment that he daresay was a literal religious experience; “It keeps my heart honest."

They sat together like that for God only knows how long, Bart's eye half closed as he dozed and followed the whorls and ringlets in her tail's streaming pomp, watching the white-silver mane play across his tanned skin like a slash of whitewash on rugged stone, flowing and filling every curve and crease. She spoke to him not, and neither did he to her. He found himself lying back in the grass again, not tired but merely... adrift on thoughts of no import, of happy times and pleasant places. He looked over and saw Cithara there, eyes never leaving him. Devotion. The word that eluded him earlier came to him now, she looked upon him with eyes full of absolute, axiomatic devotion. Such naked zeal felt almost voyeuristic, and he felt vulnerable — exposed, beneath her gaze. A sensation he found exciting in many ways — some more primal than others, and harder to conceal in naught but his smallclothes.

He didn't notice immediately, his gaze had just fallen to her again — to the smooth, milky curves of her coat and the preternatural fluidity of her motion. His eye wandered her body from tail to dainty golden hooves and along her flanks, the warm relaxation she seemed to radiate making his attention dull and lax as he stared at her svelte figure in a daze. Impossibly lean and sculpted, her body was not that of an animal or beast — it was a raw, atavistic truth of form and texture — the shape of Love given flesh and form, his heart quickened as he met her eyes again... and found her gaze knowing, and more than a little... was that a touch of smugness he saw in her eyes?

Eyes that brazenly, openly traced him from face to chest, before pointedly resting on his groin. Her brows raised in an alarmingly human expression of bemused delight. Shaking himself from the daze that her sheer presence constantly threatened to drown him with, he followed her eyes down his body — and to his extremely visible excitement as it accompanied his pounding heart. His smallclothes were very much living up to the name in their valiant strain as he blanched and covered himself, sitting up quite suddenly and turning his back to her as she gave a soft, reassuring giggle.

“Do not be embarrassed my beloved, it is not as uncommon a response as you would expect," she said, and then with a momentary expression of pure, imperious judgment she added with a tone that was heavy with earnest admiration: “It was quite an exhibition to boot. Singular in fact." she purred at him, her muzzle near her ear as she gave a soft smile — and a very deliberate, and exceedingly mischievous wink. A wink that made both his smallclothes fit that much smaller, and his cheeks that much redder — and her laughter that much fuller. Validation warred with embarrassment, and his heart kept pace with its eager thudding.

“Such a good, modest young man." she cooed at him, having once again moved to lean lightly against his shoulder, an afterthought of touch already so casual he barely noticed, “The Old Wolf still does well enough. How is he?" she asked, artfully and mercifully drawing the lad away from his discomfort, and Bart raised his eyebrows up, his memory filling in what he'd been asked to say.

“He's well. He regrets to say he won't be coming home yet again," he said and felt... a bit of ritual pass between the two of them as she looked up, a light challenge in her expression.

“One more pack to send off?" she ventured in a wary tone “Always one more, milady," Bart answered nigh automatically. She smiled broadly at that and Bart got the impression he had just made the timeless creature happier than she had been in a while.

“You're right, of course. Always one more. How silly of me to forget." she said and nosed his cheek fondly.

Another companionable silence fell over them, and Bart found his embarrassment ebbed along with his excitement — not that either abated too much as the cosmic entity continued to orbit so near him. He was not so much bothered by her closeness as very aware of it. It was curiously solicitous in nature, and he found such behavior more alien than anything else after so long in the life of a soldier, ill-used to casual contact such as this.

“You have questions," she said, it was a statement. He nodded, his mind more and more together and focused the longer he was awake near her as if he was... acclimatizing to her influence. As if one could truly get accustomed to such a thing. “I will tell you now, I will not answer all of them. I cannot. To do so would be to damage you." she said, her choice of words explicit and precise.

“Would you be in trouble were I just to ask them?" he inquired, and she shook her head, smiling at him from where she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“No. They are not forbidden knowledge, simply too much for you to understand without damaging who and what you are. I like you as you are, whole and well-made. Now hush, I will speak no more of it." she said firmly, her tone as resolute as the ancient trees around her. Bart nodded again and pondered for only a moment.

“How do you speak so well? So modernly? I have met... other, timeless beings and they speak in the Old Fashion, a great deal of thees and thous but you do not." Bart asked, thinking of his time with both Humbaba and Sikha. Cithara made a soft humming sound against his arm.

“It is no great secret; I am less limited than they are. I daresay aside from her propensity for being almost dangerously precise in her choice of language, I would imagine you'd find my sister Manasa as easy to converse with as I." she said, and curled her lips in a wry sort of smile; “My brother, Gigas however... he's never been much of one for talk at all."

Bart's expression was knitted with confusion as he asked; “How are they limited? I saw a Nagai literally call lightning down from the sky."

“I wager it was already raining, yes?" Cithara asked, and Bart nodded, impressed at the guess. She bobbed her muzzle; “This strays close to a question I won't answer but the simple form I will relate is that beings from Godhome and such spiritual places are built with a purpose, and this purpose can be far and wide with great power — but it also limits them. Nagai are conduits, points of access to great power but... their understanding of the world as you live in it is limited to that role, so their language is overly formal and clinical by necessity. Does that satisfy you?" she asked, and Bart seemed... somewhat more confused and she sighed, a weary smile on her lips as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Her lips lit a fire in his mind, and he drew in a breath that got another smile from her.

“Men are never satisfied with those answers and yet, I give them anyways." she said, looking off distantly for a moment, as if arranging pieces of a puzzle in her mind; “Instead... think of it as a rank of sorts, military jargon. I have more duties, but also more freedoms to accomplish those duties with. Thus, I and my siblings are as we are," she said experimentally, and Bart nodded after a fashion, stroking his chin as he turned the idea over in his own mind.

“Mm, so they don't need to be able to be personable because it isn't part of their role. You don't teach a swordsman how to embroider thread," he said, and she laughed at that.

“A simple but accurate enough understanding, yes I must be able to embroider a great deal for my charges. I daresay it is why I've been blessed with such a formidable needle for the job," she said, tossing her mane playfully to expose her gently curved, spiraling golden horn. Bart's eyes were drawn to it, then down to her eyes again which turned up at the ends in a knowing smile as she lowered her head. The unspoken request — the desire — hanging in the air between them.

“You may touch it... but keep it a secret, I don't let just anyone do so..." she said conspiratorially, casting a wink at him in that playful, solicitous manner once more as she lowered her head to his lap.

Her mane spread across his bare legs, and the sensation was almost overwhelming. His body must still be overcharged with her magicks, or recovering from his dire hurts — some explanation must be had, surely the simple glide of mane across skin could not feel that wonderful without some tampering having occurred! Her golden eyes closed, only the two kohl-like markings of gold visible as she relaxed. He raised his hands up, he hadn't... actually touched her yet, not truly. His rough, combat-calloused hands descended towards the almost glass-like delicacy of the horn's surface.

“Do be gentle," she prompted in a quiet voice, her eyes opening to molten slits of aurum for a moment. His hand paused as she smiled. “It is sensitive… in a fashion."

That gave him additional pause, but slowly he lowered his hand to the horn, touching the lethal point with a finger as he might test the edge of a spear. He felt her shiver as his fingers traced down the whorls and ridges of the spiraling appendage. It was... warm. Smooth. Organically smooth like fresh ivory or bone was... and yet it was gold still. He felt the familiar weight and hardness beneath his fingers of the unalloyed metal, the feel and finish of the surface unmistakable. They ran down the length of the glittering spear, easily the length of a smallsword — and the unicorn slowly inhaled, her body drawing its chest forward and its back bowed in a gentle arch as he reached her brow, unable to resist threading his fingers through her mane afterward... his skin felt electric as if he'd been too close to a thunderstroke or a thicky-furred rug. She shivered and drew herself up, causing him to pull his hands back suddenly

“I'm sorry was that... untoward?" he asked and she shook her head, giggling almost a little drunkenly as she tousled her mane back into place with an artful motion of her neck, raising her face to his.

“No it was just... a bit of a thrill, is all. I felt it much as you did — it is not a sensation as you would feel from flesh or bone it is more... mystical. My horn is the focus of my energies, it is rather appropriately my 'embroidery needle' as it were. “ she chuckled, meeting his eyes.

“You, as someone fit to carry my blessing, have a very certain energy about you already, it is quite compatible. Like listening to a song with its perfect counterpoint. I feel that little rush as much as you." she said with another little shiver and a flutter of her golden eyelashes. “A bit of a thrill."

A moment of electricity passed between them as she explored his face again, her eyes were so inquisitive, somehow magnified by the gold-on-gold details of her impossible anatomy, white and iris both naught but golden glimmer — yet the finer structures remained like the finest etching. Her lips pursed as if she were to ask him a question before she drew away with the pretense of another shiver, her body sliding to all fours with almost feline grace.

“We should address the largest issue, my dear," she said, her tail trailing around him as she stepped away, its long silky pomp teasing his bare flesh. He found himself trailing his fingers through the liquid strands of silver, she smiled at him unconsciously as he did; “Your body. Your health. I have healed you in both flesh and spirit..." She paused and her golden gaze peered at him through the sheet of her hair; “... Your uninvited guest shall bother you naught, from here further." she said and he sucked in a breath at that, gaze drifting away to the shadows.

“The Wendigo? It's gone?" he asked bluntly, and she nodded. Her golden-lined brow raised.

“Yes, I reminded it who to which you belonged. Whisked its cobwebs from the lovely home My Order had built for me in your heart, and I firmly locked the door when I was done," she said with a tone of imperious finality, a possessive glint crossing her gaze — and for just a moment, her fluid frame seemed hard as a blade, a sheet of ultra-fine glass ready to shear something apart in a moment's neglected motion. Her bearing was irate, a momentary view into pure jealous rage at the sheer audacity of this other to have touched one of HER knights. Bart was given an extremely pointed reminder all at once that this beautiful, delicate creature was power made manifest.

Her brow knit in concern, “It was not without scars... I'm afraid you will feel its shadow for the rest of your days. When its kind are near you will know, and even with my blessing... you will draw the darker things of the world to you with your presence." she apologized, her tone mournful. “Yours will be a hard path my beloved, where one would find one enemy arrayed before him, you will find two. It is a road that demands much of you, and I am sorry I cannot wash this stain from your soul." she paused to allow Bart to absorb that, he was... a literal stormcrow? Jules' words rang again in his mind — had this taint been active long? Had he been forced on this path as early as that first meeting with Parias and Ishtar? His teeth set as he realized the true nature of that unwanted touch from the little girl, wider and wider the seams had been pried by more than just the Wendigo's own hands. His eye searched the middle distance as he tried to make sense of his life as it now stood. What life could a man have, who was a literal cosmic beacon to the unclean?

“How? Will I cause bad luck? Curdle milk? Break glass when I walk near it?" Bart asked her — avoiding pointedly the real question of whether or not he had killed those good people with his presence — to which she shook her head, walking straight to him, settling down before him in a regal sprawl of limbs, she met his gaze directly. Pointedly.

“It is one of Those Things, but what I will tell you is it has to do with how the Empty Queen manipulates time and fate, the way she attempts to skew all creation to her ideal world," she said and her eyes fluttered closed a long moment, and she took a breath.

“Imagine a stone," she said, her tone turning instructive as her eyes gained a golden luminescence of their own, a single thumb-sized stone from the surrounding dirt rose into the air, limned ever so slightly in a golden radiance — had she lifted that? He noticed all of the aurum accents upon her seemed to gleam with an inner fire as the stone floated, horn, hooves, and all.

“If I throw this stone, there are a million, million paths it can go. But in many of those potential paths, several will strike you." she continued, and the gold-outlined stone whizzed forward with blistering speed, halting before his nose suddenly. “Quite painfully. Do you understand so far?"

“I suppose... so you're suggesting my choices are this stone?" Bart hedged, feeling about the edges of the concept. She smiled and nodded, eyes still on his;

“Very astute, many think of themselves as the stone but no, it is your actions, not yourself. The way the taint of the Queen's minions works, indeed the mechanism of all prophecy, is that it combs through and drags like threads together," she said, and more stones began flicking their glowing paths up from the soil around them, many firing directly at Bart's face in rapid succession, several clearly missing him but more and more stopping mere finger-lengths from his face — creating a clear pattern of misfortune.

“So... it doesn't make my choices more likely to be bad, but makes what I have available to choose worse and worse," Bart said in sudden understanding, and the cosmic beast nodded her head sadly.

“It is like a comb through a skein of yarn, peeling threads more like to tragedy, pain, misery, and strife towards the tapestry of your life. Your choices are your own, but you will face greater and greater hardship," she said in a mournful tone, gently discarding the small cloud of pebbles. “For this I am sorry, the creature who sought your soul is my equal in strength, and while I can struggle against him in my own element — each other's own works are ever beyond one another."

“The Erlking threatened it," Bart said, and Cithara seemed smug at that, her eyes narrowing in a fashion that was arch and pleased.

“Yes, I assumed he might." she said, savoring the words with a smile; “He and that one have a long history that predates even the Verdant Crusades, or Wendigo throwing his lot in with the Queen and her damnation." Bart felt like he wanted to ask more, but she drew her breath in again, getting his attention with her doe-like grace, a rueful sigh exiting her.

“ As we speak of my failures in that regard — I could also not heal your eye." she began and met his gaze once more, “I said as much before however I owe you the why." she said and drew herself closer to him once more, her tail seeking out contact with him anew, as if to comfort him, “My magick — our magick — is within the limits of the natural order. It cannot create, it can only interact. Regrowing lost limbs or creating whole tissues and organs is more than the magics can ask — ergo I cannot regrow your eye. A broken bone, a slice from a sword yes — even a severed limb if it is all intact can be mended whole. Yet to create lost flesh is beyond any of us but The Queen... and she achieves it with foul interruption of a creature's being." she said, dipping her head again in apology, she wore her emotions with her whole being, it was startling.

“It is important you understand that, for you will be tempted to surpass that limit, and that way lies danger," she said ominously, and Bart nodded. He'd attended the same rudimentary classes on magickal theory that everyone else had, the real schooling did not occur until after one returned with the Unicorn's blessing.

“I know, for the sake of healing the sick or weak. To not take too much too fast and kill the patient with the medicine." Bart murmured as if he were in class — which at a later, more clear-headed date he would later realize, he was. The unicorn shook her head, still maintaining that intense eye contact, an unspoken worry in her gaze.

“Nay, it is more… technical. You lack the understanding and could do far worse than merely kill. However, we have time enough already for such things. I would do away with the last of the day's serious business so that I may enjoy you." she said, reaching out with one foreleg, brushing her silky smooth hoof and feathers across his arm, touching him directly and a warmth returning to her voice and visage alike.

“How do you feel?" she asked, her eyes searching his with an intimate closeness the Knight-Brother found oddly comfortable. Bart paused, touching his abdomen — how did he feel? His new collection of scars did not pain him — his missing eye was definitely disorienting him but was otherwise harmless. He flexed his fingers and found no stiffness and his shoulders moved with nary a complaint. He frowned — he should feel much worse. The fight with Parias alone should have killed him, there was no way his blade missed every vital organ in its path... how mad had he really been at that point? He looked down at his hands, they were steady. He hadn't felt even a hint of the tremors or weakness either... had she cured him of the fits as well as his other bodily hurts? He supposed... if it was an ailment of the soul, who better to put it right?

“I feel... worried," he said honestly, he wanted to unburden this grand creature — to say he was wonderful, to gush about how he felt energized, stronger than he had in years, how the sight of her filled him with this warmth that did not fade with time... but his duty pulled at his mind, and his friends. His now very, very dear friends. Cithara continued to scan his face, and the seriousness ebbed away as she gave him a reassuring smile, placing her cloven hoof on his arm again, the strangely human gesture sending a ripple of unreality through his mind.

“That's good... your mind is sound, your priorities straight. Now then, stand up," she said with a tone of command, rising with sprightly grace to her own hooves, Bart climbed to his feet — still skyclad but for his very snug-fitting smallclothes, he felt the last protesting pops of joints clear as he twisted his torso back and forth — Physically he was sound, in fact, he felt absolutely bursting with energy.

“Now, hold your arms out to your sides," she instructed him, and he did so, straightening up as she trotted right up to him — she was a slight thing really, perhaps a half head shorter than him if one did not count the horn. She looked him over, her golden eyes glimmering and seeing far more than his mere healed flesh. She walked a circle around him, carefully laid her head on either arm, and rocked him off balance slightly, murmuring wordless sounds of approval as he held still, her inspection having her shove and bump him a few places. He felt a thrill with each contact, like a boy seeking the armsmaster's approval all over again.

“My you are large," she murmured as she walked around him again, his ears burning as he found her gaze rolling over his groin once more, that bemused smile playing across her soft, fey features again as her eyes rose deliberately to meet his. “I don't know that I've had one as large as you in some time." she all but purred at him, threatening to cause more than a mild blush before she clicked her tongue softly — a feat it genuinely surprised him she could do — and distracted him.

“Right, stand on one leg, opposite hand behind your head," she said, and he gave her an odd look, but set about approximating the instructions with some difficulty — his head felt... unbalanced. She frowned and trotted a short distance away from him.

“Walk this line, arms out," she said, tossing her mane with a subtle flare of golden radiance, a thin line of yellow light stretching across the grass between the two of them. Bart once again followed her instructions, and once again found himself strangely unsteady, veering on certain steps. Her frown solidified and she nodded then squinted at him with imperious scrutiny.

“Stand on one leg, opposite hand behind your head," she instructed firmly, Bart followed but his brow furrowed as he saw a tightness at the edge of her mouth.

“You're just fooling with me now." Bart protested and she raised her brows archly, drawing herself up into a figure that almost literally crackled with authority.

“You dare suggest that The Lady in White would seek to mislead a noble knight-brother of her own Order merely for sake of levity?" she said and he straightened his back at the scathing command in her voice, standing on one foot — eyes forward as she drew forward, somehow even more alluring as she thrummed with power than she really ought to be... and she looked him up and down, her regal gaze cold and clinical before she turned her back on him and then casually added.

“Now hop on one leg, and honk. Like a goose," she said in that same imperious tone... but her lips had curled into a wicked little smile behind the veil of her shimmering mane. Bart sighed and let his leg down, she giggled at him softly.

“You seem to be fine, the loss of your eye has affected your balance and your ability to judge distances… but that can be adjusted to with time. I will extend your respite to account for this," she said, smiling winsomely at him. “If I may admit to an imperfection, I am glad for it. If only for gladder reasons — I have not had reason nor place to ask a longer stay of my charges in some time. You are all so well-trained, that you take the mantle in your hands and are charged with a great need to go out and do good unto the world." she said with a little chuckle, walking back up to him with fluid and all-too-human grace.

“I love you all for it. Such great, big hearts my Order calls to it." She said, a flutter of her lashes drawing his attention to her gaze.

“Shall we get you some clothing? I am quite pleased with the order of things, yet... I would have you comfortable." she said in a teasing tone, her eyes dragging over his body in an open display of appreciation, raking him head to toe, complete with a blink-and-you'd-miss-it bite to her lower lip — one that exposed that she had rather pronounced canines in addition to her more doe-like front teeth. The uncanny beauty of such a contrast with her luminous eyes drew his attention away from the flirtatious chatter with the expertise of a master swordsman parrying a clumsy thrust from a novice. Bart was flummoxed and coughed slightly.

“Yes... I'm afraid my horse... died with my effects, I don't even have my razor, just what was on my person, my purse, my scripture book..." his eyes lit wide and she drew an inquisitive gaze to his; “My family book!" he said, suddenly feeling frantic. Cithara moved closer to him, making a soft shushing sound.

“Now, a small tome? About so sized?" she asked, delicately cutting the air in front of her with a neat feint of her horn — surprising him with her agility with the veritable smallsword growing from her skull, its glowing tip leaving behind a neat shape of a square-bound book roughly the size of his palm, Bart nodded ferociously and she smiled — blowing the golden square away casually, the magic crumbling into pollen blowing on the wind.

“Fear not, it is preserved along with the remnants of your clothing, armor, and weapons. My stewards were attending to it. It has not been harmed." she said, coaxing him to follow her as she trotted down a path that seemed to grow up out of the grass as she approached.

“Stewards?" he asked, seeming a bit baffled and she smiled at him, eyes aglitter with smugness.

“Oh yes, part of my fealty from the Unseelie courts, the Erlking sees fit to keep me placated and docile to his needs, so he provides me with handmaidens and stewards of his blood to see to needs or desires I may have which require trips beyond my wood — or on occasion," she added with a faint shrug and an innocent smile; “Thumbs."

“Thumbs you say?" he asked, and she chuckled and held her nose high.

“I may be a cosmic entity forged out of the very energy of the stars, but I still have to follow many rules. And by that I have some small... luxuries, I require assistance with." she said, smirking at him; “I am quite humble in my appetites really, you should see Gigas' Sacred Brides." she said and Bart blinked, he had yet to even be given a good description of Gigas, let alone more than that.

“Brides? Do you mean symbolically, like nuns of the Darrowmere church?" Bart asked, and Cithara laughed — a warm, throbbing sound that filled his chest with a soft cottony heat that he found himself craving in its absence.

“Oh no, I mean quite literally. He has seven of them at any one time, and he consummates those marriages." she said, clearly enunciating the last words with a roll of her tongue: “Frequently."

Bart was rocked to a standstill at that, Seven brides, one for each day of the week... and he held little doubt that was the exact logic behind it — the Beast of Might viewed all things as a competition it seemed. Cithara seemed quite smug about her spiking of his wheel so neatly, watching him with softly lidded eyes as he muddled through that forbidden knowledge.

“So, if the Beast of Might has seven sultry maidens, and the Beast of Wisdom hoards information like misers do gold, what is the sinful indulgence of the Unicorn? What does Cithara, Lady in White keep here far from mortal eyes that is so beyond her she needs Unseelie Handmaidens to attend her?" he asked, building up to a proper crescendo in a way that had her smiling wide, eyes alight.

“Shall I tell you?" she asked, walking towards him, her eyes lurid and full of the promise of joys for which he had no words, “Shall I reveal to you my greatest, most sinful indulgence?" she asked him, stopping up short, close to his face. Bart felt unsure all of a sudden, her eyes were wide with intensity, her lip slightly pouting with desire... but he, now on his back foot in this exchange, nodded. The unicorn nodded back, solemnly, taking a breath — and she leaned in close to his ear, her breath hot. He shivered in spite of the warmth.

“Coffee," she whispered simply, and he could literally hear her smile wide in his ear before skipping back away with such a fluid, flowing motion it was like she'd simply washed around him like a breaker wave and reformed further down the path, laughing softly all the while.

“Coffee," he repeated dubiously, following his host. Eager to get something to cover his tightening underclothes. He felt more and more exposed the more she spoke to him.

“Indeed, it was something I sampled from campaigns many moons past, imported from the south. I find it... divine." she said with a little shiver that ran the full length of her leonine tail. “The bittersweet taste, the strong aroma, the way it lingers on the mind and the palate," she said and visibly shivered again. “It is delightful, your kind are so industrious about your libations."

“Its... well I like it well enough," he said, he'd had it of course. And as if she read his mind she tsk'd her tongue at him, loping back around to walk beside him, her girlish outburst reigned back in. She pressed against him with her shoulder, smiling at him smugly.

“You," she began, “Have had soldier's coffee, there is so much more to it I've learned through my handmaidens," she said, golden eyes glimmering with excitement. “Oh, it is my favorite thing... and I only really can enjoy it when I have others to share it with. A rare double treat for myself." she cooed with a shiver of delight — truly, she seemed so animated near him, his presence catalyzed her like one of Naima's mystical concoctions.

“As you wish my Lady... but about those clothes." He said, clearing his throat pointedly; “I find the weather agreeable, but I am beginning to feel a bit..." he trailed off as she stared at him with those smoldering golden eyes, a slow smile spreading on her lips as she pointedly cast her eyes across him again, she knew he noticed it. She was teasing him on purpose.

“... Exposed." he finished, the Unicorn's golden-lined brow raising with amusement.

“Well, I would hate for my dear one to feel too exposed. Worry not, my handmaidens have attended to both. You may dress while they prepare. Besides, I have to get some food in you. You may feel like a summer buck fresh in rut, but your body has been repeatedly traumatized and drained of its essential humors, you need to replenish your strength." she observed in a soft tone, her eyes turning back to him with that devotional concern.

“I'm sure I'll be fine, if I'm walking I'll survive, my lady." Bart hedged humbly, feeling a bit... spoiled if he was being honest.

“Why will you not use my name?" she asked him in a deceptively innocent tone. Bart blinked.

“What do you mean? I used it but a moment ago," he said, and she frowned a little.

“You used it as part of a jibe, but you have yet to call me by my name in earnest. Why?" she asked him as they wound through the woods, he lost all ability to tell distance or space, and as he looked back behind them he found the trees had veritably closed ranks behind them. The wood itself a primordial, living creature bowing to the Lady's grace. He blanched a bit at the question, folding his arms across his chest a bit defensively.

“It... does not seem to carry appropriate respect, My Lady." Bart hedged, avoiding her eyes as she sought his, frowning.

“It is my name, knowing it from mine own lips is the highest possible respect you can grant me." she continued and Bart felt himself hedging back away again, still avoiding her gaze and forcing far more... tawdry ways to speak her name from his mind.

“I am uncomfortable with the lack of... station, that is all." He said and suddenly found himself cut off, a pair of golden eyes staring into his face, her swept, svelte body drawn up with regal might and pomp as she forced him to look upon her without saying a word — her presence demanded it. Their eyes met. Bart was very aware they were alone as she lowered her face and eyelids both, bringing herself intimately close to him.

“Bartholomus Mueller," she said, and his entire being rang like a bell. Names had power, everything had a name, their true mark on the world — spoken from their own lips, in correct cadence, that had power. It was the power you felt when your mother called your name in frustration, when your lover moaned your name in your ear, when your child called it when you walked in the door after work. Names spoken correctly, have power. The Unicorn had just spoken his perfectly. Bart was stunned, shaken even by the unknowable sensation that flooded him, having this otherworldly being speak his name, to be read aloud by the cosmos. He met her gaze as she continued, her voice quiet and urgent:

“Say my name."

Bart met her gaze. It was an ultimatum, a command, a plea... all at once. There was an imperious entitlement in that gaze fully at war with a hungry need. They were so close he could feel her breath stir his mustache, he watched her gold-on-gold iris contract as she focused on him with rapt attention.

“My Lad-" Bart began in protest but a hiss cut him off.

“No, my name. In earnest. Bartholomus, call me by my name."

Bart felt the sudden cord of energy stretched between them, this was part of it. Part of the pact. Part of Knowing. He Knew her, the word having firmly earned its capital letter in his mind now... and to Know her he had to speak her name.

“Cithara." Bart finally managed, their eyes meeting as he said it in one breath, no stammering, no caution. He just blurted it at her as she stood, and her body also briefly quaked, and she drew in a long-held, shuddering breath that forced her eyes to flutter closed. She nodded, lips pursed.

“Good, good. This way, Bart," she said as if she'd simply checked something off a list. Bart felt dazed and focused on following her lead. Her presence was nigh overwhelming, an elegant assault on his mind, but an assault all the same.

“I'm sorry it just... it's very intimate, all of this." Bart said after a moment's walking. Cithara stopped, regarding him expectantly.

“I love you, My Lady. When I say it like that it's Good, it's proper. I love you, Lady." he said firmly, confidently, she smiled at him and raised a brow.

“And I love you, Bart," she said and he swallowed and pointed.

“That... is the hard part, when I say I love you, Cithara..." he felt a tremble shake him, and he saw the same tiny shiver seem to cross through her, though she rolled with it, seemingly expecting it if the smile on her lips was any gauge.

“It's... I haven't even had a first kiss, so it feels..." she was smiling wider at him, showing him those pointed canines again as she gently turned and nudged him forward with a bump of her shoulder.

“I love you Bart, and I am glad you love me. It is part of this, to be taught to love me by the church is well and good, but to love me and be devoted to me is very different, it is... intimate. Demanding, it is why I do not ask it of all but my most stalwart champions." she said. They proceeded along.

“I find it very gratifying, though. That you find it so intimate." she added in a soft voice, smiling privately at him; “Your devotion is flattering." she admitted, shaking her mane back before her eyes returned from him to the trail, leading them forward; “Come, let us see if Holda and Perchta are prepared for us!"

~ ~ ~

The fuzzy distances didn't get much better, it felt like he was walking through a painting being made brushstroke by brushstroke as he walked through the woods, whole paths seemingly forming out of impassible trunks before his eyes with as little fanfare as he would get walking down the street for milk and eggs. Cithara was completely inured to it, and they chatted about meaningless niceties as they walked, Bart shaking off the discomfort of the intimacy to tell her stories of home at the Abbey, enjoying her motherly glee over stories of young Bart and Lucian getting up to hijinks beneath the various teachers. Each time he spoke the name of an Order Paladin, he saw a momentary gleam of recognition in her eyes, what memories did those golden eyes see with those names? Questions for another day, as they arrived — or rather, as their destination seemed to simply unfold from within the eternally shifting trees.

It was a kitchen, for lack of a better description. Wrought out of an aged white marble and metal of unknown origin, both in a style that he comfortably called 'alien' without hesitation. It eschewed hard angles nearly entirely, composed of organic shapes — all sweeps and curves. Most of note was the complete lack of iron nor steel — a strange, bright, and silvery metal like polished pewter served in its place in all fixtures and utensils. Indeed, everything seemed… off, each piece of the kitchen was slightly wrong as if the person who had crafted it was alien to its use and purpose. It was otherwise, as expected — a large, oblong firebox of that glistening silvered alloy stood to one side of several ornate wooden chests and tables, all of which seemed to lack any clear joints, nails, or pegs — as if they had been carved from a single piece of lumber whole. A trivet sat over the smoldering coals where a small, deep box of that same silver was warming over a small, merry flame — and the smells of roasting meat came from a spit nearby where a haunch of meat was sizzling, a series of small pots full of mysterious broths and liquids for basting. Bart felt his mouth water at the smell alone, the sight of the crisping, succulent haunch itself made his gut gurgle with need. At least that part of him he came by honestly, no need for ancient beings of hunger.

It was the beings working at those tables that drew Bart up short, stopping a few feet into the clearing to simply stare, Cithara's eyes following his gaze with calm expectation and a bit of a smile.

Both of the entities were tall — identical heights that brought them even above Bart's considerable stature by at least half a head — and they were strong. Strong like an ancient willow tree, their limbs yew-like and springy yet packed with lean, visible muscle. Moreover, they simply were… larger than he — built on a different scale. Hands, limbs, and forms were the shape of a lean, athletic build — and yet they each dwarfed the brawny Knight-Brother, requiring him to look up to meet their faces. He was fairly certain they were female — the names he'd been given before were feminine and though their forms were androgynous in their athleticism with both wide hips and shoulders, but narrow, svelte torsos — they moved with a swaying motion that still made him think of a woman… or a stalking predator. They each wore the same attire, wrapped up in drab dark and earth-toned... he was hesitant to call it finery, but it was of exquisite make and cut — but the garments themselves were in form, simple sleeveless hunting leathers, their entire body covered except for their bare arms and the lower section of their faces, their seemingly mask-like cowls pulled low over their eyes and nose, leaving naught but their severe, frowning mouths exposed.

“My dear ones, the cowls again?" Cithara chided them as she led Bart into the seemingly just-formed clearing, a careworn table stood in the center, carved into a sleek, mushroom-like shape from that same white marble and clearly bearing the marks of the years. Hundreds of hands and feet had worn the simple round plinth smooth at the edges, at one end there was a similar, well-worn impression on a marble dais seated at the head of the great Round Table. The two entities were busy — each tending one side of the kitchen — but they both frowned with dark-painted lips in perfect unison.

“This one has not yet earned our visage." the one deemed Holda said, her hands busy over a small series of pots and cups. The way she moved was physically taxing to watch — they, the both of them seemed to simply… flit and flow with such speed and fluidity that their movements seemed to be choreographed. They almost appeared precognitive, arriving at their stations with an inhuman grace that seemed to be too fast, too neat, not even an iota of hesitation. They seemed to be in a dance with their environment, making their motions so smooth as to be completely unnatural, so sure and quick as to seem almost jerky and insect-like — flitting between too-fast motion and absolute stillness like a great bird of prey. It caused Bart actual, tangible discomfort to watch Holda lay out cups before two places at the immense stone table — between her unnatural motions, and how she and the cups she laid out seemed to flicker to and fro before going still once they left her strange, long-fingered hands, the Churchman felt his hunger turning to mild vertigo. As she drew away from the cups, Bart noted they had to them each six fingers per hand — all ending in short, utilitarian claws with flesh the dull, matte gray hue of unworked stone.

“When this one proves more worthy, he will see our eyes." the other, Perchta, grated — her hands working with unsettling precision across a series of parcels; unpacking and smoothing out a series of articles of clothing — all of it fairly dark. Cithara sighed.

“Yet I have judged him worthy, is that not enough?" She asked in a tone that carried a weary sort of hope, Holda paused, her mouth frowning again.

“Not quite, as always White Heart," she responded, and Cithara sighed, shaking her head and settling onto the softly-worn dais at the head of the table. She smiled and ducked her neck by way of a shrug.

“My dear Bart, this is Holda and Perchta, my handmaidens and the Erlking's own daughters. My hands, eyes, and ears for things that hooves and glimmering grace simply won't do for," she said, giving each of them a beaming smile. “Do not allow their nature to put you off, they are of their Father's kindred — and it makes them the finest huntresses in the wood, and consummately skilled," she said, and both sidhe women stood a bit straighter at the praise but in no other way acknowledged it.

“Come, Knight," Perchta said, actually snapping her fingers at him like he was an errant novice lollygagging around the parade ground. Instinctively, he leapt to attention despite himself, and she handed him the stack of clothes — Bart making a bit of a face at how easily that had worked years later. Wordlessly turning and with a flourish of her hand, the tall sidhe woman directed him to where a gauzy shade had been raised — raised and back-lit by the sunlight, projecting clear, crisp silhouettes of all beyond. He looked over to Cithara — who wore a totally innocent expression. Bart cleared his throat, holding up the packet of effects,

“Ah, Sidhe yes? Are these gifts?" he asked warily, not fully accepting the parcel yet, Cithara's lips parted in a faint 'ah' of understanding. Bart was not a completely unschooled rube, and the Sidhe Courts were mysterious — but they had rules, and were quite literally bound to follow them. The first rule of the fae courts: make no deals and accept no gifts, as it obliged you to the creature in any number of ways.

“No dear Bart, these are courtesy laws at work from fealty owed. Please, dress. The coffee should be ready presently." she cooed to him. Exposed indeed. Perchta rippled unsettlingly from his side to stand a modest distance away from the Lady.

Stepping behind the shade, Bart looked over what he'd been given. Basic enough clothing with no embellishments — simple half boots, hose, and a snug-fitting doublet. It all fit well, in fact, as he pulled it on — he found it fit as if it had been made for him. Not even his armor had been so closely tailored. It was all fine-spun material in colors of dark green and charcoal grays, well-fit to his brawny torso with a dashing cut that left the line of his neck open. In the satchel, there was a small eye patch. Simple brown leather. He took a moment to string it on, tying it behind his head, he swallowed heavily — something new to get used to. He found the rest of his effects in the parcels as well, his purse and swordbelt, as well as his hip pouch, which carried the small family tome among other small things. He let out a relieved sigh as he tucked the small family heirloom deeper into the purse, glad to have it back.

“Cithara... where is my armor?" he asked as he walked out around the shade, her eyes tracking to him immediately. Her expression was one deeply pleased as she looked his new attire over, there was a faint nod to Perchta, and the tall sidhe huntress stood up a bit more firmly again, another moment of pride. The unicorn blinked several times, refocusing on Bart.

“I have it, and your weapons put away elsewhere for now. My agreements with the Erlking and his woods concerning iron and steel, worry not — they are safe and sound. Now, come! Sit next to me, Holda has worked very hard at the art of this." the cosmic creature practically chirped with excitement. He believed her wholly when she said she intended to enjoy him. If her only company was these two stone gargoyles of women, and the oppressive eidolon that was the Erlking he'd met out at the edge of the woods — she must be starved for simple, mundane companionship.

“I've had coffee before, Lady," Bart said as he settled onto the worn stone bench beside her, the Unicorn solicitously shifting near him for casual contact as she tittered at him.

“And I yet say you have not, Ser." she shot back archly, as Holda worked... in a sandbox? Bart blinked a few times, the odd 'box' he'd seen before on the fire turned out to be a squared sort of bowl made of that same silvery metal, packed lightly with extremely fine, caramel-colored sand — set directly down into a squared, staggered stack of burning tinder. She'd measured out an impossibly smooth, almost flour-like ground coffee into two copper-bottomed ewers of sorts, and then a vigorous splash of water, aimed with such absolute precision that she seemed to negligently move the water into the cups more than pour it. Bart's head swam a bit watching her, the in-place jittering seemed to intensify as she focused on the task.

“This is the best part, aside from the drinking that is." Cithara beamed, hooves actually forward on the stone table as she watched — her seat situated in such a way to give her an ample view of the proceedings, clearly on purpose. The stony-skinned fae woman then thrust those copper ewers into the hot bowl of sand, quickly the water boiled and foamed to a frothy head as the sidhe woman stirred the small pots through the heated grit and then pulled it away, and then back into the sand it went. Three times she swirled the small copper ewers until they foamed to the very brink of overflowing, three times she pulled it back just in time and swirled and twirled the concoction within its fat-bellied little ewer. It took less than a minute, and then she poured the foaming beverage into two small, delicate cups of foggy crystal that looked so fine, Bart was afraid to breathe near it, let alone drink from it. Cithara beamed.

“Thank you, my dear, dear companions. Please, be at ease." she cooed to the two, who sat down nearby — but pointedly apart. The Unicorn's eyes and horn lumed as they had before, and the small cup of frothy, hot beverage floated in the air towards her lips.

“Wait," Bart said, pointing a finger at the floating cup. “If you could do that... why do you need someone with thumbs to make it for you?" he asked in a challenging tone. The Unicorn did not pause, and in fact, met his gaze steadily as she lifted the cup with her magic closer to her lips.

“Why, Bart — everyone knows coffee tastes better when someone else makes it for you," she said, and quite pointedly took a long sip of the steaming liquid, shivering with obvious, visible pleasure in a way that made her tail raise and haunches tremble. The soldier sat there, watching both that and looking at his own coffee... he couldn't actually say she was wrong. Carefully, he scooped up the small cup in hands somehow too large, and yet... not large enough. The strange angles and proportion of the crystal seemed to have them be intended on a scale more akin to Holda and Perchta. Nonetheless, it smelled wonderful — strong and oddly spicy. He took a sip after blowing off the head of steam... and his eyes shot open.

Bitterness was the first overwhelming flavor, but not harsh cloying bitterness like bad beer. The bitterness of spice, earth, and fruits. It rounded his tongue and teased it with sweeter mid-tones and an almost candy-like finish that wrapped around the strong, sharp acid edge of the initial taste well. It was a thick, foamy brew that stuck to the lips and left flecks of froth in his mustache as he wiped his lips and looked down at the delicate cup in his hand, Cithara looked at him expectantly.

“That..." he began, gently wiping his mustache with a finger. Cithara leaned closer, “Yes?"

“... That, is the best damn cup of coffee I have ever tasted in my life." Bart sighed, giving the cosmic being a resigned look, “I don't know why I doubted the Lady in White." Bart said, and she smiled and sipped her own cup as well, eyes lidding at him with mischievous intent.

“I don't know why you did either."

Bart shook his head and they sat and sipped the strong beverage in companionable silence, Holda's blade-like figure flitted back over after a moment with a wooden plate, more a platter really — piled high with roasted meat. The gamy smell of venison struck Bart's senses like a sledgehammer, and he found himself once more voracious. The unicorn looked at him expectantly again, her cup floating to her lips once more.

“Well? I expect to see the plate cleaned," she said in a mildly authoritative tone. Content to settle back with her small mug of happiness and watch him intently. Despite the open strangeness of the situation, Bart's hunger wasn't going to let him ignore the plate of roasted meat before him, and he tucked into it with gusto, the unnatural motions of the two sidhe woman flickering around the stone table as they brought additional simple fare — a small bowl of some kind of porridge and a ewer of fresh milk that smelled strongly of sheep or goat. Bart cared not and felt as if he were trying to fill a hole in his stomach with food, having to slow down to maintain any semblance of manners. Cithara simply seemed content to watch him.

“This one eats well, and complains little," Holda said to her sister as they cleaned away dishes, Bart had all but gorged himself, finally feeling sated after draining the entire pitcher of milk.

“Indeed. The thick ones always do. This one has worked the land, it appreciates the bounty." Perchta said, Bart looking up and mouthing 'thick one?' to Cithara, who chuckled quietly.

“You are exceptionally brawny compared to most of their brothers and sisters, dear Bart." the unicorn explained; “They might be taller than you, but the Erlking's children are a lean people in both physicality and concept. You are quite as they said, 'thick' in comparison." she said, looking at him over the rim of her cup; “I find it quite charming, myself."

Bart furrowed his brow, murmuring into his mustache about not being that much brawnier than they were when his eyes drew to the floating cup again. He paused and pointed a horn-carved fork at it, half covering his mouth as he asked around a mouthful of venison: “How d'you do that?"

“Come again?" the unicorn stated, blinking at him rapidly. Her attention deeply focused on her beverage. Bart reached out and tapped the levitating cup, swallowing to clear his throat.

“The floating objects, the stones, cups. How are you doing that? Is that something I will be able to do?" he asked her, and she chuckled softly, floating her cup of coffee away from her to look at it pointedly.

“Oh no. This I can do because I have absolute authority over the matter that exists within my immediate territory and simply exercise that will over the component parts and the object respects my demands," she stated blithely — causing Bart to pause midway through another sip of coffee, staring at her. She sipped her own drink coolly and then cleared her throat.

“I can control my direct surroundings with my mind, to a strong degree." she amended without missing much of a beat, and Bart nodded at that, understanding it a bit better.

“Ah... so it's just an extra set of hands. Why did god not give you form like us? Hands, thumbs, and so on?" he asked her and she smiled with a familiar arch of her eyebrows.

“Oh, that's simple darling. Your form is special. God reserved it for you and you alone." she said and he paused, raising his hand to protest and she raised that eyebrow higher. “Do you doubt me? Think of one of God's creatures that shares the shape of Man," she asked and Bart's frozen form only lingered as his mind trawled its catalog of academic information, eyes flicking to and fro as his hand slowly lowered.

“... You have a point," he said after a while, Sidhe shared their forms but... Sidhe were not God's creatures, and neither were anything the Empty Queen sent against him. Cithara sipped her coffee again, she barely seemed to drink any of it with each touch to her lips.

