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“I'm telling you, this is not going to work," Bart said peering over at the Unicorn.

The next day had dawned. The waterfall clearing had woken them both with sunlight, birdsong, and the lapping of water on stone. Bart had never felt so well-rested — or stiff in his life. He'd woken second, to find the Unicorn staring at him with adoration in perfect silence, he'd been curious if she'd even slept.

“Why?" she asked back plainly from her new position on the stony outcropping they'd shared their union on before, sprawled on its angled surface casually in the morning sun. Bart sat nearby, dressed again as he could be, with the First Blade across his lap.

“I am simply not... a swordsman, I never was able to understand the subtleties," he said, drawing a full span of blade free, the strange, matte-gold gleam of the otherwise dull, hammered metal a marvel to his eyes.

“I refuse to believe such nonsense as 'never' at this point, Bart," she said loftily from her spot out on the water. He drew the rest of the blade, letting the scabbard fall by the wayside as he rose, hefting the weapon a bit. Its balance was quick and lively, the blade had an almost gestural quality to it that denied its mass. The stiffness from the awkward, uneven, but enjoyable slumber in the arms of the cosmic creature demanded to be exercised, his body screamed to move around — so he indulged it.

“It's not so much 'never' as 'In reasonable time'." Bart hedged, taking up a stance with the blade, raising it to a high guard — he threw himself back years, to drills, to what he'd been taught. He began to move through the motions as he remembered them, his mind and hands both cutting down into the play from high guard as the instructors had drilled him in. The lively blade sliced through the air with an authority that gave him pause — to the ease of the cut and as well as its handling. He spun it through one of the more intricate combinations he remembered; a complex cut-and-thrust routine that ended on a high overarm reversal, making use of both sides of the sharpened blade for strikes and defense. It was a routine the sword should by all rights be too big, too thick, and too broad for, and yet, as he stepped through the motion, even rusty by memory and out of practice as a swordsman — it eagerly met the challenge. The blade's balance was spirited, its weight well-considered — it practically leapt to the form, an almost gleeful snap to the motions, as if the weapon itself was also stretching muscles too long still.

“That is where I have an advantage my love." she said smugly; “My concept of 'reasonable' is very, very insistent here." Bart looked down at the blade again, giving it a toss and catching further up the hilt, his face in a considering frown as he flipped it to and fro, before meeting her eyes through his messy, shaggy curls.

“I can sit here and do forms and swing at ghosts and memories for ten minutes or ten years — it won't season me into a swordsman that can compete with Parias, Cithara." Bart disagreed, and the Unicorn chuckled.

“Come now, Bart, Surely you do not think me so ignorant of the ways of war? I know Perchta loves to whisper, and surely by now you've seen I have no qualms about the prosecution of such a campaign." she chided him, her eyes sliding down his topless frame with open avarice as he worked, she had said she'd love to watch him move with purpose and here it was in as much glory as it could have. Bart raised an eyebrow at her, brow furrowed in that familiar face of stoic curiosity that so commonly occupied his visage that to the Unicorn — that expression was Bart.

“What are you planning then? I can't fight with this thing like Holda and Perchta do. I have no idea what those meat hooks they call swords are, but I wouldn't know the first thing about fighting with one, let alone adapting its methods to a war sword of this mass." Bart said, hefting the blade again — the weapon was still very near two-thirds his own body length from hilt to tip, far smaller than the thick-spined but otherwise sleek weapons the sidhe employed.

“I can't just tell you, I would spoil the surprise. I adore surprises — when they happen to others," she said tartly, grinning at him as he frowned in response, taking the sword back up to high guard.

They spent the early hours of the morning like that, Bart forcibly re-acquainting himself with the sword as a weapon on the banks of the lazy pool, and Cithara watching with words of encouragement and flirtation in equal measure. She openly ogled him, her eyes and catcalls spurring him as he moved between the sets and exercises.

“You are diligent, I'll give you that beloved," Cithara said as Bart stood in a braced stance, simply repeating the same chopping cut over and over, feeling out the new weapon. Getting his hands comfortable on the grip, feeling the weight. Repetition teaching him the small things, he turned his head, bringing the blade up again after a whistling stroke, wiping his brow dry.

“This was a practice stance, a hundred cuts to warm up. Maybe excessive, but I needed the extra practice to overcome my clumsiness."

“A hundred? How many did the other students do?"

“Fifty."

“Oh my."

“I told you, I am not very good with a sword."

“Truly." She said as he went back at it, and she pressed with a tilt of her head; “What challenged you so about it?" she asked him, a gentleness to it as she attempted to draw it out of him. He halted again after another stroke, rolling the burning out of his arms as he rolled the blade around in his hands via the pommel, looking down at it thoughtfully.

“My edge alignment was never ideal. Made my follow-through sloppy. I'm too blunt for the fine edge of a sword. Always too direct. Too predictable I guess. You swing an axe at something hard as you can, straight at the middle?" he asked, tapping his chest with the edge of his hand just beneath his breadbasket; “S_omething_ will happen. Drive them down, break their stride, open their stance. Even just force them to button up, something happens." he said and looked down, turning the blade towards her. “Do that with a sword, and what happens is a broken sword."

“Ah," she said with clear enlightenment. “I'd trot out some dusty, airy quote about a weapon choosing a warrior — but I'm sure you got your fill of that at the Abbey." she said and he shrugged, she tossed her head and answered directly; “So you settled."

Bart blinked at the... almost heartlessness with which she delivered such a scathing rebuttal of his choices, but Bart merely shrugged. “In essence, yes. I made greater strides, faster as an axe fighter than I did as a swordsman. It was simpler, more direct. More... “ he frowned a bit at that, his eyes going distant and Cithara arched her eyebrow.

“More what, beloved?" she asked with careful enunciation, and Bart gave her an unpleasant frown.

“You are going to be completely insufferable to be in love with for all eternity." he asserted, the unicorn's gold-on-gold eyes gleamed with an overacted presumption of innocence.

“I simply am curious about your choices beloved and the rationale — if there is any at all — behind them," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him as he spun the holy blade back into its scabbard and planted it point down, leaning heavily on its massive crosspiece; his lips screwed up into an intense expression of contemplation. He frowned as he considered where that thought had led, his tongue tracing his teeth as he looked at her then back down at the middle distance once or twice, then shook his head, tugged the sword free once more, and stared at it with a stern eye.

“I always thought the sword was too highborn a weapon. I was a poor kid, a miller's son. I didn't get any special treatment, no early learning. My first weapon was my fists, not a fencing foil." he said with derision that seemed to surprise him out loud. “I was gonna be different, not waste time learning all these silly, complex rules made for smaller, smarter men to make up for not being big," he said, snorting a bit. How right and wrong he'd been about that all at once. He snapped his gaze to the staring Unicorn.

“You are a terribly manipulative little creature, you know that?" he told her. She just beamed at him and gestured at him to continue, and he shook his head.

“I really believed that I guess, and just never said it out loud. Made it real. I didn't put my heart into it because I was still mad at those high-born refugee bully-boys looking down their noses at Lucian, and my father and yes — down at me, all those years." he said, a familiar bitterness making his brown heavy and his lip curl with faint disgust. “Not even particularly high nobles, just well off enough to know it. Ungracious and churlish, even after we fed the lot of them in the Purges," he said, frowning.

“I don't like that I carried that within me, so long and so comfortably," Bart said, the sentiment distinctly acrid and tasting of bile now that it had been spoken and allowed to sit bodily upon his tongue. “Forgiveness is supposed to be our charge as much as valor."

“It is, I imagine you ought to forgive those ugly, mean-spirited boys for things they did when they were ugly, mean-spirited children. It is a long time to hold onto a grudge borne of desperation — on both sides." Cithara agreed, and he nodded thoughtfully, looking down at the sword more objectively... could his block have been a simple psychological hesitance all this time? The sword gleamed with promise.

Hunger had called off much of the rest of his exercises, but Cithara practically glowed with happiness for it, her viewing experience clearly having been everything she wanted and more. She openly sized him up with hungry eyes and promising looks as she escorted him back to the cottage, their conversation falling to its name.

“No, none of you have named it. Why do you think it needs a name? It is my home, that's all." she answered him, eyes trailing across his topless form with open appreciation.

“It's just a place of power, call it something like... the Hearththrone or Throne of Love," he said, getting a titter from her as she pressed against him, her gleaming horn catching the light as she nuzzled him. Her expression was one of bemusement.

“Men always need to put things in neat boxes, call it what you will. It is still just home to me." The Hearththrone it was then, at least to him. They'd returned home to Perchta and Holda making a small to-do, there was already a meal service laid out — and fresh clothing awaited him in the sleeping nook. He took the time to redress as she set out a pair of plates with the merry glow of her orbit “Come, eat with me. I miss pleasant company over a savory meal." she'd implored him, getting his attention as he sat.

“Why so much enjoyment if you don't eat yourself?" he asked, and she shrugged, sliding a plate of fresh honey, butter, and oatcakes with steaming ham towards him with matched cups of frothy coffee, still piping hot.

“I taste this and that, I told you. Besides, it pleases me to see humans so satisfied. Few places are you truly as happy as you are eating with your loved ones." she said, her orbit levitating her small portion of coffee to her lips as Bart tucked into the meal, accepting the perfectly rational reasoning at face value. Of course, that's why — it was Cithara to the teeth.

They chatted about nothing of import for quite a while, simply existing together. Bart felt very comfortable, at peace. The solicitous nature of Cithara's touches continued, and in fact only grew as she sat closer and closer to him, her eyes following his lips and her comments quietly growing more flirtatious until finally, with as much the lurid promises of her eyes and soft lips as the shimmering pull of her power upon one upturned arm — the Unicorn lured him away from the table and his cleaned plate to the bedroom nook. Perhaps the previous evening had not been frolicsome enough, or perhaps she simply smoldered still from her morning theater of body and blades. Regardless of the reason, she pounced upon him in a flurry of soft kisses and quiet breathy words of admiration that led them both to the soft down of the bed — neither of them with any thoughts of sleep.

“Does it task you truly so that I can read you like that?" she asked afterward, the mussed state of her mane adding to the satisfaction in her smile. Perched as she was, the Unicorn watched Bart dressing again for the third time that day. Bart paused — this often occurred in their conversations, the Unicorn's way of thinking was long — and she'd often simply spring such articles upon him clear as day — continuations of previous conversations or thoughts quietly pondered. This time, however, he caught on immediately.

“It does, albeit I am also grateful for it," he said with a rueful sort of truth, tucking himself back into the simple doublet. She may think of him as noble at heart, but even when given the task to dress him — they had chosen simple, soldier's garments. He knew the quality of his temper. Being simple did not mean one was inept. Inelegance was not a cardinal sin, simply one to be borne, no?