“I frequently do. God made your forms special, so my siblings and I were made of stardust and spirit pressed to fleshy forms," she said proudly, looking over the rim of her cup at Bart with a smoldering expression of satisfaction. “We are given shape, form, and purpose by your understanding of reality. My shape, the existence of Unicorns is a platonic concept, a necessity of the universe," she said, drawing herself up and staring into Bart's eyes.

“If there were no Unicorns, it would needs be essential to create them. As long as there are loving souls, therein will I and my forms exist. Like light unto shadow. Like suns to distant stars, we must needs exist for the universe to turn and burn through the skies." she said, and Bart felt... oddly humbled by that explanation. He sat back on his hands, the backless stone bench oddly comfortable.

“But, you are the only Unicorn I've ever met." Bart challenged, and she nodded.

“And I am like the only one you ever will, there is but one unicorn in Northsea and you have her complete, rapt attention." she purred to him, leaning closer again.

“So are there others then? In other lands?" he asked, and she nodded.

“In a manner of speaking, there are other 'lands'. This is one of Those Things, however, there are other places beyond this reality, and in those other places, there are other Unicorns." she said somewhat cryptically, clearly being cautious about how much she revealed.

“But you're the only one here, in this land."

“Yes."

“Isn't that terribly lonely?" Bart asked her bluntly and felt suddenly ashamed of his rather harsh, direct question and she gave him a wistful smile, but her golden eyes flickered through a familiar sadness.

“Terribly lonesome." she agreed, sipping at her coffee and closing her eyes and mouth around the flavor the same, savoring it as she drew in a breath; “I am quite solitary unlike my siblings... it is too easy to lose myself in you and your kind," she said softly.

“You... lose yourself in us?" he asked, somewhat alarmed.

“In your hearts. Your love." she said, her winsome expression was heartbreaking; “To be around man is like drowning in happiness. It becomes so much, like diving into a sea of alien emotions and desires not my own — even here just you and I, I can feel your love for your friends, for myself and your duty radiate off you like tangible heat." she breathed, a hoarse edge on her voice. “It is intoxicating and dangerous. I want to get closer, to swim deep and long in the ocean of your kind's love, to soothe every hurt, comfort every loss..." she said and shook her head as if clearing a fog,

“I must live apart. If I dwell among your kind, it tears us both asunder — I come apart in the warmth and depth of your people's capacity for care, like winter ice melting in spring heat, I simply lose myself in the whole," she said with a shiver, meeting his eyes sadly.

“It is thus, a sweet succor to have you and your brethren come to my glade, to care for me and be cared for. To be taught and to learn." she slid from her dais and trotted the short distance to where he sat, setting her cup aside with the faint limning of gold fading from the object as she pressed close to Bart, her touch demanding as she laid her head across his shoulder by way of a hug, her foreleg raising again to rest its silky feather against his arm.

“To love, and be loved by me, for just a little while," she whispered and closed her eyes. “It is important, for you dear boys must fight such great horrors. Such ugly things, it is important I love you all. Personally, individually. To save it all for you, for it is all I can send with you onto the fields of battle — the path of torment you all willingly walk."

Bart wasn't sure what to do with his hands, and she chuckled as she slid her upper body into his lap — he found her surprisingly light, like a fawn or large dog; her voice reached his ears in a soft, chiding tone.

“Embrace me, you silly soldier." she teased, and with a shiver, he put his arms around her. There was a moment's hesitation as she and he had to shift to accommodate her four-legged frame, but she pressed her chest to his, one foreleg draped across his waist, her head over his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her barrel warmly. She was so soft, her body was like velveteen silk over rippling, warm clay. Her muscles rolled and gave beneath his touch like butter, her flesh soft and inviting — begging to be touched and touch her he did, squeezing her tightly in his arms and getting a small gasp of surprise in response.

“Oh! Strong, aren't we darling?" she teased, holding him close as her mane spilled over his neck and face. She smelled of lilacs, lavender, and something else... spicy and earthy that tugged at some deep, atavistic part of his brain. He loosened his grip after a moment, and she tittered at him, stepping back and flipping her mane artfully back into place — her tail and delicate ears conspicuously high and sprightly.

“Do get used to that. I may be a Unicorn, but I am still a woman. A woman must be embraced by those that love her frequently, lest she come apart." she said in an austere tone that brooked no argument.

“Yes, Ma'am," Bart said in an assertive tone, and this time Cithara did not deign to correct him.

“Now then... since you're more comfortably attired, perhaps a walk with me? I wish to be told of your life," she said, smiling. “I remember all of my boys, every single one."

Bart found himself agreeing before she'd finished her request, in a moment of sudden chill — part of him worried how easily he allowed this being to order him around, how he gave in where he resisted with the Wendigo... odd doubts to have, considering what he knew to be just and right. Cithara's golden eyes lit up as she met his gaze again, as always this thrum of devotion in her face. Odd doubts indeed. Banishing such worries from his mind, he joined the cosmic equine and began a quiet walk on a path that populated itself before their strides, a surreal experience to say the least.

Bart started with the basics: Home. He told her of his parents, of his mother and father. Of his mother's infertility, and his father's crushed leg. He told her little stories he didn't think of often, small things that didn't matter to anyone or anything. Tales of chasing frogs by the creek, the times he and Lucian would sneak into the abbey library late at night to read the bawdy poems stashed in the Restricted Books section — and how they never noticed until much later that they were poorly hidden, and that door always curiously unlocked.

“You have made many friends. It gladdens me." She said after what felt like hours of just speaking of his time at Fairharbour and the Abbey. Bart could only smile.

“I have more than my share of blessings." he agreed modestly, feeling uncomfortable every time she complimented him. Her brow furrowed a little after another story of childhood adventure, looking up at him she tilted her head,

“Describe Lucian to me again, would you darling?" she asked, and Bart frowned thoughtfully, had he left something out?

“Well, as before. Small, lean of build. Albino, bright white hair and pink eyes. He was sickly as a youth, he always looks a little underfed even after being cured of his morbidity." Bart said, breaking his best friend down into his component parts. Cithara frowned a bit as he mentioned the sickness again.

“It should not have made him sickly..." she mused to herself, her golden eyes flashing. “It is no matter, he will come to see me one day himself, will he not? He just has... traits that I personally recognize. His lineage." she said, and Bart nodded.

“Hospitaller Davis has said before that he believes that Lucian may be a distant scion of some sidhe or fae creature," Bart added as they walked along.

“Not Sidhe, Divine." She corrected him in a clipped tone. Bart blinked a bit again, falling behind a step as she turned to regard him,

“Come again?" he asked.

“If it is truly prophecy he is gifted with, then it leaves only the Divine Realm. Only the residents of Godhome may glimpse the future even by chance," she explained, frowning a little.

“That's impossible. We knew his parents, besides the only divine creatures are the Holy Beasts, and which of them has born children unaccounted for?" he asked, his tone rife with skepticism.

“I have," Cithara said airily, her eyes distant. Searching.

Bart was struck by that anew, he'd never heard of that. Not even a little, he stopped walking — struck cold as he processed the idea that... the Lady had children in the world.

“You... can have children?" Bart asked dumbly, and Cithara blinked at him and drew herself up, an incredulous sort of smile on her lips.

“Darling, I applaud your self-control for having walked behind me as long as you have and not stolen a glimpse beneath my tail." she teased him in a low tone, that smile gaining a bit of a mocking edge; “However, I am a woman as I said. I have born children, once."

“Yet... you said you are the only unicorn here." Bart pressed, ears burning with embarrassment at her comments — mostly for how astute they were. He had been avoiding glancing beneath her tail, it seemed boorish.

“Yes, that is why I had them with a man, Bart," she said in a dry tone, her gaze flat and a thin, smug smile on her lips. “I am aware you are yet untried my dear, but I am sure you understand the mechanics..." she teased further, mercy nowhere in sight.

Bart felt anger surge within him but also a strong sense of shame, the look on the unicorn's face wasn't entirely one of ribbing and teasing, and he held up his hands defensively; “I just... it's a lot to take in, none have told me any of this, none knew."

“The people who need to know, do." she said archly, meeting his gaze as he stammered and frowned; “Are you so disappointed to find such weakness in your patron?" she asked somewhat acidly, golden eyes flashing; “Perhaps it is disgust you feel to such an idea?" she asked drawing closer to him, her imperious expression pointedly following the line of his body down to his groin, one golden-lined brow raising: “No, I am certain that is not the case." she sneered a little, making Bart flinch away from the once again — painfully astute observations.

“No! I mean...." he stammered as she stared at him; “I mean, yes I find you very allu- erm I mean you are beautiful but... I..." he continued to trip over himself, making the unicorn's bearing grow all the more incredulous before he held up both his hands. Closing his eyes with a dead silence, he ran both hands harshly back through his short, messy hair, plastering it to his skull as he sucked in a sharp breath. Cithara raised her eyebrow expectantly.

“It's a real thrice-damned head trip to think that my best friend might be the hitherto unknown blood scion of the Lady in White!" he burst out suddenly, spreading his hands and staring down at the middle distance between them as if he was glaring at the idea itself. Cithara stared.

“Who does that happen to?! Truly! What sort of bizarre circumstances plague my life that I am continually the focal point of such completely outrageous concepts." he demanded of the empty space, hands chopping the air for emphasis. Cithara's incredulous expression had grown into a sort of lightly mocking smile, her head tilting.

“You, apparently," she observed dryly. She stepped forward again, standing before him. “You are quite the lightning rod for the unusual, I won't deny that."

“Your lips to God's ears," he said, and she chuckled, meeting his eyes.

“Bart, darling," she said in a serious tone suddenly, getting his attention. Her face was solemn, though the edges of that smile remained.

“Yes?"

“You cannot tell anyone of this, of my children." she breathed to him, pawing her hoof at the dirt in pure equine frustration; “I should not have let such... delicate information slip so easily. You must swear me an oath, one that will bind you into a very small, close group of people who know the truth," she said, eyes serious. Sad. Resolute. “Swear the oath... and before you leave, I will tell you everything. My children, my... husband. All of it." she said and Bart paused, feeling... uneasy, keeping the nature of such a thing secret... what darkness could spring from such a wonder that she would cover it up? Bart felt that he had intruded, stepped past his bounds.

“I swear, Cithara," Bart responded, her ears flicking a bit as her name crossed his lips. It felt important at this moment.

“Swear on thy blood, Knight of Order," she said, her voice suddenly... formal. Imperial. Powerful. She lowered her horn pointedly, Bart paused and then started as realization struck him and he extended his palm.

“I swear on Blood, true and given freely for Order," Bart said, remembering one of the most sacred, formal oaths they were taught. Cithara's horn darted forward, and she sliced a shallow cut into the palm of his hand, causing him to hiss through his teeth at the delayed, stinging pain.

“I accept thy tithe of blood, and bind it physically as Word," she concluded, and there was a flash of her golden luminescence, and with a faint snik of sound... a piece of her mane fell away. Carefully her influence on the curl of silvery-white hair spun and whirled it into a neat knot at one end, and she lifted her foreleg to cradle his upturned hand, his blood pooled into a small circle in his palm — a circle which she dipped that knotted bit of her mane into at the end, staining its binding tie vivid crimson.

“Thy Oath as Word and Matter both, should either break so wilt thy token," she said, dropping the knotted lock of her mane into his bloodied hand, her tone shifting away from the formal. “As will my heart, for this is my most private secret dear one," she said, lowering her head to his hand, her lips parted and gently she drew her mouth over his wound, licking it clean and sealing her soft lips around the wound. He felt that familiar flow of warmth as she healed the wound, the sensation of her mouth upon his flesh was like pure electricity and it stole his breath wholly from him. The soft petals of her lips left after only a moment, a stain of red on their perfect pinkness for a brief second as she nosed his hand closed over the bit of mane.

“Keep it, forever. It is your Oath, and will mark you to others who know my secret — you may find now that you've met a few," she said, gently nuzzling his hand. Bart looked at the silvery coil of hair, seeming to gently twist and turn in an intangible breeze even as he held it... he had seen it before, but where? He remembered suddenly — the Lord Protector. He had worn no holy symbol as he recognized, but instead a lock of silvery hair. The two of them had much more to discuss, it seemed.

“I apologize for my ire, dear one." she continued, her voice small, pressing her face into his palm “It is old, well-healed grief. But grief all the same, I am not immune to it. “

“I accept, my Lady," he said courteously, and she met his eyes with a little twinkle of mischief in them as he cupped her face, and she pulled herself back erect, her eyes daring.

“I will not apologize for my observations however, truly my darling — you must have noticed how overwhelmingly, unbearably female I am." she paused, eyes flicking downward for emphasis; “Surely you did not think it merely..." she paused and rolled her tongue a moment before smirking, her pointed canines adding a subtly wicked quality to it; “... an aesthetic choice?"

Bart blushed harshly and avoided her gaze, which rewarded him only with silvery, motherly laughter. Her lips pressed against his cheek suddenly out of the blind spot beneath his missing left eye, kissing him fondly.

“You are absolutely darling, do not change." she tittered, and turned back towards the ever-forming path, meeting his eyes again.

“Come, you were telling me of your life. There will come plenty more time to speak of myself later."

~ ~ ~

“You did not!"

“I did."

“That is terrible, you are terrible!" Cithara's protests dissolved into throaty giggling, They'd sprawled out after much walking and discussion on another clearing that'd simply opened up before them, this one seemed much more... lived-in is what he'd ordinarily say, but it was an ill match. The area had a series of small grassy berms and knolls that made for ideal lounging spots — one such spot Bart had occupied, lying back in the grass, once again against the unicorn's flanks, her head turned down to gaze at him as he talked, her leonine tail draped idly over him. It was comfortable, he felt very at peace.

“We were boys, that's all. He was absolutely sure it would work, and he's the smart one!" Bart said, and Cithara chortled, tilting her head down at him.

“So you painted yourself green and dressed in old furs and pretended to be of all things, a troll?" she asked with an airy laugh; “Trolls aren't even green!"

“I was barely older than my father's favorite spirits, how would I know?" Bart protested, crossing his arms across his chest. “Again, it was Lucian's idea so he did all the research."

“Well, did it work?" She asked, forelegs close to her chest as she wiggled closer with interest, the lithe cosmic creature absorbed in the many travails of Boyhood. “Did Lucian win over the fair maiden Bernadette, and get his kiss?" Bart puffed his cheeks out in a major exhalation.

“Well... Captain Bernadette knew what a troll looked like, and when I came roaring out of the woods covered in green greasepaint, lopsided horns, and a fur rug tied around my shoulders like a cape?" he asked, and Cithara's nose scrunched up with contained laughter.

“She laughed at me." Bart finished ruefully, Cithara snorted as she covered her nose with her folded forelegs, eyes glittering with barely contained mirth. “I mean, busted her gut. Then Lucian leaps out and brings his practice sword to bear and it doesn't clear the sheathe entirely, so he slings it off the end of the blade directly into my face, just thwack." Bart smacked his fist into his palm for emphasis. Cithara was a giggling white and gold puddle at this point.

“So he knocks off my horns, and starts trying to do his big speech, The Captain is laughing so hard she can't stand up straight, and the whole time Lucian is committed to his role, he goes through the whole thing. I trip over a log and fall and just decide to stay there as Lucian whirls his too-large borrowed cape, and with all his boyish zeal declares;" Bart held his nose, assuming a high-pitched, childish falsetto.

“'By the White Lady, I have saved you, Lady Bernadette!" Bart crowed in the voice, and Cithara broke down, laughing gaily at the story as Bart thrust out his arm, mimicking his friend's serious pose.

“Truly, he gave the whole bit and asked for her 'favor'. The Captain is wearing full harness at this point as well, so she's head to toe mail and plate as this tiny pretend paladin-in-training wearing my dad's stolen travel cloak and a too-large training breastplate with a sword he's only barely tall enough to wield comes up to her and defends her honor from a 'troll' attacking her from the woods." he laughed a little as he shook his head, the Unicorn writhed with mirth in the grass.

“Oh, I would have given him a hundred kisses for the thought alone, so precious!" she tittered between bouts of full laughter, Bart shrugged.

“Well, she did. One kiss right on his cheek, and then told me I should know better. All I said was 'I do now"

“Oh, balderdash." Cithara breathed, chest shaking with residual laughter; “You will never learn better, if Lucian walked up to you right now with a mad plan to marry that captain, you would be beside him in a moment, do not dare lie to your Lady." she declared and Bart blushed.

“He was quite smitten with her..." Bart ventured, thoughtfully stroking his stubbled chin and getting a fresh gale of laughter from the Unicorn. He leaned back against her, grinning and enjoying her. He understood now why every Paladin looked so reverent when speaking of her, it was not because she was some impossible eldritch entity who awed them — it was that she loved them, desperately and without hesitation. Absolute devotion. Mother, Sister, Friend, and Lover all at once... well, perhaps the last one was a bit of a stretch. He caught her eyes as she came out of her fit, giggling softly, she breathed:

“I love you boys so. I wish I could be there for your younger days, to see you stumble around like fawns on new legs." she was looking up at him now, having rolled upon her back in her tussle of mirth and now lay upended opposite of him. “Oh I would spoil all of you so, kisses and rides and questions for everyone!" she shivered at the thought, Bart wondered if she experienced sensation more strongly than he — it was not the first time he'd seen such visceral reactions to minor stimuli from the mystical mare.

“We would fall apart as an Order were it so," Bart observed to her, propping himself up on his elbow; “You would make us soft and fat with your love, like having a mother who's a baker." the lithe unicorn laughed softly.

“Oh? I suppose you would know by your tell," she tittered again, sighing; “Oh I would ruin us both, but what a happy ruination it would be. To raise each of you up on my back to touch the stars, oh to have children again. My dear sister Manasa knows not how wonderful she has it..." She smiled and turned her head towards Bart, her body following like a glimmering puddle of spilled cream, her mane flowing around her like quicksilver.

“Why did you want to be a Paladin, Bart?" she asked lightly. “What made you want more than a comfy life as a man-at-arms? Or a miller of quiet dignity?"

Bart pondered that a moment, letting his eyes play across her form. Even now looking upon her dazzled him, the rippling interplay of her silky pelt and fluid muscles beneath her skin like a swatch of glimmering pigment still wet — she was a wonder to behold, captivating like a precious gem.

“I suppose I just really, really don't like bullies," he said after a long moment, the little mare raising her brows inquisitively at that. Bart tapped his crooked nose.

“That's how I got this, and really it set everything in motion. Not much of a story, I was a young boy, before the order, always a big kid. I saw some of the other kids picking on some other boy, this was some years after the Gray Plagues, so there were a lot of real hungry and mean sorts around during those lean years. Mean people had mean kids. They made sport of me frequently for my girth — baker's son and all. I was so angry, there must have been five of them beating up this one boy." Bart said, and Cithara furrowed her brow.

“Such pointless cruelty," she murmured, Bart shrugged.

“Children are cruel, we're a bit feral then honestly. I don't believe we're really human until after our twentieth summer." Bart mused laconically, getting a snorting laugh from Cithara, he grinned wider at that... oh god, she snorted when she laughed. By the White God's Lidless Eye, that was adorable.

“Anyroad." Bart continued; “I got angry, so I ran in there. I was a fat kid, but big. So I threw my weight around and bounced them off the side of the schoolhouse. Made one hell of a row, but they got their bigger brother — practically a man himself — and he beat the daylights out of me." Bart said and peeled his lip back, showing a gap in his teeth just behind an incisor.

“Broke my nose, kicked this tooth right out of my mouth. Took my purse to boot — but they stopped hitting that boy. Nice boy too." Bart said, settling back and folding his arms behind his head. “His name was Lucian, he was even younger than I was — and he wanted to be a paladin."

Cithara's eyes widened, and she beamed a smile that God as his witness, Bart was sure could raise the dead with its warmth. She didn't have to say anything, her smile was understanding.

“So Lucian and I were thick as thieves from then on, he was sure he would be a paladin. Said he had a dream about it. Sounded pretty good to me, the Abbey was always open to the faithful who could find sponsorship, and well... I may have been a bit of a fat pillock, but my dad was well-liked by the Chapel in the wake of the Grey Plagues, and he felt he owed the Abbey after his leg and whatnot so..." Bart shrugged.

“So here you are, doughty champion of the people. A true-made Paladin of the Order, sitting before a cosmic representation of every ideal of divine love... because your friend had a dream." Cithara remarked at him from her position below him, arching her silky belly slightly in a way he found suddenly very distracting. “Bartholomus Mueller you may be among the most earnest souls who have ever graced my presence." she purred at him, and Bart glanced away with embarrassment.

“I couldn't let my friend chase such a crazy dream by himself, could I?" he asked wryly, getting a gentle nuzzle from the Unicorn.

“No, what sort of friend does that?" she asked knowingly, that smile still on her lips.

Bart sat in silence after that, he looked up into the sky, the break in the canopy seeming to follow them so she was bathed in perpetual sunlight, the eternal spring around her almost a living thing to itself, he hadn't quite become accustomed to being in the presence of such raw, supernatural might — in truth he never really thought he would be. Cithara's existence was challenging, it was an effort to simply look at her... but the reward, God in his Heaven, just to look upon her…

He took the moment to steal a proper look at her in repose; her features were so unlike any common mare he'd seen. Her large, golden eyes were expressive and more forward set in a far narrower skull. Her jaw and muzzle were almost more deer-like, dainty, and delicate rather than the more boxy shape of a horse. Her lips were pronounced, full, and soft at the end of a shorter muzzle with a smaller, narrower nose rather than the broad, snuffling structures of a common horse or the more flat, boxy nature of a deer. Aside from her gently curving, deeply spiraled horn — her ears were equally dainty and expressive, standing out from her voluminous mane cutely. Her face was smooth and silky, the usual bony plane and angles of an equine or cervine skull smoothed out by the additional muscles and structures needed to be as wonderfully, humanly expressive as she was. She almost didn't look real, like an artist's rendition given life. A storybook creature leapt off the illuminations, warm, breathing, and laughing right next to him. The thought drew him inwards and he stared longer, feeling... something unsettling stir. She caught his gaze, and her eyes narrowed.

“What are you thinking about?" she asked in a playfully accusing tone, rolling on her side so she faced him directly, her mane spilling down half her face and chest, bisecting her profile in a glistening gossamer sheet.

“You," Bart answered honestly, letting himself just... stare at her, unabashedly. He felt an uneasiness growing in him, yet she seemed to absolutely blossom under his attention. How was she so small, a comparatively tiny thing, even by equine standards, and yet her presence was ten stories tall — her power ten times that again and yet; “You don't seem real. I can see you, hear you..." he reached down and gently laid his hand on the supine creature's breastbone, drawing a barely perceptible start from her as she watched him, chest slowly rising beneath his fingers. “... Feel you. Yet you — you don't seem real... not like other things," he said and she frowned, folding her forelegs over his hand.

“Bart..." she began, but she trailed off as he looked back skyward, with his sole remaining eye.

“You aren't the first immortal thing I've met. You know about the Wendigo, and yes... it's probably the worst." he said, and she shivered in silent agreement. “But... I also saw other things, fought other things. An immense ghul named Dagan-Baal. An ogre General named Humbaba. I was told their names, I felt their hot blood spatter me, and my own bones crunch under their blows." There was a long pause; “It fills me with this sort of dread." he said, swallowing.

“What sort of dread, Bart?" Cithara asked him, she had drawn in close as he spoke, her face only a span from his, eyes full of concern.

Why is it, that I find myself wishing those monstrosities are not real yet am I unable to convince myself of such — but I find myself unable to believe that you are real, no matter how much I wish it to be so?" he asked in a tired voice, the voice of a man struggling with a weight he cannot truly grasp.

“Ah," She said, her lips parted slightly. “You are... again not the first to ask me an alarmingly specific question," she said, settling down against him, her tail a guiding limb that drew the burly soldier to lean himself back against her flank again, letting her gaze down upon him.

“That is the mortal plight, my dear one." she said sadly, “Horror, Pain, Strife — these things linger so brightly in your lives and minds because you are built to fight. It is how you survived in the Age of Fire and Stone, you remembered every weakness, every single facet of things that hurt you, so they cannot again with such impunity. It is how you drove the Empty Queen's monsters into the darkness with clubs, sharpened stakes, and primitive iron. They hurt you. You remembered." she said, and lowered her muzzle to his face, kissing the leather of the eye patch gently.

“You remember, and you protect those places. Emotionally and physically." Bart's remaining eye welled a little and he drew in a breath, teeth gnashing as the dark thoughts he'd been ignoring since he woke came out in a torrent.

“I am sorry... I look upon you, and I am filled with this intensity of beauty and wonder, and it draws such a sharp contrast to the... things I've fought, seen with my eyes. I look for the deception and it shames me... I have only just tasted the kiss of the forge's fire and already I crack under the heat..." he said in a voice full of anguish, and Cithara drew him closer — winding her body around his torso like a mother mare with a foal, she shushed him as he dragged his nails through his hair, frustration eating at his mind as a thousand unsaid words and ignored thoughts raged at him: how damaged was he, really? Has he reckoned truly with the horrors he'd seen, fought, and killed? Here in this perfect bubble of paradise after being bathed to the waist in gore felt... wrong, he didn't belong here.

“Bart... tell me what happened to you," she asked, it was a gentle request. The sun had begun to wane in her eternal spring day, perhaps by the actual passage of time, or the whims of the cosmic being that held him to her breast who was to say? Bart took a long, deep breath. Sniffing back tears of frustration that wanted to fall. He looked into her golden eyes and found the love and devotion there. He clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.

Then, he told her. Everything.

Bart told her every single moment he could, almost in a sort of fugue state, stream-of-consciousness raving, but she listened and quietly guided him with questions and reassuring touches. He told her of the despair that gripped him the first time he killed. He told her how easy it had already gotten to swing the axe instead of ask questions, how that burdened his mind. He told her about chasing Lidia, about the first clawing thoughts of ugly black rage, and how much he enjoyed them. He told her about Kull, albeit in brief.

He told her of his weakness at the Cathedral, how he sought her presence for strength. He told her of the Magistrate. Of the underground. The Ghuls, the slaughter. The children.

He broke down there, he had not at the time but now tears poured from his face as he remembered it, the grief unsealed, raw and fresh and bleeding. Cithara cooed soft reassurances to him and held him close, he did not remember when he'd turned around and put his arms around her neck, but he didn't bawl, but simply sat there with his head tucked beneath her chin, quietly talking through the events.

“It's so clear in memory, there was no time to think before. Dagan-Baal was so fast, they were all so fast but... there must have been dozens of tiny skulls on that floor, I felt them crunch under my boots. I saw them in flashes of lamplight and burning bodies. How did nobody miss those children?" he asked her, his lone eye distant. “How did nobody rend earth and sky asunder for those defenseless babies?"

“The Queen's influence is subtle, terrible. Her presence hardens the heart, deadens the softer emotions, and sharpens the harder ones. She has sunk into the very stones beneath Lachheim... I have fears, please Bart. I know I promised no more exertion today, but I need to know these things. I must know them from your own lips." she said, nuzzling his hair and gently grooming his scalp with her lips. Bart nodded with a deep, steadying breath.

He told her the rest, Dagan-Baal's fall, the Magistrate's gloating. The Streets. The dead and damned everywhere, Hubamba's battle and apparent death drew her attention the most, she shook her head in a quiet bit of denial as he finished, feeling his throat raw from tears and speaking both.

“No, no, no that isn't good... something like Humbaba should not be able to exist so far from the Queen's demesne, not free and to his full might... something has been wrought beneath that city, something greater and more terrible lies beneath those stones." she hissed worriedly, her ivory brow creased with concern.

“What do you mean, be unable to exist?" Bart asked hoarsely, he found himself wishing for a stiff drink more than anything else.

“Humbaba's kind cannot really function without the slowing stagnation of the Queen's demesne, Ogres like him are... they're furnaces, massive flesh furnaces burning constantly. Without the stagnant moments of the Queen's influence, they would die as they did before," she said in a terse, cold tone. “Starve to death, with a full belly."

“What do you mean... as they did before?" Bart asked, wiping his eyes. Glad she was talking now, listening let him rest, both his voice... and his heart.

“Oh, right. Apologies dear one, I got ahead of myself. The Queen's subjects, the Ghuls, the Ogres, all of the horrors of the dark? They are dead." she stated. Bart blinked.

“Dead? So they are undead? Animated corpses?" He said, looking confused; “The ones I slew bled hot blood and breathed living air." he hedged, and Cithara shook her head.

“This is One of Those Things. To be brief and... gentle about this. Your ancestors once shared the world with all of those things that crawl and reave in the dark and dim places of the world. Before steel, before cities — before Us, you warred with these miserable abominations." she stated, and then with an imperious lift of her chin, she continued with such ice in her tone that Bart shivered.

“They lost."

“Lost in what way?" Bart asked, trying to grasp the idea.

“The ultimate loss my darling. They lost the contest of existence. Your ancestors drove them from the face of the Earth to extinction. It was this act that slew The Mother, who died with her broken children of a broken heart. The Mother was their original goddess." the Unicorn explained, and Bart's eyes widened. Cithara nuzzled him soothingly, her voice lowering;

“Yes, Gods can die. It is not easy but... they can be slain... and yet, they at the same time cannot. Her essence remains, but the what of her existence has been snuffed out. She is effectively a brain-dead divine corpse... or she was when The Empty Queen was stillborn from her rotting womb. A half-dead goddess to a cavalcade of dead races."

“So how do they live then? How are we fighting extinct... primitives?" he asked, scouring and groping through his mind for words to convey the alien concepts.

“It is how she became Queen, she took her mother's mindless, soulless corpse, the divine flesh of a god and bones of a deity — and she used them to build the foundation and scaffolding of the Ossuary of Man." Bart stared, he reflexively turned to the south, guided by a mossy tree stump. He could not see it, for the first time in his life he could not even see the shadow of the grim tower in the distance — yet he knew it was there.

“The Ossuary is... a bridge, to Godhome," Cithara said, and Bart's eyes widened. Cithara continued in a grim tone.

“I remember this keenly, not as I am now — but before, without this purpose and form, the concept of The Unicorn. She drove that hellish tower through the very walls of Godhome, into the dead and empty Heaven once reserved for her Mother's children, now a wasteland without a divinity, drifting souls consigned to slow oblivion," she said, and her voice broke, she sobbed momentarily... and for the first time — Bart saw an immortal weep.

It was a heartbreaking thing, like watching the very idea of joy experience despair, she shook it off with a shuddering breath, wiping her tears on the feathers of her foreleg.

“I apologize. The Motherless are monsters to a creature, absolute horrors... but they were someone's children once, before they could have been like you... to think of them abandoned, lost spirits that none could care for..." she sniffled softly and hemmed Bart in close to her.

“I will burn myself out and crack the very foundations of the universe beneath my hooves before I let anything happen to Mankind as such happened to the Motherless." she breathed to him with sudden, righteous intensity. “I swore an Oath of Gold."

Bart could only nod, he held her for a moment and they both took a moment. She sniffed once and then cleared her throat.

“The Heresy she committed was worse. She used her dead mother's essence and ichor to bind to her own flesh, her own umbilical cord still attached to her mother's corpse as it formed the structure of her tower — and drip-fed that Divine Ichor to her offspring still. With that stolen essence, she took what had never been taken before: Heaven."

“Heaven? Our heaven!?" Bart gasped and she shook her head, soothing him.

“No darling, for all peoples there is a Heaven. A final rest for the faithful. Even those monsters had a place, and even the animals dance with my kind in the great Astral Tapestry. The Queen stole her dead mother's essence, essentially hijacking godhood like a thief would a cart of goods, and with her lips still wet with her mother's golden ichor — she stole the very Heaven reserved for her siblings, and with it all of their spirits."

“So... these creatures are reborn?" Bart hedged, understanding peeking through the haze. Cithara nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes, you are correct! There are no new souls, it is a cyclical existence, nothing dies. It is slain here, it coils unto itself and rots... and then somewhere in the Balelands, in the Ossuary — it rises again from the crypt it was buried in first eons past. Again and again. Forever."

“God's blood." Bart swore, the blasphemy making Cithara shiver and shoot him a flat-eared glare for a moment, he bowed his head in apology before continuing; “They're... trapped in a loop. No rest, no... ending. Just an eternal now." Bart marveled at that, his eye wide with the dawning horror.

“What a nightmare." Bart breathed.

“A nightmare of nightmares." Cithara agreed in that sad tone.

The big knight stayed there, he felt exhausted by both the revelations and his own pouring out of his news, Cithara stayed close to him, his head cradled beneath her own, reassuringly nosing his hair.

“I am sorry dear one, I know it was much... today has been much on many levels." she cooed softly, banishing the worry of the outside from her face and mind, her eyes and worries fixated now on Bart's tear-streaked face. He'd always been a bit of a crybaby, he toughened himself up quite a bit in his training to maintain that stoic, heroic face... but when his heart hurt, the tears flowed. The unicorn's golden eyes searched his and she seemed pensive.

“I must consider what this means anyroad. Come my dear one." She said standing; “Let me take you home with me."

~ ~ ~

Home was not the grove so it seemed, not especially. Even a divine creature still needed creature comforts, or at least so did her eternal charges.

She led him to another part of the forest, the strange wending path growing and coiling imperceptibly into being ahead of them — sometimes it was as simple as stepping around a particularly large tree to discover an unnoticed trail, other times he would literally close his eyes to blink and open them to a gap in the trees that had not been there before. Cithara navigated it effortlessly, it seemed to open and form at her beck and call, and in sober, companionable silence he let her lead.

Home was in fact, quite small. The path opened up around a mossy boulder into a small, babbling brook pouring over well-smoothed stones, Bart's military mind idly mused on their relative location to the larger river while the scene opened up. It was a cove of sorts made from the massive roots of one of the great, ancient trees that made up the massive overarching canopy, the gnarled roots as resilient and enduring as stone. He found himself walking downwards, the large roots loomed up to either side of them like mossy gargoyles. The ground descended the cove into a hollow in the tree itself, a soft, cool, and pleasantly damp place, smelling ever of spring and life. Mushrooms he'd never seen before sprang up like spongy end tables, outlining the path to... what Bart would not expected the throne of the Queen of Love to appear like.

It was a house. A small one. It was deceptively mundane at first blush, a casual glance might think it a cottage, and even a more persistent look might try to dismiss it as the oddly organic homes of the Middlelands — aside from the fact its design and architecture were subtly alien, matching nothing he'd seen in his life exactly — but it was a practical sort of place. He could not name the style or design but it did not trouble him so, a large round door stood in its center, wide as it was tall and its single-story had oddly sloping eaves with shingles that seemed to run more like serpent's scales than the usual wooden slats he'd seen. He didn't understand precisely what he was looking at initially until what was off by the house struck him.

The cottage was not built beneath the tree — it was the tree.

Branches, roots, and just raw wood from the surrounding tree's trunk had grown and shaped itself here in this hollow beneath this aged, primordial juggernaut into the shape of a house, the walls were oddly asymmetrical for they were made of roots, and the roof and eaves hung on walls made of thriving wood, which grew around it like creeper in place of nails. He paused and looked at that as well. All of the joins and joints were done by either living wood, or almost glue-like masses of twisted, overgrown roots. Not a single nail, bracket, or frame. No iron at all.

The door opened on its own, and he saw one of the twin sidhe women there. Holda, he realized after a moment — the two obstinate fae were at a glance identical, but Bart remembered Holda had a particular set of markings visible on her chin beneath her black-inked lips. The Church Knight's mind immediately crashed into the next logical problem with her presence, as soon as she gestured to Cithara.

“How did she beat us here?" he blurted quizzically, Holda's lips turned down in disapproval, and she answered the somewhat boorish outburst directly:

“This one is curt." she said acidly, or at least that's how he read the cryptic tone, “We are the forest. It moves with us, and we with it. To find ourselves in any place is to merely consider it and it is done." Bart blinked at that, and Cithara gave a small, disappointed sigh, pushing up between the two.

“Holda, my dear. Please, for me attempt to be kind to this one." she said with a tired sort of iron in her voice, Holda standing up more at attention, “It is beneath a huntress like you. This one has been through more than the usual candidates." she finished, and the words struck Holda like a whip, the sidhe woman's slender fingers clenching in fists and her chest thrusting out impetuously, she was clearly angry but Cithara's golden eyes blazed defiantly at the cowled fae... who immediately backed down.

“... If it is as you say, Milady." Holda said through clenched teeth, her tone borderline impetuous, “Then my sister and I will need to witness such ourselves. It is our way." she said, and stepped from the doorway, her gaze clearly on Bart now cowl or no, her lips turned down in a contemplative frown. Cithara sighed, her tone suggested this was an old argument that particularly annoyed her today. She gestured into the doorway as the sidhe woman vanished from view the moment Bart took his eyes from her, unnerving.

“Welcome to my home, darling."

Cithara's demesne was, despite its ostentatious location and fairy-tale exterior... so very, very quaint. It opened to a single-room cottage; a large, organically circular chamber spun up out of the aforementioned roots. The air smelled vibrant and heady — the mix of the cool, nearly underground atmosphere and the scents of herbs, old wood, and the faint teasing funk of mushroom spores. It was oddly spartan — the entire area was an open-plan space centered around a strange, H-shaped seat that stood out like a rusty nail in a bed of cotton. It stood on a perfectly circular dais of naturally raised earth, the seat itself made from an indescribable black stone, dusky, and matte like dull volcanic glass. It was straight, angular, and imposing, at odds with the soft, living warmth of the cottage around it. It was for lack of a better term — a Throne.

“The Throne of the Queen of Love." Holda's voice said suddenly from behind him. The enigmatic sidhe's lips twisted in yet another flavor of frown. The nuance to her expressions was impressive, moreso that Bart's rough sensibilities were so easily able to detect it. He felt very... watched, around the sidhe women. Scrutinized.

“What does she need with a throne?" Bart asked — a note of challenge in his voice he didn't wholly consciously add. The straight-backed alien unnerved and annoyed him a little, she might outclass him in any variety of ways, but he found himself rankling under her constant aura of mild contempt.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, my dear — even the crown of love," Cithara explained, and Bart was treated to a brief, mildly traumatic experience. His eyes tracked to the unicorn as she strode to the throne, its shape a simple two-posted 'H' of stone, bowed in the middle, polished by age. Its design alien and austere, the sides raised like slabs. Sharp-edged and perfect, they could have been cut with a razor and a straight edge. Cithara approached it in a circle and slid gracefully onto it from the backless entry, her body effortlessly coiling into a regal sitting posture atop its blackened obsidian surface.

For a moment, he saw her. He truly saw her, as she made contact with the throne, as she drew herself up, imperious and firm. Above her head manifested a floating, blazing crown of flickering, fractal horns that morphed and twisted in the shapes of illegible runes, born of the same golden radiance as the rest of her — a crown that used her own blazing horn as its central-most spire. Her pelt blazed momentarily with tattooing of golden tracery, and behind her for the scantest second, trailed an impossible golden mantle floating on invisible wind. Her hooves were golden light, and her body wreathed in that flowing mantle like a holy stole of office made of the stuff of dreams. Her presence struck Bart like a physical blow like the Wendigo had when it revealed itself to him. His mind screamed, but it was such sweet suffering, and he did not want to tear his eyes away, did not want to stop staring. He could not grasp the enormity of the detail — too dense, as if he were peering beyond reality to gaze upon her. He looked upon her like that for a moment, perhaps two. It felt like two years, his brain panicked as it found itself unable to parse fully what it saw. He felt his head swim as her eyes met his and she gently shook her head, trapped in that frozen moment. Her eyes were a blazing infinity of golden heaven, her burning crown casting a stark radiance across her sculpted features, her lips parted and she spoke as much to his ears as his mind.

“No dear, not for your eyes. Not yet." She said, and he felt himself forcibly closing his eyes. Blinking rapidly, Bart shook his head, and Cithara sat — curled comfortably upon the alien but otherwise inanimate edifice. She tittered softly at him as he rubbed his eyes, staggering back a step as his brain righted itself from yet another psychic pummeling.

“W-what was that?" he croaked, his throat suddenly dry. Holda seemed to appear from thin air, taloned fingers holding a small, earthenware cup that steamed merrily. Bart gave a little start, heart still racing from his mental trip beyond the stars, taking the cup.

“You have a very bad habit of looking too closely, my darling," Cithara said to him, gently preening down the trailing feathers on her hocks. Bart stared at her, and she smiled at him, more with her eyes than her mouth. “You are a brave soul, foolishly brave. It is endearing, but it means you don't look away from things that you ought to," she said, and Bart furrowed his brow in consideration. He quieted his protests with a sip from the cup, brows raising back up at the taste of the familiar, heady coffee. Holda must have made it while they were en route. Surely.

“What you saw," she continued, Holda offering her a cup as well, the familiar flare of her golden accents as she took it making her faintly vibrant; “Was what I am. Just for the briefest moments, I was naked to you as I sat upon my Throne," she said.

“You are not... as you are now? You said that you were a... ah, 'platonic ideal' didn't you?" he said, confused by the seemingly contradictory concepts, the motherly unicorn chuckled slightly.

“My form is much the same, but its... detail, I keep somewhat more simple," she said, and met his eyes. “You saw the Crown," she said, and he nodded hurriedly, for some reason it of all things lay burned into his mind.

“Holda spoke rightly; I am in fact Queen of Love, I wear a crown of it in all its forms. Love can be many things, a kiss or a blade easily. Yet, that is an enormity to comprehend... and it is damaging to you to witness me as I am in full, as you are now, untempered and raw."

Bart sipped his coffee, finding the bitter taste sobered his mind, and focused his thoughts after the cloying brush with insanity again. Cithara did much the same, her tiny sips dainty and cute.

“So, for you not to need to dress yourself down before my gaze I would...?" he left the question hanging, the imperious creature before him smiling from her place on her throne.

“Oh, tempering of your spirit is a foregone conclusion my darling. You have passed my inspection in spite of grievous difficulties, and I find you to be in many ways a fine, sterling example of what my beloved Order is meant to be." she crowed softly, her approval settling into his breast with a warmth that swelled his chest and straightened his back. Holda caught his gaze, and her lips were in a flat line this time as she nodded to him in understanding, ah... she felt it too.

“When I lay my blessing upon you, it will gird your mind, heart, and soul in my magics. I will fill your empty places with Light and Love, and it will reinforce you spiritually and mentally." her eyes glimmered as she met his gaze resolutely again, and he felt his heart quicken at the intimacy in her voice.

“You will drink from me, my love. I will fill your emptiness until it runneth over."

Bart was surprised at how indulgent that sounded, and moreover how deeply he found himself yearning for it, to witness her as no others can. Still, Bart's military mind did not allow him to simply gloss over things,

“Why did I see it?" he asked, frowning; “I understand I seem to be something of a gathering point for odd occurrences now, but it seems quite the slip for you under the circumstances." Cithara nodded, and laid her long foreleg onto the throne, absently stroking along it with the edge of her cloven hoof.

“This is why. This is the focus of my existence here in our world. My anchor. This is where the First Paladin prayed, wounded, dying. This is where I was born, as I am now." she said, and she seemed to positively thrum with potency. “When I touch my throne, it is... like merging two streams, there's a bit of chop as they become one. Most don't notice it, but you are foolishly brave and ignore your mind screaming at you to look away," she said in a rueful tone, her head tilting at him. Her eyes searched his and he found himself unable to look away.

“This... is not the first time you have seen an Immortal in their Aspect," she said as if she could read it in his eyes, he nodded.

“Wendigo." Was all he said, and she shuddered.

“That... does explain some of the damage I had to repair while you slept," she replied with a small voice, Bart nodded.

“Twice. First time was in a nightmare it lost control of. Second was when it attacked me with Parias directly."

“Parias." she hissed, the word said like a curse. Her beautiful features screwed up in a look of disgust; “I would be well rid of that one, a disgusting creature." she said, her ears laying back as she sat up more erect, her bearing guarded.

“You knew him?" Bart asked — he'd had suspicions to that end from his banter during their ill-fated duel, but the miserable frown on Cithara's face confirmed them before her words.

“He was one of mine. Was," she said icily, her demeanor suddenly gloomy. “I cast him out, I spent barely a minute in his presence. When I Knew him, it was like opening a mass grave. He was full of rotting, vile wants and hungers." she said, a shudder coursing through her. “He was a cuckoo, a mimic. He wore the face of a man, aped our teachings, learned of our ways — but it was just a mask, covering the empty husk beneath," she said, her voice haunted. Her eyes grew distant, and Bart paled. He knew that gaze intimately, the leagues-deep gaze of trauma. Whatever she had seen in him, whatever it had been — it had scarred her. Her, a cosmic being. A chill ran through Bart.

“I cast him from my glade. Denied him my Blessing. I had never... touched someone so twisted. Not someone in control of their own mind." she said, meeting Bart's eyes again.

“I swore an Oath, my darling. However... I feared that man." she said, her gaze fearful, the memories still fresh. “I feared what he could do with my power... what his presence in my mind and essence would do to me." she hissed with a tremble of fear.

“So... you never thought to warn anyone of this danger?" Bart asked with a touch of disbelief in his tone, and she heaved a great sigh. “He's been stalking me for months, and to put not too fine a point on it, ate my goddamned eye." He said with surprising vehemence, jerking a finger at the patch covering his now vacant socket. Cithara weathered it stoically. Bart felt a familiar kind of anger growing in him, and it gave him pause, taking a breath.

“No, I did not," she admitted. There was a directness to her tone now. “I did not consider he would carry such a... grudge. He cursed me when I rejected him, as some do — but I never thought much of it."

“Well, I bring grim tidings," Bart said acidly, folding his arms defensively across his chest, the Unicorn gave him a look of tired sorrow, lowering her head as she drew in a deep breath.

“That is fair. I deserve that, my inaction directly caused you so much pain." she said, her eyes closing as she let out the held breath in a shuddering exhalation; “I thought perhaps his despair would drive him to mercenary work, or drinking. I'd hoped he'd vanish like ugly men often do." she said, and sighed; “I should have known he would treat with Wendigo. He was full of hunger before, a deep lust for power." she said.

“So he told me — at length," Bart grunted, the Unicorn tilted her head.

“You spoke with him?"

“On a few occasions. I did not care for him at first sight, but he did not reveal himself as a monster until much later. I had thought him a sellsword of loose moral fiber, nothing else." Bart explained, his hand had gone up to his face, idly running his thumb across the strap holding his eyepatch over the empty socket. “He made his beliefs on power and strength very clear."

“Parias is a monster, Bart. Truly." Cithara said with some urgency; “His heart was a midden heap. To think he dwelled among my Order, my boys like that..." She trembled with disgust. Bart was surprised at how angry he felt, how much he suddenly felt entitled to blame her for the sheer oversight, such a dangerous man... but he supposed to her, he was just merely that: a man. An evil one, but a man, no less.

“Nonetheless, the fault is mine." Cithara said crisply, “What would I have done? God charged me to love you, to care for you and give you succor — was I to execute this man out of hand for having been born in a fallen world, a world I was yet to save?" she asked, shaking her head sadly.

“Parias is a beast wearing the shape of a man, but he was still a man." she breathed and closed her eyes solemnly. “I must admit Bart, darling. I do not know if I could raise my strength in anger against the untainted among you, even one as vile as Parias. It is anathema to me."

Bart felt the anger drain out of him. Her admission, her grace towards it moved him. He was almost detached afterward, looking inwardly at the anger... it didn't have the same all-consuming hunger as before, he did not feel burned out and weary. He looked upon her, and for a moment he saw the memory of her in her Aspect, of her blazing golden radiance, of her mantle, great and terrible. Love was a kiss and a blade, and she was all of it. He felt foolish again, she was not human. His expectations were... faulty.

“I am sorry, My Lady," Bart said, crossing the distance between them and kneeling before her throne. The gesture seemed to take her aback, or at least give her surprise. “I was out of line... my anger was irrational, I did not think-" he was cut off by Cithara's quiet, but firm voice:

“Darling, hush."

Bart halted and looked up. She regarded him with those same searching eyes as if she were reading his very being, browsing the tome of his soul.

“Bart, he hurt you." she began in a quiet voice. “He hurt you, body and soul, Bart. Your anger is rational, justified even. Righteous I dare say." she said, her voice raising slightly. “He made sure I would know he'd had you in his grasp, he hurt you, savaged you like this to harm Me. That is vile. You should be angry."

“I should not be angry with you My Lady..."

“Why not? Just because I am divine? I am not perfect. I am flawed — as are all who walk the earth, bound in flesh. I am wise but not infallible and in my fear and disgust... I let free a dangerous man, and he by those ends... harmed a great many people. I bear responsibility for ending a monster I ultimately created and for that... I accept your anger, Bart." she said in that tone of angelic grace.

Bart fell into silence. At that, he felt Cithara's body above his. She had slipped down from her throne, laying her head across his shoulder again she cooed softly in his ear.

“I am so sorry my darling, I promise there will be an accounting for what he took." she breathed, pressing her warm body close to his; “That is not why I brought you here, not for anger, accusations, and returns to stiff formality. This is my sanctuary, the seat of my power... and where I keep my memories," she said, her cup had been put away — Holda's narrow figure visible with the glasses set aside on a tray. Bart realized his own had vanished, how had she done that? Slipped it from his hands when he was animated with anger? How had he not noticed it? The sidhe tilted her head in his direction as if she could smell his disapproval of her bizarre, space-warping movements. He found himself disliking the twins more and more as he interacted with them. Their capricious disdain grated on him, and he found their alien indifference to the Lady in White offensive, almost a little blasphemous.

Cithara pulled him aside away from her throne, there was that ripple of power again and Bart pointedly averted his eyes from her as she left contact with the eldritch artifact, he didn't need to have his brain baked in his skull by the cosmic truth of an elder being for a second time that day. He remained bothered by the discussion yet and still, even if the eternal unicorn was content to smooth over his emotional torment with her words and ardent promises — all of which he wholly believed, yet he was... bothered. The knowledge that Parias was of his order shocked him, his jeers during their calamitous duel made miserable sense now. How he had known how to break down his defenses and cut him apart piece by piece, that was stolen knowledge — and again a shock of blasphemous outrage struck him. A new and very honest sort of anger boiled up in him, not the black tarry venom of the Wendigo, no this rage burned with righteous fire. It was a very personal hatred; a detesting of those who swear false oaths, of being lied to and misled. He came by that anger honestly, and in it he found himself resolving one thing very firmly: he was going to kill Parias.

“Bart?" Cithara's voice jarred him free of his internal fuming, the man looking about, startled. She'd turned to face him, Holda had vanished from sight again but the odd... creeping sense of being watched informed him she or her sister was about. He quietly noted that feeling down, it might serve him well in the future.

“My Lady, sorry I... was other focused." He stated honestly, and the Unicorn's gaze acknowledged that with a gentle crease of her brow, she seemed capable of reading him so easily — not unlike a mother, he supposed. She smiled nonetheless and drew him over with a flick of her tail and a gesture of his horn.

“Parias thankfully is not representative of all my boys..." she said, leading him to a section of the vaguely circular cottage — his mind clear of the wonder of the throne and its alien, light-absorbing material, he was able to take the rest of the cottage in properly. Its shape was generally, round. Not a circle but really a vaguely organic blob owing to its grown walls and living structure. It felt like a being within a grand, living creature; an organ, something's heart. He could practically hear the water rushing through the roots of the massive, castle-like tree above them like blood pumping through great veins. In this vague organic asymmetry, there were a handful of ensconced nooks and curves in the walls, lending bits of privacy and separation to the otherwise singular floor plan. His eyes wandering along he saw what looked like a small kitchen, and another off to a further corner seemed to curve around a small wall into what looked like a bedroom. Cithara's tapping hooves stopped, bringing his attention back to the area before them.

It descended down into a faint depression in the earth, the wooden floor beneath them sloping downwards on a natural ramp, polished smooth by a century of feet — no, Bart realized suddenly — longer, for the time passed slower here, where there had been many more lifetimes of boots and hooves passing over... how many people really? How many paladins were there? The ramp led to a small area, an obtuse semi-circle of living wall that had been worked into a sort of series of shelves; long, shallow trenches of vine-like roots grown into smooth, perfect displays. On these shelves lay a myriad of items, a multitude of them. Each one was completely innocuous: a bit of chain mail, a cutting of hair, a ring or two, a well-worn knife. They were lain out carefully, each with its own spot... no pomp nor circumstance other than that, each left as they were.

“My boys." She said, a swelling of pride in her voice as she walked the shelf, her steps practiced and familiar — she was here often, Bart could tell. The wearing in the wood here wasn't done by boots and the feet of men, but rather four dainty hooves, pining for her charges.

“I take something from each of you, nothing important. The material does not matter, just that it once was your own," she said, and her eyes burned with golden radiance, a small object levitating from the shelf to hover before her fond gaze — a simple buckle of some sort, it was battered and stained with rust, the kind that secured older styles of armor — yet her eyes filled with adoration upon looking at it.

“An advantage of hooves. The last human to lay hands on any of these were the men who owned them," she said with a quiet titter, a touch of melancholy in her voice as she set the buckle back down. “It lets me keep part of you forever, that little tiny speck of essence all living beings put into their tools and effects. It is preserved here forever, a glimmer of what they were."

Bart pulled his hand back, from where he was reaching for a familiar-looking signet ring at that. She smiled at him and stepped a few paces closer, levitating the chunky golden ring. “I see you recognized that," she said with a little smile, the ring floated down to her eyeline; It was an extravagant thing, made entirely of heavy gold with intricate engravings. Its wide, beveled edges and oversized band made it out to be a glove ring, a soldier's ring. She met Bart's eyes as he looked at the seal on the ring — recognizing the familiar Kingfisher and Arrow motif of the heraldry.

“Ser Davis," Bart said in a voice full of curiosity. Davis was one of the few instructors he had much interaction with, Davis was also the chief healer of the sickward, and nearly every single novice ended up under his tending at least once in training. He recognized the ring from a thousand small interactions over the last two decades and counting; “Ser Davis never takes that ring off, he even had it on during my combat trial." Bart said with a furrowed brow.

“Ah, my sweet, sweet Davy." Cithara mused, bringing the floating ring back closer to herself and looking at it. “He would replace it so nobody noticed. He's so shy about his feelings," she said, and Bart goggled at her a little.

“Ser Davis, shy?" He said with complete incredulity, putting his hands on his hips. “The same Ser Davis who once reset a novice's dislocated shoulder on the training mats and told him to consider the pain penance for overdoing it, is shy?" he said, and Cithara's eyes were alight with more than the golden glow of her divine energies, but also a pure gremlin-like energy. Her grin verged on gleeful.

“My Davy is a very private boy." She said, smiling at the ring again, setting it spinning slowly as she looked at it; “He loves me desperately, it was all-consuming for him when he arrived here. He couldn't even look at me without practically bursting into song for three full days." she sighed heavily, her eyes fluttering a bit at the memory. “He's really a deeply caring man, he loathes the blade and violence." Bart once again stared at her.

“My Lady... Cithara, I don't mean to disparage you... but Ser Davis is one of our most storied Hospitallers, he's a veteran. He's got a reputation for being made out of marble and steel." he said, and the Unicorn smiled at him gaily as he continued; “We've seen him in the lists during our training regimens, he's a dynamo."

“I am sure he is." Cithara said; “He's madly in love with me... but he's more in love with his fellow man." she said, a note of sorrow in her voice; “His duty is more important to him than anything. The ring was a symbol of that when he left. It is very important to him." she brought it back to the shelf and carefully set it down in its exact same spot. She turned and met Bart's eyes, her own were melancholy despite her smile.

“He wanted me to remember him that way, a man of duty and conviction. Everything you have told me says he remained true to his ideals," she said, a solemn thing as she cast her eyes back to her collection. Bart did as well, folding his hands behind his head as he took it all in. There were more than he expected but... less than he hoped, were there really so few of them over the years?

“Should I know this?" he asked, of Ser Davis' history and really, of all of it. This felt deeply personal, not just for Cithara — but the men whom he would call brothers. Cithara smiled at him.

“I trust my boys to keep their secrets. You are all in a very exclusive club, I find knowing a bit about each other strengthens your bonds," she said without taking her eyes from the shelves. Bart thought about that a moment and considered the easy teasing between Bowen and Davis about his time in the Glade. The gleam of friendship in the two men's eyes was unmistakable. Perhaps she had a point.

“These memories are mine. However... I am a gregarious creature to a fault, I don't mind sharing a little." she said, plucking another one up. This one was old, very old from the style of it. Time did not flow here according to her, and yet he recognized the more archaic design. It was a helmet. A great helm to be precise, worn and dented with conflict. She looked at it very fondly, but her eyes glimmered a bit with tears.

“That's... very old," Bart said somewhat dumbly, and she nodded.

“Oh yes, two hundred years or so, give or take how time flows here," she said with a momentary catch in her voice. She swallowed and sighed, “Its owner is long departed, his soul rests in Godhome with the Lord... but he was special to me." she said. Turning the helmet over, she regarded it for a few moments in its gold-limned radiance.

“His name was Augustus. He was one of the first. He was a good, good boy." she said looking at the helm, turning it over. Bart didn't recognize the name, but he listened as she continued; “You won't find anything about him likely... maybe a name in a roll somewhere. I know he has passed, I felt it..." She paused and swallowed again; raising her eyes to look directly into Bart's, a hollowness there. “I feel it every time one with my blessing passes. The mantle returns to me and with it the last moments. Every time." she said with complete, stone-faced gravity. Bart was taken aback and took a moment to sit. The little hollow the collection was a part of was flanked with small cushioned benches — Cithara clearly liked to sit here as well — and it helped in the moment, she had felt... every paladin's death, in battle or in bed surrounded by family. All of them. Ever.

“That's..." he swallowed himself, throat dry. Perhaps her presence, her face as she said it amplified it, but he found himself choking up slightly at the idea; eyes sprawling across the collection of human lives arrayed before them — how many of them were alive still? He knew she could tell him, he dared not to ask. “That's such a burden, I cannot imagine." he managed after a moment, lowering his head into his hands and forcing himself to take his eyes from her for a moment. She would feel him die if he continued this path, one day she would know too, that moment — and not only when he passed, but how. A final epitaph.

“Augustus was a good boy," she repeated after a moment, her voice somewhat distant. The cushion shifted — she had sat down next to him, pressing her weight to his for shared comfort. She set the helmet down on the ground before them, both staring at it now. “He was one of the survivors of the original crusade. An embittered and fiery person. One of the first recruits after we drove back the Queen and gained a foothold, he was willing to risk anything — nearly suicidal in his commitment." she said, and she said it with a smile, resting her head on her forelegs as she stared at that helmet.

“He changed when the oaths were made. It was one thing to fight a war he didn't think he would live to see the end of. Suddenly, I saw a side of him I never expected." she said, her face contemplative.

“Did he suffer from battle-madness?" Bart asked — he'd seen a few of the older men-at-arms and the horrors of combat had worn at the minds of some worse than others. It was a miserable thing to see. She shook her head.

“No, he suddenly was terribly worried he was single," she said, her smile widening. Bart furrowed his brow in confusion. Cithara continued: “He had been so very sure he would die for the cause, he gave himself to it gleefully — the happiest of my warriors, but then he lived. Lived and was there to see the world he'd created, and he simply was beside himself." she said and idly toyed with the helmet back and forth with her glimmering aspect. “He suddenly wanted terribly to live."

Bart considered that a moment, he was given time as Cithara, deep in her memories, had lapsed into silence, her gaze firmly upon the battered old steel helm. To live to see the world he created, what a thing. To Bart's mind, it almost seemed impossible — so grand were the efforts involved — yet he couldn't deny the fearful nature of such a thing. To have no answer. He had no answer... he was going to be a paladin until the Pale Dawn took him, he had no plan for more. Who among them did?

“He took his oath not long after we established this place and The First Abbey. He spent much time around me, he was one of those who discovered the effect lingering in my presence had upon our men." Bart paused at that, his remaining eye narrowing in concern. She met his eye as the helmet stood between them, standing sentinel over Cithara's memories as she spoke, her face grave and sad.

“I am not unlike the Wendigo, or the Queen herself. They are very... heavy, and they make reality run thin and buckle with the pressure they put on it around them. You have likely seen impossible horrors in the forces of Parias' men, no?" she asked and Bart nodded, his jaw setting.

“Yes. I saw them. Rashid called them Hecatoncheires — Giants, abominations." He groped for words to describe them as Cithara nodded. “Huge amalgams of flesh and bone, men lashed together and growing into a single mass like a tangle of branches, trees planted too close," Bart said, his voice clipped at the memory as it was awash with the still-fresh trauma of his... degradation, at Parias' hands.

“The Wendigo does that. Its physical presence in the world thins the barriers between flesh and spirit. It is a warping effect. All who are around it are changed, slowly but interminably until you are like It is. A hideous patchwork of hungers, hatreds, and flesh not your own." she said, raising her head imperiously.

“I am the same. I am a font of life, from me springs the eternal wellspring of vital energy that suffuses the Astral Tapestry, Godhome, and Tor-Larann itself." She gestured with a hoof to the area around her, and even here in the living wooden walls of her home, the branches nearby her flowered, life blossomed around her at her touch. “You have no doubt felt quite fit in the last little while, no?"

Bart nodded, he'd noticed it too and imagined it had to be some part of her boon, or the magic of this place. “I assumed your healing magic, or simply that your divine presence charged me with righteous might." he said, swelling a bit visibly with the words... and trailing off as she tittered at him softly, “I suppose that is a touch dramatic, isn't it?"

“A bit." She agreed, tilting her head; “Yet, accurate. I am a torrent of the vital energies of creation, even at rest they roll off me like heat from a fire in a great radius." She continued, her voice growing melancholy as she spoke. “Anything that lingers in my orbit is suffused, bathed in those life energies. It mends them, even when they are whole. Some awake with years-old scars healed, others find joints long-stiff are loosened, crippling injuries lessening their grasp." she continued and met Bart's one remaining eye, her voice quiet and personal — intimate, only for him.

“All of them, each to a man — lived decades longer. Their youth and vitality extended. To abide with me my darling, is to have your mortality interrupted. Where the Queen is stagnation, I am bounty, life to its extreme excess. To lie within my embrace is to be pushed out of time, to grow old slowly. To live long and serve eternal." she said — and her voice was anguished. She looked crushed, Bart did not understand.

“Is... is this not great? Not a miracle?!" he exclaimed, touching his body, his hands running across his chest as if to confirm what she said; “A miracle! Praise be to God what a miracle!" he said to her, his one eye wide with the possibilities — to which the Unicorn sadly shook her head, though a winsome smile passed her lips.

“I love you my darling. I love your enthusiasm in spite of such darkness, yet you much like many of your brethren are too limited. Mortality tasks you so hard, the thought of being free of it seems miraculous." She said Bart's enthusiasm abrogated slightly, the idea that even now he was being empowered by her embrace couldn't truly be wrong, could it? The Unicorn, drew herself up again, sitting on that bench as if it were instead her Throne.

“You... yes, you would do great things with immortality," she said, her voice as firm as natural law, Bart felt his cheeks color with a blush, and his chest puffed a bit but her tone became slightly stern, “Be not proud, it is what you were made for. It is the purpose of the trials, the training, the journey and ultimately meeting mine eyes oneself. It is purpose-built to forge men of substance to carry this gift and abuse it not for their own good." she said, deflating Bart's ego lightly. He nonetheless did feel pride, but he understood her meaning: A blade ought not grow too proud of its edge lest it forget it was made to cut.

“Yet imagine that gift of longevity, given to not even an evil man... just, Men." she continued, her tone somber. “It is not even the abuses — though those are many. Generational nepotism, overpopulation, or worse — under-population. The dangers of gifting Man with too-long lives en mass are many and myriad, yet even that is not the true horror. Nay, my darling that is something base and primal."

Bart had fallen silent as she spoke, fallen somber as well. He was almost childlike in his enthusiasm for his Order's might, the idea of being a Paladin — of wielding divine might to defend the innocent. His mind was a boy again, listening to his father spin tales by the fire for just a moment. Yet as she spoke again, her body was straight, rigid. She looked... almost more real in that moment, her mystical glamour grounded by grief as she met Bart's gaze — her eyes demanded his and brooked no quarter.

“Men must die, Bart," she said. It was spoken with the weight of Law.

“Man is not built to be eternal. Not as you are now. Were I to live among you as I wished, to fill myself with the ocean of your love and share with you my bounty as my heart bursts to do..." she continued yet trailing off, her eyes looking away from Bart to the helmet.

“I would murder you all. Slowly, by inches. I would drown you in life. You would grow fat and listless as you over-supped of eternity. It would drive you all slowly mad, tear apart houses, nations, cultures. People. It would happen so slowly nobody would notice." she said, a single tear glimmering in her eye — Cithara was an immortal being, a creature of infinite patience and limit, yet she wept still. She was vital and alive, vulnerable. Her voice was small as she continued, this fear clearly deep-seated;

“None, save I. Doomed to watch my beloved children wither on the vine beneath my all-suffocating care. Smothered." she said, a shudder running through her, the unicorn shaking herself and lowering her muzzle to dash the tears from her eyes with a foreleg, drawing a shuddering breath she righted herself. Smiling at the helmet on the floor between them.

“Augustus wore that burden happily. He left his helmet here, and his armor and sword. He took his oath and his extra years, and he went home." she said, stroking her hoof over the steel of the visor. “He built a chapel, rebuilt his village, and gathered the survivors. He lived to be almost one hundred and fifty at the end of his already long life, all of it spent with his congregation, and his children. His family." she said and met Bart's eyes with a smile worn openly.

“When he died, he did so surrounded by a community he built not with a blade, but with his heart," she said and drew the helmet to her breast with her aspect, smoldering golden eyes closing as she pressed her cheek to the steel.

“Augustus was a good boy."

Bart took that in, it was a profound thing. He didn't immediately notice when Cithara put the helmet back, he was lost in that thought. He hadn't really asked about it, The Lord Protector had a long life too but... he'd never considered asking the few other fully-vested Paladins he'd met about their lifespan.

He would live a very long time, how much had he already absorbed being so close to her while she repaired his body and mind? Part of him was angry suddenly, he felt... almost violated. Yet he dismissed such irrationality quickly: he had signed up for this. Agreed to the Oaths, given of himself body and soul. He had thrown himself into a hoard of howling monsters expecting nothing but to sell his life dearly for Lady and God — a long life was never his concern, and safety was not guaranteed nor asked for.

“This is what I asked for," he said. Speaking it made it real, Cithara's ear flicked, her eyes turning to him as he smoothed his rough, tousled hair back, feeling a dozen new scars across his battered scalp. “I wanted this. This is the deal I made. No hesitation." he said, sitting up. He straightened his back and took a deep breath, looking off in the distance still. The giddy part of his brain that had never quite grown out of the wide-eyed wonder of truly being a paladin was excited, fascinated even by the prospect. It was yet another gift of the Lady. The rest of his mind was more conservative, He knew what it meant. He knew he'd chosen a path of great personal cost, but even now it proved why such costs must be meted out.

“What are you talking about Bart?" Cithara inquired softly, stirring him from his thoughts. He looked at her. Bart shook his head, smoothing his hands over his face and smiling at her.

“Second thoughts. Third really." Bart said honestly, Cithara's countenance understanding as he bent over, leaning heavily on his knees; “I feel somewhat like I'm reeling drunkenly from one life-altering event to another — I suppose that just is how it is sometimes, isn't it?" he asked, and Cithara seemingly impressed, dipped her head in a nod.

“Those of us in the current of fate often find struggling against it difficult." She agreed, Bart nodded, folding his hands and resting his chin on them soberly.

“I am going to outlive my friends." He said, it was a statement.

“If you do not die at the claws of a beast, or the blades of our enemies — Yes, yes you will."

“The damage is already done," he stated, and she nodded again.

“I am sorry dear one. The damage to your body was extensive... your brain was bleeding inside of your skull. It took time, delicate, precious time for my efforts to heal that and leave you whole. You have been with me for many days now." she apologized with a sad voice; “I am grieved that I have taken that choice from you, inflicted this longevity on you sight unseen. It is unseemly yet... I could not allow you to perish when you could yet be saved."

“Please, Milady." Bart said, his voice tired; “It is done now. I see no point in litigating it between us anew." he said, looking down and spreading his hands. “It's just real now, that is all," he said, and she furrowed her brow.

“My station. It's real. I did it." he said, eye level and sober as he looked at his scarred hands. “I can't believe it's only been so long. I have been gone from home barely a month, perhaps two — and yet it feels like I've aged ten years," he said, looking up at nothing in particular, eyes tracing the ceiling as he let his thoughts wander a moment.

“Yet it is real now. I did it. I am here. The cost was high. Paid in blood, mine and others... and now I have others that need me." he said, closing his hands slowly into fists, closing his good eye on the doubts. He drew in a sharp breath, eye ablaze as he turned to Cithara.

“Is there yet evil in this world?" he asked, his tone intense. In his mind, a fire stoked, not with fury — but zeal. Cithara blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden shift in mood yet she composed herself and nodded, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, Bart. Evil yet claims much of this earth," she answered curiously. Bart slapped his hands down on his thighs.

“Then I will need the extra time," he said resolutely, straightening his back again. “That is a great deal of smiting to do in one lifetime." Cithara's golden eyes fluttered at that response for a moment, and a slow, almost slightly outraged smile spread across her lips.

“Bold words, Ser." she said archly, her tone turning mischievous, “You will take down the entirety of the Empty Queen's forces, one man at his lonesome?" she asked, her expression almost a little mocking, her sharp canines giving the smile an edge. Bart met her gaze with his own one-eyed stare, unflinchingly he set his jaw.

“They are the might of an entire empire of seething, crawling corruption," he began, his tone dire as he folded his arms over his chest in serious consideration as his chest filled, and he met her gaze again “They will need the head start." said with a rare moment of open bravado, feeling for once as if God himself were at his back, Cithara's brows went even higher with her incredulity, but she laughed, a silvery, tinkling sound of joy and amusement that forced her eyes closed and shook her mane to and fro as she laughed.

“Oh, dear me." She said after a moment, coming down with tears in her eyes, grinning in spite of herself; “Darling you are a brave, well-meaning fool." she teased and took a deep breath, her chest swelling as her eyes lidded a bit and she added; “I like that in a man."

Caught off guard by the sudden amorous response; Bart's bravado faltered and he promptly deflated, the misstep stealing the remaining words from his mouth. The unicorn leaned closer, the action drawing her body language in closer, to suddenly be much more intimate. Her eyes narrowed into smoldering almonds of pure aurum and she canted her muzzle in such a way her mane obscured one of them with a truly devious smile on her lips, her... fangs — he decided to call them what they were — on display.

“No, no... go on my dear," She purred, her voice a low throaty thing as she glided forward, occupying his personal space like an invading army, the bench space between them vanishing in a rippling, liquid surge of movement from the cosmic equine, “It has been far, far too long since I have heard brave proclamations of valor and determination." she cooed, her tone lightly mocking as she tilted her head a little to look down her snout at him, her sharp canines hooking into her lower lip gently.

“Tell me more Bart. Tell me how you are going to take my power and go out and smite the wicked. Tell me how you will mete out your wrath on these monsters." her voice crawled through his mind, a hot, sinuous serpent writhing through his head. He drew in a breath to respond, to explain and she cut him off once more with a voice that throbbed with such heat he felt as if the room itself had warmed.

“Tell me Ser Bartholomus, how you will wield me. Tell me how I am to be your engine of retribution, how with the crackling power of the divine in your fist you will do what hundreds before could not and break the wicked upon your steel. Tell me more my champion, I will relish your Oath of Iron sworn on that beautiful river of blood." she all but sang, her voice full of almost rapturous desire as she spake his Name perfectly once more, ringing his soul like a gong. She loomed near enough to kiss him now, her eyes intense, her gaze oppressive and all-consuming this close, he felt for a moment as if he'd accidentally glimpsed her true face once more, her sudden presence almost enough to drown in... and then it clicked.

“... Perhaps I was a touch emotional..." he hedged and her eyes intensified for a moment, even as her practically hungry grin didn't, but she turned over a foreleg across another and tossed her mane at him;

“Oh? You don't intend to grasp my blessing, and use it to wage a one-man self-destructive crusade on evil?" she asked, a mocking edge to her tone now. “If that is so, please tell me now... “ she said and lowered her voice into a sultry whisper that raised the hair on the back of his neck, leaning forward so she spoke with her lips directly to his ear:

“No man should die a virgin."

Bart's brain about gave out there, his mind unable to immediately parse the strangely mixed messages. He got it after a fashion. He turned his one remaining eye to her, her presence in his blind spot only making the uneasy situation more disconcerting, her gaze had lost much of its lustful hunger, and now it simply was expectant. Hard. Hot.

“... Yes, yes message received my Lady," Bart said, grasping at formality for a mooring point in this... strangely intense conversation. Cithara's face turned inquisitive.

“So... we've reconsidered the orgy of righteous violence in my name?" she asked in a soft tone, tossing her mane again, her voice much more conversational.

“Yes, Ma'am. No orgies of violence." he agreed readily.

“Good boy. It wouldn't do to waste such a good soldier on such frivolous things as glory." Bart felt oddly foolish, the Unicorn regarded him with an even gaze again. Her act had been impressive, possibly intended as playful as he had been, but her message had been very clear: Tread carefully, for thou art mighty.

“I did not mean it so scandalously, so much as... I am committed now. Utterly." he said in a sober tone. Cithara tilted her head at him again, her expression touched by concern in addition to curiosity.

“Were you not wholly committed before?" she asked, almost scornfully. Bart grinned a little ruefully at that, nodding as he leaned down to rest his chin on one upturned fist, pressing his mouth into his knuckles in thought.

“I wasn't. I was committed to my oaths, to my duties — yet not to this fight. Not yet." he said, staring down at the helmet on the shelf again. “Circumstances made some things very clear. This is not a career. I am not going to collect a paycheck and wander the world righting wrongs. I have enlisted in a war. An active, burning conflict, not some distant cold war wrought through history and trade agreements." he said, Cithara's eyes flashed with approval as she listened.

“I saw things. Saw what even the smallest influence of the Queen's monstrosities did. It made up my mind about some things, and meeting you made it up about the rest." he said, turning his one remaining eye to her in sober contemplation.

“I am committed to you, milady. I love my world, and I would see to having the time to make it as whole as possible. I... believe I can do that, with enough time." he said, looking at her. “I believe that the sacrifice of my worldly life for that is a worthy trade."

“Well said, my dear one," Cithara murmured, her voice soft as she pushed close to him, laying her neck across his shoulders again, cradling him close to her would-be-bosom. “You boys always struggle with it, many grieve, many make plans to retire — some even panic, and in crisis refuse the oath," she said, nuzzling Bart's hair. His arms moved on their own, and he embraced the cosmic beast again, his arms wrapping around her and tucking his head into her neck. She let out a pleased sigh and closed her eyes.

The embrace broke after a moment, Bart feeling heady and tired. Cithara's eyes looking him over and her smile turning a bit lopsided; “Oh my dear boy, I've put so much upon you for one day. No more. There will be time for talk on the morrow." she said, and Bart wanted to protest... but he was suddenly fatigued heavily, he placed a hand on his head.

“We've only talked, I should not be so wan and pale..." he grumbled, looking down at his hands, and she smirked a bit.

“Dear Bart, we have done so much more than merely converse: have you not felt it? These conversations, these are momentous things. You wrestle actively with metaphysical laws, you are being gently remade with every understanding. You have glimpsed the true face of a platonic ideal of the universe — do give yourself some credit dear; it has been a full day."

Bart suddenly felt as if he'd been awake for a week, let alone a mere few hours. She was right, hindsight even so close sang the truth to him; the sheer weight of their contact had been intense, her presence alone a weight he had to lean into. He nodded, no words. Mute agreement was all he could offer as the sudden energy drain became total, she nuzzled his cheek, gently pushing him to his feet.

“Come, you must be apart from me for some time." she said, “I've prepared a place for you to sleep unmolested and in relative comfort."

“No Lady I am fine to stay at your side." Bart protested, and she tittered at him, standing and drawing him along by motion of her head.

“No dear one, you are not. You do not have my blessing yet, and our continued contact is stressful for you. I am far... heavier than I look. Until you carry my mantle, that weight wears on you. On your mind." she said, smiling at him. “Fret not, a night's sleep and a good breakfast will have you right as rain again."

Bart wasn't sure how long the day had been, but he found the crushing weariness that had come out of nowhere was reason enough to not argue despite his deep abiding desire to do so.

“I guess a little rest is fine," he said stubbornly, his voice thick and cottony as he followed after her, he supposed she had a point, she was... so very stimulating. Her presence filled his senses, her scent, look, touch, sound — it all demanded attention, forced his mind to grapple with the enormity of what she was — a struggle it valiantly attempted, but attrition was taking its toll; he just wasn't mentally equipped to gaze upon the Embodiment of Love in even this diminished aspect for long. He wondered idly if this also was why she lived in seclusion, ignoring the dangers of her presence extending the longevity of everything near her — what damage would be done were the less-prepared, less maddeningly stubborn-minded to see her, hear her — hear her speak truth so easily, so often do to the common man? The thought assailed Bart's tired mind with a fusillade of miserable scenarios, each more dismal than the last and he found himself drooping with the gravity of the situation: She would always be alone.

“Here we are, it is humble but... I find you boys enjoy that," she said, leading him along the far edge of the cottage to the odd half-hidden cubby he'd noticed earlier. It gave way to a small, cozy bedchamber mostly shielded by the curve of the natural walls from sight, the rest fenced off by a curtain that was woven of some gauzy material Bart could not identify, likely more Sidhe witchcraft — he had still yet to see a mote of iron or steel anywhere but Cithara's memory trove — and very little in way of naturally harvested textiles, even the twin's clothing was of an unidentifiable leathery material that did not at all move like leather.

The room itself was simple, there was a window formed of a simple knothole that had opened up in the natural walls, letting in cool air and the faint sounds of the forest, a comfortable wooden bed sat at one side, a footlocker of curious origin, completely brass in its fittings sat at the foot of it. Its mattress smelled of down and feathers rather than straw, a cushy enough fixture on its own for the soldier. A small desk and chair sat nearby, with a selection of old books with titles he could barely read, but some of them drew familiarity in his mind — a copy of The Oath of Gold itself sitting well-read and worn midway through the stack. It was lived in, everything had smoothed edges, dings, and nicks from boots, belt buckles, and elbows. A hundred, hundred hands and fingers had polished everything smooth over decades. He sat on the bed by simple reflex, it sagged comfortably beneath him as he looked around. The history of the place was quietly alive, he could feel the presence of generations of paladins before him in the wood and blankets. A respite they all shared.

“You should find anything you need in the trunk, I'm afraid there is not much for grooming supplies considering the Erlking's feelings on cold iron items spending overlong in his woods. I already test that compunction of his to its limit," she said, smiling at him fondly. Bart nodded, feeling his weariness rear its head now that he sat on the bed and felt its softness, the Unicorn paused at the curtain, her hooves faintly clopping on the wooden surface.

“Cithara?" Bart blurted suddenly, pausing the Unicorn in her exit, she turned back to him, eyes concerned. Bart sat, feeling tired but also... concerned. “You said my circumstances are unusual, is it so uncommon?" he asked and the cosmic mare sighed heavily and nodded.

“Bart, your circumstances are one in thousands at the least. I have nurtured more than a century of holy warriors and for many, this is the last moment of peace their short, noble lives have... few arrive here already so bloodied, so thoroughly tested as you. As I said before, only once before has one called me so savaged." she said, her gaze full of the weight of that portent. Bart only nodded at that, he supposed that made him special. He did not feel special.

“If it helps, my dear one — I believe he will be proud of you," she said, Bart looked up confused and she hushed him with a shushing sound, crossing the distance once more, her hooves scuffing on the floor as she lowered her muzzle, and gently kissed his brow.

“Hush now and rest my darling. There will be time enough for worry," she said and Bart lapsed into silence again, closing his eye at her touch even as she drew away, and vanished through the curtain, leaving him alone... and his world noticeably less bright.

Bart took the time to undress and truly... look at himself. He opened the trunk and found a great mix of effects: blankets, pillows, and the like, as well as a few other things. A sewing kit with a curiously silvery needle, and an assortment of generic effects combs and brushes, most useful to him — a simple silvered mirror. He took the looking glass from the trunk, closing it as he sat back on the bed — now nude save for his smallclothes once more — and he pulled the patch off his eye.

Bart had not had chance to see himself after his healing, a glance in the reflective surface of a drink or the like, but he had not seen the damage with his own eyes... or eye as it were. The surface reflected an alien face. A hard one. His cheeks seemed more sunken, hollow. His cheekbones sharper; he'd lost weight during the journey. He ran his hands over the growth of beard, it was some days since he'd been able to shave, and the lack of a razor would turn the thick stubble into a proper beard at some point. His face was covered in a dozen tiny pale scars, the kind that would fade away like old blemishes with time, still fresh and pink. He tousled his hair a little, the usual brief crop he gave it to fit beneath his helmet had grown out into a shaggy, mid-length mess that fell in uneven, wild clumps around his head to just above his nose. He'd lost some bits of hair to fire and friction here and there over the weeks it seemed.

The eye was the main event. He tilted the mirror hesitantly and looked at it. It was a mess; the flesh had been healed around it, but it was an irregular, ugly pink starburst of scar tissue that ran from the socket down to his cheekbone — the tearing motion had ripped a lot of flesh along with the eye itself, leaving the socket misshapen and slightly drooping around the vacant cavity. Thankfully the tearing had left it absent any... tooth marks, even if it did serve to make the wound itself more gruesome. The scar would be visible even with a patch, he shuddered in remembered agony — the sensation of Parias' lips on his eyelid, almost delicate, the searching sensation that came before the pain — the memory made his guts clench and he retched reflexively, banishing the thought from his mind as he dry-heaved, breathing heavily. He took a moment staring into the darkness to compose himself, laboring to control his sudden panicked gasping, sweat beading on his brow. Fear was not new, he had been afraid many times in his life, but this was atavistic terror. He hated Parias... and he realized as well: He was afraid of him. Bart mulled that over, letting his mind probe the edges of that fear, that revulsion as he raised the mirror once more. This was his new reality, this was life now. Nothing could fix it, he simply had to accept it.

He stared at it a long while, stared at his changed face. Stared at the haunted look in his one remaining eye, the years he'd gained in mere months. He forced himself to look until he wanted to scream. Tears ran from his good eye — his empty socket couldn't even weep properly. He sucked in a breath, banishing the sobs with a rough dash of his scarred knuckles across his ravaged face. He had no time for sorrow, there was much to do. He laid back on the bed, casting the mirror aside into the pile of clothing he'd left on the chair, the big man stared up at the ceiling — the sound of the forest his only guide as he drew his hands to his body.

He explored his new wounds slowly, the scars were well healed, and they did not even pain him — truly Cithara's magic was a wonder... and yet his body felt alien, he felt disconnected, unsure of himself as this unfamiliar topography rose and fell beneath his fingertips. This was his body, and yet it was not... so much had occurred since he left the Abbey; his frame was thinner, and much of the persistent softness that had plagued him since he was a boy burned away in the crucible of stress and hunger he'd lived through. He traced them again and again, learning these new lines, grooves, and crags carved into his flesh. This was his body now, this was who he was. It was just something he needed to accept.

The big man let his arms flop to the sides, staring off into the distance. The sounds of the forest were his only company as he considered too many things at once. His head swam with questions and concerns, his mind's weariness only exacerbating his anxiety for a thousand things he could only hope were well. He worried for his friends, for Fort Ivory — even as she slowed the march of time, it still marched. How went the siege, were they alive? Were they well? He turned on his side, wanting to curl in on himself and sleep, banish these invasive thoughts with slumber.

Rolling over, he instead found himself face-to-face with a sidhe huntress.

Bart clenched his teeth around a yell, his body tensing as he clenched a fist to do violence... but the sidhe woman held up a forestalling hand. She perched in the window like some gangling four-legged spider, her unnaturally sinuous body bending too far at the joints for his mind to be at ease with.

“Peace, thick one." she hissed in that raspy voice of hers, her lips parted around teeth that were a curious steely gray hue. Bart relaxed a little, sitting up in his borrowed bed.

“What is it you want? Can't I rest away from you... interlopers?" he said in exasperation. He didn't like the Sidhe, their sheer presence set off a thousand alarm bells in his mind, and he trusted them little.

“How much do you know of her?" The huntress challenged without preamble. Bart searched her mostly hidden, asymmetrical features, and realized from both the 'thick one' comment and the particular painting of her mouth and chin that this was Perchta. He searched what he could see of her cowled visage for any kind of indication.

“What do you mean?" he challenged her brusquely, the sidhe bared her teeth at him.

“The Lady, the Unicorn. Cithara. How much do you know of her? Of her history before your order?" she continued, her voice low and dangerous. Bart furrowed his brow at her, eye hard.

“I know of the Verdant Crusades, that she walked with the First Paladin to reclaim Northsea," he said sternly, not wanting to give an inch to the taciturn creature. Her lips curled back again in something he assumed was like a smile.

“You know naught then," she said, her harsh voice a purr. “Have you looked upon this wood, upon Crownspeak, the Kingsroad coming to our realm?" she asked archly, and Bart thought about it a moment, he had seen them — Crownspeak and the road leading to it had been the site of titanic battles between the First Paladin, the Holy Beasts and the forces of the Empty Queen.

“Yes, I have. Torn asunder by the Power of God and the Queen's fell magics," he said, and the Sidhe's lips spread in a definite grin this time. It was not a very pretty expression, her strangely metallic teeth gleaming in the light.