“Every man likes to think he's an enigma, stoic and unreadable. A wise, canny trickster hero romantic, out and about in the world only held down by the petty responsibility of life," he said with heaping sardonicism at his own naivete still showing. Bart was a gracious loser, but he was ever sore after having a weak point exposed in such a way.

“And having me here able to look at you, look and see when you yourself do not believe your own mind makes you feel small?" she asked daringly, the lurid satisfaction still in her voice adding surety and fervor to her words; “Oh my dear, dear Bart... nothing about you is small, not even your temper. It may be brief but it is large in its presence."

Bart shrugged, even as a part of him thrilled at her smoky-eyed insinuation, he busied his hands scooping up the sword belt, marveling at its condition a moment despite its age; before meeting her eyes. “It does. It's a limitation of being human I suppose, I find the idea that I am truly so unremarkable that even an immortal can simply read me as I would a manual of arms galling, if I am honest," he said, and she smiled at him softly.

“Bart, beloved. Even in your own mind now, you know that the simple tool is not the poorer for being such. The grandest inlay ever made is still carved with a humble chisel." she purred at him, and he sighed at her, pointing a thick finger at her as he continued adjusting the belt's straps.

“You're doing it again."

“That isn't saying I am wrong, darling," she responded archly.

“Completely. Insufferable." he groused playfully at her again as her imperious stare turned impish. She laughed quietly as he pulled her deceptively light frame to the edge of the large bed with soft, playful kicking of limbs that ended with her crushed to his chest, kissing her soundly — as if he could perhaps kiss the imperious brat right out of her.

The pair was interrupted from the potential build-up of a third encounter — clearly both the previously untried Paladin and long-denied Unicorn eager to explore each other over and over again like giddy lovebirds, shaken from the slow amorous spiral by a hoarse cough from the entry to the sleeping nook. Bart's gaze flicked up over his shoulder, Cithara's head dipping low beneath his arm to look at the curtained-off doorway.

Perchta stood there; her attire had changed Bart noted — no longer did she wear the conservative, body-hugging attire... in fact, she was actually almost uncomfortably naked. Her hood gone had left her tight-braided hair on display, arranged in a different way that pulled the tight coils into a wild topknot. Her upper body was almost totally bare save for an oddly patterned shawl of sorts made from a pleated, quilted fabric that crossed her chest from the waist to one shoulder, leaving one of her modest breasts totally bare. The rest of her attire was snug-fitting sandals, leg wraps, bracers, and a heavy girdle that hung her strange, hook-bladed sword across her lower back. Her whole body was covered in the same strange, spidery rune-marks that her face and arms were adorned in; flowing around her tight, densely-muscled body in a strange asymmetry beyond his human mind. She looked almost tribal — but the cut and wear of her clothing was precise, the manufacture all of the highest quality — she wore it and its strange tartan sash like a queen might a crown — or a warrior would his ceremonial armor. She was an alien, dangerous hunter and for the first time, he saw her as such in her own aspect.

“The Exiled One has arrived," she said in her curt tone, the ability to see her face added quite a bit more to the words, her stoic expressions were nonetheless expressions, and he could read a creeping bit of disdain in her words beyond the less than flattering name.

“Ah... I suppose it is that time." Cithara said, and Bart stood away from her as she nuzzled him for her freedom, The two straightening their attire. Cithara blew out an impatient snort and simply snapped a sudden and almost violent evocation of her aura into being, which blew about both of them like a torrent of wind for a split second — leaving both of them neatly coiffed and not at all mussed.

“... if you could do that why did you have me bathe you?" Bart asked, looking at his magically buffed flesh, even his fingernails were clean.

“Where is the fun in that?"

Outside, Holda stood in similar but entirely inverted attire, apparently, the twins were mirrors in more ways than one, her right side bare where Perchta's left was.

“Who is this 'Exiled one'?" Bart asked and Cithara shushed him, the Paladin instead looking up to what Holda's attention was so focused on.

She stood before a figure that itself seemed... oddly unremarkable. A simple traveler at a glance, until Bart realized he was erring on the better side of seven feet tall. He casually stood before Holda, and Bart was positive it was male in spite of its heavily obscuring gear and harness — the being had a bearing, a presence, a flavor to the reality of it that screamed masculine even from a distance. Beyond that superficial look, the scale of the being was a thing to behold. He was massive, but not a mass of muscle and flesh — but length of limb and bone. His arms and legs were elongated and wiry, his dangling left hand reached easily to the knee of his equally overlong legs attached to a fairly short, wide torso. His build was hard to read beyond that, his harness obscured it with its bulk — and what a harness it was.

Bart did not immediately recognize his armor by style or make — but he recognized ideas. The cuirass was bulbous and rounded before slipping down to a positively waspish waist, the lower section segmented and interlocking almost more like an insect carapace, giving his chest a bell-like, rounded quality — and it was thick. The armor's alloy visibly pitted and worn with age and battle showing a plate twice or more in girth than the steel Bart armored himself. The heavy armor was overall domed and smoothed, all round, organic angles and hand-polished curves, its winged pauldrons fit close to the broad-shouldered trunk and beneath was worn not mail but instead well-worn and age-creased leathers that Bart could hear creak and groan each time the being moved. His gauntlets, vambraces, and couters were fit almost to a ridiculous degree; seeming to be almost skin-tight, tailored with exacting precision that contrasted the lithe limbs against the broad, powerful bell of the chest.

The cuirass was topped with a considerable raised gorget, a fortress of protection that rose all around the neck like an iron collar, stopping just beneath the jaw, peaking directly before his face. His neck was inordinately long, almost gangling like some weird mix of lizard and vulture. The tall gorget clearly a necessity for the strange being's even stranger proportions. His head was topped by an exaggerated sallet-style helm, its slit visor and segmented tail topped with a ragged plume of some exotic, indigo feather which he had no means of knowing. A heavy pair of mustaches dangled from beneath the visor, long and white and seemingly immaculately combed. Bart couldn't tell if it was decoration or part of the creature itself.

His posture was straight and tall, but it wore the armor as if it were familiar with the weight, hips slightly forward, shoulders back and braced against the weight of the cuirass. Over and beneath the armor in places it wore scraps of what appeared to once be some kind of traveling garb, an odd tartan-like pattern of goldenrod and blue visible in a pair of puffy, slashed-and-tied trousers instead of mail or plate on his lower body, terminating in greaves and flexible, brutal hobnailed boots heavy with studs, plates and an ugly, gnarled tread. He was covered head to toe in a semi-ordered collection of bandoleers and belt pouches married to a comfortable, well-worn pack; as if much of his life was carried on his back — that however appeared to be quite literal.

Slung over his shoulder, strapped and lashed across his massive chest was an abomination of straps and buckles, lashing together a veritable bundle of weapons. Blades of every shape, size, age, and style were stacked, wrapped, and bound into a single, great mass of iron sticking up from above his back like a hedgehog of pommels and hafts. Over it all he wore a heavy cloak with a deep, peaked hood of a serviceable brown homespun, clearly hand-made and meant to wear over all this bulk.

“What is this then, stripling?" the being rumbled, its voice was deep and cold as the bottom of the ocean, resonant as a bell and completely, absolutely steady. Holda seemed to stiffen at the term as the Exiled One raised his too-long hands to peel back his peaked hood from his helmed head, the plume springing up in war-battered gaiety, she straightened her back and folded her arms across her chest, but said nothing — she wasn't precisely blocking the Exile's path to Cithara's throne, but she was absolutely directly between the two of them. The Exile tilted his head to her.

“Am I not under courtesy?" he inquired, Holda balked slightly at that, baring her teeth as the Exile continued; “Shall I give you satisfaction then, Stripling?" he continued as an assertion of fact, and reached up to that great bed of blades, grasping a hilt without a thought. The shriek of iron on iron was loud as it drew a solid foot of blade free — a very direct threat. “Out of deference to your sire, I will make it quick."

“You are under watch, Cursed One." she hissed indignantly, her back straight; “You are not welcomed here, Exile, you are tolerated only by the Erlking's Oath to the Lady and naught else." she hissed, Perchta having joined her from the shadows, the two a mirrored image of defiance.

The Exile laughed. It was a dry, casual thing and the blade slid back into its throng of fellows with a faint skittering of sparks. He continued to laugh quietly as he straightened out with a creak and clank of harness.

“It is as always then. You may consider your sire's message delivered," he said with a seemingly courteous nod of his head, but his voice dipped to a croaking, fathoms-cold snarl — and all mirth left his tone:

“Challenge me beneath the auspice of the Accords like this again, and naught will they find of you but the still-echoing screams." Bart could barely hear it, but there was no threat in that declaration, he spoke it with the import of a sworn oath. Both the Sidhe women trembled at that and said nothing as he seemed to completely dismiss them, turning his head to Bart and Cithara.

“Pale Lady, it has been some time. You wear your chains well," he said, and despite the words, his tone was respectful, even somewhat admiring.

“They are not chains, Old Man. They are the bindings of my choices, the same as yours. Would that I could wrap myself in them utterly, let them wholly define me with their love." she said, with a familiarity and casualness to her tone that suggested this was an ages-old topic. The unicorn mounted her throne then, the thrum of her power pulsing subtly through the wide cottage area as she dispersed Holda and Perchta with a subtle gesture of her horn, the two Sidhe melting into the gloom behind her throne, their piercing black eyes staring daggers at the outsider. The Exile sized the unicorn up.

“They have changed you, You were not so impetuous before the Manlings." he observed, tilting his head upwards, his tone respectful but clipped and to the point; “You do not call me casually, nor for mere social niceties — where is it?" he demanded, and Cithara glanced at Bart.

“Darling, bring the sword," she said, looking back where he stood, still near the door to their sleeping nook. The big man started out of his staring as the Exile turned to meet his gaze, and he felt a chill sweep over him.

“At once, Lady," Bart said, leaning back into the nook and snatching the weapon in its scabbard up, bringing himself back to Cithara's side. The Exile extended his hand in silence, the too-long, alien limb noticeably having six fingers. Five digits and a thumb. Bart met Cithara's gaze and she nodded crisply, and Bart then with some hesitation, placed the weapon in the being's opened hand. It drew it away with a clatter of armor and a flutter of its cloak, turning partly away and saying nothing as it drew the weapon up to its gaze, peering at the pommel first.

“What does he want with the sword?" Bart asked under his breath to Cithara, she turned her gaze slightly to her lover.

“It is his. He forged it."

“That remains to be seen." The Exile said, turning it over in his hands before closing them around the hilt.

“Surely you cannot tell, by the First Paladin's own admission the blade has been reforged at least twice, any trace of your work is long gone," Bart argued, and the Exile tilted his head.

“Is that a fact?" he asked in a conversationally mild tone, no venom in his voice — and he then drew the blade in a motion so efficient it seemed to snap from the sheathe, he almost casually cast the scabbard away towards Bart, who snagged it from the air at the last moment.

“Oh. Indeed." The Exile breathed, looking the blade up and down. “I know this metal," he said in near reverence, dragging an armored fingertip alone the inlay and engraved words.