“Nay, Thick one. That destruction was wrought by no unclean hand nor stolen vitae from an upstart godling." she hissed in derision, she leaned closer through the window, her lips still spread in that unnerving rictus grin.

“Nay, that devastation was wrought by your Lady herself and none other." she practically cooed. The revelation struck Bart like a physical blow, he glowered at her.

“You lie, thing." Bart spat with as much venom as he could muster at such... sacrilegious suggestions! The Sidhe only laughed cruelly, sliding through his window to sit upon the sill in an uncomfortably feminine posture.

“We are Sidhe. We cannot tell you falsehoods. It is against our nature." she said pleasantly, raking her too-long nails across the wood. “Something my kind sticks to, unlike you upstart apes," she said, returning his venom, causing Bart's teeth to set in a fierce snarl. The Sidhe seemed to take glee in this.

“Yes, yes, the noble Unicorn when set free upon the upstart godling was quite the terror. She washed the land in blood on many an occasion, her rage something that even gave your great beast Gigas reason to fear." she hissed to him, chuckling afterward. “She was a very effective hunter. We are impressed with her ruthlessness."

Bart struggled with that information, it was truth that she could not lie — and this detail was too direct for it to be a truth twisted into a veritable falsehood. Why had she said nothing of this to him? Why was it not in his learning, in the Oath? Bart clenched a fist at her.

“What of it?" he spat impotently, and she laughed at him.

“We were curious. You are not like the others," she stated, and Bart glared at her even harder.

“I am a soldier, just like my brothers. Circumstance be damned." he refuted her, and she chuckled at him.

“No. You are not," she stated simply, leaning forward again. “We have seen one other like you. He was a hunter most fair. A consummate killer. Intractable, unyielding." she hissed and spread her lips in a gruesome black-toothed smile.

“We liked that one."

“Who then? Be direct, creature." Bart said stodgily, and she only tittered lazily at him. He felt that dislike only deepening. Smug, self-assured creatures.

“We gave him a new name. The Erlking himself referred to the Sick One as the Old Wolf." she rasped, and Bart's eyes lit with understanding. The Old Wolf. Lord Protector Baratus.

“What does this have to do with the Lord Protector?" he demanded, sitting up more straight. He was tired of this game already, and only his good sense kept his growing anger and tiredness from letting this taunting interaction escalate to violence.

“We liked him. He was strong. Confident. Focused. You are much like he was. Dutiful." she said, nodding approvingly. “Dumber though. We found him much more clever and quick-headed than you, Thick one," she added offhandedly, and Bart fumed silently but said nothing... it wasn't fair, The Lord Protector absolutely was smarter than he was. Bart had to admit a lot of people likely were. He glowered at her and made a gesture to get on with it, she nodded with a sarcastic exaggeration to the movement.

“The Old Wolf was here long. She shared much with him, and We shared the rest. He learned the secrets she kept, the secrets We kept. He and you were alike. You share the same flame." she said tersely, her lips still curled in that smile. “Will you too, shed your life here and let her remake you? Be burned clean by her holy fire to the bone? Most don't. He did. He Changed."

Bart wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that, he was struggling with the idea of Cithara as... wrathful, of the Lord Protector as something this fell being would admire. He knew he was limited, not as quick nor clever in academic or social graces as others of his Order, and here, now of all times it felt like a weight preventing him from grasping exactly what she was presenting to him. She pursed her lips, seeming to look down on him.

“You struggle, thick one. You writhe and wriggle against the truth. Weal or woe, it is the starkness of reality. Cope or die." she added and Bart seethed at her a moment, and she continued to walk all over his displeasure; “This forest is her doing as well... were you to wander too far, you would find it quite full of horrors. We find it quite droll, a beneficial arrangement."

“Speak plainly or get out," Bart said finally, and she laughed.

“So direct. Very well, We will be direct. Imagine her power to grow life around her, to add longevity... and realize that influence covers all within this wood, not just you Thick one." she added and leaned close, her teeth gleaming again. “Imagine what that might do to the local wildlife, centuries lived in days, adaption happening in real time... oh the wood beyond her glade is rich with life. Life that has been pressed into a mold to ferment in its own power. You would be quite right to call much of it monstrous." she cooed at him, chuckling as she concluded.

“Do you warn me or mock me? Do you think I do not know a Divine Being is dangerous? Have you come just to spite me for entertainment?" he spat hotly, coming to his feet, nudity be damned — and rising to face her, pushing his chest aggressively against her and shoving her back from his bed to the wall. She was head and shoulders taller than he, but his weight would not be denied. Bart puffed out his chest and glared at her as she snarled back, her teeth bared as she curled her fingers into claws. Bart's one blue eye went cold as winter ice.

“Try it." Bart hissed in a low voice. “I will not take the first blow out of thankfulness for your hospitality to myself and my Lady — but I will not stand for your acid tongue nor blasphemous words," he said, and they faced off on that, Bart's entire posture despite his fatigue alive with taut, tense eagerness to do violence — and the Sidhe woman was almost identical, practically vibrating with her barely contained hostility. They hung on that a moment, seeing how the other would react. Perchta then smiled, it wasn't a pretty smile.

“We think we like you as well, after a fashion, Thick one." she said, leaning close to him with a sneer; “You have less brains, but far sharper fangs. We appreciate a dutiful hound as much as a canny wolf."

“The feeling is most assuredly not mutual." Bart retorted, and her smile only twisted to have more of an edge.

“We come to simply... inform and observe. We find your quality to be of note. Few humans are so well-suited for the bloody rive of the hunt." she said, slinking back towards the window. “We think your potential is interesting... but will you meet it?" she asked as she slid out the window, only her lips visible, her teeth gleaming as she vanished back into the darkness.

“Or will you squander it for petty human morals? Such a question we cannot wait to see answered." Then, she was gone and Bart was once again, thankfully alone. He sank back to the bed heavily, blowing out a breath as his mind raced yet again with new, terrible information. Cithara's wrath was so terrible as that? Were they to know she was so great and terrible, would the people love her, worship her as thus? Gigas is looked at with fear, and The Learned One with distant trepidation, how would the Unicorn being an engine of bloody carnage have read? He would ask her again on the morrow, fatigue dragged at his eyelids, even the ruined one and he found himself clutching at a pillow as sleep slowly, finally claimed him.

~ ~ ~

Bart's sleep was thankfully dreamless. He drifted in his own mind, simply knowing nothing but quiet, restful silence, and the vague understanding of simply being blissfully ignorant of the world. After the days he'd had, and the dreams that often accompanied them — a dreamless, empty sleep was a heaven all its own. A shame really.

The smell awoke Bart before anything else. A reeking, god-forsaken tell-tale vinegar stink. Bart's one eye snapped open, and he twisted around in his bed, brain suddenly, frantically on high alert.

A Ghul. Its slavering jaws spread wide in a rictus grin, its face pressing through the window as it silently, slowly contorted its monstrous form through the portal, mirroring Perchta's own ingress. Bart's mind snapped to attention with a shout, kicking the bedding free of his body as the Ghul hooted at him and tried to lunge, its hooked claws swinging at nothing as Bart tumbled back out of the bed. The monster found its purchase and thrust itself through the window at Bart, arms extended, jaws leading.

It caught the rising bed frame full in the face for its trouble.

Bart roared his defiance and braced his back against the living wooden floor, and drove his bare feet heels-first into the bottom of the rope-suspended frame. His muscles surged and his naked body was a steely-hard edifice of strength, and the heavy piece of furniture practically leapt from the floor, body-checking the lunging monster in mid-flight, slamming it against the wall with a despairing hiss of pain. It obliterated the bed almost immediately, its thrashing limbs and gnashing teeth grasping and rending the furniture asunder, throwing a cloud of feathers and fluffy down into the air as it bit through the mattress and slung it aside.

Bart met it again, roaring in battle-mad ferocity as he drove his shoulder into the monster — his not inconsiderable weight catching the abomination off guard as he drove into its soft, hanging belly. It slammed back into the wall again, knocking over the desk nearby and blasting the air from the monster's lungs. Fists followed behind it as he assailed the beast with furious blows, screaming all the while as he hammered punches into the thing's soft gut, slamming his right hand upwards in a brutal uppercut as the beast tried to clamp its jaws down on him, the blow clapping its teeth shut violently and snapping back its head as Bart took a desperate gamble and drove his heel into the monster's hide-clothed groin.

The beast shrieked as the blow carried through with a disgusting smack, the monster doubling over as Bart drew his leg back; the monster flailing as it made whining, hooting sounds of distinctly masculine pain. Bart was momentarily stunned that it worked — he supposed that made it for sure male. He whipped his head around for a weapon in the seconds he'd bought himself, and spied the heavy chamber pot in one corner. It was the same strange silvery-white metal as the needle or the silverware earlier. Bart didn't have time to think of more than that as he grabbed it by its carry handle and swung it hard, his one remaining eye a wild pinpoint of blue fury as he shouted his absolute apocalyptic frenzy at the monster.

The sound of the chamber pot hitting the thing's skull was like someone had rung a bell with a side of meat, an almost brassy gong of noise coupled with the gruesome crunch of meat and bone. Bart didn't stop with a single swing as the monster reeled from the weight of the blow, the pot was lighter than he expected but still at least a solid half-stone. He rained down his outrage with screaming, howling fury — he didn't even have the thought for words, just sheer sound as he engaged this abomination the way his forefathers had — with naught but naked brutality. The chamber pot crunched into the thing's horrific, eyeless face again and again as Bart mercilessly pummeled it, blood began to fly and spatter him with its greasy tarry substance as still screaming — he slammed the pot down one last time, feeling something give as the wooden grip of the handle gave way, slinging the pot back behind his head as he wound up for another blow. Spitting a curse, Bart whirled and grasped a fallen chunk of the bed as a club, whirling to meet the inevitable response... and only finding a limp, twitching form. The creature's head was soundly concave where he'd slammed the pisspot into its eyeless skull repeatedly, the topmost of the monster's head completely pulped.

Bart heaved out breaths, his eye flicking back and forth as he compensated for his new blind spot by twisting his head dramatically.

“Wh-where the god-forsaken hells did you come from?" he panted, his nude body spattered from waist to crown in the blood from the monster's demise, his mind raced. Cithara. From outside he heard more of their telltale hooting cries — and an answering... wail, for lack of a better term from something else. He clenched his teeth and looked down into the mess of shattered timber and knocked over furniture, snatching his hose and boots from the debris, he hurriedly dragged them on, not bothering to find his shirt as he hefted one of the legs of the shattered bed, a formidable two-foot length of timber with a heavy end. It'd do.

Bart burst from the room, finding the rest of the house doused in shadow. The Lady must have made it nighttime for him to sleep — unknowingly making it dim enough for Ghuls, he snapped to attention at that thought — where was Cithara?! Surely she'd gone back into the Glade proper, right? The hooting calls echoed from beyond the walls, and the topless man grit his teeth, brushing his hair back and raking the spatters of the dead ghul's fluids from his face, he lit out of the cottage at speed.

“Please o God, let her be safe."

Bart was almost immediately accosted by a flickering form as soon as he cleared the tree. The knight-brother roared in defiance and swung with unfettered savagery at the shape, he felt his makeshift club connect with meat and bone with a telltale crunching sensation of breaking ribs and heard instead of a howling, hooting cry of pain — a hissing, almost musical squawk of dismay. Bart raised his club again, rushing to loom over whatever it was as it staggered back in the gloom from his blow — and found himself standing over one of the Sidhe women, she bared her teeth at him, holding a... fairly substantial divot in her ribcage where Bart had struck her soundly.

“Peace, Thick one!" it was Perchta. Bart hesitated and drew back, looking around wildly;

“God's Blood, don't spook someone like that!" he spat as an oath, and the fae woman sneered at him, rising to her imposing height, hand moving away from her impacted torso, and Bart marveled in mild disgust as with a dull crunching sound like someone crushing root vegetables — the divot he'd slammed into her slowly popped itself back out — her body healing.

“Dear God." he breathed as she sneered at him again.

“Do not do that again, thick one. The woods have been breached, they are here, but we do not know how. My sister is elsewhere, the Lady as well." she looked up and it was like she was scenting the air. “This way, bring your... twig." Bart glowered at her, hefting the chunk of the bedpost.

“Twig took you down just dandy," he said and she bared her teeth at him, and lit out up the path out of the hollow. Bart grinned cruelly and took off after her, take that you lanky cryptid.

Perchta handily out-paced Bart with her bizarre, warping motions. Seeming to simply skip out of existence between blinks or lapses of attention. She thankfully seemed to take pity on his poor, human senses and made a point of appearing solid long enough to guide him along her path. The cries and calls of the Ghuls and their mystery escort grew louder as Bart wended his way through the primordial woods.

Without Cithara at his side, the Glade was decidedly... unwelcoming. The ground felt constantly uneven, branches snagged his hair, scratched his bare chest, roots seemed to rise up to trip him, low-hanging vines threatening to ensnare limbs or his makeshift club as he pushed past them — was this automatic? Some alarm sounded by intruders? He had no way of knowing as he grunted and dragged his scarred frame through another stand of vines — bursting to the other side with a grunted curse.

To say who was more surprised — Bart, or the trio of ghuls he'd practically landed in the midst of as he cleared the vines, really none could say. Bart gave a shout of alarm — echoed by a hooting squeal from one of the ghuls as it scrabbled backward from the large man. An ululating cry from nearby caught everyone's attention, and suddenly one of the ghuls flinched away heavily with a shrill shriek, its entire left arm went sailing past Bart's face, the monster screaming in shock and terror as it clasped at its gushing stump.

Perchta's figure appeared violently as the limb was cut free, shuddering into visibility from her strange, out-of-phase movements in the perfect, crisp form of a vertical cut. In her hands was an alien weapon that Bart had never before seen: its blade was a long, gentle curve ending in a savage hook at one end: that hard inner curve was the only sharp edge on the entire weapon. It had no guard or qullions, a simple, sleek hilt with room for a one or two-handed grip. A brutal, cruel weapon with hideous chopping power — as the ghul had found out firsthand. Perchta brought the hooked sword down in a savage follow-up blow on the howling fiend, and there was a gross slicing sound of meat separating, and a ring of singing metal... and the beast's howling stopped... and the entire front half of its skull slid off with a cut like a razor's edge, the body slumping straight down in a heap, like a puppet with cut strings.

Bedlam broke out at that, the two remaining abominations howling out harsh, throaty threat displays and chaotically throwing themselves at the pair. Bart was for once, quicker off the mark than any of the supernatural predators he was surrounded by — smashing the far ghul square in the face with his improvised club, the crack of hardwood on bone loud, as was the piteous yelp of the monster as Bart continued to lay into it with merciless follow-up blows. With no blade, guard, or armor to work with — Bart fell back on Man's oldest strength: complete blood-crazed ferocity.

Leaping upon the stunned creature, Bart grasped a handful of its quill-like shock of hair and twisted, jerking the creature's head to the side as it flailed, taken by complete surprise by Bart's insane rush, the club came down again and again as Bart's grip fastened on the monster like iron manacles, slamming that bludgeon into the freak's face and soft mouth over and over again, he wasn't sure when he started screaming, the creature's claws scored marks on his chest and arms as it scrabbled at him for purchase, simply overwhelmed by Bart's blitz and completely helpless to defend itself. Bart continued to hammer at it, the screaming only grew louder and more intense as it struggled and simply refused to die, pushing him off and rolling on its belly to struggle away. Bart's maddened screaming didn't stop as he lashed up from the ground and hurled himself at the creature — righteous, white-hot fury filling him as the screams turned into words. He grabbed another fistful of the monster's mane, and for a moment it was ludicrous as Bart assailed this creature nigh twice his size and mass.

“HOW DARE YOU ABOMINATION!" he frothed, screaming the words as he stomped his booted foot down on the monster's spine, it squealed and clawed at the ground as that fistful of wiry tendrils jerked back, causing the monster to bow painfully as it squealed and struggled.

“THIS IS HOLY GROUND, HOW DARE YOU?! DIE, DIE, DIE!" he continued, almost no time for breath between his ravings as the words once again turned into just... madness, frothing, insane fury, and the club came down on its upturned, helpless face again and again — punctuating each ringing demand for its death with another blow. The auditory assault of hardwood on bone was loud and its flailing struggles suddenly, horrifically jolted to a stop as a particularly egregious crunch of splintering skull and pulping meat sounded and the patter of gore and vital fluids on the ground sang its end.

Bart's chest heaved, and a dozen gashes stood out on his arms and chest, bleeding freely his own rich, red blood in contrast to the almost rusty-black ichor of the monsters, he screamed at the dead ghul again, giving it one more savage smack with the club before whirling with his gore-soaked bludgeon, eager to bring it to bear on the creature's companion, to vent his outrage on its flesh.

Perchta stood there over the remaining ghul and its companion, her strange hooked blade held in hand, red to the hilt, the second creature lay dead: its chest quite surgically opened from groin to collarbone like a filleted fish. She and he stared each other down for a moment, Bart painted in gore, the Sidhe woman almost conspicuously free of even a drop of blood. Her lips curled into a cruel, approving grin around her iron-gray teeth.

“Impressive furor, thick one."

Bart grinned at her fiercely, baring his own teeth as he glanced around. He could hear yet more hooting and caterwauls in the distance. He furrowed his brow, casting about on the corpses and dragging free one of their flax-cord 'belts' of sorts, wrinkling his nose at the fetid odor that wafted up from their sallow bodies. Perchta watched him in silence.

Bart took his chunk of bed and peered at it. It was the leg from one end, a sort of forward-curving elongated teardrop shape, meant to look pretty and flowing. It gave Bart an idea, he looked at the Sidhe woman.

“May I borrow that a moment?" he asked, addressing her strange blade. Curiosity was written on every inch of the Sidhe woman's body language, and mutely she inverted her now-cleaned blade with an unnervingly quick snap of her wrist and offered him the hilt. Taking it, Bart made a few marking notches in the end of the bludgeon with the edge, and then quite soundly chopped a split down the center of the tip of his 'club.'

“My thanks," Bart said, handing it back to her and casting about. He reached down and dug at the earth frantically a moment, and came back with a heavy triangular stone from the pile at the base of a heavy root barrow — sharp-edged and pointy, a thick piece of slate perhaps. He took a moment to fit it into the notch he'd made and then hammered it down between the two split ends of the club with another rock. Quickly he lashed the stolen cord about its axis in a cross-boxed pattern, pulling it tightly with his teeth. Perchta's lips curled in a genuine smile as he finished his work, wrapping the handle of the club in more of the stolen cordage.

“Be thou for thy people Paladin, for thy might is thy will and thy heart, nay thy sword," Bart murmured in quotation from the Oath of Gold, and gave his new, viciously stone-headed war club a few test swings at the end of his arm, turning to the split-open ghul corpse, he gave it an earnest swing, bringing the weapon down on the dead thing's skull with his considerable might,

The dead creature's skull split open like a ripe melon. Perchta's smile widened. Bart nodded grimly and turned to the fae woman, and pointed a resolute finger at her.

“They use the ghuls like scent-hounds. They're hunting us. You will do the same for me." Bart said, starting to realize how he had to handle these Unseelie. The Sidhe woman bared her teeth at him in a surprised sort of grimace that turned after a moment into a faint grin at the edges. She dipped her head once and then on her too-long limbs, rose and raised her cowled face to the winds. A beat passed.

“Follow. Do not fall behind or I will leave you."

“Just be wary for yourself, there's something out there other than ghuls," Bart responded gamely, following the line of her masked gaze, his hands busy wrapping more of that stolen woven-flax cordage around his forearms and knuckles, the smell would linger, but he had to improvise. Pull the cord taut he tied it off and flexed his hands a few times, the hemp-like rope was rough and uncomfortable, but it would do well enough to blunt teeth and claws. He met the Sidhe woman's hidden gaze again and found her smiling approvingly once more.

“Go," he said sternly, hefting his club. Perchta was off in her warping, erratic way — her displaced gait fluid and unnatural, but blindingly fast — Bart took off after her at a sprint, keeping pace just barely.

The wood flashed past Bart in flickers of shadow and twilight, he found himself running harder, pelting through the woods after Perchta's hart-like agility — and he wasn't tired. He had only moments to muse on the fact that even as his chest heaved with breath, and his heart hammered with exertion — his energy seemed boundless.

The pair broke through the woods again to a chorus of inhuman voices, Bart's eye went wide as he caught up with Perchta's pace, the Sidhe Huntress's hooked blade had reappeared in her hands as she also was given pause by the sight before her.

“Cithara." Bart breathed in horror and awe.

The Lady in White stood her ground in the clearing, a blazing star before the tides of evil. Her mane flared around her in a crackling gale of energy girding her body like a gown of holy flame, her golden eyes wide in luminous discs of righteous fury. Her perfect white coat marred with spatters of black, hideous ichor, her glimmering horn dripping ribbons of gore, her delicate hooves shod to the hocks in viscera — all claimed from the dead which lie piled about her; a dozen or more ghuls, rent and torn asunder by main force, their bodies shredded like they were made of wet, grisly parchment. Yet more surrounded her, pouring out of the woods in screaming packs to hurl themselves at her with hooting, blood-mad frenzy. She met them head-on with unrelenting tenacity — and Bart was simply unprepared for what he witnessed.

She raised her head in fury, her soft lips curled back from those sharp canines that lent an oh-so-striking savagery to her beautiful countenance, her eyes screwed into focused, blazing slits of aurum, and she sang. Bart had no words for the sound, her throat gave a shrill and musical tone that seemed to scythe through the horde of monsters like a physical force, a ripple of recoiling pain showing in their ranks — those who did not flee, found themselves trembling, and shaking — winnowed apart inexorably from the inside by the Holy Word of God. Bart himself flinched away as the resonance of the call seemed to shake his very bones with that same tuning fork vibration of his very essence that came when she spake his Name, his guts quavering... he could not imagine what happened to the beasts.

The monstrosities pressed their assault despite the call — and for their efforts, they died. Her movements were almost casual, an afterthought — so quick and sure were they in their unrelenting violence. Two monsters leapt at her in a pincer strike — and one was promptly bisected by an almost casual toss of her head, her horn blazing with divine energy like an incandescent star, ripping through the monster's meat and bone like a scribe cutting an envelope. It screamed a hideous keen of sheer panic that rose above the din as its upper torso fell to the ground, flailing and gurgling horribly as it tried to claw its spilling guts back into its rapidly emptying chest cavity before simply... expiring, midway through, going limp. The other was caught by her luminous gaze — locking it in place with some invisible force, Bart caught the faint glimmer of golden radiance around its writhing form. It shrieked in raw, primal terror against its unyielding prison... and simply compacted into the earth, as if a great unseen palm had simply slammed flat down on it from above, pulping the creature in a hideous fountain of gore as its bones, sinew, and organs were reduced to a slurry by the unimaginable, irresistible force. More came, and more died as bloody and violent as the last — but the horde seemed endless, pouring from the cracks and dark places within the trees and throwing themselves at the Divine Beast with fanatical zeal.

“We must aid her!" Bart crowed, and Perchta nodded, her cowled head twitching to and fro as she scanned the clearing, looking for something.

“They are coming from somewhere. The Lady can handle herself for a time — we must cut off the source."

Bart's eye went wide as he witnessed a mob of the creatures hurtle at her anew in a fresh press for ground, smothering her in writhing bodies that momentarily blacked out her radiance. Bart started in fear, and for a scant moment, he was on his feet — raising his club, ready to leap to his death for his Lady. He was halted by Perchta's hand, pulling him back to their hiding spot with surprising strength. Batting her hand off him, he snarled at her in wordless fury, but she merely jerked her chin at the melee, drawing his blue eye back to the carnage — where he promptly went slack-jawed at the sight he beheld.

The seething mass suddenly simply exploded, her keening song hitting a fever pitch from within the flailing, grasping pile — seeming to resonate destructively within them and press her orbit outward like a shockwave. Driven back by the sudden surge of force; the monsters clawed frantically at their chests and faces, screaming in incoherent agony before simply bursting apart in chunks of meat and limbs to the rising chorus of the unicorn's singing rage. More of them closed ranks, and she dealt with them in a most brutal fashion; rearing up she drove her hooves down on one, and her body landed like an avalanche focused on the wicked edge of one of her dainty hooves, the sheer force driving the creature's head into the earth with such violence its limp body did a severe forward flip — leaving its crushed head behind beneath her unyielding step as it did, using its body as a stepping stone as she brought her horn to bear in close quarters — it scythed back and forth, her long neck and supple body whipping to and fro with savage precision that would have made every swordmaster in the land weak with envy — lopping limbs, heads and reaving entire bodies in twain with a streaking trail of golden fire. She waded through them, horn, hooves, and power flashing and the holy entity shredding them apart nigh on as fast as they appeared, painting the clearing in their stinking black viscera.

“God's blood." Bart hissed in awe.

“Mostly theirs," Perchta added dryly, her head jerking to one side as that hellish wail from earlier repeated. Bart honed in on it as well, and the pair looked at each other and nodded, the knight-brother hefting his club, forcing himself to tear himself away from the spectacle of the Lady in White gone to war.

The mismatched duo broke into a fresh sprint, the Sidhe woman moving with more urgency, Bart also finding more confidence in his step as he paced the cat-like, warping motions of the huntress. Bart found himself rapidly understanding what it took to move through the hostile woods, they fought him for every step because he fought them. He followed the sidhe woman's movements more closely, leaping and swinging and hurdling things rather than brute-forcing through them, his seemingly boundless stamina allowing him to push his limits harder, further than before. He'd never felt so light on his feet as he did running through those woods after that grim-faced huntress.

The pair broke through to another clearing, this one darker, Bart even noticed that the perpetual twilight they'd been running in had deepened to gloom. Climbing again to a perch on a stone near the Sidhe woman who'd beaten him to the edge of the clearing, his teeth clenched with alarm at what he saw.

It was a hole. A hole in thin air.

Bart struggled with grasping what he was looking at, it was just a hole, a complete ragged-edged tear in the fabric of reality — its edges looked... fleshy and the internal rim of the portal quivered and twisted, as if it were a pulsing, living thing of meat and sinew on the other side, and out of it clambered the ghuls, swarming out every few minutes in a pack of seven or eight monsters. It was a wound, gushing the vitae of reality, punched from one place to another with cruel, ragged claws.

Bart grunted and clutched his chest, gasping in sudden cold-sweat terror as he felt something inside of him pull towards the rip in space. He gagged and retched for a moment, drawing Perchta's attention as he shook it off and hissed through his teeth.

“Wendigo."

The sidhe woman snapped to attention at that, and Bart continued; “I can feel it somehow, she said I would be connected to it in a fashion, it's here. Or... I think it's on the other side of that... hole." Bart explained and edged closer, the portal itself seemed to eat the light around it, making the area dimmer. A strange, spidery shape suddenly flickered in shadow across the dark, yawning gate. Bart blinked, and the sidhe huntress also clearly noticed it, both peering into the gloom as the spindly silhouette once more passed over the portal.

It was a hand.

It had too many fingers, Bart counted eleven in one brief pass. He blinked his eye furiously, focusing so hard it teared up to pierce the veil of darkness. Gazing into that blackness, he saw it. He wished he had not. It was reared up over the portal, and it was immense. Bart's brain struggled to cope with the distorted shapes it was seeing. It moved closer as if it were cradling the ragged gate, those too-many-fingered hands seemed to pull the wound wider, spreading it open in a manner that was visibly obscene, and from within it writhed another pack of Ghuls, hooting and howling at one another as they wriggled out of the strange fleshy portal like an unholy womb. Its form became clear as it moved forward, seeming to stroke its twisted fingers across the quivering gate, it was hideous and unnerving, its body a twisted, asymmetrical mass of black, sinewy flesh and malformed bone. Bart's mind reeled as he realized both the hands that had stroked and caressed that sickening portal emerged from one shoulder, sharing the socket in unholy fusion — its opposing right limb an elongated, horrific thing, jointed too many times, folding up like the raptorial limb of a mantis made of all-too-human meat and bone, ending in a hideous taloned hand... no, more akin to two hands gruesomely fused together on a single palm.

The beast's limbs terminated into a torso built around a massive, barrel-like exposed ribcage, cracked apart in the center, the monster seemingly lacking any kind of organs through its hollowed-out torso. Its ribs twisted and flexed like the fangs of a great maw, slithering grossly down into a lower body built like a hideous mixture of a canine and some hellish insect. The multitude of exposed ribs transferred into a series of twisted, misshapen hindlegs that lined its lower body like the limbs of a centipede, or a great spider — six horribly conjoined dog-like legs propped up the hollowed torso and twisted assembly of arms like some murderous, awful centaur — the exposed spinal column on its back raising up like the bony ridges of a terrible reptile and terminating into a hideous, sinew-slicked tail ending in strange, tooth-like bony barbs.

The horror that was its face only drove home the inhumanity, perched upon a long, almost avian neck, it rattled a bifurcated jaw creakily bolted with sinew and ligaments to a skull-like head, vaguely canine in shape, but seemingly made out of two horrifically fused skulls of some monstrous wolf; melded together at the crown, sharing a frontal lobe and brow, but splitting off into two askew, individually snapping mouths and lolling tongues – all too long and too filled with teeth – packed with dental hardware so tightly they flowed out over its lips and stuck out at odd, tusk-like angles. It had no eyes — only a single, cavernous hole that seemed to reach into a deeper, impossible darkness. The abomination stroked and caressed the portal, and raised its head in a slow, almost graceful motion — its twisted hands together, body arched in a blasphemous parody of prayer as those fused, twin mouths opened their bifurcated jaws, and let out that impossible slightly out-of-sync wailing shriek they'd heard before.

“By the Blood of God, what is that thing?" Bart asked, and Perchta herself seemed at a loss, her body language vibrating with hateful aggression.

“I know not. Nothing like that entity struck at us nor the Lady in your green march." She admitted, which did not fill Bart with confidence. Across the clearing it reached those two misshapen limbs down again, spreading that gruesome portal wide and birthing another pack of ghouls, Bart's jaw set.

“We have to kill it."

Perchta nodded her agreement, her curious hooked blade appearing in her hands again.

“The beast seems to need to interact with the gate to bring forth its brethren," she observed, Bart nodded, pulling his improvised roped gauntlets a bit more snug.

“So it's a Gatekeeper, very well," he said, checking the bindings on his club with a grim expression. “We wait for a wave to go through, then we brutalize it. Cause it as much pain as possible, prevent it from interacting with the gate," he said with a savage edge to his words, Perchta's face twisted into a sadistic and very pleased grin.

“Brutality." she cooed, running her clawed thumb along the spine of her blade. “Your pragmatism befits a mantle, Thick one," she said — the first signs of genuine approval from the sidhe woman — Bart felt uneasy about that; it felt like being complimented on his table manners by a shark.

Another hideous caressing cycle passed as he spoke, and it disgorged another bundle of ghouls. Bart had been timing it, there was about a minute or so between each wave, it seemed like... whatever powered this gate to the dark places had limits to reach this holy place. Bart nudged the Sidhe woman, jerking his chin to the side he gripped his club. She nodded, the huntress' mind keen to the art of stalking prey. She vanished into the foliage as cleanly as if she'd never been there at all.

The ghuls scattered, and the portal shrank and folded back onto itself. Bart set his teeth, and threw himself forward, drawing his bludgeon into a ready position as he pounded down the darkened clearing. His lips split in a roar of unrestrained fury, every step closer filling him with the dread of the uncanny, the darkness itself clawing at his mind with the familiar sickening slick horror of the hungering Wendigo and its essence. Every strike at his mind only further fueled his rage — where despair clawed and demanded purchase, fury struck it down and claimed its place in his psyche wearing a crown of righteous indignation. The words left his mouth without thought as the monster twisted its sinuous body to face the rushing warrior, he leapt into the air with a great surge of muscle — weapon raised, voice calling:

“LAVA QUOD EST SORDIUM!"

The tongue of Heaven shattered the air as Bart's twenty-stone frame hit the Gatekeeper like a trebuchet stone, the beast's entire body recoiling like a willow branch in the wind as the knight-brother's nigh inhuman leap collided with its head and torso. Bart screamed in its face with froth-flecked lips as his left hand dug its fingers into sickening black flesh, grasping a handful of sinew and bone and holding on, bringing that stone club to bear with brutal effect. The crushing thwack of stone and bone was loud in the clearing, the creature's twin mouths howling in surprised pain as Bart began savagely beating it; working his arm in a murderous frenzy of blows, chips of bone and splatters of viscera flying as he swung wildly from its flailing, panicked frame, smashing it over and over again with howling, blood-mad tenacity.

“DIE MONSTER, YOU DON'T BELONG IN THIS PLACE!" he snarled, swinging his club sideways, slapping it across the monster's lunging jaws in a brutal retort — one that the Gatekeeper answered with aplomb. Recovered from its shock, the monster's three limbs came to bear, the strange dual limbs grasping Bart's arm and leg, halting his assault and ripping at him with inhuman strength that made his bones creak and drew a scream of pain from the man's lips as his muscles strained to hold his grip, to reclaim his weapon — to kill the monster that had dared harm his beloved Lady. Mass was unfortunately destined to win the equation; the beast ripping him free from his handhold — and with a whirling motion swinging its bizarrely elongated frame for momentum — hurled him bodily to the ground. Bart bounced twice, rolling with the impact and coming to his feet spitting blood and fury. Bruised and cut, but not out.

The monster frantically turned back to the portal, extending its caressing fingers to it. Bart shouted wordlessly in outrage, finding his feet and struggling to close the distance. He did not have to. The Gatekeeper suddenly shrieked in agony again, and a silvery flash of metal caught the eye. A gush of black gore fountained up from its back, and the beast writhed; arching its spine in agony and forcing its grasp from the portal — Perchta had arrived, the lithe sidhe had leapt from a tree above blade first, striking the beast like a hunting cat, her blade knifing into its back and spine multiple times, her inhuman strength digging her fingers into the base of its neck for purchase. It flailed and shrieked, its high-pitched whistling screams painful to the ears, shaking the leaves in the trees.

The Gatekeeper wasn't so easily bested, it regained its composure even as Perchta sliced and cut at its back, twisting her hooked blade in its flesh to widen the wounds and draw more screams and distracting pain from the monster, it howled at her in shrill keening tone, its strange raptorial arm snapping out, twisting around behind it at horrifically unnatural angles, lashing like a whip — its hideous fused-palm hand wrapping around the Sidhe woman like a massive, bony man-catcher — she screamed in more irritation than pain, going so far as to lash out at it with her teeth, biting a chunk out of the hand and causing the eyeless, dual-mouthed monster to flare in anger and pain again — then hurl her from its back with a gruesomely fluid snap of that many-jointed limb. The Sidhe woman didn't bounce, unlike Bart — she flipped neatly in the air, catching a tree's trunk and using it to slow her descent, landing lightly on her feet as the Gatekeeper turned its attention back to the portal.

Bart was on top of it again almost instantly, covering the ground between them as it dealt with the huntress, he switched tactics and swung not at its hunched and deformed body — but its limbs. The pointed edge of the club met one of its weirdly dog-like legs, his mind screamed in revulsion as he realized the seemingly canine limb was actually a hideous waxy amalgamation of multiple human limbs grasping and melding together into a single, larger member — the knee joint multiple gnarled fingers grasping at each other to form the twisting joint. The satisfaction he felt as the jagged stone of the primitive weapon met that hideous joint at full force was practically religious; crushing and twisting it with a hideous sucking POP of displaced bone and flesh, the big man putting the full torque of his body into the lateral two-handed swing, stepping into the follow through with every pound of weight his blood-caked body could — the weapon's improvised head swinging free through the gross mass, and batting a fist-sized chunk of bone and sinew in a grisly arc across the clearing, roaring his defiance in the monster's face.

The response was visceral, the Gatekeeper's tremendous weight shifted and it staggered with a whimpering howl of alarm as one of its primary legs was nearly clipped off of its body with sheer rending force, it lost its grasp on the portal again and brought itself to bear on Bart once more, rearing its weirdly sinuous body back like a cobra, both its fanged maws yawning wide in a furious howl as it spread all three of its arms and lunged at the knight-brother like a striking serpent, attempting to crush the soldier beneath its immense bulk. Bart cried out and dove to the side in alarm, barely missing the impact, and the shockwave of the monster's smashing arrival kicking him into the air — but Bart's boundless energy kept him sharp, the big man lashing out with a free hand in midair, catching one of its bony spurs for a handhold, swinging himself onto the thing's back as it flailed and raced, trying to grasp or bite at him as he held onto its exposed spine — the club lashing out at anything that looked soft or vulnerable, screaming his anger at the monstrosities' face with every blow.

“DIE ALREADY YOU MOTHERLESS WHORESON!" the man bellowed with venom, hauling himself to his feet on the monster's back as it rolled its dorsal side towards him, attempting once more to crush him by simply tumbling itself end over end in a twisting cylinder of bone and agony. Bart moved without thinking, running across the twisting, uneven surface, skipping and leaping over it until he began to lose his footing. Stumbling, he committed to one last leap straight up with a yell. The monster rolled flat on its back and spread both jaws and arms wide to welcome the man's descent, Bart grasped his weapon and screamed out an oath to the Lady — he would sell his life as dearly as possible, the end be damned.

Perchta had other plans, and a silver flash of savagery cut in, and one of the monster's hands split lengthwise down straight to the meat and bone of its forearm, bisected neatly by the wicked edge of the Sidhe's hooked sword. The Gatekeeper screamed and jerked its head to the source of the pain a the last second — and Bart hit its chest like an avalanche. His club smacked into the rightmost head with enough force that the creature's entire skull snapped violently to the side, its jaw going hideously crooked as the almost preternatural strength of the man combined with the force of his descent delivered pain and agony from on high. The big man's boots crunched into its ribs, and he raised his weapon again for another blow, standing astride its gaping ribcage, its eyeless face twisting back to him as he set his teeth for another blow.

It was then, he saw it. Saw... him.

There was only a moment, but for the first time Bart got a good view inside of that shadowy chest cavity, and he did not find it as empty as it seemed. Eyes stared back at him from its inner reaches. Human eyes.

“God's blood." Bart breathed, club still raised.

Inside of the twisted nest of exposed ribs and hideous sinew, bound down — no... fused into it, was a man. A human man. He was wizened and cadaverous, but his eyes tracked Bart's motions, his face twisted in agony and fear as he did so, and his grisly, misshapen body writhed and wracked in its fleshy, bone-lined prison to twist a single barely-recognizable hand up towards the Knight-brother's looming shape, a rasping, barely audible sound reaching the man's ears.

“... h... Help... m... me...."

Bart felt his gorge rise, his gut twisted with sorrow and fury as he looked at the remains of this ruined man, bound and fused into the monster's torso in the same hideous, waxy amalgam that the rest of the beast was made from, thick ropes of the black fleshy sinew binding him down, connecting him to the beast, they pulsed and pumped... as if they were drawing something from within him. Feeding on him.

“On your guard, mortal!" Perchta's voice shrilled at him, snapping him from the revolting daze — but it did so far, far too late. The Gatekeeper shrieked, and its massive right arm uncoiled its mantis-like structure like a tensed spring — striking Bart's hesitant form squarely, launching the big man off its supine form in a brutal arc. He bounced again, landing hard flat on his back, his club bounced away from him as he tumbled end over end, screaming as he came to an abrupt stop against the unyielding trunk of an ancient tree; the now hellishly familiar sensation of cracking ribs shooting agony through him. Bart dragged himself to his knees, doubling over and vomiting noisily, heaving up his guts in wracking spasms, blood pouring with his dinner onto the loamy earth. He grit his teeth, he would have time enough later to worry about that.

The Gatekeeper rolled its bulk back onto its feet, its hideous prisoner staring out at Perchta as well, as the creature tore its hand free from her pinning blade with a shriek, Bart noticed that as it did, the man in its chest wriggled and writhed, arching in agony... and the monster's wounded hand began to knit back together, its black blood hardening like tar into new, sinewy flesh. The pumping, sucking tendrils made sense now, it was eating the poor sod's life force bit by bit — fueling itself on his misery.

“Abomination." Bart snarled, curling his hands into fists, the wet, rock-hard ropes tied about them creaking as he threw himself into the melee again, his club lost to the darkness the grim soldier took the fight to the monster the only way he had left: his fists.

Perchta had retreated as the beast unleashed its fury on her, shrilling at her in that ear-splitting shriek as it hammered after her with all three limbs, the nimble Sidhe huntress flickering between the blows like an errant shadow, darting back in unnatural bursts of speed as the Gatekeeper's fury only seemed to intensify — chasing her down with more and more erratic blows, shrieking and screaming like a tantruming child as it consistently missed its quarry by mere hairsbreadths. The daughter of the Wild Hunt was not to be outdone, coaxing the monster into yet another whipping overhand smash with its gruesome raptorial limb — she hopped the blow nimbly, the fountain of soil kicked up by the blow obscuring her a moment as she ran straight up the beast's arm, her blade flashing twice as she did, lopping that hideous multi-jointed into three separate pieces — the miscreation shrieked in inhuman agony, a third voice joining its two-throated keening as the doomed man inside's throat cried out in agony, the pulsing tendrils buried in his flesh draining and torturing him in turn as the monster suffered.

Bart's rush came screaming out of the darkness, Perchta's sleek frame clearing the monster's reach as it staggered over, gathering its torn limb as seeking ropes of flesh climbed outward, beckoning the severed member back to wholeness — the knight-brother was having none of that.

“NEVER AGAIN, MONSTER!" He roared, and lashed out at the end of his rush; the knotted cordage around his arm stiffened the limb into a veritable battering ram of flesh — one he introduced to the monster's face at speed. The sound of the blow meeting the monster's leftmost jawbone was like a thunderclap, the shock of the blow blasted up Bart's arm into his shoulder, rattling his teeth as he roared his outrage, the full weight of his twenty-stone once again behind the blow. His knuckles tore beneath the ropes and his bones creaked, and for an infinitesimal moment, a scant second — it seemed like the creature would simply absorb the blow, trembling as it strained back against the knight-brother's vicious strike. Yet the screaming soldier's frenzy would not be denied, with a surge of muscle and fury — the driving punch crashed through the monster's resistance, snapping its head around violently and breaking its concentration on restoring its destroyed limb. It fell to a heap, stunned for a beat by the sheer impact of its own gross weight hammering into the ground — Bart gave it no quarter.

“NO MORE, BUTCHER!" he roared, leaping onto its body, he slammed his fists into its twisted, fused face, hammering at it over and over with horrid, meaty crunches, red blood arching up from the blows as he shredded his own flesh in the doing — but the assault was not without effect. The monster reeled backward as the holy warrior pummeled its face to and fro, snapping its vision violently about, its head bobbling on its gangling, vulture-like neck; “NEVER WILL YOU TAINT ANOTHER INNOCENT SOUL!"

The Gatekeeper withered under the merciless blitz, Bart's seemingly unlimited stamina driving him to increase his tempo, he swung his whole body into each blow now, screaming at the top of his lungs in a complete berserk state as he delivered a sledgehammer series of twisting, hooking punches — each one snapping the miscreation's head savagely to one side only to have to opposite fist catch it and send it careening back the other direction to repeat the dance. Looping it in a seemingly endless cycle of brutalization, black ichor joining rich red blood in the spatters climbing Bart's arms as he felt each strike rock up his arms, wracking his own body with recoil and the accompanied pain, only driving him to swing harder, scream louder — drive it back into the dark by bare knuckle and bone.

The assault drove the monster down into the dirt, but it also focused Bart's attention away from other things, the berserk soldier's single-minded fury blinding him to the quailing creature's motions beyond writhing pain. It flailed out at him, its strange left dual-limb lashed out and drove open-palmed into the bare-chested man, slapping him from his perch and driving him down into the dirt, pinning him there in a cage of sickle waxy fingers. Bart screamed, the pressure cracking his already damaged ribs further, blood spattered his lips as he retched, and drove his fists into the monster's spindly knuckles, smashing and twisting them — receiving hisses of pain from the miscreation's gangly throat as a small reward. The monster took that moment, sinking its severed stump down again, the crawling snakes of flesh dragging it back together, the trapped man in its cage of torment howled and writhed so close to Bart's face he could smell the poor bastard's fetid breath. The Gatekeeper drew its hand back, now whole, and turned its eyeless, chasm of a face suddenly, whipping that raptorial limb out in a sudden snapping motion — there was a bird-like squawk of pain, and the limb whipped back into sight. Perchta dangled from it, her blade going flying as it slammed her into the dirt in her own thorny prison of many-fingered pain, the Sidhe woman absolutely mad with anger, flailing and snarly, claws rending and teeth snapping — a wild animal, caged.

“Come on then you miserable cur." Bart spat through blood-spattered lips, grasping at the over-sized fingers, he shouted again; “COME ON THEN, DO IT!"

The monster's head snapped back to him, that bored, empty hole like a hungry void, sucking in the light and descending seemingly forever as it stared him down with the unholy empty socket, its twin jaws flaring their bifurcated mandibles apart like some hideous canine spider. Bart set his teeth as the beast's mouth descended, his fingers finding purchase on the thing's hands, his muscles bulged and he screamed again in fury, twisting and pulling at those seemingly iron digits, he would meet his end fighting.

A new sound came to the clearing then. A sound of song and fury.

A blazing star lit the clearing, and the Gatekeeper recoiled from the light as if burned — and truly, it was. Smoke rose from its flesh where the light touched it, it sizzled and shrieked at the interloper, its attention away from its captives now.

The Lady in White had arrived, and in her blazing golden gaze was death.

UNHAND MY BELOVED, MISBEGOTTEN.

Her words were not spoken, though her lips moved, her lungs passed air across them — her voice was that of creation. As the Wendigo had been when its Aspect was revealed, so was she now; a blazing sun of righteous fury, unfettered and raw. The Gatekeeper recoiled from her, and Bart seized his chance with a renewed roar of fury — his Lady's presence spurring him to greater heights than he'd ever known. Muscles bulged, red with the rush of blood and battle humors, his lips cracked and split as he screamed and tore at the fingers that held him, they twisted apart as he wrested the monster's hand open by main strength. The battered, one-eyed man found the might of ten in his shoulders as he tore the digits grasp apart, thrusting it away with a great heave of his arms — free, he rolled to the side, finding his feet heavily as his heart pounded a staccato tempo on his sternum.

They'd done it. They'd bought enough time. It was now to capitalize on it. The Lady's assault began in earnest, the unicorn charging the monster with naked fury; her dainty hooves shook the earth like a stampede as she rushed the monster, meeting it head-on in a clash of horn and fang, her gleaming saber of gold flashed as she lashed out with all five limbs, Hooves dug divots, even her flashing fangs snapped and bit, harrying the monster away from Bart and Perchta, who leapt to her feet with an acrobatic kick-up, recovering her blade as Bart met Cithara's gaze in alarm;

“Beware, Lady! There is an innocent within its heart!" Bart cried, and Cithara paused, withdrawing from the melee, her golden eyes alighting upon the twisted shape caught within the yawning ribcage, its eyes meeting her own with worst of all — recognition. The Lady's lip curled in revulsion, hatred, and sorrow — the emotions warred on her alien visage, no less beautiful for its terrifying rage.

“What is this foulness!?" she hissed, her voice again made for his ears and mind, rather than speaking with the song of ages, the Gatekeeper's twin maws howled a shrieking cry at her, and the figure within its twisted chest screamed, the monstrosity's wounds closing over again, supping on the poor man's life force right before the Unicorn, seemingly shivering with relish at the blasphemy.

Cithara screamed. It was not a sound of pain or fear. It was pure outrage, unfettered and raw.

“That is no mere man, he is one of MINE!" she shrieked in rage, the anger welling up around her like a tangible force, her mane dancing in the sudden gathering of power as her eyes blazed anew with greater, savage intensity that made meeting her gaze a painful glare.

THIS VIOLATION SHALL NOT STAND.

The words again rang out through creation's own lattice more than the ears, her anger and revulsion so great that it pressed beyond the ken of words and the vibration of air — all of existence trembled beneath the coming ire of the Lady in White. Bart flinched away from it as her orbit flared to such an intensity that he was forced back a step by the buffeting energies, She reared up, horn flaring into incandescent brightness so truly glaring that even Perchta and her cowled face was forced to look away from its radiance.

The strike came like a cosmic event, the Gatekeeper bringing itself to bear on Her and Her alone, the radiant blade of the Lady's power scythed down in a great arc, her Song carrying it and shaking the air with furious power. The Gatekeeper howled its shrieking wail and lunged forward in the glare, that strange raptorial limb lashing out in the rapidly retreating darkness towards her as the strike landed. To call it a mere blow was to lack a grasp of the enormity of the energies involved, the very swing of her body to bring her radiant blade down blew the air from the clearing, stripping loose leaves and bark from trees and blasting the dirt around Bart and Perchta's feet clean from the packed sod. Bart grinned a battle-mad rictus as the two preternatural combatants clashed, the Lady's great blow engulfing the entire clearing in a white-out flash of holy energy — within it the Gatekeeper's wail peaked and Bart snarled an ugly sound of satisfaction.

“Die screaming, abomination." He rasped, facing the radiance, echoing Lidia's words as Dagan-Baal lay keening its end beneath their blades. With his eye closed, Bart pushed into the pressure wave. Feeling the Lady's destroying energies upon his skin like the warming rays of the sun, and as the ringing holy thundercrash faded... so did the light from Bart's one eye.

The Gatekeeper stood. In its grasp was the Lady's horn – that freakish, double-palmed hand wrapped around it, her face one of shock and mute horror. The dual-throated wail came again, this time edged with a cadence of mocking triumph. Within the grisly prison, the man trapped inside screamed and howled with pain so primal Bart could hear the flesh of his throat tearing asunder in a wet gurgle on every keen of torture... and within that cage of bone and pain; his eyes became luminous with the telltale golden radiance of The Divine Ember. The abomination twisted its wrist, and Cithara stumbled to one side, so shaken and seemingly stunned she offered no resistance as the monster literally heaved, and slung her bodily to one side — the lithe, beautiful creature's limbs limp and slack as she went tumbling, bouncing and rolling through the dirt... the glow fading from her orbit. The Gatekeeper raised its hands above its head again, its twin mouths raising to the sky in another hellish keening wail... as if it were giving thanks on high.

Bart was in motion before she'd stopped moving, never before had he run so fast — never before had he felt such terror, never in the dark of night or the fury of storm — even in the bowels of the earth facing the horrors of miscreation, he had not felt the grip of fear so cold around his heart. Even Perchta's voice raised in a shriek of denial — and in pure primitive fury, she gathered her weapon and hurtled at the monster — clashing with it in midair in a multi-limbed grapple, the two ancient creatures snapping, clawing, and biting at each other in an impossible to track half-grapple, half-duel that simply descended into a rolling ball of violence in the middle of the clearing.

“My Lady! My Love!" Bart screamed, skidding to a stop in the dirt, heedless of how it tore new flesh from his arms and knees through his shredded trousers. His hands lay on her, touching and seeking her heartbeat through her flesh. Her eyes fluttered, and tears poured from them as she struggled to meet his gaze, seemingly dazed still.

“My... my power..." she gasped... her body shuddering as she righted herself; sheer and unknowable horror in her eyes: “It drank my power."

“How is that possible!?" Bart cried, offering her his strength as she pressed against him, regaining her feet and a sudden iron in her bearing, her eyes glimmered with the still-falling tears as she looked at the rolling melee just beyond.

“The man within it. He is a Paladin. He is one of mine. I can feel his mantle." she said in a heartbroken tone, her lips peeling back from her teeth and fangs in a revolted sneer.

“Kill it for me beloved. Kill it so he can die." the unicorn gathered herself in those words, her gleaming orbit slowly shimmering about her, she seemed to have to put effort into it — as if the vessel of power she'd been drawing from had been emptied suddenly, and needed to be filled anew – her voice cracked as she added: “We will do it together — but you must be the final blow... I... I cannot harm my boys."

Bart nodded and stood, raising his torn, bloody fists and their rope bindings, Cithara's eyes tracked to them and she gasped at him, and he shook his head at her, even as blood dripped to the ground.

“No time, we must act. Perchta is flagging," he said, pointing — and indeed charged anew with its stolen power, the Gatekeeper's frenzy was rapidly overtaking the aggressive Sidhe woman's defenses, pushing her onto her back foot with every exchange. Cithara set her teeth, stepping apart from him she walked in a quick, brisk circle, rounding about towards him at the end of it — and yet seemed to walk upon the ground and while treading nothing, gaining no distance and yet she grew seemingly closer while remaining stationary — an optical illusion until he realized as she now towered above him, that nay she had not failed to close distance, but as she had walked closer she had grown taller, her scale even had raised up. No longer was the Lady in White the dainty, almost doe-like size of compact beauty she was before — nay, now she stood many hands high, the scale of a war horse. Her eyes blazed anew with regained might, the aurum pools turning to Bart as her orbit flared.

“Sit astride my back, my darling. We fight as one."

Bart felt humbled by the act, but he had no time to think, Perchta screamed in pain beyond, raising the hair on his neck. He vaulted onto her back, his red bloody hands leaving prints on her own gore-stained coat as he grasped a handful of her mane, and without a word, she was off — moving with a speed that Bart had never felt before on the back of a mere mortal steed, he dug his second hand in as she poured on the effort, his hair whipped back from his face as the sprint seemed to tear at reality, light streaking into lines around him as Cithara raised her head in song again, the keening cry hit him in the chest and he felt his body surge with a potent fervor, even before the seemingly unlimited stamina he had quailed beneath the sudden rush of strength, his hurts vanished, his mind cleared and his muscles seemed to physically swell with vascular strength as the Lady in White's Song of War filled him with vital energy.

Distant across the clearing, the two combatants had rolled and fought one another tooth and claw, leaving a spatter of mixed blood and gore in a trail behind them, the Gatekeeper's black ichor, and the strange blue-hued smears that Bart only assumed was the pale Sidhe's vital fluids. Their clash had resolved with the monstrosity looming over her, half-pinning her into the dirt, its massive form stretched out across the clearing like a wagon caravan of meat, bone, and horror, Perchta's blade poised at its neck as the two fought and struggled for dominance, the huntress clearly losing the contest.

They were upon the monster in seconds, but instead of crashing into it like a charging cavalier all crushing mass and stamping hooves, the unicorn trampled upon its tail — it hissed and turned its head with a wail yet it was too late — Cithara ran up the beast's back, striding up it with a great series of stomping, digging footfalls that grasped and found purchase on its flesh and bone like the hardiest of mountain goats, Cithara's song peaking as she thrust herself straight, bucking her rider forwards — Bart understood, the contact between him and his Lady seeming to pass the thought by touch, no words needed. The knight-brother bunched his legs beneath him and was catapulted forward into the air, arms back, chest forward in a great leaping lunge.

Cithara's strike came like the crash of tides, her horn alight in a great lance of power once more, and the beast tried to turn, to grapple with her again — bringing that strange, dual-palmed hand to bear as if to leech her power from it — and the energy unleashed, not in another scything beam or destructive wave — but the all-too-familiar all-encompassing energy of her grasp; the abomination's snatching limb halted in an outline of hostile golden radiance.

“NEVER AGAIN WILL YOU TOUCH ME MONSTER!" she crowed, and the beast's hungering, leeching limb suddenly was ripped bodily from its socket by the Unicorn's sheer will, the dangerous appendage hurtling into the darkness of the treeline.

Bart's strike landed in that moment of weakness, the monster recoiling in agony and its prisoner echoing the cries as it tried to regenerate the limb wholesale, that open mouth a tempting target, Bart's fist descended with the force of a meteorite, the impact jarred him, the shock blasting up his arm and daring for a moment to take his whole limb clean off with the sheer kinetic energy that had been transferred — and verily had he not been beneath the song of the Lady, it may have.

But not this day. The strike hit the monster full in the mouth, skipping its teeth and driving down into its soft palate, Bart's fist crushing and smashing down, compressing that gangling neck like a spring with the weight of impact. The big man found purchase there, digging his boots into the monster's collarbone — and then with a snarl, he clenched his fingers in the thing's mouth; grabbing a disgusting meaty handful of tongue, flesh, and sinew; that close he stared into the gaping chasm where its face and eyes should be, his one blue eye a insane pinpoint of zealous fury.

“Choke on it, you misbegotten filth." he snarled, and then with a wrenching twist of his arm, he rolled his shoulders and kicked off the thing's chest, Cithara still in complete simpatico with her chosen soldier, keened her song louder, driving her hooves down in a kicking leap of her own — her power flared, the beast's body limned with vindictive golden luminescence that lifted it into the air, robbing it of its mass, dragging it into the sky in a heartbeat's moment.

Bart then, with a great screaming roar of anger, pain, fear, and pure, unbridled battle-frenzy, hurled the beast's magically abrogated mass downwards beneath him.

In that moment, Cithara cut her power — Bart's sudden motion was then carrying all the crushing, terrestrial weight of the Gatekeeper's own body, arms grasping tongue and jaw for leverage as the airborne warrior turned that throw, that momentum into a pile-driving slam. The sheer force at which the monster hit the ground shook the earth, driving its head and body into itself, it crumpled and crunched under the inescapable oppression of gravity — the cosmos themselves lending Bart's blow preternatural strength. The monster's inverted frame shuddered as it rolled flat on its back, arching with agony as a thousand misshapen fractures wracked its stolen skeleton — its prisoner howled and cried wordless prayers of mercy.

Bart landed heavily in a heap on top of it, bouncing and rolling across its body until a grasping hand halted his momentum on an exposed rib, he roared his defiance and swung himself up onto the thing's chest again, straddling it anew as it lunged at him with its remaining unshattered mouth – the one Bart had struck hung slack and broken free from its socket — only to be halted mid-snap by another telekinetic hold from Cithara, the unicorn having landed lightly nearby, her orbit a blazing nimbus of energy as she held the greater beast in check.

Bart simply lost his mind for a moment, the big man driving his fist into the frozen beast's face again, slamming its head askew, following it up with several more blows, hammering it in a frenzy of hatred and revulsion, he found himself screaming at it again, his howls of anger joining the Lady's song in a crescendo as he linked his fingers into a hammering fist and drove them down on its crown, the hit crashing home with a bone-crushing report that drove the beast backward., it whimpered and howled, scrabbling at him with its remaining limbs — but Cithara battered those too away, yet and still the creature seemed to rally, it struggled against her hold, and she seemed to stagger beneath the resistance, it gave that telltale wail again and it surged forwards at Bart, snapping at him with its overgrown teeth, writhing beneath him, daring to throw him from its bulk. Between Bart's straddling thighs, the prisoner's eyes flared gold again and he cried out his denial of the agony as the monster sucked him dry — nay, it supped off its stolen power, and Bart saw the sapping right-most limb's stump beginning to regrow. His mind raced... and then — his eyes met those of the Paladin trapped within the cage of torment, and for a moment they stared at one another through clenched teeth of pain and anger, the captured warrior's existence a torture as it seemed to suddenly flicker with recognition, a moment of clarity rushed through that visage and it clenched its jaw with resolve.

“D...do it... fo... for the Lady..." he rasped in a wet voice, barely human. Bart hesitated and the scream of agony suddenly had words, words he understood: “UNTIL THE PALE DAWN CALLS ME!"

Bart's hands moved almost without thinking, the monster snapped at him again, and he ducked it, Cithara suddenly staggered back as there was a faint sound of pain from her, the beast surged towards Bart, its jaws spread to end the knight-brother's life in a single horrid chomp.

He grasped not the monster — but the Paladin's frame within it. Bart's fingers dug into the snaking coils of flesh and waxy meat welding him to the monster's heart, and with a great scream of defiance, he tore at it, pulling with such a great wrenching force that his knees buckled and his spine screamed, crackling and popping under the force audibly even in the din — the veins on his neck stood out, his arms were massive, trunks of stark, vascular steel as he dragged upwards. The prisoner's screams joined his, and suddenly the monster's attack was halted by its own cry of agony, it arched violently, bucking and screaming, daring to roll and crush the man.

“NO!" Cithara's voice screamed, and her power slammed into it again, shoving the beast back to the turf as Bart gave one last sudden wrench, he felt his body tearing apart, he felt his heart hammering his chest and his lungs burning with blood and exhaustion as he screamed his conviction down the beast's throat and gave one, final effort, feeling the monster's flesh giving beneath his boots.

Then, out it came. The prisoner and all of its connecting tissue, the fleshy oubliette of ventricles and bone rending asunder in a deluge of black ichor and clinging gore, washing Bart's body in steaming, stinking viscera as he and the damned man both tumbled from the writhing, flailing beast's chest — bucked away in a messy fountain of agony and guts, bouncing and rolling in a heap once more.

The monster died horribly, it screamed and writhed and clawed at its chest, dragging itself forward to try to reach the drained man that had been its core, clawing towards it desperately... and then it simply fell apart. Bit by bit it struggled, flailed, and dissolved into a disparate collection of limbs, bones, and body parts, screaming and wailing all the while as it did until all that was left was a black, greasy smear of unholy ichor... and its eyeless, monocular skull. Staring at the void as it swallowed it.

“God's blood." Bart breathed, and there was a hacking cough next to him. He whirled and saw the man, the Paladin, lying there... not much was left of him, a torso withered and hacked short, infested with the same waxy, cancerous flesh from before, his face even mostly consumed by the remnants of the prison he'd just been freed from. Cithara hurried over, her presence like a warm summer day suddenly in the darkness. The stricken man's eyes fluttered as he saw her, the golden hue leaving them as he drew in a ragged, agonized breath.

“M...my lady... I fought... fought for so long..." he rasped, Bart's eye wide with shock as the man hacked, black ichor bubbling past his lips as he drew one final, deep breath.

“It... it was... a go... good life..." he said, and a smile spread across his tortured features and then a long, slow exhale, and he was still. Cithara's eyes overflowed with tears, and she recoiled as if someone had struck her, a flare of gold energy flashing in her eyes. The mantle returning, Bart realized in a flash of insight.

“Oh... oh my dear, dear boy... Ser Eglamour..." she wept, pressing in close despite the stinking, spattering of gore that they all wore, gathering his misshapen corpse to her breast, she wailed softly, her tears wetting the dead man's face as she laid across him in a heap of immortal agony, her whole form seeming to dull and lose its luster as she cried — indeed even the light seemed to dim, the air grew cold... as the Lady in White wept, so did the very land and trees weep with her.

“I did not know him," Bart said after a moment, laying his hands on her neck. She nodded her head, her tears streaming unabated as she drew her breath back in, holding off another wracking sob.

“He was one of my boys, a wonderful, sweet man of impossible courage... he so often did the unthinking, fought the impossible — went so far above and beyond. I had not known he had been taken, I thought perhaps he had simply settled down from his adventures, gained the rest a noble warrior deserved." she breathed and pressed her face to the corpse again, a sob escaping her; “Not that he'd been taken, violated like this.. oh my boy, my sweet, sweet baby boy…"

A rustle caught his attention — Bart snapped his gaze up and saw Perchta standing, with the aid of another Sidhe Huntress. Holda had appeared... and around them suddenly the woods were alive with the green, glowing forms of the Wild Hunt as he'd seen them before, they filtered through the forest for a moment, seemingly ghostly — more ethereal than solid, they stood sentinel in a line around the clearing, staying a distance away.

“You fight with furor most admirable, Ser." Holda said as she drew her sister's weight up; Perchta holding a grisly wound in her belly but otherwise seemed whole; “Never have I seen such zeal in an untouched, untempered man-thing — not since the First Ones." she said, and she gave a deep, respectful bow, one her sister half-mimicked around a growl of pain.

“The Hunt sweeps the woods, there are more pockets of invaders — ghuls and plagued ones. We go to run them down and make examples." She said, and Perchta nodded, claiming her blade again as her sister helped her to the treeline, seemingly needing no other goodbyes or words as the two sidhe melted into the forest, and their foxfire-limned companions fading with them. It was then Bart realized... it had been perhaps, a half-glass of time, no longer; so much had been done in so little time. The lulling tempo of battle at work.

Beside him, the Lady in White wept, and together they mourned a man destroyed.

Much had happened in a mere half-glass. A mere half-glass to change the world. The scales tilted. The gyre widened. War had come anew.

~ ~ ~

Bart grunted, shifting the last stone in hand into place. He settled back, still bloody, still wounded, still seemingly without fatigue. It was a strange sensation. He laid a hand on that heavy stone, the last in a great Cairn, rough and humble — save for the monstrous, broken skull atop it... and Bart's discarded roughshod club. Within it, Ser Eglamour's remains rested beneath the cool earth. Interred on the spot where the portal shattered and the Gatekeeper fell — his final act of heroism, his last moment of clarity that slew the beast. It felt appropriate he is entombed there at the sight of his final glory and redemption.

“Sleep well my brother, the Pale Dawn rises for thee. May its warmth bring you happy dreams," he murmured, patting the stone fondly, leaning back heavily on his hands, looking up at the sky, the sun shining down through the thin spot in the canopy, its warmth teasing away the chill of the shadows. There was an oddly disconnected feeling — Bart had never buried a man before, let alone someone he'd consider a hero. Rashid had handled it in their first encounter, due to Bart's malaise upon the realization of his first kill. He felt a strange kinship with this man he'd never known, who'd come and gone from the Abbey long before he'd taken his first oaths.

“It's a strange lot we choose, isn't it?" he asked the cairn. The silence didn't seem uncomfortable in response, he felt the acknowledgment in the quiet. “We chose this fight. Were you as ignorant of its truth as I was?" he asked, stroking at his growth of beard, wiping away a dried, cracking crust of blood and gore with a grimace, “Of the depths of depravity that awaited us? It shocked me, I won't lie about such things. I did not expect the face of evil to be so openly so." he said, laughing softly at the silliness of such a thing.

“Imagine that, being disappointed that your enemy shows itself openly." he said, shaking his head, turning to look at the cairn; “I wager you did not lament that so. But for I?" he shook his head, looking to the sky again, watching the flight of birds across the morning sky, the seeping light between the boughs the orange of the morning sun. Time's ebb and flow here was strange and seemed to conform to no rules he could gauge beyond Cithara's will.

“For I, it feels too easy. It is easy to hate a monster, to despise it... and I fear to say it aloud yet... I don't think I truly hate them, my brother." he said, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper; “Are they not themselves victims, if we are to believe the Lady? Dragged to an impossible half-life, never dying, never resting, seeking an impossible, lost history..." he shook his head with a shudder, sitting up and flexing his fingers with a wince, the stolen cordage he'd wrapped his arms in reminding him of its cutting tightness, he began unwinding it as he continued, the ropes leaving stripes of red on his abused flesh, clean spots in the gore and grime of battle.

“I hate them for what they have done, I hate them for what they are; in the heat of battle a fervor fills my heart and drives me to slay them, give them no quarter... but deep in my heart when I consider the enormity of it all?" he asked, wincing as his one hand came free, looking down at his torn knuckles, the evidence of his bitter conviction in battle written in blood and bone.

“I pity them."

“As you should, my darling." Cithara's voice intoned, Bart looked up suddenly, unwinding his other arm. The Lady's coat was once again pristine, her pelt the impossibly perfect white that all other versions of the hue aspired to, she had excused herself after they'd lain the fallen Ser Eglamour to rest to 'gather herself'. Bart allowed it with no questions, he'd seen so much of her inner struggle laid raw and bear — the space to mourn for a moment in solitude seemed due. “They are miserable creatures, trapped in the machinations of a mad god and her delusions. Hate them if you must to swing your blade, but in your heart's deepest reaches — you are right to feel sorrow for them," she said, settling down next to him again.

“I do."

“Are you well, Lady?" Bart asked after a beat, pulling the last of his stolen cordage free from his arm with a wince, discarding the matted, bloody ropes and flexing his fingers with hisses of discomfort, the scabbed knuckles cracking and bleeding anew; “We have no way of knowing what that abomination did to you..."

“I am whole and well as can be, darling Bart." She assured him, a frown creasing her soft lips as her orbit flared softly and her pulling energies limned his hands, pulling them apart and turning them over before her eyes; “Unlike what can be said of my champion." she admonished him, furrowing her brow in only slightly mock scorn.

“I did but what was needed." He hedged, and the Unicorn snorted, her glowing eyes meeting his a moment as she returned to examining his wounded hands.

“You have a habit of destroying yourself for victory my beloved, please try to break yourself of that rather than simply breaking yourself." she continued and her horn slowly lumed, gaining far fainter incandescence than it had when she'd struck down the hordes of the lost and damned; she leaned down and gently touched it to each of his hands, and her lips parted in a faint, almost bell-like tone of song — he flexed his fingers as the nearly narcotic warmth of her magic flowed through his hands, he watched the wounds knit, the knuckles in some places push more firmly back into place — he'd been asleep for much of her healing before, to see it in action was wondrous. She sang softly and he found the flesh knitted and mended, leaving deep, lumpy scars — but he was whole. She repeated the process on the dozens of minor cuts and abrasions until she slowly had moved forward, and practically occupied his lap, gently crooning her wordless song of restoration — it soothed his mind as much as his hurts.

“It is time I gave you the blessing my dear, you have done so much without it that I am impressed. My Order has made me proud of the work they put into you," she said, meeting his gaze.

“You are a champion among mortals. The number of things you have survived... the things I glimpsed in your mind when I healed its damage — what I witnessed of your tenacity last night, it didn't even cross your mind that I could heal your wounds did it?" she asked and Bart paused and felt a cold knot in his gut.

“... No, not it did not," he said dumbly in realization. The unicorn sighed in mild exasperation.

“So like him." She murmured, a shiver rocking through her as she pressed into his chest; Bart had no time to question before he simply found himself putting his arms around her by reflex, embracing her. “Yet even ignorant as that, you hurled yourself unarmed, unarmored into the fray... and what's more you triumphed."

“Perchta did much of the work, she killed far more than I did," Bart added, and she shook her head.

“The Huntress's deeds are known to me, and she possesses many advantages you do not. It was not Perchta's blade or cunning that wrested Ser Eglamour from his living tomb. You are humble my darling, but do not be so to the detriment of your own valor. You have done well, and I am so proud of you I feel as if I might burst with it." she said, punctuating the word with a faint flare of her orbit, her golden markings and eyes briefly pulsing with that aurum energy as if she were filled to the seams with said pride. Bart had no answer to that and merely nodded. Accepting her words with humility.

“Now," she began, moving closer into his arms, her voice lowering; “To other things."

“Other things?" Bart asked, caught off guard; still processing the titanic enormity of the compliment he'd just been paid. Cithara nodded lightly.

“There is much we have to discuss before that Bart, more than I wish to ask of you — but there is no choice now. The Glade is no longer safe," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, her gleaming, wicked horn gently brushing his cheek as she grew comfortable — back in the scale he had met her in, she was light as a fawn in his arms.

“Why did I not grow tired in the melee? Was it you?" he asked directly, she nodded.

“Yes, at least in origin. My influence saturates these woods, fills them with the vitality I radiate, much as it does to extend your lifespan as you are near me. To be of my children in this wood is to be filled with my love — and my love is invigorating, my beloved Bart." she said, her eyes lidding in a sumptuous stare; “Most invigorating, I assure you."

The flirty interludes had before given Bart pause, but he found the amorous words comforting in this instance, a return to form for the cosmic being, a regaining of her center. He smiled at her and she tittered softly, leaning up and gently kissing his cheek as she occupied herself within his lap. She seemed to need to touch him at this moment, even as filthy as he was with gore and grit. He was not about to deny her that.

“So that's why the ghuls died so easily, I had to burn them previously or render them completely incapable of continuing the contest by hideous mutilation," he said, remembering how hard Dagan-Baal had been to bring down, how much impossible punishment it had endured, even immolated in the cleansing flames as he had been — and later atop the Ziggurat, where they had taken a half dozen arrows and not slowed down.

“Yes, much like the Queen's presence retards time and stagnates natural processes — mine influence in this wood strips them of her influence, they are technically free of her in here... and yet they fight for her name, for it is all they know; they cannot be more than they are," she said sadly, Bart's shoulders sagged at that.

“... Even free from her yoke, they still call to her?" he asked.

“She is their God, Bart. Even if she is cruel and demanding — they revere her, they love her." That sat heavily in Bart's gut as he considered it, it was a difficult idea to digest: Another God, equal in might and reach to his own — and entirely opposed to He and His. He had been taught that there was one Truth to the multiverse, that His word was the final one — a teaching he still believed fervently.. and yet.

“Is there no chance at peace? An accord?" he asked, and Cithara's eyes grew flat, hard. Cold.

“No Bart. The Empty Queen is a wound in creation. She is misbegotten, a God in name only — a mantle stolen and cannibalized. She feasted on the flesh of the divine, herself a stillborn idea. She was born wrong, and all that flows from her works carries her disease in them as well." she said with frosty venom, her eyes unblinking as she continued, staring into Bart's soul:

“There can be no compromise. You can treat with the Empty Queen no more than you can a cancer or a poison. She is rot and stagnation incarnate. You are the flame that burns her infection from our world, never forget that."

Bart was shaken by that gaze, but he did not look away. Nodding solemnly, he swallowed.

“Why is she so?" he dared, and Cithara sighed, smiling at him ruefully.

“For one who is so ferocious in battle, you yearn so for peace. Admirable, but foolish in this instance," she said and settled against him again. “I do not know, darling. I know as you do how she was born, and I suspect she is quite literally mad because of that experience — to be a manifested godling, struggling free from your mother's dead womb, to find yourself the half-living matriarch of a cradle of dead children," she said and shuddered, eyes haunted.

“T'would drive me to madness."

Such thoughts were heavy, and Bart's mind was far, far too limited to grasp the enormity of an entire dead race, it shook him as he let his arms drape around her, and she lay in silence a moment, simply listening to his heart in his bare chest.

“You are so muscular, not many of my boys are as you are." she said quietly after a moment, her nose touching his scarred, grimy chest; “All of my boys are warriors, yet few are so titanic as your darling, and hairy as well!" she tittered, blowing a puff of breath through his curly chesthair, matching the faint curl in his shaggy hair, causing Bart to blush.

“I apologize... I was a fat child, I worked doubly hard as the other novices to shed that weight." he said, looking down at his considerable biceps; “It didn't really work at first, my arms and chest got big, but the flab didn't disappear. So I worked harder.."

“... And everything kept getting bigger." She finished for him, grinning with that mischievous, gremlin-like edge to her smile; “A gentle giant, like a great bear. Don't apologize to me Bart, darling..." she said, her eyes smoldering.

“I like it."

Bart's words died in his mouth, and they were so very close in that moment, a million untoward thoughts rushed through his head, and he felt his ragged, tattered trousers grow uncomfortably tight even in spite of the layer of filth and crust of gore he wore, she was so warm in his arms, so alive — she thrummed with an energy beneath his fingers that he yearned to never be apart from. Silence fell on them both, and they drifted closer, her eyes flicking slowly between several points on his face, her lips softly pouting... he found himself wanting to kiss that mouth, his own lips parting, their dry, cracked surfaces felt like the surface of a desert — and her warm mouth a refreshing oasis to soothe their hurts.

“Darling." She whispered, mere inches away. Bart tilted his head up, eyes meeting hers in answer.

“You are hesitating," she observed, and he nodded. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You question your desires." he nodded again, his heart hammering hard against his chest now as they sat there, next to the cairn, in the ruins of a battle that had nearly cost them both their lives — nearly cracked the world asunder, casting all of reality into torpor and doom. Her lips turned up in a soft smile.

“I understand. Allow me."

She did not ask permission, instead, she pressed up into his arms intimately close, her alien features filled his vision, the scent of spring flowers and a sort of sweet, musky scent that reminded him of spices and sweet honey. Her foreleg draped around his torso, her chest pressed to his, the soft fluff there silky and luxurious over her trembling breast. Her breath shuddered one last time out of soft, sumptuous lips that parted with a barely audible sound of wet flesh.

Then she kissed him.

Bart had never been kissed, not even stolen pecks by girls in town — he had denied himself, occupied his mind and heart with his commitment to The Lady, out of fear of rejection... and fear he would harm someone by accident, he was so large — so clumsy.

Cithara's kiss was not chaste, it was not motherly; her mouth enveloped his, wider and shaped differently, but eminently compatible — her head tilted to part her lips, breaking the seal of his own with her tongue — and what an experience that was. It was not the wide, flat thing he was familiar with from feeding horses — nay this was a long, sinuous, and pointed organ that slid across his own sensually, igniting his mind like a series of Naima's black-powder bombs detonating behind his eyes. He kissed her back slowly, cautiously... he did not know how. Her touch was instructive, head tilting to guide him, lips gentle and coaxing along the right motions and methods; soon they were once again in sync, breathing as one — his arms around her as she drank of him, he felt as if she teased a bit of his soul free with her tongue as his mind swam in the pleasure, the sensation…

“Ah..." her lips broke from his slowly, her teeth found his lower lip — her sharp canines pulling at it slowly as she gently separated from him — and her eyes opened, looking at him with an almost predatory gaze of longing and possessiveness; the details of her gold-on-gold eyes so crisp and stark this close he couldn't bear to look away as she tugged his lip one last little bit until it pulled from her teeth, snapping back into place, leaving her alarmingly long tongue to snake out across her lips — easily a full span and some long on its own — before she smiled at him.

“Was I your first?" she asked in a husky tone, and all Bart could do was nod, he was literally seeing stars — her orbit had flared slightly during the act, and around him glimmered motes of golden light as she bit her lower lip, looking down at the tent he'd formed in his trousers.

“Perhaps later... I will introduce you to many more firsts, beloved," she said, that tongue flashing again in another lustful, hungry lash before darting like a pink serpent back into her short, shapely muzzle. Bart had no answer to that as she smiled at him archly, her teeth showing and eyes dancing with mischief and eagerness.

“For now, darling — there is more I must relate to you, more you must understand... and I think you will be the last I ever need tell some of it," she promised, the big man shivered as she withdrew back to her usual distance, laying her head across his shoulder once more.

Bart was stunned, his head was a buzz of a thousand thoughts like an angry hive of bees all vying for his attention, Cithara wisely remained silent as Bart worked his jaw silently a few times, seeming to need a few attempts to get his mouth and brain on the same track.

“O-other things?" he finally managed with only a slight stammer. He had faced down nigh-impossible odds, atavistic monstrosities and even dragged himself back from the verge of death with some small help, yet one kiss — one amazing, intense, mind-erasing kiss — had cut him straight to the core, leaving him completely disarmed and at her mercy. It was clear in the unicorn's eyes as she met his one-eyed gaze again she knew it. She gave a wink and leaned up, pressing her lips to his again, this time it was light... but there was still not a speck of chastity in it, her mouth gently pulling at his lower lip as the brief touch ended, and she slid from his lap in a long, sinuous motion — her leonine tail dragging under his chin as she went — that spicy scent of honey and springtime suddenly strong under his nose.

The smile on her lips was smug as she walked back to the cairn, pausing before it with a sigh, gently leaning down to touch her horn to the pile of stones. The golden saber lit with radiance for a moment, her orbit flaring and the energy sinking into the stones.

Immediately, the ground roiled and twisted... and grass sprouted, then shoots, and finally flowers. Life bloomed up, the vines and tendrils creeping across the stones, wreathing over the strange dual-mawed skull of the Gatekeeper, and Bart's improvised club as well — Ser Eglamour's remains entombed in a cocoon of life. Bart felt something catch in his throat, and he wiped a sudden tear from his eye. It just seemed beautiful, so ugly an end to produce such natural beauty... truly, he loved her. He realized it then... had she the same of him?

“As I said earlier." She began her voice once more level. “The glade is no longer safe... this thing, this 'Gatekeeper' as you named it, is new," she stated, scuffing her hoof across the dead, vine-wrapped skull. “Never have I seen its like, and never has the Empty Queen employed such new ideas. She is incapable."

That shook Bart from his love-struck reverie, his brow furrowing. “How can that be? She has a mind doesn't she?" he asked her, and the Unicorn frowned.

“This is one of Those Things, my beloved." She said... and how 'beloved' rolled off her tongue now had a heat to it that made his heart flutter, she idly walked a circle around the skull, studying it as she continued; “The Queen is a God in name only, she was not borne of the divine properly, she stole her essence from her mother's corpse. For that she is forever incomplete, frozen much like time and her children, locked forever in the mindset that brought her to make that choice — when you sup upon Divine Ichor it makes of you what you are at the time you touch it to your lips." she said and added after a fashion; “That is... partially allegory, you understand." she added, and Bart nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

“So..." he began, raising a hand to stroke his chin, feeling the beard stubble there with a thumb; “... she can't grow beyond what she was when she drank the divine ichor, tactically or philosophically... I understand now why you said there can be no peace," he said and Cithara smiled at him, it was devastating to him now, and he practically felt woozy.

“You are far more clever than you give yourself credit for my darling," she said approvingly, and Bart snorted with open derision.

“Lucian was the smart one, I'm strong and bull-headed," he said bluntly, feeling very... raw and cracked open to her gaze, unable to accept the compliment. “It's no great trick to listen to what is told to you and simply think through it one step at a time, it just takes time," he said bluntly, sitting back heavily, propping one arm up on his upraised knee with a shrug.

“Bart, you may not have what you consider intelligence, but the ability to work through a problem — however slowly — is just that." she said, tittering softly as she smiled; “All of my boys say that, I swear the Old Wolf must beat the idea of being a lunkhead into each of you personally," she said with mock exasperation, shaking her mane out again.

“As I was saying, yes. She cannot conceptualize new ideas... so this thing." She prodded the skull again; “Was granted to her by someone else."

Bart's face fell; “Someone is helping her."

“Someone with either great power or great knowledge — but more likely it is both."

Bart fell back on that, nodding as he digested that thought, it was a great deal to consider — and he was currently at a loss of who, or even what.

“The other issue is my dear Ser Eglamour." she said gravely; “They were able to breach my protections with his Mantle, I am unsure how but... it seems they literally shackled and drove him to use its power with their own, a vile corruption."

“It was able to draw on his power to heal itself, but I know not else," Bart confirmed, Cithara nodding, her face pensive.

“Whatever method it is, they were able to enter here and make their attempts upon my life and throne. The Glade is no longer safe... I am no longer safe." she said, her jaw raising resolutely.

“When you leave with your blessing — I will be going with you." Bart blinked and sat forward suddenly, eyes wide; “Milady is that wise? Wouldn't that make you more vulnerable, what you said of your power here..."

“Yes, it would." she agreed, her gaze imperious. “You intend to take my mantle and seek Parias' life, do you not?" she asked directly, the big man paled a bit, looking away as he reached one hand up to touch his haggard and empty eye socket.

“... Yes, yes I had. He and the Magistrate have much to answer for."

“You would do this alone, my mantle, and naught but steel and will?"

“I would, Lady. It is my duty."

Cithara stared at him there, her gaze still stern and domineering as she walked closer to him once more; “You are a foolish man, Bartholomus Mueller. I love you dearly in spite of it." she said, drawing in near him, his heart quickening as she did. She had Spake his Name again, perfectly and without difficulty — and it struck him to the core.

“No Bart, you will not be doing that." she said firmly, “I wager I am not the only one who would take issue with a one-man suicide mission into the heart of an army of raving cursed men and hungry abominations," she said, and Bart was immediately reminded of his friends... she was right, Lidia alone would flay the skin from his bones for such an idea.

“It is unsafe for my companions... my friends and I would not so cavalierly endanger one of the Triune of Beasts-"

She silenced him again by walking forward, and quite plainly pressing her mouth to his again, he was taken off guard mid-sentence, and his one remaining eye fluttered closed as her mouth sought his out. Their lips tangled together again, his mind hazy and full of pleasure as her tongue dipped into touch his only briefly, and she drew back with a faint mewl of disappointment as she spoke, her voice near his ear.

“Beloved, you are a foolish, headstrong man... and I am a headstrong, imperious, demanding woman... and for that, I love you. However, you need not deign to protect me, think of the previous evening's events my darling, and then ask again... do you think me a helpless mare?"

Bart's brain didn't want to waste time thinking of the horrors from the previous night, not when he had this mythical being here, this divine beauty that haunted his dreams since he was but a boy with a copy of the Oath of Gold. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her, embrace her... love her, as a man would a woman — yet as she bade him, so he considered it, his one eye opening to hers in memory of her fury, of her righteous might.

“No, Lady mine," he said in a small voice, ashamed. “I... suppose that is presumptuous of me." he continued, and she smiled close to his mouth, her own lingering near... she seemed as hungry for his touch as he for her own.

“A touch, yes."

“Surely you need not my arm then, I have seen your might..."

“That is my might here, in the seat of my power, in touch with my conduit to the Astral Tapestry and Godhome itself... I am less so beyond its walls, but more than some country mule only fit to carry luggage. However, I must needs go with you. Whatever process they used to harm my baby boys, to drag you and yours into those... things, that Gatekeeper and its horrid magics — I must needs see them destroyed, and I must see it done with mine own eyes." she said, the two close together.

“Will you instead of being ordered as your Lady and Patron — accept me instead... as your companion, in road and evening star?" she asked softly, her golden gaze gentle... a faint smirk playing across her soft lips.

“You will need a mount."

Bart paled at that, seeming shocked “I could never be so demeaning as to-"

“I carried the First Paladin into battle," She interjected, halting his protests on his tongue. “I wore armor of light, wielded a blade of hope and divinity... I can carry one I love as much as he into a conflict just as dire."

“Is this so dire?" he breathed.

“Yes, beloved. My boys are in danger, and with that so am I — so is all of Northsea and the Kingdoms of Men. This creation of these creatures, this taking of my mantle — it can undo us all, undo creation. I need a champion, and God has delivered unto me a stalwart and doughty soldier, with a heart big as Crownspeak and will just as immovable." she said and nuzzled her nose to his.