“Quaint." he mused over the tongue of the angels, his eyes casting down the length of the weapon. “Familiar dimensions, familiar shape... this iron is well in line with its purpose," he murmured to nobody, swinging the weapon in a powerful cut that split the air with enough force that it ruffled Cithara's mane.

“Balanced. Lively. Quick and eager. Indeed, interesting." he mused, taking the blade in both hands, grasping it near the point, and to Bart's horror — bending it. The weapon curved gamely, easily flexing along its midpoint, and then snapping back to shape as he released it with a tinny song of ringing metal.

“Tempered well," he concluded, nodding. “This was my Iron." Bart's face screwed up in response.

“How can you tell? It's a wildly different sword!" he burst out, and the tall being turned to him with that same curiously slow grace, the creature's faceless gaze regarded him in silence for a moment.

“How do you know hair cut from your head is yours?" he asked Bart, dragging his palm over the Absolute Iron blade, touching it with a casual firmness that belied its razor edge; “You can feel it. Its texture, its quality. There is a Knowing that it is part of you." the Exile said, and patted the blade fondly.

“This is my Iron. This is something I Know," he said, and then it dawned on Bart all at once. He was touching iron. His armor at this distance, was clearly old but well-forged steel. His weapons lashed to his back also gleamed with that pitted, dull golden radiance of Absolute Iron — and yet this would-be Fae was not only wearing it but touching it — and lovingly at that.

“How are you doing that?" Bart blurted, he felt... uneasy around this being, it filled him with a preternatural, primate-brain level of aggression — his ancient cave-dwelling ancestors rising up to tell him to be wary. “Who... what are you?" Bart asked, and Cithara turned her head to him with a sharp jerk.

“Bart! Courtesy!" she hissed — yet the aged being laughed, letting its head rock back with it, the long white mustaches bobbing as it did.

“Oh, Impetuous and fiery. I never cared for your White God, but you. I've always rather liked you." the elder fae said, and deftly spun the sword in its hands and snapped it back towards Bart, hilt first. The Paladin hesitated, but the Exile simply inclined its head. Bart grasped and drew the blade from its grip, and sparks flew as it did. He sheathed the weapon and the stranger stood back up straight, reaching for his helmet.

“I've many names." He began, long fingers undoing a strap with casual familiarity, turning the visor towards Holda and Perchta. “Exiled One, Cursed One. Their names for me are boring and uninteresting for they are as I am, they Know me." he continued, speaking of The Knowing as Cithara had explained it to him. The entity doffed its helmet then, shaking its head slightly.

His face was a thing of extremes. He shared the elongated skull of the sidhe, but his features were stark and intense. His skull's dimensions and texture were clearly visible in many places through thin, tight skin the grayish-blue color of extremely dark, deep ink. The skin itself had a stony, granite-like texture to it. Heavy brow ridges and extremely sharp cheekbones rose above a lantern jaw. Much like his torso, his head was too wide, everything slightly spaced too far apart. The mustaches were indeed his, grown and groomed into two long, drooping tails of pure white — the only hair visible anywhere on the being. His head was bare and bald, even lacking eyebrows — he had large, bony growths in their place. His eyes were so deeply sunken into its heavy ocular ridges that Bart could not see them save for a single, gleaming white dot of frigid intelligence deep in those cavernous sockets. His ears and nose were long and pointed, almost comically so — the latter a straight and narrow proboscis of a snout that would have been jester-like on any other face, but only served to add to the blade-sharp extremes. The former were long, narrow, and expressive, far more mobile and alien than human ears. His lips were pitted, scarred, and sunken and bared around a mouthful of needle-like teeth that were a grisly, ugly rust color. Bart realized after a moment that they weren't rust-colored but rusty. His teeth were made of iron, his lips and gums stained blue around the metal's presence.

“But you, your kind have many names for me and mine. You have called us many things throughout the years." he continued, lowering his helmet and thrusting his wide, scarred chin forwards, it much like his nose was long and pointed, almost comically so.

“Jack-in-Irons, Tengu, Kobold... but I think my very favorite one, of all the many names your kith and kin have given me..." he trailed off and met Bart's gaze directly. “...is Goblin" he hissed, and the myriad shapes and angles of the alien being suddenly made sense. A thousand cautionary fairy tales of the Goblins here to get you danced through his head, snapping his visage into perfect clarity.

“Goblins Bite with Iron Teeth, Scratch with Iron Nails, dig up your gardens and put a hole in every pail ..." Bart half-sang, the old fairy-tale limerick about Goblin trickery: stealing children, breaking tools and scurrying away from the might of heroes and promises, the Goblin grinned, his sharp metal teeth ghastly, it nodded.

“I savor it most for the irony. For you think it lessens us," he said and hooked his helmet onto his belt, one finger idly smoothing his long mustache. “Cursed by all, epithets a-plenty for us: the Conflict-bringers, the Iron-Mongers, the Vile Red-Bloods, and yes Goblins — we wear your revulsion as a badge of honor." he grinned pridefully for a moment, before settling back down into his stoic intensity once more.

“My name, however, is Daedolon," he stated, and glared down at Bart with a discerning, considering gaze. “This is the one, then?" He asked, his gaze turning to Cithara, his deep voice conversational again.

“He is. He has great potential," she said, and Bart felt a flush creep up his neck, Daedolon regarded him curiously.

“Potential is nothing on its own. What has he of talent?"

“Little with a sword, by his own admission."

“Pragmatic of him, a good trait in a soldier."

“I rather enjoy it."

Bart listened to the exchange and felt very much the distress of being spoken about while one was still present, his ire mounting until the towering goblin swung his ponderous focus back around to Bart, the creature's age seemed to hang about him in a tangible presence, as if his very years had weight.

“Your history is one of many omissions and quietudes. I forged that blade, I and my eight brothers and sisters, we Nine came to man in the age of Fire and Stone, and we cast our lot with Northsea alone." he stated; “We invested in ourselves the True Iron, made of it our blood and bones — for we cannot work anything that is not part of us." he bared those iron teeth at him again. “Then, we brought it to your kind. We slew your Age of Stone with an iron blade," he said.

“A betrayal most foul." Holda hissed, drawing a raised eye ridge from Daedolon.

“Betrayed? No stripling, you small, springy saplings of the Sidhe are the betrayers — we are unchanged and steadfast since the dawn, and we will end all creation as such — we change for no one nor nothing but ourselves." he countered with a casual, almost lazy tone that spoke of the aged nature of such comments.

“That is how you can handle iron then," Bart said and frowned a bit, the Goblin chuckled.

“As is why your kind can. Have you never stopped to consider why your blood is red?" he asked, and grinned, tapping his reddish-rusty teeth.

“Iron within, iron without," he concluded, striking his breastplate firmly. Bart understood then, at least in part. If Iron made human blood red, its absence was likely why Perchta's blood had been that strange blue color on the mud of the clearing.

“Why do my people view yours with such rancor then?" Bart asked, and Holda snarled before Daedolon could speak;

“They are duplicitous and self-serving, and are unworthy of trust to do anything but what they will." she spat with noxious venom, and Daedolon chuckled.

“The irony is she is not incorrect — merely overstating it," Daedolon said and then shook his head. “I will not explain. Not now. In time you will come to know the truth." he said and met Bart's eyes once more. “Provided you survive the endeavor. You seem sturdy. I have considerations."

“What endeavor?" Bart asked tersely, and Daedolon simply smiled.

“I am here merely for the blade, I will have it or I will make its wielder worthy of its might," he said plainly, and looked down his long nose at Bart. “Were you not beneath the Pale Lady's protection, I would merely slay you and reclaim my property. However seeing as I cannot simply wrest it from you — I shan't have you dishonoring my iron with shoddy swordsmanship and an embarrassing demise."

Bart's face went stony, and he turned his intense stare on Cithara, who smiled at him smugly. This had been her plan. The Goblin's eyebrow raised in a rueful, knowing manner as well.

“I am here to teach you the sword, or kill you in the doing," he said, an airy weariness in his tone. “I am not immune it seems, to the manipulations of the Pale Lady anymore than you, her creature are," he added with a tone of resignation, Cithara seemed content with that.

“Not all influence is wielded at the end of a blade, someday Men will wholly grasp the subtle leverages," she said haughtily, her lips upturned in a smirk as she looked at the two of them — the pair glancing at her, then meeting each others gaze knowingly for a brief moment. Some things appeared to be true across time and species. They stayed like that for a long moment, Bart and Daedolon sizing each other up silently, each man's expression wildly different. Bart's furrowed brow and intense blue eye stared into the pitiless sunken specks of Daedolon's gaze, his own expression airy and alert — a very clear measure of interest taken in Bart's person. He felt as if he were being taken apart bit by bit under the ancient being's gaze.

“No point in dallying then. I grow no more comfortable in this wood," he said, unslinging the massive baldric from his shoulder with a resounding clang of steel, the floor actually shaking beneath the impact enough that Bart staggered briefly for balance. The towering figure re-affixed his helmet with a crisp twist, snapping the visor down he grasped one of the hilts in the tangled mass of iron. It was a clear full-body effort as he dragged the chosen weapon free in a shower of sparks, snapping it out at arm's length with aplomb. The blade was nondescript, much like his armor. It gleamed with that same pitted golden-black sheen that painted it as Absolute Iron. It was straight, true, and with a decidedly wide blade and wider crosspiece — terminating in a very recognizable thin, triangular blade. Bart realized now what he meant when he called the look of the First Paladin's blade 'familiar'.

“Defend yourself, boy!" Daedolon bellowed suddenly, and he lunged at Bart with a pounding swiftness that caught the Paladin so far off guard that he couldn't even get the blade free of the scabbard, instead slamming the leather-sheathed blade up like an axe-haft between the lunging goblin and what would have been a killing thrust. The blade rang off his, and Daedolon did not pause or falter, flowing naturally into an overhand rolling chop that forced Bart backward, once again deflecting it with the wide crosspiece of the sword, grasping the blade like a haft, he battered back the return stroke with a loud oath, leaping back from another cut that swung so close to his belly the drawstrings on the doublet fell to the wooden floor, neatly sheared.

“Betrayer!" Holda hissed, and sidhe silver flashed — but the huntress was halted in her place by none other than the radiant aura of the Unicorn, her eyes worried but her jaw set.

“Be still. This must happen, it is part of the deal," she said, her tone terse, clipped even.

Bart found his feet after a moment, undoing the clasp on the blade, he twisted it free of the scabbard, whipping the leather sleeve overhand at Daedolon's head, only to shout in incredulity as the goblin slapped the hurled missile away with a parry so negligent in its contempt for the attack it may as well been an obscene gesture.

“Resourceful." Daedolon praised him, raising his blade in a crisp knightly salute — it was even more obvious now that the First Paladin's blade was naked in his hands, that the weapon the goblin had chosen out of that rat-warren of armaments was the mirror of his own, scaled for the creature's size.