“And yes... I love you, as much as he. I kiss many of my boys... but I do not kiss them as I did you. You are special, Bart. You were made differently from many men I know... and I ask you one last question before I offer you my mantle, before my power has root in you..." she began, and he came to attention, wearing the grime and gore like parade armor, proud and straight.

“Anything my Lady, ask and I answer."

“Do you love me, Bart?"

Such a question was simple, and he began to answer quickly and she stopped him, eyes wide and liquid like molten gold;

“Not as you have distantly, not as a Lady, not as a Patron or figure of religious authority... do you love me Bart — as a woman?"

There it was, the question hovering between them — the question he'd struggled with for more than a decade of shameful dreams and wistful thoughts, a damning thing that he'd never known the answer to — and yet now, he stood before her, and Knew her. In his mind when they'd shared that mystical greeting, he'd realized it, he'd Known... and in truth, had always known the answer. He had been made for this, he realized now. He'd always been too large, too clumsy for most things, he never felt like he physically fit with others in ways of physical comfort — when in reality, he'd simply been made to scale for someone very, very special.

“I do." he said with certainty, “I think I have loved you distantly for years. I think I have loved you for certain since I laid this one remaining eye upon you," he said, and drew in a breath... this seemed so soon, so sudden... and yet — what was life, if not a series of sudden, spontaneous wonders? Was this no different? Suddenly, Rashid's words from a days-old conversation echoed in his mind, and he found himself murmuring them aloud;

“'That our love, would shepherd one heart to another, one day, a heart she held dearer than all, one long lonesome and longing — and for that, she would give anything'." Bart quoted, and Cithara's eyes widened, her body going still.

“What is that, Bart?" she asked in a tiny voice, daring not to even breathe.

“Rashid, the Akali I spoke of, he said that Manasa, the Learned One told him of that on the day of his wedding years ago, a prophecy he would fulfill," Bart said, his one blue eye wide as he met Cithara's — comprehension also dawning in her golden gaze.

“Oh...My dear, dear sister..." she breathed, shaking her head. Tears glimmered in her eyes as she spoke. Bart smiled suddenly, and it was the most earnest smile he'd ever given as he reached a hand up to the Unicorn, touching her cheek.

“I love you, Cithara." Bart said with newfound conviction, and then without prompting as if on inspiration from god himself, he continued; “I would stay with you, always. I would watch eternity pass by your side... I think I was made for that."

The unicorn choked back a sob, tears fell from her cheeks like glimmering diamonds, and she laughed softly; “God's Blood, you mean that don't you?" she said, trembling — Bart blinked, stunned at the act of the Lady in White swearing, but he had no time to consider it as she spoke further; “Many, many of my boys have said that — the Old Wolf said it even, but none... none have truly meant it. I could see it in their hearts, they had other destinies, other needs to see to... and yet..." she said, trailing off as her head tilted in wonder at Bart, sitting there in the dirt, smeared with blood, gore and mud, missing an eye — a map of new and old scars, torn, haggard... and yet still unyielding.

“You do. You really, truly mean it."

All Bart could do was nod, a lump in his throat stopping any words, his heart hammering his chest like a war drum. There was a moment of silence, and then she gave a small little cry; and leapt upon him. She poured herself into his embrace, and her mouth found his once more — the kiss was desperate, needy, and full of a passion that broke from her like a dam bursting — she kissed him as if she were terrified he would disappear were her lips to leave him, and he kissed her back. Bart as always, was an able learner, and for a moment they were lost in one another. Touch, taste — the sweet flavor of her tongue found its way past his lips again, that long, sinuous organ filling his mouth and sending new stars of pleasure sparking through his brain as she supped upon his love as if she were starving for it. Her tears of joy rolled down her cheeks onto his, and then after a long, torrid moment where neither dared breathe nor separate lest they wake from this dream, she pulled back — her tongue snaking from his mouth as she did, a lurid tremor shaking them both.

“We have much to do my love... and all the time in the world to do it, it has been so long since I have had a champion... a husband." she said, smiling at him with genuine affection; “I will tell you everything... however, there are things to do beloved... namely." She wrinkled her nose at him, and down at herself — her white coat marred in several places by the mess clinging to him still.

“A bath."

“Absolutely." Bart agreed readily.

~ ~ ~

“How is it you're like this?!" Bart laughed, the worry of what felt like years washed from his face as he peered into the hand mirror, his beard had grown out more — he wasn't yet sure how he felt about it; and his lack of a razor meant he had little he could do about it anyways. Water lapped around him, the heavy wood of an old, rustic bathtub — a comfortable and familiar luxury in the exotic woods.

“What do you mean, Darling?" came a silvery tinkle of a laugh, the Big man peered over the edge of the washbasin, a silhouette of the unicorn peering at his own shadow through a small screen of patterned canvas — he'd been surprised that despite their... mutual interest — Cithara had insisted he have privacy to wash. He admitted it was astonishingly comfortable, having that odd amount of distance. He supposed even giving your heart to someone did not mean giving up all parts of yourself.

“You are so..." he groped for the word, a block of heavy rough soap in his hands; “… Earthy." he hedged, unable to really put the feeling properly into words. More laughter from the unicorn, girlish giggles joining the chorus.

“Beloved, I am an embodiment of love. All love, not just that of the divine." she tittered at him, and he could see her tossing her mane playfully through the screen; “What is love, without the earthy pleasures of intimacy? The joy of passion?" she challenged him.

“You sound like some pagan fertility goddess when you say it like that," he responded ruefully, and she chuckled at him again.

“Pagan, no — but to call me a fertility spirit wouldn't at all be incorrect, if you don't believe me — just look down." she cooed at him, and Bart felt his cheeks color as he covered himself despite the sudsy water obscuring him from the chest down.

“Oy! You said I had privacy!" he protested and her laughter soared anew, settling into a soft chuckle.

“You do, darling. I just know exactly the effect I have on tall, handsome, naked men."

Bart couldn't deny that and pointedly resumed scrubbing at his battered body. He was a completely different person than at the start of his journey, the scars on his body alone created a roadmap of the events he'd survived. He'd set out with but a few — training wounds and growing pains really, and now there was barely an inch of his body that wasn't covered in a light peppering of ugly red mementos on his tanned skin. His armor had served him well in his conflicts, but it didn't stop everything — claw-tips, shards of stone and shrapnel, and the armor's own edges itself had marked him in a spiderweb of fine, hairline flaws — and his most recent excursion bare-chested and battle-mad had earned him a dozen or more thick, ropy wounds where the ghuls had landed dragging gashes with their claws in the melee, let alone the dozen of misshapen blotches and blemishes from the all-out brawl the Gatekeeper had caused.

“Handsome." He grunted, thumbing the massive scar that marked his loss against Parias' blade; it had healed painlessly, but it was wide as two of his considerably thick fingers at its midpoint and cut a furrow a quarter that deep into his flesh. “I look rough, like a pair of old boots."

“I find scars quite alluring, dear one. They speak of strength, tenacity, and resilience — and I find nothing more desirable in a man." she purred at him, her silhouette turning... and giving him an eye-catching view of the outline of that sinuous tongue slipping free from her lips playfully; “If they bother you so... I'll kiss each and every single one until they remind you not of the pain, but instead my lips upon your flesh."

Bart felt himself getting warmer at that, with nothing to do with the bathwater; “... I think I'd like that."

“I know I will." she cooed, a visible shiver marking her outline.

“You are so... eager, I must admit I am given pause by it," Bart said, fingers working into his messy shag of hair, the curls had thickened rather than expanded, and he was thankful for that — he had hair like his grandfather on his mother's side, and left unattended the man's curls became unruly to the extreme, making him look like a dandelion puff. Cithara tilted her head at that, her shadow inquisitive.

“Truly? Has no one else ever expressed desire for you before, Bart?" she asked him and he swallowed. The dream came back to him vividly, Viconia's hungry eyes, how wrong they had looked on her. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry... here he'd faced atavistic horrors, death, and agony with grim stoicism, but the idea of someone he'd met acting under the influence of that monster still gave him the chills.

“Not in such a... direct fashion," he hedged after a moment, dunking his head under the water, scrubbing his hair clean — along with his mind of the yet still-fresh horror — and coming back up, wiping the water from his eyes; “I mean," he sputtered a bit, leaning over the bath's walls towards her outline in the divider; “I'm sure I've been flirted with by women and such around the Abbey and likely never realized, I am if you have not noticed — a bit of a goon," he said with a rueful grin. Cithara sighed at him.

“You are not a goon, stop that. I will not have anyone speak ill of my champion in my presence. You are a good boy — too good to notice the petty and casual come-ons of country strumpets, clearly." she said in a mockingly imperious tone, causing Bart to snort derisively at her.

“Or perhaps I only got this far because I'm too dense to realize it's crazy." he said, stroking his chin; “I am sitting here in a tub, in a magical eternal forest, sharing my bath time with a magical talking horse." his tone equally exaggerated in its introspection. Cithara's response was flat.

“If you ever wish to taste my lips upon yours again, darling — you're to refrain from calling me a horse," she said with a not-entirely-playful edge of ice to her tone. Bart raised an eyebrow, turning his head toward her.

“Really? Horse bothers you? You called yourself a mare earlier." Bart argued.

“Yes, and you've called yourself a goon." She retaliated with aplomb, “Nonetheless I am as much a horse as you are an ape." she said brusquely, her silhouetted posture going a bit rigid; “I may have some of the shape and many of the parts, but I take exception at the vulgar comparison."

“Vulgar, eh?" he chuckled, sinking back in the tub to enjoy the heat on his muscles before it cooled over much.

“I am not afraid to be vain nor prideful about what I am. I am The Unicorn, my beloved. It is my responsibility that image remains its platonic ideal, if you were to start thinking of me as a mere horse, one so close to my heart — it would begin to change that ideal if only a bit." she said pointedly.

“Noted, not a horse. A beautiful woman with the prettiest eyes I've ever seen," he said, and she tittered softly, her posture growing playfully coy.

“Ohhh, compliments like that will get you far with me, my darling." she cooed at him, and he saw her tail flick upwards; “It is important to tell a woman she is beautiful often — as it is important for her to tell her man he is handsome." she crooned, and turned her head towards him.

“And mine is quite so — I find myself rather fond of your rear."

Bart paused at that, coloring again and sinking more into the tub, the waterline bobbing across his chin

“My rear?"

“Yes dear, your ass." she hissed with intentional crassness, her voice taking a salacious edge. “It is very toned and shapely — when you were walking around in those shredded trousers earlier, it was like watching a pair of eager lion cubs wrestle in a silken sheet." she all but moaned at him; her tongue's long, sinuous outline drawing a hungry line across her muzzle again, the sight in this context making the hair stand up in a pleasant thrill down the back of his neck.

“I ah... did a lot of work in the quartermaster's stores as a novice. I was big, they had me carry the larger things," he said, and could feel her smile through the screen even if he could not see it.

“Mm, yes. All that lifting of things. Perhaps I'll find something particularly heavy for you to carry for a while..." she trailed off in a dreamy voice, Bart feeling both flattered and also a tiny bit.. ogled. The strangest part was, he found that in this instance — he liked it. Quite a bit.

“I have felt lacking in my practice." he said, stroking his chin as he rose up out of the water a bit; “Perhaps once I find a proper blade, you can keep me company while I walk through my forms." he said and added; “In those trousers you like."

The unicorn giggled at him, and he saw her give a playful little shake of her mane; “I'll hold you to that my champion, I wouldn't want so fine a soldier to lose his edge." she said, then cleared her throat; “Oh; speaking of, my love — the sisters brought you replacement clothing, your sleeping area was... in a state." she said, and Bart nodded ruefully at that, sitting up and stretching as he felt the chill creeping into the water.

“I apologize for the mess. I wasn't expecting to fight for my life in the middle of the night," he said dryly, getting a chuckle from the Lady.

“Nor should you have been, you made a good accounting of yourself from what I saw, however — really Bart — the chamber pot?" she teased, the big man stood and gathered a towel from the nearby shelf, it was of a nice, silky, linen-like cloth. He momentarily wondered what it was, scrubbing his curly mop of hair dry as he stood — Cithara's silhouette turning to watch his own. She may have made a deal of his privacy, but she clearly was enjoying herself.

“What? It was all I had at hand, it hadn't been used!" he said, grinning at that, and she chuckled.

“Well of course it hasn't, what would I do with a chamber pot?" she challenged as he scrubbed at his face, causing him to pause and turn towards her outline on the screen, his face perplexed.

“You would... well. Relieve yourself in it." He said quizzically, and she tilted her head in shadow.

“Yes, I am aware of what it is for darling, I asked what use I would have of it."

“I suppose for you there is the open woods." Bart mused, drying his limbs; only to hear a sound of genuine disgust leave the unicorn's lips and her head recoil from him in silhouetted revulsion.

“That is uncouth and undignified, please tell me you have not been relieving yourself all over my glade." she hissed with a jarring level of accusation, and Bart's eyes went wide with complete befuddlement.

“Then where DO you empty your bladder if not the woods, and not a chamber pot?" Bart asked with a bit of vehemence in his tone borne from abject confusion, what else WAS there?

“It is simple dear one: I don't," she answered a bit tartly. Bart was dumbstruck by that, almost dropping his towel.

“... Come again?"

“I do not need to relieve myself. Ever. Bart darling, I do not eat." she explained imperiously, and the big man screwed his face up in disbelief.

“Impossible, I saw you drinking coffee earlier!" he challenged her, facing her now through the screen, hands on his hips, and she laughed at him openly, a tinge of mocking amusement in the sound.

“Ah, did I? Tell me Bart my love — how much of that cup of coffee did you really see disappear?" she offered him with a smug edge of superiority. He thought back on it, eyes going skyward as he reviewed the events of that day, overwhelming as they were... and found himself with no memory of the cup ever emptying despite his own doing so twice.

“... I don't understand," he said dumbly, and she tittered at him.

“Bart I am a font of life itself, the Astral Tapestry and Godhome itself invigorates my flesh and gives warmth to my body. All I need is a bit of sun in my mane, earth beneath my hooves, and the fresh dew of morning on my skin. I did not drink the coffee so much as tasted it — like your kind does expensive wines." she explained, her could feel her mocking, gremlin grin through the screen as he wrapped the towel around himself a few times, securing it about his waist before pushing the screen aside — Cithara's golden eyes fluttering as she took him in, her smile widening and growing warm.

“So... why do you have a..." he coughed, he had glanced beneath her tail; if only by accident during the row and tumble of battle earlier, he was aware at least superficially of her... arrangement. She burst out laughing at him.

“A what, Bart?" she teased, moving closer to him, her breath feeling cool on his damp skin, eyes flashed archly as she smiled that wide, almost maliciously eager smile of hers. “Say it."

“Well... you are aware..." he hedged on the spot, but the Unicorn would not be swayed, tilting her horned head upwards to look down her short muzzle at him, and he coughed; “... An 'exit', as it were," he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. The Lady in White laughed at him, gaily and without reservation.

“Bart my dearest love, I have one because the perception of Man says I should... I am a woman, even as a form as exotic to your own as mine, I would look awful strange without one, no?" she teased him, turning and scooping a small packet of clothing up with a flare of her orbit, the bundle floating in a lazy arc towards Bart's waiting hands. He shrugged at that.

“I suppose that's true enough, so it just... sits there, and does nothing?" he said and winced, immediately regretting the question — as it only ignited another gale of laughter.

“Mostly, yes my love... I have a few uses for that anatomical feature though." she said, walking close and leaning up to let her lips brush near his ear; “If you are a very good boy, I will show you them later." she purred, her golden eyes smoldering as she cast him a slow wink.

Bart, wide-eyed and shocked, merely nodded. Enthusiastically. The unicorn merely smiled, Bart found himself already quite attached to the idea that he would see that smile forever. Forever. The concept stretched before him with an enormity he had never truly considered — it was daunting, but he found himself without fear... which itself engendered a question.

“Cithara." Bart began, dropping his formalities as he dressed behind the screen again, finding once more that she had chosen to dress him in greens, blacks, and grays; colors well matched to their utilitarian cut. “... do I have free will?"

The Unicorn, herself seemingly occupied with her own thoughts — gave a start at that.

“Of course you do Bart... why would you not?"

“The Learned One predicted my coming to your arms, and she saw Rashid's whole life ahead of him to know she could not love him as he needed," he explained, pulling his doublet down his chest — noticing with a rueful smile this one was also sleeveless, in a workman's cut — Cithara had certain tastes indeed. “I feel like... this is what I was made for, not just because you love me for it." he paused and turned to her, pushing the screen aside. “Admittedly, that helps," he added, raking his fingers through his still-damp hair. A glimmer of her orbit brought a brush floating through the air, the silent insistence got him to sit, her glimmering power brushing his tight knot of curls free of knots.

“My darling, you are feeling at the edges of something far, far greater than I fear you are able to understand..." Cithara began with a touch of sadness in her voice; “I... am afraid."

“Afraid?" Bart asked suddenly, brush halting in his hair as she nodded.

“I have answered these questions once before. And once before — it destroyed a man. I swore I would never do it to one I loved so..." she trailed off, tears welling in her eyes despite her stony visage, turning to the sitting soldier; “Are you sure you wish to press this? I can only answer so much... I am bound by certain rules, yet — the knowledge I am permitted to impart could unmake you." she said in a grave tone, looking him in the eyes deeply, so deeply that it brought back a sharp relief of the Knowing upon their first meeting in his mind's eye.

“It unmade one before."

Bart sat back at that, his face bleak. The brush worked again mechanically as his distant eyes considered that. He had found his place here, he was sure of that. His entire being sang in harmony with this place, with its occupants — even in a pitched battle at the side of the pitiless Sidhe women he had felt this was where he belonged, what he was built to do. He looked down at his scarred hands. Built to a purpose, laid bone-by-bone and muscle-by-muscle for this conflict, an intentional design. What did that mean to him? Could he stride forward in ignorance, happy and blissful at the side of The Lady in White? The brush traveled through his hair again, Cithara sat patiently in silence. Bart was nothing if not decisive, and catching the brush — he turned his eyes to her. Something inside of him compelled him to speak:

“I have yet to be unmade by horrors of the dark, the ravages of battle, or the loss of my own innocence. I am constantly surprised by my own resilience, I have found my feet from what should have been the sleep of death a half dozen times only to fight further. I have endured things that boggle my mind and are best left in the pages of stories to frighten children — and yet I am still unafraid." he said... and the words, they were not his. Not exactly. He spoke with some... greater purpose guiding him, he felt a hand on his in a metaphysical sense. In that moment he felt as if he were brushing the barest edge of the shadow of a greater being, a greater purpose.

Cithara stared at him, her eyes so wide he could make out the scrivener's lines that marked the edges of the gold-on-gold irises against the would-be whites. “Bart... do you have any idea what the words you just spoke were?" she breathed, wonder and a touch of fear in her voice.

“I... just spoke from my heart," he said, touching his head... he felt oddly small suddenly, the sensation of purpose ebbing until once again he was just Bart. Simple, plain Bart.

“Bart..." she said with a mournful tone, a wan smile turning up her lips at the edges; “You spoke just now, nearly verbatim the words the First Paladin did to me a lifetime ago.

This revelation sank in with a resounding click inside of him, and with wide eyes he was forced to steady himself as within, something shifted. He looked again down at his hands — they trembled a moment, they felt alien... they were his hands and at once they were not. That greater mass beyond seemed to loom above him, revelation just beyond his grasp and mere spans beyond his perceptions.

“Cithara... am I what I seem? Am I myself?" he asked in desperation, and she moved towards him in a hurry of soft touches and silken mane, enmeshing herself in his embrace bodily — the touch was reassuring, her presence a soothing song to his psyche as the internal reality of identity warred within him, she lowered her voice — a voice only for him, lips against his ear.

“You are Bartholomus Mueller, you are the son of a miller and a baker, you are the child of the Abbey, you are friend to Nazir, Lidia, Naima, and Rashid. You are a soldier, you are a warrior. You are a thousand smaller things at a thousand smaller moments, and you are in them — a Platonic Ideal." she whispered with an almost ritualistic cadence — each line felt like she was wrapping him in snug, comfortable clothing, carving him from uncertain stone — defining him, making him whole. He shuddered through it to the end and met her gaze at that intimate distance.

“What does that mean?" he begged her, and she touched her muzzle to his cheek in sympathy.

“It means you could not be anything else than what you are, some of us are born to fill roles. The universe is a place not of chaos, but infinitesimal order beyond what even mine eyes can glimpse — in all things there is such a pull, from the shape of a leaf to the perfect spiral of a seashell, some things simply must needs be," she explained.

“Then... am I able to choose? Was this all some cosmic play and I am simply an actor on the stage?" he asked, sudden anger flaring in him; “Was... the love I feel for you written into a script I am too small to see?" he asked and tears of uncertainty poured from his eye, the one blue point a dot of dilated anxiety as he grappled with the infinite.

“No, Bart." she soothed him; “I promise you will understand, I must needs give you my blessing soon, you are too close to truths you cannot bear without it — and possibly even with it, they may tear you asunder as they did one before... but that, that I can assure you. Every choice you have made has been your own, your nature is fixed — you are a good man of good character, a fighter, and a soldier. Even if you had not joined the Abbey and my charge it would be so. The universe, the infinite order of everything built in you a noble soul, and around it an edifice of strength and potential. You are your choices — and you are what you are. A man of duty."

The words resonated in him like someone striking a bell in his soul. He felt something within him long uncertain become sure, all of his questioning fell away as she pointedly touched her horn to his brow. All of it but one, the indecision folding together like forged steel into a single, ironclad question:

“But what is my purpose?

Cithara's eyes went wide, and her body still. She gazed across that intimate distance with pain and fear in her eyes, yet she blinked but once, acceptance filling her features.

“... So be it, my love. I will show you.

She pressed closer still, in his lap — heart to heart, eye to eye. She shuddered and breathed in a commanding, ritualistic whisper:

“Look into my eyes Bart, I would not do this for just anyone... but for thee, I wilt."

Her horn flared as he met her gaze, the luminous golden pools stared into him — and he into them — and the yawning breadth of creation spread before him. An impossible landscape of scintillating colors and shapes, he glimpsed worlds spinning forever in a sea of stars — laying in an eternal sequence forever in all directions. In seconds, mere moments he saw thousands of years of alien races, of peoples like him and unlike him in every way possible. He in but a breath saw the machinery of the cosmos, whirling around forever a single point he occupied. He saw his hands extend for a sword of impossible size, an axe of alien metal, a blade with no name and no shape, a weapon made of black, alien materials, and hard industrial angles. He saw on those hands, gauntlets of steel, gloves of alien leather, inhuman talons, grasping tendrils, glimmering metallic muscles, and plating of verdant green. He saw golden eyes looking back at him, a thousand, thousand faces but those same gold-on-gold eyes. He felt a pressure building in his head but he stared deeper. He saw a thousand deaths, at the end of blades, claws, teeth, and smoking holes left by weapons of unknowable design.

“It is too much..." he began but she held him fast in her orbit.

“All of it, Bart. You must see all of it now; you cannot stop once it begins or it will unmake you." she sobbed, tears flowing from them both as his shaking hands dug into her mane for purchase.

He saw a child born a hundred million times, reaching up for familiar, alien stars. He saw a million, million gleaming horns arrayed in a forest of blades and yet only one pair of golden eyes. He felt love as which he had no words and no shape for, he felt hatred so black it denied the light of creation itself, doubled and tripled over an innumerable series of lives. It blended together into an impossible flickering montage of infinity glimpsed from a single, unmoving point. Sometimes the scenes were mere seconds of disconnected imagery — a handshake, a kiss, a laugh, a falling tear — a rivulet of blood. In others, he lived a lifetime in a moment, from birth to death to rebirth.

Endless. Cyclical. Infinite.

He saw worlds in moments that he would never be able to describe, once an inverted city built beneath a sky of stone, another with towers that touched the heavens themselves arrayed in scintillating lights, and yet others where there was no form, no shape, and merely sensation and knowing. He was boiling alive and freezing to death all at once, he was living and he was dead, he was a victor and he was defeated utterly — all rolled by in heartbeats as he strode a single point in creation. He saw a hand reach for another, human, alien, unnatural, and natural a thousand times — and that hand reached back itself ever-changing and yet the same. In all of it, there was gold. Golden radiance, golden metals, golden sheen on eyes, and alien armors — the Oath of Gold eternal and spinning in the cosmos forever.

“I… Cithara… I cannot…" Bart stammered and she held herself close to him, weeping as she pressed her horn to his brow so firmly it cut his flesh.

“All of it my love."

Bart could not resist, he could not bear it and yet he persevered. He had two eyes once more, and then six and then none — seeing naught but sound and substance. He looked down at his hands again, they were once clean and then again sodden with blood; a rich red once, then impossible blue, revolting green, and bilious yellow. He clenched fists made of flesh, metal, and bone all at once, set feet shod in leather, steel, and unknown alien alloys. He stiffened his spine, upright, hunched, quadrupedal, and once fused to some wheeled apparatus. He met it the same — he was not the constant, his perception naught but the viewing glass — merely but one cycle in the eternal wheel. It was then, weeping and half-mad with a boundless lifetimes' worth of experiences filling his mind under threat of erasing him he began to understand.

He had a thousand names for a million places. He was Bartholomus Mueller, Korax of the Two-Moons, D'nalian of S'nathan, He-Who-Walks-Ahead, and simply John. In all of these names, faces, and impossible lands... one constant was there, it was not death, it was not life, it was not even the infinite pull of time.

It was valor. It was steadfast determination. A million faces, a million places in time, more than he could grasp, and through it all, in suffering and sympathy, in agony and bliss — there was valor.

It was then he understood.

“I am not alone."

The words broke the spell, her eyes blinking away tears as she sobbed and held him close. The intensity of what he had witnessed robbed him of his strength for a moment... and slowly, it faded away. He struggled, groping internally for the sights, the sounds... the wholeness of being he had been suffused in, he felt lesser and it grieved him as he struggled to rake back that curtain again, to grasp that wholeness of purpose with both hands and never once let it go.

“No, my love, let it go. Let it be free. You must." she hissed and dutifully he did, going slack as he slowly came back to himself. He was lying on the floor, he had no idea when that had happened. He was Bartholomus Mueller. He was a soldier. A Paladin. He had Purpose.

“I... am not alone," he repeated as he found himself again, his hands were familiar, comfortably his own as he raised them to his gaze. “Wherever I stand, so stands and stood a million others just like me and yet never the same. I have died uncountable deaths and yet it never was I who died."

“You begin to understand, as He did... now comes the test my dearest, o God please..." she whispered in desperation, looking into his lone eye searchingly, she asked quietly.

“What is your purpose, my love?"

That struck a chord in him suddenly, eye wide he stared through her, past her towards the infinite worlds he'd experienced, the fading memories borrowed from a thousand, thousand lives... there was a single thread. A single aspect to which every soul he had strode alongside. With stone in his guts and iron in his voice, he answered.

“I endure."

It was like creation itself burst into song within his heart, and she laughed — laughed so gaily and unreservedly it bordered on giddy madness, throwing herself upon him and smothering him in kisses interspersed with relieved enthusiastic laughter.

“What was that?" he asked in a daze, welcoming the kisses — particularly when she shushed him with one so deep and probing that his eye fluttered closed and his toes curled in his boots, and for a long, lurid and intimate moment he didn't care that he had just stared beyond the veil of reality — the only thing that mattered was Cithara, her lips and the thrumming beats of two hearts in unison. She broke away slowly, lingering on his mouth like he was the only drink of water in a wasteland, her eyes soft and relieved.

“I exist in all things, there is always a Unicorn... the Platonic Ideal exists, but sometimes the shape differs in physicality, sometimes by only a little, sometimes a great deal... but where I am, what I am now is unique as what you are is unique. There are many men, but only one Bart."

He understood then, remembering what she said; “There are many unicorns, there is only one Unicorn." he echoed, and she nodded with a pleased smile.

“So those other places, other lives..."

“They are others who trod the path of endurance. Others who stood in this place in other, exotic places. They are You, and they are not. You carry them with you and they carry you within themselves as well. A platonic ideal: that one must struggle for a better tomorrow."

Bart reeled at that, it made sense and at the same time... was so far and beyond his grasp, so alien and vast a concept that even having experienced it in what now felt like a distant, faded memory his mind recoiled in terror from its enormity... he understood how this could unmake a man, unravel his sense of self and purpose, it still threatened such an end to himself if he did not cling tightly to his ideals. He was Bartholomus Mueller. He would endure.

“Is every Paladin like this?"

“God, no." Cithara breathed, laying her head on his chest; “No my love, most men are simply men — even great men of destiny do not occupy such a mantle. No... there is change being wrought upon the world, for the first time in many lifetimes something is happening." she said with the weight of importance, “Something crucial that even my grasp of the beyond cannot fathom, yet the grand order of things has deigned that certain roles must needs be made, and that is something you cannot hide from the gaze of an immortal." she said, her golden eyes gleaming.

“We see you for what you are, Bart. Perhaps not at first, nor possibly ever if we are blinded by ambition or hubris... but the eyes of the infinite can recognize the machinery of the cosmos when we wish to see it," she said and ruefully cast her gaze down.

“I had not wished to see it. I had wished you to just be another of my boys, to take my blessing and leave me to my loneliness, so I would not be forced to reckon with these parts of my heart." she breathed and sniffed softly; “I Knew you… and I knew you were more than just another of my boys, my heart stirred and the old hurts — and wants — bubbled up, made themselves known."

“... It was your husband, wasn't it? The one who was unmade by this knowledge," he asked daringly, and she seemed to wither into herself, and then merely nodded.

“... Yes, yes it was. I will speak more of it later... but in a moment not unlike this, he asked of me the same as you... and I destroyed him." she said and closed her eyes — and the topic — firmly, nuzzling close into his chest.

They stayed like that, flat on the floor in a sprawl of limbs and strewn effects, Bart slowly coming back into himself, Cithara's divine warmth an anchor he grasped onto... for a moment he could see it all again one last time, a thousand hands reaching down for a thousand faces, all different, alien and exotic... but the eyes that looked back at him were the same. Paradise. He was shaken to his core by the enormity of what he'd seen, but it had confirmed something he had suspected — and that truth strengthened him for the struggle: he had been built for this. Built for her.

It took another interminable age before he was able to stand, she gave him the time; cooing soft words to him, being his anchor as he struggled with the connection he had made to the grander, greater world... for a moment as he rose, he felt as if it were all a dream, a sense of repetition filled him as if he'd been here before. He smiled and supposed in a way he had.

“A million, million men standing where I stand, against that which would destroy their world, huh?" he said to her, scrubbing his hands across his face, he met her gaze; it was filled with trepidation and fear.

“I suppose I have to work harder. I would hate to make our world look bad."

She could only smile. It was enough.

~ ~ ~

The ordeal had left Bart famished and before anything more was heaped upon him, Cithara had declared it essential he eat and drink, and there were no complaints to be had. They'd settled into yet another nook within her strangely organic home, not far from where the bathtub had been on the same side as the still somewhat wrecked sleeping chamber; it had a small table with the same oddly cushion-like chairs she preferred. If he planned to stay here much longer, he'd have to see about some proper chairs with backs for him — the constant half-bend he was in was beginning to wear on his spine.

He'd tucked into a large, steaming bowl of some kind of hearty stew full of forest mushrooms, venison, and a thick savory broth with little words in between, simply plowing through it like a man half-dead from hunger, which Cithara had pointed out he essentially was — his body had burned a great deal of its stores of energy keeping up with his supernatural exertions.

“You will need to eat more forever now," she continued as he found himself in his third bowl, a serving of crusty sour bread pairing perfectly, his eyes meeting hers as he ate; “The fuel for the mantle is your own body, much like with healing — you will tax your body and soul as tinder for the Divine Ember I will ignite within you. Get accustomed to eating larger portions and planning around meals." she said, and Bart snorted around a mouthful, covering it with a hand as he swallowed.

“I've been working myself to the bone since I was a boy, I'm well accustomed to eating until I am bursting," he said, and she smiled.

“Perhaps you are at that, but be mindful of it. I would have you hale and whole, not a braindead husk because you skipped too many meals and exhausted yourself like burnt-out charcoal."

“No risk of that, not if you keep feeding me like this." he rumbled, digging back in — the food was all very simple, rustic fare but it was so fresh and savory; the venison could have been killed that very hour — and seeing as he had not seen Holda nor Perchta since, it might very well have been. He furrowed his brow at that, chewing a mouthful and peering about — he'd retrieved his eyepatch again from the ruins of his room, unaccustomed to wearing it still.

As if they were watching — and he was to his end, sure they were — the twins seemed to melt from the shadows on their own, walking in strange unison together. Bart had finally worked out how to tell the two creatures apart at a glance — Holda painted her lips solidly, Perchta put a small arrow-like design along her lower lip and chin — and the latter also carried herself more upright, whereas Perchta's shoulders were often more guardedly hunched. It was subtle.

“We have come to a consensus, Thick One," Perchta said, Holda's exposed lips splitting in a wide smile, revealing her mouthful of needle-like teeth; he supposed that was intended to be friendly, but it merely was ghastly to the man.

“Oh?" it was Cithara's voice, her expression as curious as his — but her mouth not full of stew. The two Sidhe women nodded in unison.

“This one has shown undeniable grit," Holda said, Perchta picking up the sentence right after,

“Respectable fervor, particularly for one untempered and raw." The two nodded at each other and assumed a position of attention, crossing one arm across their chest, the other horizontally across their lower back.

Then, they both at once bowed.

Bart stopped eating, stunned — and Cithara as well simply stared, her mouth hanging open in shock.

The pair then stood, and as they did they reached to their tight cowls, peeling them back with a sound like creaking leather.

He would not have called them beautiful, it wasn't the right word. They were striking. Their features were severe and asymmetrical as their chins and lips had been, as if both sides of their faces were two separate images of the same visage, blended into a mind-bending symmetry across the middle along the lines of perfectly straight aquiline noses. Their lips were full and thick and had cheekbones so severe they almost appeared skeletal against their angular jaws and overlarge, almond-shaped eyes. Their eyes were piercing, black on black except for distinct, stark rings of white marking off their pupils and irises — irises that slashed vertically, and gleamed with the familiar shine he'd come to see in his dear friend Lidia. They had hair the color and flatness of coal, tied back tightly in plaited braids that were so complexly woven Bart had thought they were helmets at first until they moved and swayed slightly with their motions. Their heads were misshapen, or rather — not humanly shaped, longer at the back of the skull, extending in an elongated bun that only added to their alien otherness... but they were now, unmasked, distinctly feminine. A hard, blade-like femininity, but femininity all the same.

“We See you, Hunter. We grant you Sight in return," they said in unison, and Cithara balked.

“Well... this is a rare gift," she murmured, and the two hunters exchanged glances and faint, smug smiles touched their eyes more than their lips.

“We have seen few of your kind who we would call kin. Naught one of your brethren flinches from battle — yet vanishingly few of you embrace the hunt, the kill so wholly." Holda said, and Perchta smiled.

“You have the furor and zeal for the kill of the Wild Hunt, you stride the field of battle like a bear, fearing nothing." Perchta continued, touching the place he'd thumped her ribs in memory; “And yet... you show temperance and tact, your fervor tempered by patience."

“You are a worthy Hunter, thus we grant you our visage. We See you, so you See us." Again, they bowed that alien bow, and then simply... melted away to their tasks, Bart sat there stunned... they hadn't even waited for him to answer.

“... That doesn't happen often, does it?" he asked her, and she shook her head.

“The last of my boys they showed their faces to was the Old Wolf — and he had to savage Holda in a bare-knuckle brawl before she accepted him, what did you do before I arrived on the scene to engender such respect from them? They are literal perfectionists." Cithara said, her voice full of quiet wonder.

“I survived." was all Bart said, he felt no need to rehash that brutal brawl in greater detail, glorious it may have been — but it was equally ugly, and he found no virtue in their judgment. They were alien still, even when he understood them.

“I see." Cithara mused softly, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. Bart simply returned to his bowl.

~ ~ ~

Bart finished his meal, and he and the Unicorn sat together in silence for a while. She had occupied his lap once more, and together they simply abided in comfortable quietude, Bart still contemplating the infinite potentials he'd seen. The sun streamed in down into the heart of the great tree's roots, giving the whole area a storybook quality — glorious sunshafts and drifting, dancing motes of pollen and insects fluttering and humming. It felt alive, it felt whole and untouched by the ravages of war, or the annuls of time. It was pristine. It was a little piece of heaven.

“Bart," Cithara said after a time. He met her gaze.

“It is time."

Bart nodded, and she stood and gestured. “Come, remove your shirt and stand before my throne," she said, and Bart again nodded, peeling off his doublet.

“Why do I need to be shirtless?" he asked as he approached, she shushed him quietly.

“I need to be able to touch your heart." she said softly; “Hush now, this is important."

He stood before the throne, and she slid onto it from behind again... and at once, the light around them dimmed... the world went quiet, and she closed her eyes in focus. There was a tugging sensation, pulling and tight around him, his skin prickled with electricity and he felt as if there were none else in the world but he and The Lady in White — for as her eyes reopened, blazing with golden majesty that is who she was, not Cithara his beloved, not The Lady — she wore her mantle like a blazing crown, stretching out behind her like a glowing nimbus, Bart blinked as he realized that he was looking upon her — The Unicorn.

A crown gleamed upon her head, formed of twisting golden light, its four peaks jutting off in line with her horn as the fifth and center-most. Her body was lambent with a crawling carpet of barely perceptible tracery in gilded gold, climbing up from hooves, eyes, and horn. Her sleek breast wore a peytral of radiance, formed of hardened golden light that flowed back into her mane — which itself was bound in coils of the same glimmering golden threads of light. She raised her head and one foreleg, and behind her flared out a pair of trailing ribbons of scintillating aurum energy, like the stole of office wrought from the purest light of Godhome.

His mind creaked beneath the weight, but he endured. He wanted to cry, scream — to die looking at the true face of beauty, of love.

She was just more real, his mind poured over details in such stark relief, it was as if his eyes had only just now truly opened, every muscle, every hair, every line of golden tracery was crisp, perfect. He began to weep openly and did so without shame. He would remember this sight forever, just like this.

“Bartholomus Mueller," she said, and her voice spoke it perfectly, ringing his spirit like a bell — and oh how he chimed in return, his chest swelling with a breath he had not realized he was holding. “I Know you. Your heart and soul are pure, goodly places. I have built a home in your heart for my love, and therein I place this ember upon its hearth to burn forevermore." she said and lifted her head.

Her horn ignited, it did not merely glow — it burst into golden flame. Tongues of aurum fire raced and licked along its curving, twisting length as she sat upright and proud upon her throne. Her lips parted once more, and she spoke not again with her voice — but the Voice of Voices.

STEP FORTH MY SOLDIER, KNEEL BEFORE THE SERVANT OF GOD.

Bart shuddered, but he stepped up the small dais until he was close to the blazing symbol of love, his mind screamed but it was distant, a quiet madness he had locked away behind the memory of her blazing, golden eyes.

ACCEPT THY MANTLE, O SOLDIER OF GOD. THOU ART COURAGEOUS.

Then, in a single motion so fluid he couldn't track it, that flaming horn lowered — and she plunged it into his breast.

Bart screamed, not just in pain — but ecstasy. Holy fire seared through his every vein, he felt the hard, sharpness of her horn plunge through his breastbone, into his hammering heart... and yet he felt no fear, no pain that was not matched by the glorious wonder as he was suffused every fiber, every iota of his being in her power, his fingers curled into fists and he cried out again, this time in exultation. The entire world began to lume, to glow brighter and brighter, his eye snapping open — golden light bleeding through, replacing its blue coloration as he burned, burned oh so beautifully from within.

And then, there was silence. He was somewhere else. There was but darkness... and then, a glowing light.

Cithara stood with him, they were no longer at her throne, they were in a small circle of golden light in an endless void, his breast clear of her piercing horn, her eyes on his.

“Now my love, you must choose. The road of the Paladin is not one for the even-hearted. We are a people of extremes, to be adequate at everything is to excel at nothing — and thus you must align your mantle with your intent." she said, her voice echoing softly, as if out of time with reality. Between them ignited two golden flames, each dancing merrily to either side of her head.

“Will you devote your life eternal to the souls of the hurt and suffering?" she asked him, and one of the flames resolved into a staff, topped with the Horn and Lidless Eye of the Knights Hospitaller, glimmering at her left-hand side. “Will you pour out your soul and breath to heal the hurt, cure the sick, and ease the dying's burdens on the bloody path of the Healer?" she asked and then came the second flame.

It flared and resolved into a sword — a blade of simple cruciform style and brutal effectiveness.

“Or will you become my blade? Will you forge yourself into a weapon of justice, a Warrior of Light, carrying my radiance into the darkness against those that would feast upon God's children?" her eyes flashed with intensity; “Will you stride the path of perpetual torment, your blade eternally wet with the blood of the vile and the damned? Do you instead, choose the lonely road of the Soldier?"

It was no choice. Bart wished in his heart he had other thoughts, that he was a noble, and selfless soul of gentility and mercy like Davis or Lucian was, to take the blessing of healing; to be a salve to the hurt, a balm to the lost... yet he knew what he was, who he was.

He reached out without a word and grasped the hilt of that flaming sword.

“So be it. Thy art mine, and I art thine." she intoned firmly. Flames erupted from the hilt, climbing up his arm, immolating him in a golden conflagration until he burned in totality. Burned, burned, burned.

He came back again to the world, the scream peaking with an exultant cry of triumph as she drew her horn back out of his pieced chest, the wound healing immediately into a small, circular blaze of white flesh, turning the hair around it white. His voice gave out, and he stumbled, falling hard to one knee. The lights dimmed... and The Lady in White faded, the crown flickered from her head, the truth of her form once again bridled within the comparably simple, beautiful form of Cithara, the Unicorn — first of the Triune of Beasts... his beloved.

“It is done." she breathed, and Bart touched his chest, feeling the power there, the burning ember she had seared into his heart. It thrummed inside of him as if it had always been there as if a piece of him long missing was at last — back in place. He stood firm, feeling... strong. Complete. He felt in him a great peace spreading from heart to fingertips, a contentment of being that drew a smile to his lips. He had been made whole again.

“Are you ready for what is next?" she asked him, her face concerned; “You have chosen your path, are you ready to walk it until the Pale Dawn calls you?"

Bart looked down at his hands, and back towards the door, his eyes falling upon the sky where he knew the Ossuary of Man stood, he could feel it pulling at him like a lodestone. With no other words, he turned to Cithara with a nod, his face a picture of stoic determination.

“I need a weapon."

Cithara could naught but smile. It was a tight thing, heavy with import.

“I have just the thing."

~ ~ ~

“Why do I need a cloak? It is perpetual spring wherever we walk." Bart asked, the big man feeling a bit stifled in the long-sleeved doublet and heavy woolen cloak he'd been browbeaten into wearing, the Unicorn smiled at him patiently as she strode lightly at his side, slightly ahead and guiding their winding path through the woods.

“It is... cold, where we're going. Trust me, beloved," she said and Bart accepted that without question. He had no reason to doubt her, if anything their fresh and new connection only made him understand her all the more. He flexed his fingers and moved his shoulders, shaking his head.

“That used to hurt," he said, and she raised one of her brows at him curiously.

“I broke my collarbone when I was a novice. In the lists, caught a lance right here," he said, touching his left shoulder, just above the armpit. “Healed fine, but it always would catch anytime I lifted this arm, it's why I never favored a shield," he said and rolled that shoulder experimentally.

“That's gone, no pain and no stiffness." she smiled at that and nodded.

“The Mantle will do much for you even when you are not directly wielding it. It will dull your pain, sharpen your mind, and fill you with vigor. I am sure you've felt the latter so far." she said, and Bart nodded enthusiastically, bouncing a few times on the balls of his feet.

“I feel like I've slept soundly for a solid month; I could do sprints in full armor right now and I don't know that I'd feel it." Cithara laughed joyously at that, sliding closer to him to press to his side warmly.

“Be cautious with yourself, it is not removing the hurts — just dulling and masking them. You can overtax yourself still, more than one of my dear boys has met their end because they let their Mantle carry them beyond what their body can sustain." she said, and pressed her cheek into his side; “Granted... your body is quite impressive, so you may be able to get away with more than most..." Bart grinned at that, no longer feeling embarrassed by her amorous advances... they made him feel good. Valued. Strong.

“Where are we going?" he asked after a moment, they'd traveled far into the forest, and his sense of direction was muddled, but he was fairly certain they were headed straight to the center of the woods, towards Crownspeak.

“Where I keep my sorrow." was the only response she said, and it gave the paladin pause. A somber mood fell across the pair at that... what sorrows could such a cosmic creature have — and truly, how tremendous must they then be? Bart nodded, and placed his hand on her neck, drawing a wan smile from her. He could see the terse set of her eyes now — she was dreading this venture, that much was clear.

They fell into a thoughtful silence again — and Bart found himself oddly relishing these moments, he wasn't a particularly chatty fellow, and he'd always preferred to listen to others rather than speak himself — part of what drew Lucian and he together as lads, the young albino was full of dreams and ideas and plans for great wonders — all he'd needed was someone to listen. Cithara much like Bart, seemed completely happy to abide with him in such quiet companionship.

The air grew cold suddenly, like stepping into a stone larder from the warmth of the kitchens, the air's bite sharp and quick. Mist formed on his breath, and he gathered the cloak about him quickly, his one remaining eye wide with alarm.

“It is but a bit further," she said, her voice small, her body language reserved. She was in pain, Bart could see that plain as day without the influence of the mantle. He felt it strike his heart as well, wanting to soothe her hurts, to kiss her until the pain stopped — yet he felt there was something about this place that was more than just a hurt heart.

They crossed a line in the trees, the leaves no longer grew, the trunks were bare and gray — stone jutted heavily from the ground in erratic spurs, the soft living loam gone — instead bare, mineralized soil and hard-packed earth. The air was dry and harsh, snow of all things fell softly as they crossed the frost line cut into the primordial woods — and far into the distance, Bart could see the clear outline of masonry and hand-cut stone in a shape none on earth could mistake.

A mausoleum.

Beside him Cithara halted, her body language shying away from it, and she held fast in place even as Bart turned his cloaked frame back towards her.

“I cannot go further," she said in a quiet voice. Bart's brow furrowed in concern.

“My love...?"

“I cannot," she stated again, anguish in her voice and golden eyes. She turned her face away from Bart, shame written on it. “I cannot face him. Not like this. Not now." she said, her voice shuddering with almost panicked terror, her eyes pleading with him.

“Please... you will find what you need in the building beyond, I... I will wait here for you," she said, stepping back away from the bite of the icy air.

“It must needs be done — but I cannot do it, it hurts. It hurts." she wailed softly, and shook her head violently, as if banishing the thoughts with main force. Turning from him unsteadily, she trotted away, casting her eyes back at him with worry and sorrow. He was left alone in the cold air, with naught but the dead for company.

Bart pulled his hood up against the cold, his one-eyed visage hard and cautious — what could be so terrible in a grave that the Lady in White could not bear to face it?

He moved through the snow, it seemed to fall endlessly but piled little, forming a frosted edge around the stones and trees, the path itself well-trod and sunk deep into the hard-packed soil. Bart walked it in silence, his dark cloak the only sound, rustling around his boots. The walk was surprisingly long, and Bart found himself staring ahead nervously — he knew he was safe, within reason here. Cithara was present, and the twins were likely not too far away... but he was alone, in this clearly unnatural place of frozen woe — and he was as of yet, unarmed.

“What manner of weapon could be kept in a crypt?" he mused as he found the end of the path, the winding trail having slowly risen up around him into great berms of earth and snow that hemmed his path into a single direction — the doors of the Mausoleum.

The structure itself was the same as many he'd seen in illuminations and woodcuts, as well as the Abbey's own graveyard: a large, squared structure of heavy marble masonry topped with a basilica-like dome of carefully fitted blocks, crowned again with a stone effigy of the Lidless Eye, ever-watching over the sleep of the departed. It was a fairly humble structure all said, weathered and rounded, the sharpness of the stones long worn down by icy winds, snow clinging to the crevices between each block. The arch over the door was embossed with filigree, standards, and heraldry he didn't recognize that was reminiscent of ancient Mistport coat-of-arms he'd read about in his history texts. He furrowed his brow, wishing he'd paid more attention to those studies now; history had made a habit of coming back to test him. A heavy iron double door sat before him, apparently unopened for possibly centuries.

“O Lord, forgive me for this trespass, it is for a greater good, I promise," he said, drawing his fingers in the sign of The Eye, a circle over one's brow, and a line straight down to the heart. A ward against evil, and acknowledgment of sin. He braced his arms against the iron portal and gave a strong push. Much as he expected, the hinges had long since word and rusted quite firmly shut, and he had to set his teeth as he pushed... and yet it would not budge.

“Hm. I suppose as good a time as any," he murmured to himself, looking down at his hands he closed his eyes... he had no real training here, yet the Mantle itself whispered knowledge into his mind, a basic instinctual understanding of the Divine Ember. He drew within himself, finding that new place of smoldering warmth, he grasped it and with an effort of will and focus — drew it outward, envisioning it filling his arms and body with strength… and found it incomplete. Lacking. Instead, he envisioned an ideal of strength, in the briefest of moments he viewed his body, his muscles, and his very mass itself — as irresistible, unstoppable. His eye opened, hard and focused; a bright golden flare behind its iris, burning like aurum fire and he thrust his palms to the door again.

The difference was immediate, it groaned and the hinges gave an unholy shriek as a century or more of rust and verdigris was sawn through by the door's unyielding motion inward as Bart, with less effort than he dared dream — pushed the double doors wide with a great shrieking boom of metal, a rush of stale air blasting past his face, billowing his cloak out behind him. He looked down at himself, feeling the rush of power, flexing his fingers as he didn't even feel strained by the effort, the doors each must be nearly 50 stone, supporting hinges or no. He gave a light chuckle, releasing his grasp on the Mantle, the glow of gold fading from his eye. He cast about the entrance, and found it dark to his sight — so he once again reached inward for the burning reservoir of power, and snapped his fingers above his head.

Fire blossomed, a tongue of tiny golden flame; he blinked as he found that substantially more difficult to maintain, focusing on the tiny candle flame of holy fire was a constant, difficult effort of will. Immediately he found himself eager to quit, as the effort of maintaining a semblance of flame with no fuel mounted with increasing demand. He glanced around pointedly, finding seemingly fresh, unlit torches in sconces at either side of the entrance. He gently cupped his hand around one, transferring the golden light to it, where it caught as pure, plain orange fire. He let loose the Mantle with a heavy exhale, chest heaving slightly with the surprising effort.

“Interesting..." he murmured, lifting the torch from its sconce and using its flame to light the other, casting a warm orange glow across the interior of the tomb.

Within was in far better condition than the outside, the stones all sharp and fitted flush; edges crisp and immaculate as if the mortar had just dried. The light played off stark, bare walls. Brief and utilitarian, Bart immediately realized wherever this was — it was a military tomb. The order, the lack of embellishments, a man of the sword lay here. He walked forward, the torch casting light on the far wall.

He saw it then. His eye widened under the raised flame.

A raised bier sat in the middle of the mausoleum — a massive sarcophagus resting atop it; all of the embellishments absent from the walls and floors were found here; it was carved and wrought down to the finest details as if it were cut from living wood rather than timeless stone, showing grain and pattern, irregularities so organic it seemed impossible a human hand had ever rendered them with chisel and hammer. Designed so it appeared to grow out of the stone around it, like a tree rooted into pavestones. The entire central dais was molded with it, the roots and twisting base of the bier displacing bricks and stones by design, The whole arrangement granting it an eerie, lifelike, fey quality.

Upon the bier rested a figure. An effigy of stone carved much as the rest had been, to such astounding detail that individual threads of his surcoat had been carved with delicacy and precision to which Bart could never hope to replicate with a decade of practice. Bart's body went still as he recognized the face on the effigy after a fashion. He had seen it a thousand times in his life, perhaps a bit idealized and embellished — but he had seen it before and would again. Immediately, he understood why Cithara refused to come here, why the doors had been so sealed for so long.

He was a fair-faced man in life, a strong chin with a cleft in it, a good jawline, and strong cheekbones with a powerful brow and squared skull. Long, wavy hair was tied back in a series of braids at the corners of his hairline, a brush of beard decorated his chin, no mustache to be seen beneath a strong, straight aquiline nose. He wore the habit of a Man-at-Arms, a surcoat with the emblazoned Horn-and-Eye sigil he was familiar with, but... older, more ornate with filigree and embellishments of other beasts at his breasts flanking it — a coiling winged serpent with three heads, and a rampant monster of fangs, horns, and fury clenched a blade in its paws. The Triune of Beasts depicted in supplication to the Lidless Eye and its Firstborn, the Unicorn.

“God in his Heaven," Bart swore in awe.

It was the First Paladin, in all of his true glory. The tomb was his final resting place. Bart stepped back in respect, dipping his head in a momentary prayer of forgiveness. There was no record of where he had been lain to rest, in the chaotic times post-Crusades he had come to re-establish the Kingdoms of Man with his own hand and his Twelve Peers. After both reforming the Healing Church of Darrowmere with the Horned Saint and rebuilding the Holy See of Reikstand with his own bloodline, his body had simply vanished. He'd died in his bed long after, surrounded by family and friends — and the next day the bed was empty, and the High King's body never found.

“She came for you even after all that time," Bart said, gently extending one hand to touch the folded palms, he lay in repose, hands folded above his heart in eternal prayer.

“She did, and I went with her willingly." came a ghostly, dissonant voice. Bart jerked his hand back, raising his torch in alarm, his fist and spirit clenched, eye blazing suddenly alight with golden flame, a glimmering radiance forming around his fist.

“Peace, brother mine." the voice repeated, and across the bier from him, stepping out of nothingness as if it were a curtain between rooms — came a shade. Thin and translucent, glowing softly with white-blue foxfire, nay he would call it what it was — Ghostlight, was he himself: The First Paladin.

“God's blood." Bart breathed, losing his grip on the Mantle, the glow fading from his eye, the ghostly soldier waved a finger at him.

“Language. This is a holy place, brother." he chided him gently, and Bart colored with shame, dropping to one knee before him.

“My Lord," he said, and the shade shook his head.

“No, brother. I carry no titles and command no armies now, I am long dead, and my authority with it. Stand, we are all equal in Death." he said, and Bart rose, meeting the gaze of the man.

He was taller than he seemed on the effigy, just below eye level with Bart, though slighter in build, made of lean, ropy muscle rather than the thick, packed-on slabs of sinew like the miller's son. In motion, his ghostly face had the familiar cast of Mistport natives to it, the familiar fullness of lip and cheek that Bart remembered of his maternal grandfather. The specter smiled placidly. Waiting.

“I am sorry to disturb your rest, Brother." Bart said after a moment to gather himself; “I promise I would not unless there was great need." he said, and the figure nodded, folding his hands as he regarded him.

“She sent you, I can tell," he said, and Bart nodded. “How is she?" he asked inquiringly. Bart blushed.

“She is... well. Lonely, I fear," he said, and the First Paladin laughed a little, folding his arms across his chest and arching one ghostly brow over empty, blank sockets where his eyes should be.

“I would have you not lie to me, brother. I can see her mark upon you, and nay — I mean not your blessing. She has touched your heart, as a wife does a husband." he said and Bart recoiled from that ever so slightly.

“I... did not wish to broach the subject, brother," Bart remarked, and the shade laughed, it was a rich sound that did not inspire fear, but warmth. He imagined that laugh over tankards of ale in good company.

“Do you wish to spare the dead man's feelings? I am touched, brother but I am also quite beyond being made sorrowful by matters of the heart." he said, raising his eyebrows; “I assume then, you have deduced her fabled 'husband' was I." he said, it was a statement. Bart nodded.

“I had suspicions... but when she refused to face whatever lie here, and I found your face upon the Effigy..." he said and the specter nodded.

“I loved her. Love her. Present tense. Even dead, buried and at peace in Godhome — I love her still." he said, sadness casting his features in a rueful light; “What I did to her was monstrous and for it — her eternal sorrow coats my grave in ice and snow." Bart blinked at that.

“This is her doing?" he asked, and the specter gestured towards the open door, where ice and snow ruled — where the sun did not truly shine.

“Unintentionally. Her emotions are larger than ours brother, she loves, hates, and mourns with the power of the Astral Tapestry. All about her is cosmic, even her sadness." he explained, his shoulders slumping slightly. “It is my punishment for breaking the heart of The Queen of Love, that we ne'er again be together," he said, drawing up firm. “Fitting, I bear it with pride. I would do it the same again, for it secured our future."

“What is it you did?" Bart asked, and the First Paladin hesitated. Old grief painted his spectral features.

“It... is not my place to say in its entirety. The dead should not speak for the living. I will only speak for myself." he said, folding his hands behind his back, standing at attention. “I asked too much, I saw too far," he said and Bart's eye lit up with recognition.

“The infinite cycle, that... endless tapestry of names and faces," he said, and the specter's black eyes widened.

“You've seen it?" he asked, and Bart nodded. “You did not go mad?"

“No," Bart said, a shudder running through him; “It was a near thing." The Specter seemed a bit awed by that, shaking his head ruefully and giving a soft, inward sort of chuckle.

“It unmade me. The vastness of it all, I became obsessed with denying the reality I saw. I was one point in so much suffering." he said, looking down at his ghostly hands; “It seems so petty now, beyond the veil — but in my flesh, I had been consumed by a fear of failure so grand, I could not bear to live apart from my people, to leave them to the twists of fate. If I had that power, I had to do something." he hissed, clenching his hands in remembered fervor... and then he loosened them, slumping slightly.

“Did you see as I did?" Bart asked, the specter somehow managing to look haunted, but it gestured for him to continue. Bart folded his own arms tighter, his breath fogging in front of him in the cold, his cloak gathering more tightly.

“I saw a thousand, thousand places, all as... as if I stood in this same spot, but if that spot were elsewhere, other times, other worlds — other realities." he said, and a glimmer of recognition flickered across the shade's features as Bart continued; “I could see myself engaged in battle but I was not myself, I was a thousand other faces, other names, all different, all alien," he said, holding up his hands, shaking now — not with the cold but with the memory.

“I remember that — the hopelessness of it, the driving despair of drowning in a sea of desperate voices not your own." the specter of the paladin said... and Bart shook his head.

“No. That isn't what I felt." he said, and the shade turned a hard gaze on him as Bart continued; “I felt... fury, righteousness, fear, hope and yes — despair... but they were all tied together, in the visions, I was always fighting, dying and rising again. Never truly giving in — in all of it was Cithara's beautiful, lovely eyes... they were not always her eyes yet I knew it was her, a thousand faces but her heart was shining and clear in those eyes..." he said, the shade's face was full of wonder. “I knew I was made for this struggle. Made to endure."

“I never saw her in the vision, I only saw the death... I had already seen so much death, so much suffering at that point. We had fought and won a crusade, I had given up land, title, and family to the fires of war." he seemed to take a breath his spectral form had no use for. “Brother, I was so tired by then... it felt as if I had been lead by the nose, puppeted by destiny…"

“So you asked." Bart concluded, and he nodded; “I did the same. Free will defines us as men, to think we've lost it..." he trailed off and the shade picked up the sentence.

“It would unmake us, as surely as the vision did I." he agreed, meeting Bart's gaze with a new respect in his features.

“You have faced similar struggles, smaller scale for sure... yet I see in your own eyes, in the quality of your soul that you have suffered much — paid dues in blood and flesh," he said, raising a hand and tapping his own eye in place of Bart's missing one. The big man idly touched the still-alien eye patch over his socket.

“I traded my body willingly. It is our duty, better one such as I — built and bred for war — make that sacrifice than some child or goodwife somewhere." he said, stiffening his spine; “I care not for the losses it causes me, if but one life is saved for the bleeding." The shade smiled, there was sadness in it.

“Spoken like a soldier. I see why she loves you Brother, I see that you are as I was — marked by destiny, you struggle as I did." the shade seemed to flicker, its eyes dark holes of misery as it folded its arms across its chest defensively, refusing to meet Bart's eyes.

“She gave me a child. A beautiful girl with white hair and golden eyes and a spiraling little horn. I have never known such love and such fear in so equal amounts. I took her and we left, I taught her and trained her in courtly matters and scripture, and she founded the Healing Church of Darrowmere — and I a kingdom at its opposite." he shook his head and met Bart's eyes.

“I took a divine gift, and I made it into a tool. Such a sin knows no forgiveness, in as much — my daughter forgave me not either. We loved one another, but she knew in her heart I had robbed her of such love that none else could compare."

Bart felt himself choke slightly, his throat catching with tears unshed as he felt the man's eternal grief, carried even beyond the grave. He could cast no judgment on this man, this paragon — a saint among saints, were but for the Grace of God he had not suffered the same fate — or worse.

“I implore you, brother. Do not repeat my mistake. She loves with the power of the cosmos." he said, baring his teeth with fervor; “Embrace it. Revel in it, let it define you and fulfill you, do not flee from it as I did for worldly concerns and petty fears." he said, ethereal fist clenched.

“Love her how I could not, and I will rest easy, my mind at last clear."

Bart took that in with a stunned expression... he had no real answer to that but a terse nod, which drew a smile to the shade's ethereal lips.

“All a bit much isn't it?" he said, and once more Bart nodded, blowing out a breath as he did.

“I have seen more impossible things in a month than my father did in a lifetime."

“To live such a life is why we do this, Brother." the specter added, looking Bart up and down again, more thoughtfully this time, Bart cut in with another question.

“Is that why you are here? Is your rest troubled by Cithara's sadness?" he asked boldly, the Shade's lips smiled gently and he shook his head, folding his arms across his chest again, his body language was strong, sturdy, and proud.

“No. I have no regrets for my choices, only that they hurt my beloved — yet I would make them again without a second thought. Sometimes we must sacrifice for the future, and you stand here as a testament that I was correct to do so." he said, gesturing at Bart's cloaked frame. “Look at you: flensed and brutalized in body and soul — yet you rise again, indefatigable and unyielding," he said, his chest swelling with pride.

“That is worth any regrets, any sadness. That my world is protected by men of such quality. My teachings, my machinations put the systems in place to build you and those like you." he said and drew himself up straight, jaw set stoically; “It was worth breaking Love's own heart. I faced final judgment on that once, and would again without hesitation."

Bart nodded: admirable conviction, everything he expected of the progenitor of his Order. He furrowed his brow after a moment; “Then why are you here, if you are not ill at rest from remorse?" he asked, shades were not unheard of, but generally they were mournful, lost things that wrung spectral hands and gnashed ghostly teeth over lost loves or great wrongs. The shade smiled and reached out a hand, touching his own effigy.

“I suppose you could say I felt someone walk across my grave. I was curious." he said, raising his blacked-out gaze to Bart's; “Cithara wouldn't let just anyone find this place, she secreted it away for a reason — and a good one." he said, and Bart could guess any number of reasons such a interment would be kept far away from others, what evil could the Empty Queen's cultists do with so divinely touched a corpse?

“She sent me here for I have to face a great evil of my time; one of ours betrayed our oaths, joined with the Queen's monsters," he said, and the shades' face turned flat, divine fury painting his ghostly visage.

“Blasphemy." he hissed, his presence suddenly even more icy, Bart felt the air almost sucked from his lungs, and the light of his torch briefly guttered, the First Paladin drew himself up.

“Then she sent you here for my weapons, as is proper." he said, venom on his tongue still as he turned to the rear of the tomb; “She purposefully had them interred separate from my bones, in accord with my wishes. They are heirlooms of Mankind, and sleep here only until they are needed once more," he said, meeting Bart's eye with a fierce sort of grin.

“That time is now, brother."

Bart followed his gaze and lifted his torch. His boots clattered on the smooth masonry as he illuminated the alcove, light glaring across dull black metal and glorious gold.

The Harness of the First Paladin stood there, upon a stand in a pose of eternal readiness, its plating scuffed, marred, and scratched — but unyielding, unbroken. The armor's steel was a dusky, blackened hue; worn dark with age and battle — its edges gilt with gold along the rims and rivets. It was nominally in the Mistport style that was popular before the Black March inflicted much of its stagnation of progress: heavy asymmetrical pauldrons, a hinged, overlapping gorget, and sleek, heavy plating meant to face the full force of an equally armed opponent. It had durable, broadly winged couters — wide and flaring at the elbow — and heavy partial mitten-style gauntlets much like those he was accustomed to. A solid peaked breastplate, broadly angled and impenetrable covered the heart, while an overlapping series of faulds led down to a pair of reinforced tassets over a skirt of mail — mail that still gleamed free of a speck of rust.

The pauldrons and helm were of particular note; as the former had high-winged guards designed to deflect blows away from the throat, and the left was noticeably out-sized from the right — almost a small shield — covering from the top of the shoulder down to the breastbone easily. It set over top a long white and gold-trimmed half-cape that snaked around the left side to hang to his mid-thigh, connecting at the back to the rear of the right's smaller pauldron — which was scalloped and inset with hinges to give the right arm greater mobility and responsiveness. The armor was clearly designed for a two-handed fighting style, presenting the leading left side with both the concealing cape and heavier pauldron, truly the cape would cover the draw of a sword as well, further lending to the idea of a harness made for a man who fought outnumbered and head-on.

The helm was... glorious. In addition to the hinged visor with its aggressive profile and narrow, wide-angle slits — a twist-woven cloth orle headband of white and gold wound around its brow, supporting a draping cloth-like veil of the same gold-trimmed pattern as the cloak down the back of the neck. Above the orle where a heraldic crest or plume on lesser harness might be — it instead wore a crown. It was for all the world, a wrought, golden version of the blazing crown of light Cithara wore in her true aspect; it and the visor both slotted together in such a way to allow it to raise between them — five different pointed prongs with the center-most one tall and proud — straight from the brow in simulacra of the Lady in White's own gleaming horn. Each of the five points sharpened keen as blades — indeed hammered into the shape of swords. They gleamed with impossible strength despite their aurum nature, hardened by some magical process beyond his ken.

“Blood of God." Bart breathed, and in a small gesture of Grace, the First Paladin did not correct him.

“It was a glorious harness, forged by my family armorsmith in the days before the Black March, hardened by battle — and broken by it more than once. Modified and reforged after defeat and loss, Lessons learned in blood then writ in steel — and yet further empowered by bathing in the lambent auras of the three Holy Beasts," he said proudly, reaching up a ghostly hand to touch the breastplate.

“I did great things in this, great and terrible things. It is fitting that it delivers this traitor his justice," he said and met Bart's eyes. “But enough preamble — my Blade is what you are here for, draw it forth from the harness and look upon it," he said — fire in his ghostly voice.

Bart did as he was bade, reaching to the great blade held between the harnesses' formed fingers; it pulled away with a clatter, the weapon was enormous within the scabbard, not quite a great sword — but at the upper limit of a true longsword, even in his massive hands. The broad cross-guard itself was fully a span and one-half wide — its hexagonal quillions simple, straight, and curving slightly at the tips — a soldier's design, no frills. The pommel was a wide, flattened wheel with deep-ground, chamfered edges and a stout post capping the tang at its terminal end — designed to crush a skull or dent in a visor. The hilt itself was wrapped in blackened leather with a comfortable, tapering shape and distinct, crisp oblong cross-section that indexed the blade along his arm with aplomb.

“Draw it, Brother. It is more than it appears." the shade urged, and setting the torch aside with his free hand, draw it he did.

And his eye went wide with wonder.

There was no glint of silvery steel, no flashing mirror-polish, nay it was an ugly, matte color of blackened, wrought iron with a pitted and weathered surface. No glint of silvery steel... but as he tilted the blade in his hand to catch the light — it gleamed with a divine, golden luster, the blade's honed edges blazing like aurum fire.

“Absolute Iron." Bart breathed, and the Shade grinned fiercely.

“It began life as an executioner's blade, wielded by the King of Mistport only in punishment of crimes against God and State. When the Black March slew him and razed the kingdom, I took it to task against the Motherless — and it cut them with quickness and hunger. Long did I carry that heavy, ugly blade until fate brought my forces to a Master Smith, Brokk the Stern. He took it from me nigh by force — and with the heavy, thick steel blade of that tool never meant for war — he created this."

Bart raised the blade, its length a full five-and-quarter spans from tip to pommel, the latter easily resting just below his sternum with the point to the ground, the exact maximum length it could be and still comfortable to wear at his hip. Massive for a longsword, it was wide, almost comically so at the base, a full half-span across where the crosspiece met the blade, and tapering down into a broad, starkly triangular blade that again tapered in the last few fingerbreadths to a sharp, needle-like point. The blade was wide, yet exceedingly thin, as he turned it over, the cross-section was a flattened diamond with a heavy middle rib supporting a deep hollow grind — the edges themselves surprisingly thin and also stout: more like a chisel than any traditional sword. It would be ferocious in the cut and thrust, an absolute monster of hewing potential.

“Is it true what they say about Absolute Iron?" he asked, he'd heard stories but... this man, shade or not — had wielded this blade in battle against the forces of evil. Absolute Materials were rare, preternatural Ur-examples of elemental concepts in solid form — Absolute Iron was exclusive to the crafts of Man, none Other could forge it — and the metal itself could be only used for tools and weapons, it would not allow itself to be any other shape or purpose; to do so robbed it of its power.

“It is all true and more; this is not mere Absolute Iron — it is one of the First Blades," he stated and gestured to the blade's base again — lengthwise along its flatter middle near the chape was a long engraving of lines, and the Tongue of Heaven, Bart furrowed his brow as he read it carefully.

“Manu Propria." he read aloud, reflexively translating for his own benefit; “By One's Own Hand." he read, meeting the shade's eyes, who smiled.

“Appropriate, no? True for any Paladin, even the First. By our own hands do we dispense justice, Until the Pale Dawn calls us." he said, and Bart shivered... hearing that phrase, by the man who coined it was a... powerful experience.

“The blade will never dull, never break. It will puncture steel and shear meat and bone — it will scald the flesh of the Other, Motherless abomination or Sidhe Aggressor alike. The enemies of Man cannot touch it, and to their flesh, it is anathema, as all of the First Blades are."

Bart's wonder faded even as he gave the blade a gentle swing, taking it to high-port arms — it was alarmingly lively in the hands for its size, and its balance was exquisite, made to chop, cut, and shear while still keeping that wicked point stable and precise... and also for a far, far better swordsman than he. The hilt almost felt alien in the hands of the habitual axe-fighter.

“Do I dare accept this? Is this not beyond my station?" he asked, and the shade laughed.

“If that were true, you would not be here with the love of the Lady dripping from you like honey from a fresh comb. Take them, use them. If you feel unworthy of such things become worthy." he said, raising his fist with vigor.

“It is time they shone in the light again, and reminded the darkness why it fears it so."

Bart nodded, keeping his reservations on his ability to himself. Cithara would have some insight, and perhaps the blade's preternatural hunger would give him the edge needed against Parias in their inevitable rematch. He sheathed the blade again, holding it almost reverently cradled in the crook of his arm.

“This... has been an honor I can't describe adequately, brother," Bart said, shaking his head. “I read of you in stories, in the Abbey's texts — you are... honestly, exactly as I pictured you," he said, and the shade laughed.

“I should hope so. I've been dead a very long time, I hope they got my features correct by now," he said, and Bart couldn't help but laugh as well at the quip, but the shade stood a little straighter. “The honor is mine, brother — to meet the man that unlocked Cithara's heart from its long, cold time alone. She is made to love someone, not just man as a whole — she was built by God to love a Champion," he said and smiled at Bart with genuine joy.

“It is… not untoward, to be enthralled with her then? Bodily, I mean..." Bart asked him with a quiet bit of shame in his voice, and the shade rocked with a quiet fit of mirth.

“I questioned myself as well if I had gone mad with the winnowing horror of the campaign, inured to the base lusts of my enemies — if I had my own morals ground down by such constant exposure to depravity." he said, echoing Bart's own worries with a shrug; “She is not of a human form, and yet she stirred me inside unlike any woman ever had."

“She does, I have… dreamed of her. Many times. Of soft, silken mane…"

“… and of golden eyes and lingering kisses, no?" the shade finished for him. Bart drew in a sharp breath, and he nodded.

“I dreamt the same. Her spirit reached out for mine, bound by the threads of fate long before we'd ever raised steel and horn against the forces of the dark. Nay, brother. She is a wholly exotic thing — she may carry some shape in parts of things we call bestial or wild — but the whole of her put together is itself, a vital, alluring thing." the shade shuddered with remembered yearning, his misty fingers curling to lay placating over his heart.

“Do not think yourself debased because you lust for her, she is in all things unique and beautiful and your mind sees her for what she is, and it signals such to your eyes. There is no shame in being attracted to her form, for she is made for you, brother."

Bart closed his eyes, thinking of her kisses in the clearing, how her mouth had felt so inviting, how she had filled and invaded him — body and soul — and none of it had felt like a violation or a desecration of his virginal body… and he shivered with remembered delight.

“Thank you, brother." Bart said, mirroring his gesture over his rapidly beating breast, “I will admit such thoughts tasked me still — my life has been brief, but full of terrors and joys alike. I worried that I had not endured them as well as she might have me believe." the shade laughed, full and joyous.

“Oh, it is like looking into a great, brawny mirror!" The First Paladin crowed, hands resting on his hips as he walked around Bart in a moment of almost military inspection — Bart stood at attention crisply, wishing he had proper armor and surcoat.

“At ease, at ease my brother — you are even of my kin, at least in part," he said, tugging at his own wavy curls, be they ghostly or not. “I never did favor a mustache though, no matter how oft Cithara asked me to grow one. Made my nose itch fiercely." Bart grinned,

“My father had one, so it seemed appropriate I should as well — and mother was a daughter of your homeland."

“Is it well, there?" the shade inquired; “I am distant — while I can see many things from Godhome, it is a faraway place of contentment, the common travails of the world at large are misty and unsure."

“Mother says it is a grand place, and Father tells many stories of his time as a Merchant Marine on the Sea of Glass," he said, and the shade smiled broadly.

“You come from good stock, I can see it in your gaze. Good people. Good souls." he said, chest puffing up with a bit of very clear national pride; “My people's fierce heart beats in that broad chest of yours."

Bart could only smile at that, his own chest rising, back straightening at the praise from one so storied, so honored. The shade stared at him a moment, seemingly waiting. Bart broke the quiet,

“I have so many things to ask you, I never thought to have the chance… and as I stand before you, I find none of them come to mind save one thing."

“Ask," the shade said, smiling softly; “I have time enough for important questions from my successor."

To be called such a thing struck him silent for a long moment, humbled by the title bestowed upon him by this… titan, this hero of heroes. Bart collected himself, finding his breath and arranging his thoughts together.

“It is trite but… does it ever get easier? Losing people, falling short… the casualties and lives you could not save…" Bart said, even now as he was — he felt the bitter edge of remorse for those lost. The First Paladin closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath.

“It does… but it is not something to long for. It leads to a distance from tragedy that inures you against it — but also the other things in life." he said, his voice bitter as gall, “Do not flee from the pain my brother, simply let it flow through you — feel it, accept it, let it wash over you… and then let it go." he said and closed his eyes.

“Do not let horror harden your heart, for that is its true victory. It will take your joy from you, your wonder, and replace them all with grim preparedness and the lonely life of the jaded," he said and raised his chin defiantly.

“Do not let them take your heart, brother. It is your greatest treasure."

Bart sat there, his eye closed — a tear running down his scarred cheek, the feeling of those words resonated in him somewhere deep and true, he nodded and wiped his eyes.

“Apologies, I have ever been a crybaby." he lamented, and the shade smiled wide.

“A strong body, iron will… and a heart warm and soft as fresh bread." he said winsomely; “Little wonder she loves you so wholly in such short a span." Bart could only smile, his back straight and his shoulders square.

“Thank you, brother. That… that means more to me than I can say," he said, and the shade stepped forward close to him.

“I am proud to call you Brother, no matter how this journey ends. You are as I would have you be were you at my side." he reached up and grasped Bart's shoulder, the tingling chill of the grave uncomfortable, but Bart felt himself swell with pride. The shade nodded and turned slightly; as if hearing something from another room.

“Ah... it seems I am overdue here. It is no small thing for the dead to walk again — not and be sane and whole of mind. Do not keep her waiting overlong, Brother." he said, and smiled softly, stepping away.

“Love her, Bartholomus Mueller. For she truly loves you, never doubt that."

And with that, the shade turned and strode away — fading into mere glimmers and motes of dust and light.

Bart stood alone in the tomb once more, but only in body. In spirit, he felt a kinship that would never falter.

~ ~ ~

Bart busied himself disassembling and gathering the armor together — even this had been considered by the First Paladin's foresight, as a small pack rested at the base of the stand, tucked back out of sight. He marveled at its intact nature... but he supposed nothing else had rotted or worn down within the tomb either — truly even the First Paladin's body interred within the sarcophagus may have been fleshy and hale as if the breath had just left him, but he dare not commit such a blasphemy as to check on sheer curiosity. He simply chalked it up to the strange magicks of the Glade and carried on.

Hoisting the pack, the helmet dangling from a strap made for it, he propped the blade onto his shoulder and made his way out, pausing to grasp his Mantle and pull shut the great doors again — resealing the tomb in dark quietude once more. He lingered a moment longer, looking up at the mausoleum, laying a hand on its stones before he turned, pulling his cloak about him against the cold and making his way back down the path.

Cithara sat just beyond the frost line; grass having sprung up and blossomed around her and flowers blooming all near her lambent presence — Bart felt his heart fill with love and new, alien passion as he saw her — and she also seemed to swell with joy and relief as she saw him.

“My darling, I thought perhaps something had befallen you!" she said, leaping to her hooves to prance towards him and push her nose into his neck, nuzzling him softly as she spied the sword, her eyes knowingly turning towards his. He shook his head.

“Merely paying respects to the honored dead — particularly since he saw fit to grace me with his shade's presence," he said, and Cithara shuddered softly, nodding. She seemed to yearn to speak a moment, mouth working in small, soft motions before Bart cut her off.

“He loves you still, always. He is most glad that you are no longer alone," he said, and Cithara drew back, almost as if he struck her, but then she smiled — tears glimmering in her eyes, as she laughed softly, shaking her head to dash them away.

“Dear Bart, you have a terrible habit of making a lady cry, you wonderful man," she said, leaning up to gently kiss his mouth, a soft, chaste thing of pure, simple love. “Come home with me my love, it is time for rest." she breathed against his lips, Bart nodded, and together — Lady and Champion, lover and lover, strode from the snowy glen. Never to be parted wholly ever again.

~ ~ ~

“I appreciate the thought, but there is simply no way this will fit me." Bart protested as they began rounding their way to the cottage, the Unicorn beamed.

“Why not?" she asked with a touch of smugness, and Bart gave her a flat look, holding out the helmet.

“I met him, I am quite a bit larger than the First Paladin was. This is a noble gesture, but without a master smith to reforge it, at best I may find use of the gauntlets and sword belt." he protested firmly, and Cithara's eyes narrowed at him.

“Why don't you try it on?" she dared, her lips turning up in a slightly devious smile. Bart eyed her warily — he knew that look by now, the expression she wore when she knew something he did not. Rounding another corner, he looked down at the helmet. Undoing the hinges of the gorget, he signed and lifted it to his head.

“This is silly," he murmured, and lowered it, locking it into place... and stopping cold in the path, the sword, armor, and pack dangling slack off his shoulders as he stood there dumbly.

“And?" she said with a touch of over-enunciation in the tone, her eyes glimmering. Bart turned his head, and it moved around him effortlessly, his field of vision narrow but clear and sharp — it didn't even catch his mustache. Hurriedly he pulled the helm free, staring at it with mussed hair and a wide eye.

“What sorcery?" he asked, genuinely confused. The Lady chuckled.

“We had come to call it The Definitive Harness by the end of the campaign. As the First Paladin fought alongside us Triune of Beasts — our lambent energies infused it and him, it became its own Platonic Ideal of armor — a Paladin's Harness in full panoply, written into reality on its very grains of iron," she explained, tilting her head to one side in way of a shrug. “The Armor and its Iron came to believe itself unbreakable — so it is. So long as you are true to your Oaths, it will fit you as it did him — a comfortable bulwark, a fortress for your noble heart," she said, pressing to his side.

“Besides... the horn is quite fetching, it reminds me of things I've long missed..." she teased, nuzzling his ear and gently nipping it with her teeth. He shivered, a twist of tingling butterflies running through his gut as he leaned into the touch — and she indulged him, her mouth roaming down his neck a moment, sucking softly at a spot above his collarbone before she separated, his hands had found her mane and tangled there, drawing her teeth over her lower lip she sighed.

“I like your hands there, darling." she cooed; “I like them in all ways, truly... so large, so gentle, and yet..." She turned her head, pressing her muzzle into his calloused, scarred mitt. “So strong. I have seen those hands crush a skull, rend flesh and bone... and also touch me so delicately I dared not breathe lest I truly be made of glass, and shatter upon your slightest brush against me, utterly undone by the sensation..." she purred and her mouth found his palm, kissing it, her eyes looking over her covered face at him — two slits of smoldering golden desire. He felt of all things — the Mantle within him stir in response, its holy fire seeking out her own through their contact.

“Come," she whispered simply, and he felt a twinge inside of himself sharply as she drew him along. The mood lightened softly as he hefted the helm, blade, and pack again.

“I do have concerns," he said after a moment as they wandered through increasingly familiar woods — he marveled that he found them so already, surely he was never so good a tracker before — doubtless the magic of the place rubbing off on him. She perked an ear at him, and he lifted the sheathed blade.

“This is a sword," he said dumbly, unsure how to begin the conversation, and she smiled at him incredulously.

“Yes... yes, it is dear one." she hedged expectantly, and the big man squeezed his eye shut, embarrassed at his dull-witted response.

“No, I mean... I am not particularly good with a sword," he admitted, and she frowned at him.

“Are my boys no longer expected to show proficiency with a blade? You fought many times, I have seen it through your eyes and in your heart," she argued as she drew close to him again — ever since he'd come from the Mausoleum, she had rarely been far from him, and often drifted to find reasons to touch or trail against him. He found it quite pleasant.

“I have — with an axe." he said bluntly, and she turned her lips in a thoughtful frown, Bart continued: “I have proficiency with the sword, long and small; but I am a kluge with it, clumsy and inelegant. Parias is not," he said with vehemence. Cithara's eyes lit with a soft 'ah' from her lips.

“That is a problem." she agreed, Bart nodded, shifting the blade on his shoulder.

“Parias is a monster... but is is also a peerless swordsman, he took me apart like a training dummy. He knows all our forms, and he is simply better than I," he said honestly. Cithara's eyes seemed momentarily worried, then distant as she considered something beyond him.

“My Mantle will neutralize any advantages of might or endurance he has been granted by the Wendigo, the rest..." she pursed her lips. “I will see to that. I have yet favors to call upon... one in particular seems well suited to this," she said and smiled at him. “Your honesty is refreshing, not many men could admit such a failure," she said, and Bart blew out a breath.

“I know when I have been beaten, it was a frequent occurrence in the lists and on the training field. He was a peer of Ser Bowen at the least." he agreed, and Cithara's golden eyes lit with recognition again.

“Bowen! Oh, he is well then?" she asked, delight in her voice. Bart found himself grinning;

“Yes... he was my Trial of Steel," he said, and Cithara laughed gaily at that.

“Oh! The Old Wolf still believes in tough love I see. Bowen was a peerless warrior when first came to me many years ago, I can only expect seasoning has made him even more formidable." she said, her mood light again as the shadow of the place fell from her, and she sighed, looking at the armor, the blade and then Bart, and she smiled.

“His name was Lionel," she said softly, her eyes tender. Caring.

“Come again?" he asked, blinking his one good eye at her. She smiled wider.

“The First Paladin. His name was Lionel. You should know it. You are like of heart." she said simply, and turned her head from his, walking at his side. Bart looked back, they had long left the cold, snowy grave behind... but he felt that he was staring straight at the dead man's tomb. A smile crept to his lips... she did not know how right she was.

The pair arrived back at the cottage, and to Bart's surprise he found the sleeping nook had been... cleaned wasn't quite the right term; it was as if the brawl had never happened. He blinked as he unlimbered the pack with a clatter of plates, setting the helm and blade aside.

“This bed was flinders, and the wall itself cracked," he said, reaching out to touch it. Cithara smiled at him and quietly shushed him with an exaggerated 'Shhhhhh'.

“What? Whyfo-"

“Faeries," she whispered, and Bart blinked.

“House Fae, even the Unseelie have a population of less monstrous sorts. They clean and repair and maintain my quiet abode — but you must never draw attention to them or attempt to catch them — that will insult them, and they will leave." she said and frowned at him; “I will be quite cross if you drive off my house staff." she said, eyes glimmering with a bit of mischief as she kissed his cheek again.

“I will bear that in mind," he murmured, eyes upon her... she was so close, so soft. His eyes drew down her body, her sinuous frame, the sway to and fro of her leonine tail…

“Bart," she murmured, and he started, eyes returning to hers.

“You must rest," she said firmly, her tone caring. He frowned but... then he suddenly felt very, very tired.

“Oh... what just happened?" he asked in a woozy voice — swaying visibly on his feet — she smirked in response.

“I just made you aware of the strain you have experienced. Your Ember burns hot, and you even encountered the veil between worlds. Your spirit is weary. I have been feeding your Ember mine own flame to keep it at balance, but the only real solution that is not pouring more into a leaky cup — is simply to sleep for a time." she said, leaning forward and kissing his brow softly. That explained her constant, casual touches and the electric thrill... well, at least the touches. The thrill was quite normal.