Bart didn't respond, pressing the minimal advantage his attack had given him, rushing forward with the blade held at high guard — guessing, and correctly mind you, that Daedolon's cut would come down from on high — and down it did, slashing down with both hands in a crisp, almost textbook cut who's form was so flawless that even reading it ahead of time as he did Bart's hands only just kept up.

He lashed down in an angled chop of his own, dropping his off-hand down the full length of the hilt into a wide grip and then literally swatting at Daedolon's slicing blade almost like one would drub a stubborn toddler. The blade snapped wide, and Bart drove his instep in hard to the counter, rolling his shoulders and levering the blade down with his forehand as the fulcrum — snapping the blade's tip at the goblin's head like a whip. The First Paladin's blade rose to the dexterous move with authority, and a shower of sparks rained down as Daedolon barely shifted his head to the side, the Absolute Iron blade chewing a new gouge in his ancient helmet. He deftly stepped back from the exchange, touching his helmet a moment, he raised his hand with two fingers looped and tapped it to his head — a classic fencer's touch.

“A good combination, yet your command of the basics is rough. Rote." he criticized, stalking around Bart in a slow circle, blade held low in a stance so damnably familiar it mocked him. The sheer weight of the alien soldier exceeded what it should have been — every step of that circling stalk seemed to hit with a dense, thudding footfall as if he were much denser than even his armor suggested. He raised his blade again, extended at a relaxed middle guard, waiting. Bart took the initiative once more, moving forward in a quick whipping motion, their blades clashed rapidly in a series of combinations, each seeking a gap in the other's defenses — Daedolon holding him off effectively with his reach and unyielding strength whilst Bart continued to harry him with aggression, forcing him to his back foot on sheer pressure. Yet and still, Bart felt that creeping loss of control seep into him again — the Goblin's attacks and defenses becoming harder, more authoritative in their returns; the goblin swordmaster was figuring him out — just like Parias had, but far more quickly.

“Your aggression is excellent." the Goblin hissed in praise, and his voice didn't even sound winded; “Admirable ferocity. Your ancient blood sings in you," he said, kicking away and landing in a low crouch, snapping back up into a low fool's stance — blade held in a crossover grip low in front of him, Bart gritted his teeth. The guard was named as such because it looked open, but the grip and stance made for lightning-quick counterattacks that were hard to read, the 'fool' was the swordsman that charged the seeming opening.

Bart switched his own stance back to that wary high guard — keeping his form couched close to his body out of caution. The two soldiers sized each other up, Bart bled freely from several minor cuts on his arm and hands from the sheer ferocity of their exchanges, and the goblin sported several other minor new gouges on his armor to match the helmet. Bart had no breath for banter, he had never been so hard-pressed in a fight save his fateful duel with Parias. Panic cut into his guts, and he stole a glance to the side to Cithara — who was stone-faced, watching the two fight with an icy, unreadable expression. Daedolon's voice echoed from under his helmet.

“Are you here to fight, or here to show off for your woman?" he barked roughly, and Bart felt anger shoot through him at that. He snapped his eyes back to the goblin swordsman, his grip tightening on the still-alien weapon. He knew he was being baited, provoked... and his growing anger at the gall, the toying blows, and the casual way he was dismissed were equally difficult to ignore. He bared his teeth, he had his own tricks.

Bart kicked off at a dead run — his blade tucked into his shoulder in an aggressive charge. The Goblin chuckled derisively at that, and twisted his arms forward, snapping his own long blade up from its low fool's guard into a sudden, immaculate thrust aimed directly at Bart's heart, seemingly true and straight through his open guard as Bart drove forward with a brutal swing. The Paladin's blade seemed to be going too fast, too committed to the cut — yet the lively balance of the First Blade once again surprised them both. Bart had baited out the attack, and with a twist of his grip, he smashed the opposing blade down to the floor, both weapons going tip-down. Bart snarled and drove his blade down the length of the Goblin's until their cross-guards met with a clang, twisting and binding it with his own — taking that advantage to stomp his boot down onto the Goblin's massive weapon and with a roar of triumph — he reached for the Lady's Blessing. His lone eye flashed gold, leaving a gleaming aurum tracer in its wake as he focused that blessed energy instinctively into his muscles and bones, his left fist curled back, limned in that golden radiance as his battle roar shook the air, and that fist lashed out like a ballista shot. Impact rocked up Bart's arm, and his eyes widened, his grin of triumph fading to bleak shock.

Daedolon's offhand had snapped up instantly and grasped Bart's fist in its wide, six-fingered grip — completely halting his forward momentum, leaving the two warriors practically nose-to-nose, Bart's arm and fist shaking in the iron grip as the ancient soldier effortlessly pushed back against the divine might of the Unicorn coursing through him. A baleful gleam of hate visible in the sallet visor.

“Do not dare wield your invader god's petulant power against me." he hissed in rage cold and crushing as the bottom of the ocean. His hand twisted, and the sound of breaking bones in Bart's arm echoed through the room, along with a shout of agony and disbelief from the Paladin himself, bright white bone ripped through the flesh of his arm as the limb twisted at an unnatural angle, and the goblin swordmaster raised his heavy, hobnailed boot and drove it with anvil-like force into Bart's chest. More bones broke, and Bart was launched a short distance, landing heavily on his back, bouncing and skidding in a slow fishtail, managing to keep his dominant hand gripped on his sword, teeth gritted in primal fury and unimaginable pain as he snapped his gaze around to the advancing alien warrior.

“Aggressive, ferocious, and tenacious — a fine warrior. A berseker trueborn." The old warrior rumbled, drawing his blade up into a hanging Ox stance, sword held above him, point angled down at Bart as he struggled to his feet. “But a terrible excuse for a swordsman, lacking all but the most basic glimmer of hope, regurgitating rote tactics like a golem. Your opponents until now must have been unskilled beasts," he said, mocking Bart with a stinging degree of accuracy.

Bart spat out a mouthful of blood — that broken rib clearly having hit a lung. He stood and choked up his grip on the blade, taking it into one hand as he tucked his broken arm into his chest. His one eye blazed with defiance.

“Perhaps so — but you'll remember me every time you look at that helmet." Daedolon's body language shifted, and with a low laugh, he tapped his helmet in the fencer's touch once more.

“Spirited. I admire defiance," he said and drove his blade forward, Bart hissed and snapped his own weapon down, but his wounds slowed him, and there was a wet, meaty rending sound, and new, withering pain shot through his breastbone.

As the goblin swordmaster ran him straight through.

The room fell silent, Bart coughed up a gout of blood and gore as he grasped the impaling blade, feeling the life bleeding out of him rapidly, he actually dragged himself down the blade. Defiance burned in his eyes as the goblin stared at him with incredulity as he literally widened the already mortal wound dragging himself almost eye-to-eye with the goblin, staring him down through the visor slits.

“Admire it, with your new limp." he spat, and with his last surge of energy, he inverted his grip on the first Paladin's blade, and binding the Goblin's sword tightly in his own body — drove the sword down at his thigh like a massive, over-sized dagger. The blade bit true, hungry even into the alien flesh — the Absolute Iron may not have held the bane for the Goblin it did common Sidhe — but it still considered him The Other — it cut and sliced the alien warrior as adeptly as it did any other monster, and the Goblin spat a loud oath, twisting away from Bart and kicking him off the end of his blade, where the now disarmed, dying paladin rolled to the floor in a heap.

“What a reckless, foolish display of bravado." the Goblin spat, hissing in pain as it dragged the weapon out of the meat of its leg, the blade red with blood from middle to point, he looked at the weapon with an odd mix of revulsion and fondness, seemingly contemplating as Bart twisted in agony, coughing as more blood filled his lungs. The Paladin reached his good hand up, trying to snatch the blade from the alien soldier's hands.

“M...my... duty..." he stammered, eye dull with near-death torpor as he flopped to his side, weakly straining as his legs refused to listen to his call... all of it did, he... couldn't feel anything below his waist.

“Even dead you don't give in. Foolish. Reckless. Self-destructive." he said, and then looked to Cithara, holding the blood-stained sword still. “He will do."

Bart felt the darkness surge around him, and blackness fogged his vision... this was different. He remembered just being so tired last time, but now... now he was angry. He struggled and fought and only seemed to fade faster — and then a familiar, golden glow lit the darkness. Familiar words in a once alien voice, now wholly intimate and wonderful, rang in his mind. “Come back, my love... I need you yet still."

Breath surged into Bart's lungs, and his eye snapped open. He lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood, over him stood Cithara, tears glimmering as they flowed down her face unrestrained and she gave a quiet sigh of relief, pressing close to him before shooting Daedolon a baleful look. The Goblin crouched nearby, visor raised, looking appraisingly down at Bart, a hand stroking his long mustaches.

“The boy has little talent, but as you said. Potential," he said in a neutral, almost polite tone — as if he hadn't impaled her lover moments before. “He can learn," he said and tapped the blade, placing it hilt-first in Bart's hands. “I yet still may take this from you, if you continue to die by my hands," he whispered to him, eyes on Bart's, ignoring the Unicorn glaring at him from mere inches away. Bart gripped the sword fiercely.

“If." is all Bart managed to croak in response. Daedolon's lips twisted back from his rusted teeth in a fierce, approving grin.

~ ~ ~

The gathering adjourned somewhat awkwardly in the wake of the effective death and rebirth of Cithara's would-be champion. Daedolon refused Cithara's offers of succor or supplies, politely but quite firmly, and instead simply requested 'A place to sit alone'. Cithara granted it cryptically, some exchange passing between the two immortals that was lost upon his mortal mind.

No, he best stop thinking of it so dismissively as something beyond him — he was now too, immortal, wasn't he? The big man stood apart from such thoughts only by the breadth of time, no longer base quality.

“Will I be like that?" Bart asked in the wake of the Goblin's departure, the question seemed to startle Cithara — her only response was a confused blinking.

“So much unsaid, speaking with long-buried meaning and history more than words, when I am old as that."

“Bart..." she began, but her eyes widened as she seemed to have stumbled across the same thought that he had. Surely he had promised to stay with her for eternity, and she had accepted such a promise on its face — but the encounter with Daedolon had made its true weight very clear.

“I am also Immortal now, functionally, am I not?" he said, moving closer to his lover, the Unicorn's eyes resting on him with deep devotion. “So long as I return to your side, I will be embraced by your power again and again," he said, folding his arms over his ruined, bloodied shirt again — a handful of fresh scars bright on his tanned forearms, no battle so far leaving him unmarked.

“You are, aren't you?" she said, bemused by the idea. “What a strange happenstance," she said, looking up at him with a faint glimmer of wonder in her eyes.

“It's almost comical, isn't it?" he added, leaning against her throne where she looked up at him, his eyes were still on the door where the goblin had left. Holda and Perchta had stalked after him, undoubtedly to observe their ancient blood enemy, leaving the two alone.

“It does have a quality of the ridiculous to it, but so does much of your story my love," she said, smiling at him with genuine affection, worry leftover from the duel draining from her face as she saw the crooked, wry smile spread across his face again.

“Literally so stubborn I forgot how to die," he said through a rueful grin, and she laughed softly.

“The accidental immortal. I quite like that."

“I am going to speak with him," Bart said after a beat of comfortable silence, Cithara furrowed her brow, her posture shifting on her throne as if she suddenly found the seat and its authority both uncomfortable.

“What do you have to say to one such as he?" she asked, a touch of concern in her tone.

“Shop talk." Bart said simply, and her expression shifted in a flicker of understanding, her lips parting in a faint 'ah' as she nodded. Bart continued after a pause. “He and I have a common thread, I felt it when we fought," he said, grasping the hilt of the sword, eye set forward. “He fought for something he believed in with every single fiber of his being. I have never felt such purity of resolve in a crossed blade before. Such resolute might." he said, and his eye gleamed with intensity and resolve all his own.

“I want to fight like that," he said, fire in his tone. “Thrice now have I come in second-best to zealous swordsmen of skill. I want that strength, that ability," he said, clenching his fist before him, knuckles cracking as he did. “I want it, and this is my means to take it."

Cithara looked at him with an opaque expression, her mouth slowly turning into a pleased smile; “You know, that may be among the first times I've seen you express a totally selfish desire." she said, her eyes appraising.

“I don't like being weak," he said, clenching that fist tighter, looking at her. “I excuse it as the strong being able to protect the weak, noble ends to my drives — but if I am brutally honest, I loathe being weak. I have felt its gnawing teeth in my heart more than once. Sucking hope and vigor from my limbs." he clenched his teeth, eye going back to the door. “All I see whenever these immortals and monsters raise their claws to me is something telling me I am too small, too human to oppose them — and within me, it ignites a blazing pyre of defiance," he said with a burning fervor. Cithara's own golden eyes blazed with excitement as he spoke. “I will take their strength, turn it against them. I am a man — and I will not be ignored."

Cithara's smile was comforting as she looked at him, he felt for a moment he'd crossed a line again. Strode too far into the land of zealotry and would be chastised again, but instead she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

“I love your passion, it is the most human part of you. Everything about you is done with every fiber of your being." she looked at him and there was a sadness in her gaze; “It costs you, but it defines you so sweetly. I hope that never changes, no matter how long we are together." she breathed, and he found himself suddenly immersed in melancholy, looking at those golden eyes — the only eyes he would see forever more now.

“It won't. I won't let it," he said suddenly, sure of himself. Sure of what made him well... him. “Immortality will have to reave from me every part of my heart before I stop giving my everything," he said, laughing softly... then a bit harder, a genuine belly laugh starting after a fashion.

“What is it?" Cithara asked with a smile, eyes flicking to and fro across her lover.

“It's just so funny!" he said, his scarred, bearded face grinning like a little boy; “I stumbled half-dead into your grove, lost in despair. Everything seemed impossible," he said, and spread his hand outwards, at the Glade, at her, her home — at all of creation really. “Then you make me whole and show me a greater, grander, more deadly world than I ever knew. Showed me the struggles of people in places so far beyond this one that I can't even name their stars," he said and laughed again.

“I should be terrified, I should feel so small and fragile that I might be snuffed out like a mote of dust by the titans I traffic with... but I am not," he said, still grinning. “Knowing that there are such greater travails in the universe, that greater, vaster powers than mine still struggle and fight across the cosmos?" he shook his head and leaned his hip against her throne again, looking up at the vaulting, tall ceiling of the hollow tree that formed the roof of her cottage.

“It makes these struggles feel... manageable," he said, a bit of iron entering that smile. “Not easy, not even guaranteed but possible. Attainable. After all, I've won the love of the Queen of the very idea itself." he said meeting her gaze with his lone blue eye.

“If that is not proof that a man can accomplish the impossible, I dare say then such proof is itself impossible."

She smiled at him, leaning up to brush her nose against his; “Are you going to run out of gushing platitudes in a thousand years?"

“Never, not once," Bart swore earnestly, and her laughter rang like silvery bells.

“I look forward to it," she said cheerily and cast her eyes towards the door, then back towards his. “You better get going if you wish to speak with him, much longer here alone with your gushing proclamations of love and I daresay I will drag you away to make good upon their promise." she purred with smoldering eyes, biting her lip in a girlish way. He found that yearning tugging at his belly... and realized then that it would always guide him home now. Home.

“Leave a light on for me," he murmured, kissing her nose gently and earning himself a giggle for his trouble.

“Always, beloved."

~ ~ ~

The woods were becoming more and more his element, the Paladin finding his way through them in spite of their supernatural nature. Perhaps either the unicorn's blessing had attuned him to their ancient magicks, or the Erlking himself had taken a shine to him in light of his rousing defense of the borders of his realm. Be it what it may, the big man found his footfalls sure and his direction unerring.

Bart carried with him the blade. It seemed prudent to not set out to see the ancient warrior unarmed, though he did not yet think of it as his sword, it did not fit him as truly as the axe had for some reason. Perhaps that would come in time and familiarity. It hung at his waist in its scabbard, and Bart found himself in simple soldier's clothes again, his ruined doublet discarded again for a replacement in a minty dark green, Cithara seemed to take joy in dressing him.

It did not take long to find Daedolon's place he had chosen to sit — his ears lead him. The sounds of music caught his attention and teased him further down into the darkness of the woods. The soft, almost mournful strains of strings and bow drew him along. He found a campfire guttering cheerfully along, ensconced in a small pit surrounded by stones, over it perched a small pot-bellied kettle on a tripod of sticks. Some effort had been made to make the clearing livable, a small hatchet perched nearby fresh-split wood for the fire, and a large, tassel-ended throw of sorts had been laid out across a smooth boulder, varying effects from a pack arrayed around. The Goblin had carried his whole life in that bundle of steel it seemed.

He sat there, in the center of the throw, its rich red hue sewn and shot with threads of a thousand colors in a shimmering tapestry of alien symbols and meaning. In his hands was an odd instrument, long-necked and as long as Bart was tall easily, with a fat, bell-like body and a thousand strange knobs and frets along its spindly surface. In his free hand, he clutched an equally overlong bow, matched to his strange, long-limbed build, and he drew it back and forth in a song that was at once, deep and mournful... and yet it carried a bittersweet melody that drew him in.

Bart found a seat in silence, across the fire from the alien soldier as he continued to play, there was an almost... mad quality about him as his six-fingered hands danced gracefully across the frets. His helmet and breastplate sat apart on the stones with much of his armor, the creature's figure laid bare as a curious impossibility. His legs and limbs each nigh half again as long as his trunk, which itself was a thickly muscled, yet bizarrely lean ingot of flesh married to its long, powerful limbs. It was as if he had no organs, no space within him that was not muscle and bone. His neck was almost avian, nearly goose-like, long and sinuous to match his body, his neck muscles broad and thick tapering into a slender column of the same ebon-gray as his skin. He played as if compelled, his mustached visage focused on the music, eyes seemingly half-closed, distant as his heart sang through the strings. Bart too, drifted off — taken away by the strains of unknowable, forgotten sounds.

Bart felt the music guide him, and his lone eye slipped closed. There was no... meter he could discern, though he had always been an adequate singer in the hymnal. The song seemed to play almost as free association, finding a chord or couplet and dancing through it and around it, greeting it and playing its scale nearly... but there was a structure that revealed itself. The frenzied fretting of his fingers lent its energy to the sound, the song itself feeling as if it were speaking with a dozen voices all raised in song... it seemed to be telling a story. The music was the same, a refrain played again and again in an increasingly aggressive arpeggio, raising in tempo and pitch as it went — in different scale and key each time... like a thousand voices all telling you the same story again, and again. The refrain continued until it rose to a fever pitch into a frantic bridge of soaring, almost anguished tones full of melancholy and need, it felt as if the bow would catch fire, or that Bart's heart would burst — he knew not which!

The song soared on a triumphant crescendo... drawing Bart and Daedolon both up to the height of its tempo where it burst into a single, long-held chord like a final voice crying into the darkness... and then down it came, into a quiet refrain full of mournful contemplating, a melancholy beat that slowly faded away, like footsteps in sand. Daedolon set the bow aside, his eyes fully opening as he turned slowly towards Bart, their eyes meeting across the fire.

“What is it you want?" the words were direct, and neither unfriendly nor gregarious. He set his fingers to the instrument, adjusting the pegs and strings without even looking, the wood and resin an extension of the creature's limbs. Bart had no words, he simply stared at the outsider. Past him as the power of the music faded.

“To talk," Bart said, his voice small. “Earnestly, as soldiers."

“Ah, the human tradition of 'small talk' is it?" the goblin said in a reproachful tone. “I have little need nor desire to make this small talk, however, I will indulge you for a time out of courtesy," he concluded quite crisply, a finger drawing a low, groaning tone from the strings of his instrument as he worked.

“What was that music?" Bart said then, and Daedolon's hollow gaze took on a curiously distant expression.

“A history," he said plainly. “Our history. My history, woven into song in our long exile," he said plainly, drawing the bow across the newly tuned strings in a rich couplet of notes that thrummed in Bart's chest, striking a sharp contrast with its player's taciturn demeanor.

“You play it often?"

“Every night. It is yet unfinished, after all."

Bart absorbed that for a long moment, the crackle of the fire the only sound as they regarded each other. Bart felt a chill in him, and glanced down at his hands, finding himself... weary. Not exhausted, but the pleasant bone-weariness of a body after a day's exercise. He blinked, he shouldn't feel as thus, not with Cithara's influence charging him.

“Ah, you've noticed have you?" Daedolon's deep, proper voice said and Bart looked up to him.

“Cithara's blessing, it's... gone from me," Bart said, his face somewhat accusatory. Daedolon waved a finger two and fro briefly.

“Not gone... simply quieted. Reach for the mantle, it is there. Go on." he said, his tone almost chiding, as if Bart were a frightened child. He did as he was bid, his blue eye flashed with golden flame as he clenched his fist with a crackle of his knuckles and a creak of his bracers. He indeed carried her gift still, and it filled him with strength on demand... yet…

“I sit alone," Daedolon said plainly. “I and my people each a nation unto ourselves. A nation we carry here," he said, tapping his heart.

“So where you claim space to sit, you claim territory as well." Bart reasoned, and Daedolon tapped the side of his elongated nose gamely.

“Aye, sharper than you appear. When you leave you will doubtlessly now feel the line I have drawn in the proverbial sand. Your Lady's influence does not touch my camp, neither does your White God's... they can be invited to my fire, but they hold no sway over its burning. It burns because it does, not because I will it."

“A bit spiteful, isn't it?"

“Only as much as your White Gods demands are. I reserve the right to be contrarian. I was here first.