“Sleep my love." she breathed, and Bart felt himself falling to the bed, it was so soft and inviting, that he stretched out. There was a faint thrum of her orbit, and one by one he felt her tug off his boots and socks, but already the woolly haze of slumber called to him.

“My dutiful champion..." was the last thing Bart heard as the bliss of dreams drew him away.

~ ~ ~

Dreams came, and dreams passed. He felt himself safe. Secure within the place beyond the waking world, his mind building him a wondrous mental image of hot lips, soft touches, and whispered pleas. Thrilling and new…

“Bart..."

The voice came to him across the distance, and his eye snapped open. Darkness lay across the cottage, the faint creak and sway of the massive tree settling constantly giving it an organic, almost womb-like feel of being inside something that breathed. He found it oddly not at all unpleasant, and for a time simply sat half-awake in the darkness listening to the silent swaying of the Glade at night.

“Bart..." the voice came again, Cithara's voice. He looked around... it drifted as a soft echo, whether to his ears or his mind, he could not say. He rose from his bed, finding himself nude to the waist as well, undressed to but the trousers as he slept.

“Come to me, my love..." the voice urged, and he found himself walking, possessed by a desire to find Cithara, to follow that distant command that seemed to speak not to his ears but to his heart.

He left the cottage, bare-footed and bare-chested, carrying naught but the First Paladin's blade with him, he knew naught why but his pragmatic mind intruded on even this to remind him of his last time traipsing through the forest unarmed. For this he hesitated only long enough on his single-minded exodus from the cottage to seize the sheathed weapon, carrying it at hand. He found his feet knew where to place themselves, surety in each step as he ascended the path, scabbard-bound sword in hand still. He wended his way through darkened trees — silver starlight filtered through the canopy, painting everything with a mercurial luster. He had never seen the trail he followed, yet he walked it as if it were the road between home and the Abbey, blind and confident.

The trees opened to a glimmering clearing embraced by the broad, rocky wall of an isolated crag; more of an outcropping of a larger overhanging bluff swelling up between large, jutting spears of stones from Crownspeak — towering overhead like spires of a mysterious, alien palace and framing the whole area in a semi-circular embrace of stacked shale and stone. A waterfall broke over top its ragged, jutting crest — forming a sheet of silken, glimmering current that poured broad and lazy like a curtain into a wide, placid pool that filled the clearing. Stretching to fill and occupy the open area, the whole surface so still and clear that it reflected the sky above like the pane of a grand mirror — a glimmering starfield and the great, lingering shapes of the Twin Maiden Moons projected across the softly lapping water in a glistening image that challenged him to disbelieve that he may in fact — still be dreaming.

Until he saw the pool's sole occupant, and knew it was no dream.

Cithara stood in the middle of the minor lake, proud and straight. The quicksilver waves lapped just beneath her barrel, moonlight worn like a stately gown. Her glimmering white coat radiant in the reflected light — luminous and pure as virtue. Her mirrored image stretched around her like an alluring mirage, a duality shattered only by her tail swirling gently through it with a delicate cascade of ripples as she lifted her chin toward him. Her smile was like numbwine for his aching heart — a narcotic haze over his senses, her golden eyes flashing with a heady, lustful desire as she met his.

“Come to me my darling — let me welcome you, warm you." she purred, her voice a throbbing thing of need “Let me love you, as only a wife may."

Bart felt his heart pounding against his chest, his hands moved on their own, and what little clothing he had fell to the shore, trousers, smallclothes, even the patch over his eye. The First Blade clattered heavily atop the discarded effects, physically and spiritually disarming himself before The Lady in White. He was bare to her, body and soul, and her chest swelled with a deep intake of breath as she beheld him completely — unabashed in her want and desire.

He had no words, he waded out into the water; its coolness was merely pleasant, refreshing in the heavy spring air. His eye never left her golden gaze as they drew together, his pace quickening as they grew closer until he practically ran, and she came to him just as swiftly — a soft cry of desire rising from her throat as they met, her body raising to his — her downy breast pressing against him, mouth hungry, needy, wanting as they entwined beneath the moonlight.

His hands cupped her face, her short, shapely muzzle shivering as their lips enmeshed, opened and they drank deeply of one another. Bart was a diligent student, and he applied all she had taught him of kissing in that moment — their tongues dancing in a slow, sinuous embrace. The sultry flavor of her mouth invaded his; the sweet scent of fresh water, lilies, and her spicy, honey-like aroma filled his lungs and mind — and then it struck him, just as her tongue delved deep into his mouth, her foreleg lifting to gently embrace his naked hips — the scent, the spicy-sweet, sticky musk was nay, not her mere personal perfume — but her need. The fragrance of arousal, so new to his virgin senses was suddenly recognized; a deep, primal part of his brain lit up as If struck by a bolt of thunder: the scent of his lover, of his wife.

“Oh, Bart..." she gasped against his mouth, looking down as his naked body pressed to hers — his own need presenting itself above the waterline; his erection at last stood proud and free for her eyes, aching, throbbing and so full of want that he felt as if he might explode merely from her gaze alone, forgetting even the lightest of touches. He gave a gentle, desperate moan as she shifted her foreleg, the feathers of it wet and soft — sopping strands of silk wrapping and rolling across the throbbing length of flesh as she brushed it, the clenching of his inner muscles making the aching length pulse and jump as she looked at it with naked avarice — and a touch of alarm.

“My love... large in more than mere heart and stature..." she crooned, her voice lowered only for him; “Made for me you were indeed, down to the very measure."

Bart could only gasp in response, but his heart swelled at the truly masculine pride her compliment gave him — and in relief for a long, deep-held fear of simply... being too large, too clumsy and brutish to ever love a woman properly. Cithara's gaze drew along his length, measuring him with her eyes... and then dipping lower, her tongue snaking from her mouth — the organ so long as to be nearly sinister as its pointed, sinuous mass found the base of his member, and slowly ran its way upwards; flattening its pink girth along the belly of his shaft and cradling its weight as she let out a heady, hungry moan. Her eager lips pouted, pulling her tongue back into her mouth slow and sure — dragging it from beneath the twitching pillar across his foreskin-covered tip, where beads of his needy emission gathered. Her eyes on his, she drew that glimmering seed to her mouth and let her eyes flutter closed, throat visibly working, her lips parting with a satisfied smack, eyes opening again — eagerness gleaming in those gold-on-gold depths.

Bart had never seen anything more arousing in his short, violent life — nor did he suspect, would he ever.

The gleam of her orbit was nearly missed in the lambent reflections of the pool, but it grasped him bodily, and gently swayed him to the side towards the middle-most section of the pool; where a pair of large, smooth sheets of shale and slate stood free of the water, leaning against one another in perpetual balance. She lay him down upon it, a mere two or three steps from where they met, her eyes trailing along his body.

“I promised you a kiss for every scar." she breathed, rising above him as he reclined on the cool stone, “Ever will that promise ring true, each new mark will I add another... and I have much catching up to do..." she murmured softly, her dainty hooves clicking on the stone as she began on his brow, her lips soft, gentle as she kissed down his face, brushing across his ruined eye-socket and down the torn flesh of his cheek. She paused and gently kissed his broken nose, her lips smiling faintly before moving on.

He shuddered and let his head loll as she passed his mouth with a gentle nip, pulling at his lip with her teeth and descending lower. His throat and collar were slowly mapped with soft kisses and long, lashing swipes of that impossible tongue — every hurt tended and cataloged. She took his arms next, lifting them with her power, pressing her face to his palms and kissing across the numerous slices and cuts there, his body alight with sensation, every hair on his arms standing at parade attention and his cock following suit — the gentle ministrations constantly assaulting it with the soft, silky pelt of her breast and belly dragging along it.

“It is sinful to take such a specimen for myself," she breathed as she lingered over his muscular belly, propped up on her tucked forelegs between his thighs; “... Yet I am earthbound, imperfect. God allows me my flaws... and I will indulge them with you and the hunger of a century's longing..." she said, sliding lower, his shaft throbbing as it stood alongside her face, her soft cheek brushing along it. Her eyes met his — locking their gazes as her mouth slowly, luridly opened — disgorging that sinful tongue once more, flanked by those pronounced fangs. It toyed with his sac, each of his balls weighed on its flattened surface before she wound it like a serpent around his whole length — a sight and sensation both he could not believe, the organ ensnaring him nigh-whole, dragging down the protective flesh and exposing the sensitive, swollen purple tip to the misty night air.

“Cithara, God..." he gasped, and a fresh bead of emission spurted lightly, running down his length to pool on her soft, pink nose. She giggled quietly, eyelids fluttering as she took a breath. The scent of him seemed to drive her to a new height, and she lashed that elongated tongue across her snout to clean it — pressing her muzzle against his balls and breathing deep of his own aroma. He felt a sudden jolt of sensation, as her muzzle pressed lower, his length laying across her face as she nosed beneath his heavy coin purse and her tongue lashed out instead along his rear. Bart went stiff with alarm — not out of dismay, but instead a sudden shock of unexpected pleasure. Cithara's eyes looked up at him, his sac and shaft draping over her face as her tongue snaked back into her mouth, gaze two smoldering slashes of aurum hunger.

“I told you I liked your ass darling... I never went into depth how much..." she teased, and her tongue slid out again, and he felt his thighs parting as her orbit ignited — and that snaking, sinuous length of flesh found its mark between his rump again. Stars flashed before Bart's sight and he flopped back on the stone, arching suddenly as a pleasure so unknown it must be sinful rose in him as that tongue lashed and assaulted his rear entrance, probing and pressing at it before she gave a deep, huffing groan and plunged its pointed tip inside, Bart's muscular legs going taunt as his eye went wide and toes curled in the cool water of the pool.

It was not as... aggressive or violating as he had feared, a deep, quiet worry that was distinctly masculine — nay, the sensation was like her kisses, deep, plunging, and soft, raking at spots within him he didn't know he had... yet it was an indirect pleasure, driving his hands up into his hair, raking at his own scalp as it was all at once too much and not nearly enough.

“Cithara, God's Blood... I need... I need more!" he gasped, her teasing, taunting tongue having found spots deep within him that made him see flashes and spots, legs askew in straining need — his muscular torso an edifice of tension and hunger as he arched again at the not-quite-there itch she toyed with. Her eyes smiled at him and she drew away slowly, her long tongue sliding out of him and back up into her muzzle with a lurid flourish, her eyes fluttering as she drew a deep breath — and then lowered her mouth back down, wrapping the softness of that tongue around his uncovered, bare tip throbbing before her. Down she slid, eyes slowly rolling back into her head as his length and girth pushed past her lips, beyond her tongue, and wedged slowly into her throat — her lips pressing to the base, nuzzling affectionately at his pubic bone. Bart's hands found a new home as by sheer reflex and desire he reached down and dug them into her mane, drawing a moan of pleasure from her that vibrated around his embedded shaft and sent his legs wrapping around her slim shoulders to the withers.

Only then, did she start to move. It was slow at first, a deep, almost churning motion as she drew back to the very tip, rolling his foreskin back over his sensitive knob. That impossible tongue coiled around his length — her eyes never leaving his as she then thrust back down, driving his member into her gullet, the tight, massaging rings of her throat peeling the protective flesh back from that vulnerable head again. She repeated it, falling into a slow but inexorable rhythm of sheathing and unsheathing him within her maw root to tip, again and again. Bart's stamina had no training, no experience — the virgin Paladin's fuse short as one of Naima's black powder bombs. Cithara's eyes blazed with hunger and desire as she drew from him like a well — pumping, milking, moaning louder around him as he pulled her mane for leverage, feeling himself swelling, coming to the end.

“Ci-Cithara... I am... I am...." she drew back then, her orbit flaring and wrapping his shaft in an outline of crushing, massaging radiance that snapped his rolling eye back to her gaze with sudden, intense sensation, her long tongue snaking into her mouth as she spoke;

“I thirst beloved... “ she moaned amorously, letting her lips part to show those pointed teeth and soft palate; “Let it go... let me drink you deep..." she breathed, and then with a single, glaring focus of golden eyes her voice throbbed; “Slake me."

The sight, the sensation, God's Teeth the mere sound of this cosmic being so consumed with desire for him was like throwing the windlass on a gate, and he arched, shuddering a sudden and almost anguished cry of pleasure as his hips bucked and drove against that invisible, milking force. His climax erupted directly at her lips; her maw opening and tongue lolling to capture it as he messily emptied himself, grasping her mane for dear life as he both filled her mouth and painted her face in his seed, her eyes fluttering and body twitching as he lost the ability to discern time and space for several long moments, hanging in the balance as she lowered her mouth again and sucked the last of his finish from him directly — her glowing golden gaze staring into his ecstatic face with ardent satisfaction. Pointedly she swirled her tongue around the spent organ, gathering all of his remaining fluids, and with a visible motion of her throat — swallowed every last drop.

“Exquisite."

Bart was speechless, sinking back against the cool slate, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard he thought he might expire from sheer pleasure. The moaning sounds he made were an undignified but primal, earnest appreciation for what he had just experienced. The Unicorn simply smiled smugly, her tongue sliding across her messy muzzle and snout, the long organ luridly cleaning her of his essence.

“A sterling performance my beloved, I am enthralled..." she purred, gently nuzzling his softening shaft and giving its drooping tip a gentle kiss... following that up to his belly, where she laid her face instead and simply looked up at him, watching him come down from the climatic high into a shuddering, trembling state of satisfaction.

“... I never realized... I could be made to feel such things..." he gasped, raking his fingers back through his hair with a resonant groan. Cithara tittered at him lustily.

“Oh my love, I have such sights to show you... but for now..." Her eyes flared, orbit aglow as she gently drew her horn down his body, and lightly tapped it to his member. A familiar sensation of warm, regenerative energies coursed through him in a jolt, his eye went wide as suddenly he felt invigorated, the oversensitive trembling gone, and eagerly his member began to rise to the occasion once more.

“... It is my turn, darling."

Drawing himself up, he found himself all too eager to return the favor, to explore her as she had him, and it was obvious she saw that, laughing softly at how he bounced to his feet with a quiet splash, the unicorn strutting up to him and leaning up for a gentle, light as butterflies kiss.

“Don't worry." she breathed; “I will guide you..." she said, biting her lower lip; “I have been very, very curious how that mustache will feel..." she purred, and with a swishing, swaying motion, she turned away from him, looking back across her withers at him, her long, leonine tail went up, flagging high across her back in a sumptuous arc — revealing all of her to him which he had but glimpsed in passing before, too shy and too proper to look.

Her hindquarters were lithe and doe-like, her nimble legs and taut haunches round and pert, her nethers however were more familiar to him than he initially cared to admit. She may take exception to being called a mere mare — but beneath her tail, she was more equine than all of the rest of her cosmic figure combined. A puffy, snug ring sat tucked beneath the base of that thick tail, pushed into a softly rounded triangular shape by the surprisingly muscular press of her hindquarters. It dipped low into the shape of her womanhood, a swollen, pastel teardrop of quivering rosy flesh, the long slit glistening with viscous fluids and the faintest hint of her intense, saturated pink inner flesh. Her eyes met his, and she ran that long, lurid tongue out of her mouth in a lusty moan and widened her stance, swaying her hips back and forth — that swollen mound gave its most impressive performance: it winked. Bart had seen it before but never in such a context and truly — in no other context would it have had such effect; her swollen folds splayed apart on their own as the inner muscles clenched and contracted — pushing her engorged pleasure-bulb outwards — shaped like a glistening little heart — it pulsed toward him with a wet sucking sound of flesh on flesh, carrying with it a squirt of that clear, spicy-sweet smelling slickness.

Bart felt himself go from merely aroused to suddenly ardent, her own visible need so lewdly displayed striking some unused, primal section of his brain and driving him forward.

He seized her by that muscular tail, hand wrapping around the base and driving a gasped 'Oh!' from her throat as he fell to his knees and simply buried his face beneath it. The likeness to any mare elsewhere ended there, for she leaned back as only a woman could, and her moan was heavenly, thrumming in his ear as the scent of her filled his mind — a wholly feminine, unique aroma he would never breathe in anywhere but with her. The exotic, alien texture of her flesh was like silk and pliant heaven — as if the soft, yielding texture of her mouth had been given tenfold the plush softness and a hundred times its sensation. Her slit winked again, rapidly without control, forcing that needy bulb against his exploring lips — and by reflex he snared it with them, wrapping it and tracing its sweet, tangy shape in his mouth — answered by the sudden howl of delight from the Lady.

“Oh yes, Bart! Just like that... Ohh! Gentle, slow... tease it like a fresh cherry coated in sweet cream..." she moaned, her wide-thrust legs shaking as she instructed him. Attentively, he slowed his motion, tilting his head slightly to get more of her within his mouth, fully immersing himself to the torso in the cool, refreshing water as she suddenly trembled, and dropped her forward half to the upthrust shale outcrop — the two having changed positions entirely now. He thought of cherries and cream, and slowly swiped and circled his tongue around the bottom of her teardrop-shaped sex, his hands explored her as he coaxed more moans out of her... and he found something unexpected beneath her; her teats.

They were small, practically flush to her lean belly, but clearly there — his hands cupped them, finding her nipples, smooth callouses, and water-wet fingers stroking and exploring them — the motion getting her rump to suddenly buck, and her voice to raise in a new gasp of surprise and delight.

“So industrious... I love you so, so much Bart... God and Fire do not stop..." she gasped, her face laying flush against the cool stone, her eyes glazed and distant as a century or more of need was wrung out of her by her new champion and lover. To Bart's credit he was as intent to learn as he was to simply experience her; paying attention to her reactions as if he were on the training field with a new opponent, gauging openings and parries and quite literally in this case — thrusts, though more from her eager hips and his own hungry tongue... he couldn't get over how good she tasted. It was a tangy, sharp flavor that almost seemed to have an electric twist to it, the tartness of citrus with a wholly unique, earthy roundness to it that hit the middle of his tongue and the middle of his brain like a hammer blow. His own senses started to fade as he buried his face in her more deeply, his nose mashing against that tight ring, and her eager, winking passage bucking, grinding, and undulating on his mouth.

“B...Bartholomus...." she gasped, and he felt himself chime as she spoke his Name, his heart sang for her and his body demanded more as his nails dug into her soft pelt, drawing a squeal of rough delight from her as she pushed back and gave a nearly outraged cry, hooves tapping on the stone.

“Bart, BART!" she screamed, wriggling away from him; “No more... not the tongue..." she gasped, begged, her eyes flashing back to his in nigh-madness as she quivered, flagging her tail at him intensely; “Inside... I need you inside my love, fill me, complete me." she mewled with a primal hunger so powerful she reflexively ignited her orbit, the glowing radiance spreading her slit apart, showing its gushing, clenching inner walls as if painting him a target.

Bart could not deny so ardent a plea, and he rose from the water; rivulets of it rushing off him as he grasped that tail for leverage again, not aware of his own strength as she raised up off the stone slightly under his powerful grip — an action that drew an exultant little squeal from her as he pressed up to her, his length laying heavily across her rump, her eyes hungry she looked back at his aching key for her equally hungry gates, then back to his face.

“Made for me to measure." she hissed, and with Bart practically about burst then and there, he aligned himself with her splayed entrance, her orbit cutting abruptly and letting those plush folds snap closed around him as he groaned and drove forward — pulling a resonant cry of passion from deep in both of them, their voices raised in simpatico as Bart's virginity was scrubbed from his spirit by the ardent attention of the Lady in White.

The sensation of being inside of her was something he had no comparison for, no measure; yet surely no human woman was so hot inside, nor so strong. Instantly as he buried himself into her well-prepared passage her hips canted down and her insides wrung around him in a rippling, milking sensation that nearly broke his second seal on contact, the big man forcing her to be still by main strength, pinning her against the rock slab and getting another slightly outraged vocalization of delight from her.

“Stars and Stones my love you are immense!" she cried as he throbbed against her, buried in her to the hilt, he felt his peeled-back purple tip gently brush something that made her legs spasm and her breath catch, her golden eyes rolling back in her head as she fell face-flat to the stone again.

“Gentle! Oh Bart... gentle..." she gasped, her orbit flared, and by sheer force — he was halted in a faint outline of radiance, and she gathered herself; “That... that is the entrance to my womb... O God and Fire... just... wait a moment." she shuddered and gently rolling her hips back and forth against him, he felt... an odd stretching sensation around him. The definite but slight touch on his tip became a light brush of sensation within her and her legs shook again, as she let go of her power with a heady gasp.

“P-perfect... you are perfect..." she moaned, and he felt that rippling, clenching sensation once more — as if her inner flesh were trying to pull him into her — and he realized that was her winking. Each flex of those inner walls brought her swollen nub out to kiss his sac, and internally grasp and milk at his shaft — causing it to be his turn to roll his eye. They stayed like that for a long moment simply acclimating to their new union before she drew in a breath, gaze meeting his with a drunk expression of need.

“Now... make love to me Bart... do not stop until you are empty..." she hissed. Bart needed no more encouraging words and still holding her tail for leverage, he began to thrust by pure instinct. Each grinding pass drew another wink from her swollen entrance, and a gasp from her parted lips, that long tongue lolling as he drove into her again and again.

He lost track of it, the wash of sensation and intimacy made one thrust seem like twenty, and twenty like merely one; he explored her as they made love, his hands roaming her back and up into her mane; the height difference allowed him to hunch over her sinuous frame and bring his face near hers, the two sharing breath in gasps and moans as they met again and again in a wet clapping of flesh on flesh, her spritely voice high and eager, coaxing him with occasional breathy demands for 'Harder' 'Faster' 'Oh God and Fire right there.' It seemed to go on forever until suddenly she gasped.

“Bart... oh Bart... BARTHOLOMUS!" she gasped, shrieking his name in such passion that his spirit rang like a bell of sweet love as her body shuddered violently, and inside she clenched around him so powerfully he cried out in near-pain at the intensity of the sensation, a gush of those sticky fluids rushed over his balls as she drove herself back on him, and her head whipped around — her flexible frame letting her drive her mouth against his as she reached a climax so intense the tongue-filled kiss broke off in a strangled scream of pleasure, her head arching back and body going rigid as Absolute Iron while inside she wrung her lover for every possible drop.

Bart gave it to her, his second climax somehow more intense than the first; and his voice raised with hers in tandem once more, his throaty baritone like a love-struck battle cry as he drove into her so hard he swore his hips would bruise, her frantically winking quim drawing from him with such intensity as he bucked, emptying out his very essence into her, her eyes fluttering madly as her mind blanked at the sensation of hot, virile seed striking her inner gates and filling her most intimate places so, so long barren.

They held that pose for a small eternity, no breathing, no heartbeats — merely frozen in a crystalline second of serene ecstasy. Bart's lungs burned, and he felt dizzy and faint before they both finally found the air in hungry, shuddering breaths. Limbs — man and unicorn alike — going slack, Bart catching himself on his hands over her, still buried inside of her as they both collapsed to the slate slab, sweat mixing with mist in a carpet of glimmering beads on his skin and her silky white pelt. He pressed his nose into her mane, chest heaving as she shuddered and curled her limbs in tight to her barrel and chest, eyes seeing nothing as she lay there — a well-bred, well-satisfied ragdoll of delight.

“I... I love you so much." she breathed after an age; “I cannot stand it, I love you so. I want to tear asunder at the seams, to burst apart with my affection reserved for you and only you, my champion, my husband — My sweet Bartholomus." she gasped, tilting her horned head to lay her cheek against his, her unfocused aurum eyes finding his lone blue one.

“I love you Cithara, I love you like water, like air. I need you... I have always needed you, there is a piece of me that had been missing until now." he gasped “You made me whole."

The pair kissed softly, the big man finally sliding out of her in a sticky mess as they huddled together on the smooth stone, the misty air from the waterfall cooling and soothing the spent lovers. They lounged there together in a tangle of limbs and half-asleep dozing, occasionally stroking or kissing one another, so nakedly intimate that it didn't need words or even eye contact as the Twin Maiden Moons hung perpetually in the sky — Cithara's magic freezing this night in crystal clarity for them, and them alone.

“Mmn, Bart," she murmured after a century or two of pleasurable companionship, the paladin's eye fluttered open and he met her gaze, her satisfied smile had regained some of its pep, her teeth chewing her lower lip. “I am a mess, carry me to the falls," she demanded playfully. Bart shrugged in an exaggeratedly put-upon fashion that gained him a quiet titter from the Unicorn as he stood on unsteady legs, scooping up her lithe form and sweeping her along to the placid, pouring waterfall.

It was wide and shallow, making for a glistening gem-like sheet of crystalline coolness rather than a crashing, thundering whitewater fall. Bart carried them both through the curtain of water, Cithara's voice raising in a delighted little shriek as the cool water sluiced over them both, Bart's laughter joining it. They kissed again there, lips meeting beneath the pouring shower as Bart spun with her cradled in his arms, and she laughed again.

“Oh, my silly, wonderful man. I feel like I have known you forever." she giggled in a girlish manner, and Bart nodded.

“It is uncanny, I have never felt so right about anything in my life," he said, and she smiled at him beatifically. The big man set her down, and they chattered about pleasant, unimportant nothings as he washed her, threading fingers through her mane and short, silky pelt — and also taking the time to clean the complete disaster of sticky mess beneath her tail — a process that made her quiver and gasp, giving him a fresh look of desire as he did it.

“For one so deadly afraid of breaking any girl he loved properly — you are alarmingly gentle." she cooed at him as his fingers stroked and slid across her delicate areas, cupping cool water to rinse them clean, making her close her eyes in delight.

“It is because I am so afraid. I temper every single motion lest I accidentally knock something — or someone over. Ever careful not to break something, stumble, or trip. I was made too big for much of my world." he lamented softly, and she turned her face to his with a smoldering look.

“You are perfect for me." she said, her teeth catching her lower lip again as she cast her eyes over his once more; “In fact... so perfect, I believe I promised you a sampling of a certain taboo..." she said, swaying her hips back and forth at him as she walked from the falls, tail hiking up high once more to flash those inviting, intimate areas at him before.

“Come along, beloved. You have one more first to enjoy."

She walked instead beyond the falls into the darkness, and a thrum of power heralded her horn's blazing light — within the curtain of water was a cave, set with a thousand glittering veins of crystalline ore. Bart gazed above in wonder as she stepped from the water to the dry, stony shore within. A casual flick of her head sent the power wafting along, sinking into the very rock itself — the flecks of crystal and quartz absorbing the divine power and simply becoming soft and luminescent, bathing the small cavern cove in gentle, ghostly light.

“Marvelous." Bart breathed, even after all he had experienced that night, the cosmic creature could still fill him with such awe.

“I may have planned this encounter." she cooed to him slyly, the glow had also lit a small pallet in place on the rocky surface, joined by a basket of sundries and various supplies. Her orbit snatched a small, stoppered bottle from it, and with a shake of her rump, tail still high; she tossed it to him with a wink — from both her ends. Bart's attention was captured immediately, and he found himself not in need of her rejuvenating touch — his desire ignited like a bonfire all on its own — he caught the bottle deftly, rolling it between his hands.

“You will need that." she purred, swaying her tail back and forth in slow, swinging arcs that made her taut hind-end wobble slightly as it continued to eagerly flash its pink innards at him. Bart held up the small ampule between his fingers, and his eyebrow went up.

“Oil," he observed bluntly — making the connection as she turned to him, eyebrow raised, and ran her long, alluring tongue over her lower lip, curling it at him in a beckoning gesture.

“Come and enjoy me, my love, never again will you long for pleasure or passion." she cooed, stretching out belly-down on the small bedroll she'd smuggled to the cave, her forelegs crossed in an oddly human-like manner, propping herself up comfortably; her hind legs stretched out behind her, splayed wide and inviting, the dainty, shapely limbs supple and toned.

“How should I start?" he asked somewhat nervously, sinking down between her spread legs, his member already aching and erect once more by the lurid tableaux — was she to be this able to inflame his desire always? A heady thought. She smiled at him and touched her tongue to her teeth playfully.

“Recall how I teased your rear this night?" she asked, and Bart nodded, her eyes lidded and her grin grew wider and more devious. “Start there and then... follow your desires, I trust you." she purred.

Bart actually... did not have much hesitation to that idea. Between knowing that she had no functions as he did in such a manner, and having buried his face and nose there but a scant half-glass before; he was perfectly eager to return the strange pleasure she had shown him. He slid his hands over her hindquarters, his thick fingers digging into the springy flesh there, drawing a throaty groan from the pale unicorn as she shifted slightly, parting her legs wider and canting her hips up towards him — a flash of pink showing as her womanhood winked and flexed its heart-shaped nodule at him eagerly, Cithara as well had needed little fanning to bring her flames of passion back to a vigorous roar.

“What a sight, God's Blood," he murmured as he cupped her rear again, and she tittered at him lustily, clearly enjoying the compliment. He had no more time for words, as he slunk belly-down behind her, and simply pressed his mouth to her tight, round ring. She gasped softly, letting it out in a low, slow moan of pleasure as he began to experimentally mouth and kiss that puckered passage — the texture was firmer, more powerfully muscled, the springy ring resisting his efforts to nuzzle and probe it — but Cithara did not, her hindquarters shuddered and her tail hiked, an eager sound of delight leaving her throat as Bart abandoned attempting to replicate her inhuman tongue's talented torture, and simply explored her.

He tongued her powder-pink ring slowly, and simply began to lavish attention on her nethers as a whole, the unicorn devolving into another shivering, moaning mess as he licked, sucked, and tongued into both the snug pucker and her feminine passage as well — nursing and kissing her winking bud as she reveled in the spoiling. He lost track of time simply enjoying her with his mouth and hands, spreading, kissing, licking, tasting — loving her as he would with nary a care in the world.

“God, you are a fast learner..." she trilled appreciatively, lowering her head and giving a long, needy moan as Bart tugged on her swollen bud with his lips, letting go sharply. She gasped and with a shiver, met his eye over her withers again.

“I'm ready, Bart." she purred, her eyes slits of gold as her glistening rear entrance twitched. Bart reclaimed the small bottle, struggling with its minute size a moment before the cork came out with a hollow pop, he poured a small amount on his fingertips, and then gently spread it upon her snug ring. His fingers dipped inside, the oil viscous and extremely slick as he was treated to a wholly new sensation of taunt, muscular smoothness. Deeper he pushed them, making sure to spread the slick lubrication evenly for his beloved — who already was groaning with a deep, rapturous pleasure.

“Mn... on yourself as well dear one." she prompted, eyes fluttering as she felt him continue to prep her for a moment; “Oh... I am going to be so spoiled, I will wear you out if you do not stop me," she promised in a dark, lusty voice, eyes meeting his again in haunting slits of lurid hunger. The gaze only fueled the fire within him more, and he quickly oiled himself, dropping the bottle to one side as he pressed up behind her — peeling back his foreskin to expose the more pointed, eager tip once more.

“Gentle at first my love... it takes a moment," she advised, Bart was accustomed to her seemingly boundless wisdom at this point, yet still having her advise him on so tawdry and taboo an act fired his imagination — how did she know such things about herself after so long? What lurid affairs had the Lady in White gotten up to alone — with nigh-unlimited telekinetic might from which to exult in? He stowed those lustful thoughts for a later date, focusing again as he pressed into her round, snug ring — the entrance was much more gradual, pushing past an intense resistance slowly and evenly, his lover giving a sucking intake of breath as he pushed into her — and pushed her insides apart.

“God and Fire, Stars and Stones... you are so filling..." she hissed as Bart could only let out a wordless moan of the unique pleasure she had granted him; unlike her slit, it was not gushing wet and hot, but oiled-slick and almost agonizingly snug, a smooth tunnel of powerfully grasping innards that clenched and squeezed — with a particular focus on the pink ring's entrance. So lost was he in absorbing that new sensation and attempting to catalog it with the other mind-breaking pleasures he'd only just experienced, that he didn't realize he'd bottomed out until his hips met hers and she gave a lusty grunt.

Her orbit flared again, and she actively clenched around him — holding him firmly in place as she met his eyes with her glowing, commanding gaze.

“This... is not like making love to me was before Bart." she hissed, her body language almost more... savage, her chest heaving slightly as he shuddered inside of her; “This is something I prefer more... raw," she growled at him, clenching pointedly and drawing a small cry from him as pleasure and a touch of pain lanced up his member straight to his brainstem. Her orbit faded, and without further prompting be began to move.

It was slow and sliding, and he found it utterly decadent, the two of them grunting, groaning and her face twisting slightly in what looked like a mix of pain and body-shaking pleasure, her teeth baring ferociously as her eyes rolled back in her head, and her lashes fluttered and twitched as he slowly, powerfully drove into her. Yet... she wriggled and pushed back against him slightly — and then after a moment turned sharply to his gaze, eyes burning slits of golden need as she grasped him suddenly in her orbit — driving him hard into her and holding him there while he gasped.

“Bart," she said in a low, haughty tone. “I am eternal. Made to endure the rigors of cosmic forces," she said harshly, Bart nodding as he trembled within her, she bared her teeth at him again — those fangs seeming longer and sharper with this edge to her.

“Grab my mane, and rut me, you beautiful brute." she snarled in a voice so full of lust it shocked him; “Make me feel it."

That lit something inside him, almost literally as his Mantle responded to her fervor by reflexively filling him with vigor, his own lone eye taking on the aurum radiance as he reached out with God-granted strength and tangled his fingers in her mane, giving it a good tug that she answered with an almost anguished cry of “YES!"

He then began to rut her.

The sound of his hips hitting hers managed to echo loudly even over the water, and she shrieked enthusiastically at it, her fore and hind legs going wide, bracing herself as her powerful, divinely charged lover began to drive into her like he was attempting to ram his body through hers to the far wall beyond, grunting and snarling with effort — sounds she matched with enthusiasm as he yanked her mane back firmly.

“GOD Yes!" she hissed, voice exultant, body completely unhinged with pleasure — the grip of the silky-smooth tunnel and its entry ring almost torturous in its tightness as she clamped and crushed at him in return to the hammering thrusts he drove into her; “I can feel my joints creak, God and Fire YES!"

Time once again fled as they descended into a carnal assault on one another; both durable lovers testing each other's limits now. Cithara's teeth found Bart's lip as she twisted for a savage kiss, biting down hard enough that he winced, feeling a coppery taste of blood as her fangs cut his lip — the Unicorn squealing in kind as he grasped her deadly horn and twisted her body backward in a tight bow, the greater leverage letting him drive into her with his full strength and weight. Somewhere in his distant mind, Bart realized this was likely a deep, abiding itch the immortal being had — to be eternal and nigh-indestructible must make her long for the extremes she cannot oft experience, like a muscle one cannot quite stretch.

“BART, MY GOD YOU BEAST!" she shrieked joyously, and suddenly as they began, she finished in a wailing, eye-rolling climax that sounded almost more like she were in agony rather than the electric, melting pleasure that rolled through her like thunderclaps, Bart's own end triggered by her orgasmic spasming around him and the way her face twisted into a mask of savage delight, he drove into her one last time and with a bone-shaking buck — emptied himself nigh almost as totally has he had the time before, but with a great deal less propriety or beauty — his and hers matching climaxes of twisted, primal desire and wanton, joint-crunching fervor. His finish was so... voluminous, that it leaked out around their connection as he held her in a crushing rearward embrace, twitching and shuddering through his final moments of bliss with her.

“Dear God I quite verily needed that...." she breathed as they fell apart to the bedroll, another sticky mess beneath her tail as she lay there, limbs twitching spasmodically and body shaking with the sensation of a long-held thirst finally slaked. Her fluttering eyes finally found his, and she sought from him a brief, gentle kiss.

“That... that was...." he gasped, his face freshly lathered in sweat, dripping from his hair and mustache, she grinned at him with a knowing, sultry look as he concluded; “Filthy."

“Sometimes, it is exceedingly delightful to be a touch filthy." she hissed back at him in a voice that spoke of deep, abiding satisfaction. “I shan't speak of it if you will not." she teased him with a wink — this time only of her glittering golden eyes. He sank down next to her, blowing out a breath as he felt weariness settling into him, a carefree grin on his face.

“Who would even believe me were I to say?"

The unicorn only smiled at that. A smile full of smug, satisfied delight. She pressed to his chest, sliding her head beneath his chin affectionately.

“I found it lovely." She said, letting out a shuddering sigh, her orbit lumed, and drew his hands to her, pressing her muzzle down into them with an almost relieved exhalation as she felt him touch and caress her. “I have nothing to fear from these hands."

The words struck a chord deep inside of the young paladin, a lifetime of worries and fretting in the secret places of his heart melting away in the silky embrace of this cosmic creature. His one eye poured over her frame in repose, the soft still-unfading glow of the crystalline deposits above them giving the sight of her a dreamlike quality... he had not earned this, did not yet deserve such wonder — but he would not spurn her love, would not question why she had chosen to grant him such a boon. His hands stroked her face, and he met her gaze long and deeply. She smiled at him, she was always smiling yes; but this one was a private thing, an expression of naked intimacy and contentment — it was only for him, a gift.

He may not yet be worthy, but such gifts are worth striving to be worthy of.

“You're trembling, beloved," she whispered, and Bart couldn't help but laugh. Pure, delighted laughter as he fell apart from her to the pallet.

“I daresay that being a bit shaky is well-earned after that!" he crowed around his chuckles, her expression gleeful and just a bit smug. Shifting around to lay across his chest, she began to idly trace patterns on it with the tip of one delicate hoof as he sprawled out. She should be heavier than she was, yet the supernatural creature rested as lightly on him as a sparrow perched on a branch. She gazed down at him, indulging herself utterly in his experiences.

“Would it be untoward of me, if I said this was not the first time such thoughts have crossed my mind?" Bart asked after a moment, lying tangled with the cosmic being nothing at all like he had imagined... and he had imagined it often enough. The Unicorn tilted her head curiously, though she smiled knowingly.

“It is fine Bart, I am sure nearly all of my boys react that way to my presence the first time — it is invigorating just being near me, almost euphoric the first time one crosses my orbit." she consoled him in an almost motherly fashion, and he colored a bit — not ashamed of that purely physical reaction, but rather that it hadn't been purely that at all. Cithara read his face like an open book, her eyes creasing with consternation.

“Say what you mean, beloved." her voice throbbed, almost a tone of command to it. Bart took a breath, a rueful sort of smile on his lips as he recounted it.

“I have... fantasized about you... in such a way, since I learned what a man could be to a woman, in the physical sense," he said, and her eyes widened in an incredulous, eager sort of shock. Bart hurriedly added. “I didn't really know what it would mean totally, just the idea of... being yours. Physically. I dreamed about it, but it was like dreaming of... snatches of light and shadow. Impressions of what it should be like to kiss you, hold you in my arms." he reached up and touched his lips; “I have all those empty spots filled in now I guess."

“Filled in and then some, I say." the Unicorn said, her expression unreadable beyond much more than a mute sort of shock. Bart fidgeted beneath that silence for a moment, and she noticed with a start, her face softening.

“Oh... you are worried that says ill of your heart?" she asked him, rather to the point in fact, Bart physically flinched from the directness of the question; “That I would consider you... a deviant, because you had lustful thoughts of an animal, perhaps?" she asked him archly, and Bart, flagging under that stare could only nod — his discomfort at that long-buried admission worn on his face, and she laughed at him. At him.

“My darling, have you ever considered mounting a pack horse?" she asked him in a light tone, her lips curled in a faint mocking smile. Bart's brow furrowed, and the idea struck his mind with... very much zero appeal. The mute realization of that was writ on his face well enough the Unicorn's smile only broadened.

“... No, I can't say I have."

“You were undoubtedly tempted by the Wendigo's influence — it is a monster of hungers — surely it attempted to curry your baser instincts at some point, did its face wear that of a common palfrey or thoroughbred mare?" she further ventured, her expression stoically sure. Bart on the other hand, shuddered visibly at the memory of the monster wearing Viconia's face, and later Lidia's.

“No. No, it most definitely did not." Bart said firmly, locking the door on that madness-filled memory quite pointedly.

“Then why fear as such?" she asked, and he groped for a word.

“You were... not human, very much not human, and yet I found myself drawn to you — surely even you were given pause, staring at me as you did." She gave him an incredulous look.

“Bart, I was indeed a bit... stunned, but mostly that my sister would dare be so blatant," she said. Bart blinked.

“Come again?" he said dumbly, and she smiled at him softly.

“Oh, my dear, sweet boy. You're precious, has this been torturing you so?" she asked him, her cheek laying back across his chest, feeling his heartbeat. He found that so very soothing he lost track of things a moment before she began anew.

“My dear sister, Manasa — her gift of prophecy has... well, it is rather like sorting through a box of fresh sweet rolls," she said, eyes flaring a bit and Bart raising an eyebrow as she continued with the metaphor. “You can rearrange them even deftly with a bit of waxed paper... but you always leave a tiny bit of the icing from each roll stuck to one another," she said, and Bart furrowed his brow as he considered that.

“I don't fully understand, so by seeking out your future she... left sticky fingerprints on me?"

“Yes! Well, sort of. I suppose you can think about it in that scouring her foresight for one who could love me... which is such an overbearing, meddling, and fully well-meaning act that if it were any more my sister it would have golden scales and be drinking tea right there on the riverbanks with us." she said, pausing as she realized she'd gotten off track.

“Ahem, nonetheless my opinion of my sister's well-meaning meddling aside — yes, by looking through her little pack of possible futures for 'man who could love a unicorn' she may very well have left the idea of loving me behind in your dreaming mind like a ghost. It is a bit sloppy and woefully direct for her." she noted, a soft but sad smile on her face; “To think my loneliness affected her so powerfully…"

“I suppose that is... oddly both reassuring and unsettling," Bart said, and Cithara scoffed at him.

“We've already been over your worries about free will beloved, this is just one of those... oddities of the multiverse and your unfortunate habit of tripping over its quiet idiosyncrasies."

“So my attraction to you isn't because I'm filled with latent deviancy?" Bart ventured, his brow still furrowing as he worked out the concepts involved — and mostly failed.

“No dear Bart — your dirty dreams of unicorn kisses were not latent deviancy, just your subconscious, dreaming mind being aware of greater destiny — as the dreaming mind often is. The place of dreams is a bit of a divine realm itself, when you dream — truly and deeply, you exist as I do in my natural element, you stride at least in semblance, upon the Astral Tapestry."

“So in a way." Bart began as his eyes drifted shut, weariness taking him as his arms slid around her; “When I dreamed of such delights, my heart was already reaching out for yours as we slept."

“I think that's a lovely way to say it." she agreed — eyes afire with renewed affection, snuggling closer to him; “I care not what brought you to me, Bart. I only care that you are here, and you are mine." she purred, and the drowsing Paladin's heart swelled with the sensation of belonging.

“Until the Pale Dawn calls me..." he murmured sleepily, his mind finally giving up the fight, the last thing he saw was luminous golden eyes.

“Even then... I'll find you again beloved..."