Bart and the goblin fell into another tense silence, Bart struggled with how to relate to the ancient being, he had to learn from this creature, and in order to do so, they had to establish some kind of rapport. Daedolon sighed wearily.

“Boy, I am not your friend — nor will I be." the grizzled old soldier said in a tone of quiet resignation. “Neither am I your enemy, I bear you neither malice nor fortune. I deal with you square and just. Nothing more."

“You wielded that sword with more than casual neutrality." Bart challenged him, his one-eyed visage hard. Daedolon's teeth showed in a fierce, disdainful sort of smile.

“Sharper still. I may have to re-evaluate your ability if you keep noticing things beyond your ken." the goblin said with a quiet edge of mockery, folding his hands over his instrument, the six-fingered appendages cradling the device lovingly.

“I am filled with surprises," Bart responded laconically, to which the goblin nodded, raising his hand in that fencer's touch again. The ancient swordsman sat in silence a moment then, stroking his mustache; his piercing white-ringed eyes boring a hole into Bart for a long, pregnant moment.

“No. I don't think I will tell you. Not yet." he said plainly, and Bart gave him an incredulous look. The Goblin smiled with open malice, his jagged iron teeth making his rusty smile look like a gore-soaked bear trap, fresh from a kill. “You will simply have to accept that you are to be punished and that it is not a personal grudge I bear thee in particular," he said, looking down at the pegs of his instrument, his long nails dragging over the frets again as he adjusted the tone.

“You will not make me quit the field," Bart stated to him directly, the Goblin's eyes looked back up with a marked degree of bemusement.

“Is that a fact?"

“It is. Mete out your punishment, God built me for the likes of you." The Goblin regarded him intensely again for a moment, and he raised one of his craggy brow ridges with clear interest; “You truly do not care do you?"

“Oh no. I find whatever game you're playing to be petty and pointless." Bart said bluntly, getting a snort of agreement from the grizzled old fae, “Yet I must needs deal with you. I have a greater duty than that of my personal tastes." The old monster looked down his immense nose at Bart, considering. He nodded to himself just the once, hands going back to the tending of his lute.

“I've always liked you humans. Care little for your god, little for others. Don't particularly care for even your Pale Lady." he said dryly, looking down the length of the bow's gut, drawing his nail along it — the iron-gray edge peeling and snipping frass from the bow's length, seemingly honed to a cutting sharpness. His eyes met Bart's, the only part of his face that moved in fact. “You though. Your kind. You're so impetuous. Ungovernable, even when you wear such a divine yoke." that hideous grin returned, with a dry chuckle as he blew the debris from the bow, drawing a small block of a waxy substance out and running it up and down the length of it.

“He knew not quite what he'd leashed, did He," he said, it was more of a statement than a question, and to that, Bart had little answer. The goblin worked the rosin up and down the bow in vigorous motions of his six-fingered hands, raising the bow to his gaze peering at it, then flicking his sunken eyes back to Bart.

“So we're on the level then. You care not for my games, and I care not for your comfort. I admire your determination and respect your forthrightness. You promise to at least, be a stimulating student." he said, nodding firmly.

“I've plenty of grudges already, I don't see much need in adding another," Bart said, and Daedolon nodded in kind.

“Agreed. One should nurture grudges properly. One should not be so easily wronged that every turn of the wind offends them — yet when one is truly wronged, one should never forget it. Never falter." his voice was intense as he met Bart's eyes. “Of this, I know we are kin. I've always liked you humans," he said with another pause, reaching for his instrument.

“Your capacity for revenge is impressive. Even the fae peoples, elderborn of your world, hold little a candle to human fires of retribution."

Bart felt... moderately offended by that, actually. Yet he got the sense that the ancient soldier had paid him a compliment in his own, twisted, eternal way. He supposed for something as rule-bound as the Goblin seemed to be — one having a powerful capacity for reprisal when wronged was a good and proper thing. It seemed he did little by inches, love nor hate. Daedolon however was opaque on such things as he cleared his throat, hefting his instrument back onto his lap.

“I have reached my capacity for small talk, and therefore we are concluded," he said with a curious finality and met Bart's eyes one last time. “See yourself out, I will collect you in a day's time."

With that, he began to play again and his eyes left Bart's frame to close and focus on the middle distance, lost in his music as if the human wasn't even there.

Bart thought to press the Goblin, to wheedle and demand answers from him — some kind of agreement, but he realized in a strange way that he already had. Daedolon's promise and proclamation was the closest thing to a Gentleman's Agreement that he was going to get. The ancient being was done with him, and even as he sat there he felt that dismissal like a physical wall between them. He was no longer welcome, no longer an equal. Bart stood, not a word wasted as he sorted the weapon on his waist. He spared Daedolon a parting glance, and the soldier merely drew his fingers across his freshly rosined bow and continued to play.

Bart let the sounds of the ages follow him from the clearing, his mind focused on the tasks ahead of him. There would be time enough for talk when the bleeding was through.

~ ~ ~

So went Bart's life for days that he rapidly lost count of. His mornings were spent under the tutelage of Daedolon's less-than-tender mercies, mistakes were met with pain, all training done with live steel. He spilled more blood than didn't in those bouts — but it was not all punishment and malice. The Goblin's methods were brutal but his teaching was concise and effective. His lessons were painful, but they were lessons — stances explained, the intent and concept of the blade's motions; Daedolon taught swordplay like one would any other craft. Building a barn or wielding a blade, it was all the same to Daedolon. He learned and he bled equally freely yet Bart's grasp on the blade grew surer with each passing day, and his collection of scars grew larger in ready timing.

His afternoons were spent learning to control the Mantle with Cithara's guidance and recuperating from the battering he'd taken at the Goblin's hands. The mystic arts as he imagined them were nothing like what he was granted by the power of the Unicorn. Far beyond his instinctive use of it as a weapon, it carried with it a host of limitations that he was forced to operate around.

“So when I reach for the mantle, I am doing what you do when you..." Bart groped for a word, and simply instead wiggled his fingers at Cithara in exaggerated mysticism. She laughed a little, the Big man sat there cross-legged in the middle of her home — the unicorn sprawled in a casual manner alongside him as she went about quietly healing up an assortment of cuts and bruises from that day's sparring with the merciless Goblin warrior.

“When I reach for my Orbit, yes," she answered him, her eyes and horn glowing as she touched her lips to another nick, imparting her healing energies in a doting fashion. Bart nodded, his heavy brows furrowed in thought as he focused on his hand, clenching his fist and feeling the mantle surge through him like opening a floodgate and then slamming it shut again.

“Why can I not do as you do, and float objects around and carry things with my mind?" he asked, Cithara gave him a bit of a smug look and he shrugged sheepishly; “I tried... once or twice, when nobody was looking," he admitted, getting a soft titter from the unicorn as she shifted her attention to his other arm, a small better's ledger worth of slash marks decorating up and down the limb.

“Well, to put it simply my dear Bart — mine's bigger than yours." she teased, giving him a flirty wink. Bart sighed at her.

“So this is to be my life eternal then? Terrible innuendos and lewd implications?" he asked her and she raised her eyebrows at him in an imperious manner.

“It is, I will even throw in blatant sexual overtures and the occasional telekinetic pinch if I see fit." she declared to him with a voice of iron that drew a wry laugh out of the Paladin as she continued tending his limb with another gentle peck of her lips, eyes flashing. “Really, darling. The Queen of Love is kissing your training boo-boos better and the line you draw is a quip about one's size?" she admonished him playfully, and he chuckled through it in good humor.

“Nay, my love I am quite serious all innuendo aside," she said as her eyes lumed with the golden glow of her power, snatching up an apple from the nearby table in her golden gleaming kinesis and whipping it back towards them in a lazy arc, Bart catching it by pure reflex.

“All creatures have an orbit, for most however it is very, very small. The thickness of one's skin, perhaps a comfortable sweater for those particularly gifted," she said, taking the apple from him and deftly tossing it so she could casually slice it in twain with her horn — which itself briefly ignited in that killing crackle he'd witnessed before against the ghuls — laying the fruit in half as if hewn by a razor. “Mine is decidedly larger, as are my brother and sister's, and indeed — all creatures of power and station carry it," she said, and Bart furrowed his brow, taking a bite from the split apple as he turned it over in his head.

“I don't understand, so I can't do what you can because my orbit is too small?" he said, chewing doggedly as he focused on the problem. Cithara tilted her head, the gears clearly working behind her aurum eyes as she considered how to teach this most important of lessons.

“In a sense, yes. My orbit is my sphere of direct influence, it is difficult to measure exactly but suffice to say it is generally well within my line of sight. I can..." she paused, raising her foreleg to her chin in a considering motion, idly preening her feathered hock as she searched for the correct words. Bart waited expectantly, chewing the mouthful of apple.

“Within its limits, I have a degree of control over reality within its range — and of course my attention, I am not omniscient. This is one of Those Things, but I can affect the way natural laws interact within some limitations, weight and speed and... many concepts I don't know how to relate to you just yet, my love," she said, and plucked the other half of the apple up and gently nibbled a piece from it.

“What to you looks like pure sorcery, is simply to mine eyes, absolute control of some very, very specific laws of creation," she concluded daintily, snatching up a napkin to daub juice from her white coat as well. “The natural world itself is quite magical, all it needs is a little push to do it quickly."

Bart reflected on that around a bite of apple, and he began to put things together, holding up a finger and shaking it for emphasis.

“When I called on it for strength I was just... making myself stronger because I have control of my orbit within the mantle's power..." he said, and Cithara raised her eyebrows at him with an inquiring gaze as he continued. “... Yet my orbit's limits are the edges of my skin, so what you would have used to float an object along, I instead used to reinforce my own limbs." he said and then after a long pause added, “I think."

The Unicorn smiled with crushing beauty as she tittered at him; “It is a close enough approximation, for now, my love. Not everyone is born with a head for sorcery."

So it went. Time passed in a way that melded together in a strange sensation of unreality. Mornings of toil, afternoons of introspective study, and nights — ah, his nights were full of passion. To say that Cithara was ravenous for such attentions would be an understatement most dire, and she sought him out for intimate contact and conversation that lasted into early morning hours. Bart could say the days were a strange sort of paradise, time blurring together as study and practice intertwined and two souls thirsty for one another drank deeply.

“YES!" came the cry one morning from Daedolon's own throat, the ecstasy in his voice a dark mirror of Cithara's own vocalizations the night before, Bart's heart all the quicker for the memory. Time had passed. A week, a month, Bart had no time to say, he knew not what season it was, nor which month nor day of the week. All he knew was that he must fight. The clash of steel was loud as his blade answered the Goblin's returning thrust in a tight, swatting flicker of a parry that even what felt like mere days before would have been impossible for the young Paladin — but here he was, the blade alive in his hands as he pressed the larger, stronger opponent with naught but bare iron and muscle.

“Oh delight of days past — it is a joy to have a student who charges aggressively again!" Daedolon crowed, meeting the rush of cuts and thrusts with parries and ripostes of his own — today his own red blood dotted the flattened ground near his encampment and stained his jerkin. Bart had grown, not in leaps and bounds, but in innumerable fine degrees. His technique had altered little, but it had been polished, smoothed, and hammered by Daedolon's frequently lethal teachings. Bart's many deaths at the hands of the ancient soldier lined up in his mind in a montage of traumas both mental and physical that painted a single path forward in his own blood.

Gripping his sword, Bart wasted no time on words, pressing his advantage of the moment to harry the Goblin in a brutal close-quarters flurry that had both of them exchanging blows at a range he could smell the rusty odor of the Goblins' breath across their clashing blades. One of those mortal moments flashed as an object lesson before his eyes as they separated, Daedolon's greater strength shoving Bart back and setting his blade high with the recoil — the Goblin's blade dropping to the side as he similarly tucked his legs to spring forwards. Bart's brain screamed at him a memory of the ensuing cut across his belly and lethal thrust follow-up that had ended him. Lessons learned in blood were hard to forget.

Bart acted first. He had no advantages of note over the Goblin in either speed or power, but he had tenacity. Instead of attempting to parry it, he dove backward — the expected slice whistling through the air mere inches from where he'd been, Bart rolling back to his feet, weapon grasped halfway up the blade in a half-sword grip to intercept the follow-through thrust from the ancient soldier's larger blade, binding their blades together and twisting hard, slamming the pommel of his weapon full-force into Daedolon's face and wrenching his wrist to its extremes — forcing even the stronger Goblin to abandon the bind or lose his weapon, breaking the two apart — where Bart punished the withdrawal with a sudden lash of his rear leg — driving his booted heel into the Goblin's unarmored gut, blasting air from his lungs and sending the eternal warrior staggering back with a grin, too far for Bart to capitalize on the opening — but clearly resetting the exchange with Bart as the victor.

“So you can learn." he hissed, spitting his rich, red blood from between clenched iron teeth. The Goblin seemed joyous as he bled freely from many cuts. Laughing and swinging his sword gaily before resuming his stance. “Like stubborn iron, even men can be molded with sufficient pressures," he added, tipping his blade upwards in a salute before resuming a high guard stance.

“Even with your woman watching."

Behind him, as she always did — sat Cithara, apart from the grounds yet in clear attendance, her face stony, coolly attentive. She offered him no support, no blessing — he struggled against the Goblin raw, unfettered as was their agreement. Bart spat his own mix of blood and dust from his mouth, he wore a small ledger of his own cuts, but so far for the first time in the countless days he'd toiled — he was ahead in the lists.

“I love the pressure," Bart responded laconically, chest heaving with exertion. While Bart was by no means an exceptionally quick man, big by human standards he was nonetheless fairly swift for his size — and yet he found himself struggling to keep pace with the iron-toothed Goblin. Daedolon chuckled at that, tapping the flat of his blade to his brow, the signal that their little breather was over.

The two warriors paced around each other. Slow and measured now, to his credit — Daedolon's words were edged but his blade answered Bart's with naught but respect. The Goblin seemed unable to put in effort in anything but an earnest manner, so fully was he committed to his ideals of workmanship they extended even here. There was no ribald mockery of form, no smug flourishes or risky maneuvers on account of his opponent's inexperience. He approached Bart and his borrowed First Blade the way he would an opponent of deadly skill. Daedolon crafted his swordplay the same way he did the swords it required, it was simple, elegant, and unambiguously direct.

Bart found in return, that he could respect that.

In a strange way, the Paladin discovered he savored these matches. He never lost his fear of death, quite the contrary — he found repeatedly being yanked back from the liminal edge of life had only strengthened his desire to not repeat the experience. He threw himself willfully into battle for he knew the destination of his soul — not because he was particularly eager to experience the journey. It was the pressure of a rival, the backbeat of fear in every thump of his heart was unexpectedly thrilling, he had never felt this before in other training — and as he circled Daedolon, shifting his own blade to a hanging guard, he found himself understanding the eternal soldier better than he did in their gradually deeper conversations. He set his feet. This was as much a discussion as it was a duel, and it was time for him to give his closing remarks.

The two warriors launched at each other, blades at the ready; the clash of steel their conversation, and in it, the rattle and grind of teeth and bones were subject, article, and prose. Blood pattered the ground as punctuation, the rejoinder found in the clang of iron.

“That's the way!" crowed Cithara — another time, another place in the swirl of days unmarked, her enthusiastic glee an exuberant echo of Daedolon's grinning combat mania as time spun by unaltered, unmitigated by all but the Unicorn's will. Before her Bart sat, sweat beading on his brow, a single candle's flame perched daintily on his palm. His stubble had become a proper beard, and his hair hung down to his cheekbones in a messy, disheveled mop of curls he could never quite tame with brush nor comb.

“That... was much easier than when I first did it." Bart panted, their efforts focused on his control and creation of useful energies. Fire was simple, and yet complex in ways he couldn't have fathomed in however many weeks or days it'd been since. Cithara tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “You've called flame before?" she asked curiously, the big man nodded, gently rolling the seemingly cool tongue of flame around his palm like it was a mere marble to be toyed with.

“In the First Paladin's tomb. It was dark, I just... instinctively reached for flame to light the torches. It was extremely difficult, I felt tired, drained... this was much easier." Cithara's brow furrowed and her lips pursed.

“Tell me how you did it, calling flame is possibly the simplest trick one can do with free energy." she said, Bart's eye glossing a bit at the concepts of 'free energy' still, she'd spoken at length of how there was... a power, inhabiting all things around him, and he could borrow bits and pieces of it with his orbit via the mantle to manifest it as a whole. It was a great deal beyond him conceptually, and he'd struggled with it for days before manifesting so much as a puff of smoke.

“I... well here, let me just do it again," he said, releasing the mantle, the flame on his palm winking out. Cithara sat there, her forelegs crossed as she watched him intently, her gold-on-gold eyes radiant as she watched with a gaze that saw more than simple flesh and bone.

Bart took a breath and wiped his brow before he reached back toward the mantle. The gold flared in his one eye again, leaving trailing tracers of aurum light as he extended his hand. He thought back to how he'd done it, simply... thinking of the shape of a candleflame. He sucked in a breath and clenched his fist with a shimmer of golden radiance, and... pushed. He had no other way to describe it, he pushed the idea into his hand forcibly. Opening it in a trembling claw of effort, his fingers shaking as he willed the idea to fruition, Cithara's eyes went wide.

And lo, a tiny but fierce flame leapt into being on his scarred and calloused palm. Gaily burning bright and proud, sweat poured down Bart's face as he held it up, grinning triumphantly.

“Bart," Cithara said in a quiet, alarmed voice — eyes wide. “Bart. Let it go. Put it out." there was an urgency in her voice, her face a look of near-panic. Quickly he let go of the effort to hold the flame, and it winked out without fanfare. Fatigue flooded through the young Paladin again, and he swayed in place slightly before righting himself, wiping sweat with a trembling hand.

“W-what is it? See? That's how I did it before." he said, and Cithara's worried eyes twinkled a bit, and she sighed ruefully shaking her head.

“Darling, you were powering that flame with your own energy. You were burning your own substance, your mind and soul for tallow," she said gently, Bart blinking at her in shock.

“That's... whew, ahem." he cleared his throat, finding his breath after a moment. “That is how Rashid explained how the Akali use their powers." Cithara gently shook her head.

“Not precisely. My sister's mantle is one that their bodies are designed to handle, I'm sure he also told you of the potions, the bodily training, the infusions?" She said, and Bart nodded. “Rashid may be your friend but in some ways, he's a bit less and more than human thanks to those treatments," she said, frowning a bit. “I never approved totally of how she... altered, her boys. But I am a poor judge, seeing as just being near my beloved ones alters them."

Bart frowned at that, the idea that Rashid was... altered in some way sat poorly with him, though he supposed he was as well. Functional immortality was hardly a small thing.

“Yet and still." the Unicorn began again, her eyes regaining a bit of their mischief. “Given the task of creating a flame and your own devices, you chose to bull forward, full force, and demand the flame be born by will and main strength alone," she said, giving a light chuckle.

“I could not think of a more empirically male way to accomplish that feat if I tried," she said archly, her lips twisted in a smug smile. Bart screwed up his face into a mask of false irritation, and reached forward, snatching her into an embrace. Her laughter assailed the walls as he buried her in furious kisses.

“I'll show you empirically male..."

“Oh, Bart... come now, rise my Champion." Cithara's voice cooed with soft concern and a backbeat of need across the gulf of liminal darkness. Need that woke in him a now-familiar desire, a comfortable ease as he snapped his eyes open with a gasp. Sitting up with a clatter.

Hair flowed down nearly to his jaw, his beard squared off and full as he blinked away blood and tears. Time had continued on, seeming to go only faster, never slowing down. Daedolon crouched nearby, his hollow-eyed face stern but approving.

“Dead again?" Bart gasped, and the goblin's face split into a smile, and he shook his head.

“No. Not this time, just unconscious. You turned the blow well." he said, extending his long, six-fingered hand to the fallen Paladin. Stunned, Bart took it slowly, the eternal warrior pulling him to his feet.

“We are done here," he said. Finality in his voice, and an oddly... satisfied smile on his face. Bart blinked at him in concern, and Cithara tilted her head at him. The goblin looked between the two of them.

“I could spend another hundred years, and I could teach him nothing more but refinements. True improvement now will only come from experience." Daedolon said, facing the Lady in White, before turning his attention back to Bart. “You weren't born to be a swordsman, let me tell you a secret, however," he said, leaning in close to Bart in a conspiratorial way.

“None of you are. Swordsmen are forged, just like swords. I've put you to temper, and you've bent instead of broken." he said, nodding firmly, his great white mustaches bobbing with his vulture-like neck.

“That is more than I can say of most."

Bart looked down, his sword was in his hand; the pitted, black surface of the First Blade gleamed with its golden sheen. Its purpose intact and divinely charged. He blinked a bit... when had he started thinking of it as his sword? Time had lost much of its meaning in the seemingly eternal cycle of striving and struggle, study and passion — all the time, the back of his mind filled with the weighty concern of the world beyond. He hefted the weapon, and it turned easily in his hands now. Gripping it as comfortably as he had his shattered axe if not more. He gave it a light flourish, catching it blade down, pommel forward, and handing it back to the Goblin. Daedolon's eyebrow raised into his bald pate.

“I make no claim on the blade. I decree you worthy of my iron," he said solemnly, tilting his head. “... For now. I will be keeping an eye on you, Bart of Fairharbour. You have proven to be... a very interesting human." he said... and yet he took the weapon gingerly, raising it above him to look at the blade, the old warrior looked almost sad for a moment, his stony expression full of emotions esoteric, alien and unknowable as he leaned his brow against its flat, and then inverted it snappily. His gaze snapped to Cithara, who recoiled slightly from the iron in the look.

“Leave us." he barked, the Unicorn visibly rankled at that, puffing up her chest as if to spit back a rejoinder before Daedolon added with an almost pained tone. “... Please. I mean him no harm." his gaze leveled at Bart again, the sunken, white pits of his eyes somber.

“My words are for the Paladin alone. Take your little birds with you too," he said, raising his voice pointedly at the last, and looking up at the trees. Angry hisses came from them; Holda and Perchta dropped weightlessly to the forest floor, flanking the training ground.

“Yes, yes. I've known both of you little ravens have been there this whole time." Daedolon said in a tired voice, looking at them both with a dull expression. “Satisfied?"

“Not until you are gone from our lands," Perchta said sourly, her and her sister's body language intensely hostile, both still clad not as handmaidens — but huntresses of the Wild Hunt. Bart realized they were arrayed for war, and viewed this singular ancient soldier as worthy of such girding.

“Soon enough, soon enough, little birds." he chided them with a chuckle, his tone turning to iron again. “Now, leave."

“Come, dear ones." Cithara's voice said, raising herself to all fours, gracefully flowing over the training ground to the pair of men.

“I thank you, Master Daedolon." She said, her voice... terse but genuine. “Consider your debt paid in full," she said, and he nodded at her. A beat passed between them, and she ventured forward once more.

“... in the future, would you accept my call again?" she asked, and the Goblin's face raised in an expression of curiosity.

“Would you ask me to train another pup for your pleasure?" he asked laconically, she actually smiled in response, an expression full of warmth and honesty.

“No, Master Goblin... but simply to offer you a place to rest. It is a long time yet until the Bargain is fulfilled. A long time to sleep rough in the world of mortals." she said, it had been clear from the start Cithara held no great love for the Goblin Warrior... but her infinite mercy wasn't a mere title it seemed, made of love, from love and designed by God and Creation itself to be a vessel for love as a concept, she simply was that: Loving. To a fault.

To his credit, the Goblin was taken off guard. As were the two Sidhe huntresses, Cithara beamed, tilting her head inquiringly.

“That... is a curious offer, Pale Lady," Daedolon answered, stroking his long mustaches thoughtfully. “I will take it into consideration." he agreed after a pregnant pause. “It is indeed, a long time. Even for ageless beings like us."

“It is." she agreed, her eyes somber as she looked him over again.

“We will speak of it again later. For now, I have words for Bart and Bart alone." he rumbled. “Shoo."

The Unicorn rocked back a bit, her smile growing a touch strained and yet, she nodded. “Come, dear ones. We will leave the men to their 'shop talk'." she said, sticking her tongue out at Bart playfully as she passed — the big man taking the time to catch her and leave a soft peck on her cheek that drew a girlish giggle from her as she left. Daedolon watched the exchange with a dull expression. Bart turned to him, crossing his arms boldly across his chest.

“Do you have something to say about it?" he asked, his voice clipped — clearly indicating the Goblin's view of his unconventional relationship. Daedolon blew out a snort through his immense nose.

“I care not who or what you bed, boy. It is a vast universe; I've seen things far more unusual than a man and a magical beast," he said dismissively, waving Bart to follow him, the First Blade still carried... almost reverently in his hands.

Bart looked around at the much-expanded camp. He'd come to spend so much of his time here, he'd learned every tree, stone, and divot in the earth by heart... part of him felt a crushing sense of grief at the idea this was his final lesson. In the last... weeks? Months? He had no reckoning of time, only events — he'd fought the Goblin to a standstill, the sword no longer an alien thing in his hands. He knew still so little about the taciturn Soldier, Daedolon chose to share little, and when he did was all too brief — and often deeply cryptic.

The clearing was so much more than the first day he'd come to speak to the eternal soldier. He wasn't sure where in that bundle of iron and swords the old warrior had kept it all, but it was... homey. A tent perched in one corner made out of the same red fabric as the throw he always had with him, tall and held up by stakes and branches he'd cut himself. It looked like a strange mix between a command tent and some kind of... yurt, he supposed. Conical and archaic, out of place. Like the Goblin himself.

The sandy area they fought in was much expanded now too. Lined with fallen logs dragged to form a box, the Goblin had somehow tamped the earth itself into a level pad of sand and loam that had drunk deeply of both fighters' blood, staining it a rusty red in irregular blotches. More than the muddy loam bank they'd sparred on what felt like months, years before. Bart paused at its edge, reaching down and grabbing a handful of the sand, letting it run through his fingers a moment, staring.

“Lo, boy. Don't dally." his voice rumbled. Bart jerked his head up, nodding respectfully... but he waited a moment longer, and took out a pouch from his belt. He poured that reddened sand into it, tying it solemnly and placing it back at his hip. He wasn't sure why but... it felt right, to bring some part of this place with him before the Sidhewood reclaimed it.

The rest of the camp was similarly expanded, the little campfire had been built up into a stone oven packed with mud-mortared rocks as bricks, and by it stood a tiny anvil no larger than a pudgy loaf of bread — another one of those things he had no idea where Daedolon had sourced or kept it. He had hinted many times that 'Goblin Sorcery' was something more subtle and nuanced than the 'Brute-Work of your Pale God' he had no reason to disbelieve it now. The tiny anvil and its matched oven-turned-forge had seen work recently he noted; tongs and a deeply-worn hammer, scrawled with alien runes lay on its soot-stained surface. Bart let his eyes play across it curiously as he followed the Goblin to their usual spots, two fallen logs on either side of the cozy fire, which crackled merrily along in its stone cocoon. It felt welcoming now, foreboding once but... Bart found his blurry memories of pain and struggle were oddly precious, and he only wished he could more clearly recall them in the hazy dream of Cithara's sorcery.

“What is this about?" Bart asked, sitting heavily. He looked down at himself, he was, as usual, covered in nicks and cuts, all healed by Cithara after his brief nap at Daedolon's hands — yet her magic did not prevent scars. He was a patchwork now, barely any limb or stretch of skin was free from at least one mark now, either from his previous adventure or the Goblin's stern instruction.

“Closure." The goblin said, bringing out a small bundle of cloth and setting it by his feet, a clink of metal sounding. Bart's curiosity was piqued, and he could not help but lean forward, his fatigue forgotten for the moment.

“For who?"

“Us." He said simply, taking a now familiar pipe from a small smokebox near his seat. He quietly began to pack the bowl with a strange, peaty-smelling herb. “Your first time to my camp, you asked much of me — do you recall my answer?"

“' Not yet.'" Bart chimed in readily, and the goblin nodded.

“Yet has arrived," he stated bluntly, taking a pull on the pipe to check its flow. Nodding to himself, he drew a fingernail along its edge and snapped them together hard. His iron nails sparked like flint and steel, once, twice, a third time, and the bowl caught, the ancient soldier puffing at it diligently to start the cherry aglow inside.

“What changed?" Bart asked, eyes suddenly wide with surprise, even the empty socket behind his patch.

“Respect," Daedolon said directly. “You've earned it, or at least enough of it." he continued, taking a long puff of the pipe, holding it serenely, and exhaling it through his stupendous nose in a billowing white cloud. Continuing with the theme of surprises, he took the long-stemmed pipe in hand... and passed it over to Bart across the divide.

Absolutely gob-smacked, Bart took it. Looking down he marveled at it, carved of a wood he couldn't identify, set with metal he knew not the name of, it was a simple, elegant churchwarden-style pipe with a lengthy stem and wide bowl, carved sleek and set with the same runes as the hammer he'd seen before. The Goblin gestured to it.

“Small puffs, in through the mouth, out through the nose," he said. Bart nodded and took what felt like a delicate puff. Immediately he blinked as a powerful rush of sensation hit him, the taste of carbonized leaf and an aftertaste of dankness and... fruit? He breathed out with a light cough, the white smoke stinging his nostrils as a sudden, euphoric edge rushed over him in a cool, relaxing wave that started at his head and settled warmly into his belly. Bart blinked a few times, and the goblin grinned at him with a mouth full of rusty teeth.

“Its... got some punch." Bart wheezed, handing it back with a bit of a giggle. The goblin chuckled as well, taking his own drag.

“You've got tenacity, boy. Absolute grit." Daedolon said, apropos of nothing. “I have pressured you as I would one of my own people, spared you no pain or punishment — nor rewards for jobs well done. You have met my expectations consistently... with some..." he paused, tapping his thumb against his long, pointed nose. “... adjustment." he said, looking down at Bart.

“Your kind has grown softer and weaker since the Age of Fire and Stone... but far, far more clever."

“I am going to choose to take that as a compliment," Bart said wryly, settling back as he felt the pipeweed loosening up tight, sore muscles and pulling pleasantly at his eyelids, Daedolon nodded, blowing a ring of smoke from his lips.

“Consider it a reassessment of some old prejudices." The old soldier ventured, tilting his head back. “I've always liked you, I've said as much many times before." he continued, Bart nodding — the rejoinder was a common one, Daedolon was a stern man — but Bart never got the sense of... evil, about him despite his sinister appearance and bitter nature. He seemed... hurt.

“Perhaps it's something we can part on," Bart added, Daedolon handing the pipe back to him, the Paladin raising an eyebrow at it and taking another, much smaller pull. He even managed to not cough this time. “Reassessing old prejudices."

“Aye." Daedolon grinned a bit. “A bit storybook for my tastes, but not wrong."

“The stories have to start somewhere." Bart countered, and Daedolon once again raised his hands to his chest in that fencer's touch. Grinning with those rusty teeth.

“You are a smug little monkey, but I respect it. It'll be a nice change to be in a story as something other than the villain for a change," he said with a twist of his lips by way of a wry smile. There was another puff, and the two sat in silence together a long moment, the pipesmoke settling nerves and quieting the mind — the forest instead spoke. The trees swayed, birds and animals called and chirped, and Daedolon let out a sigh, reaching out to touch a nearby trunk.

“They did such grand work," he murmured, Bart's head tilting. The Goblin turned to him with those sunken eyes. “The Tor Dragons. The Worldbuilders. Surely your people still honor them."

Bart paused, stroking his bearded chin for a long moment and then nodding; “... Yes, the Dragons. Mythical, legendary even. No one has seen one in longer than we have written words... but they are enshrined in the deepest part of our lore, God's Masons." he said, and Daedolon's face creased in dismay.

“They were not his to take, and yet take them he did." he groused in a bitter tone. Tapping the bowl of the pipe, he sighed, his face seemed... vulnerable as he looked up towards the sky through the all-encompassing canopy, no more than a few scattered splotches of shimmering sunlight through all the dense leaves.

“What do you mean? All things goodly on this earth are of God's kith and kin. I am, Cithara is, as are the Ancient Dragons." he said stodgily, reciting his own dogma, confident in his place in the world.

Daedolon simply looked at him, sadness in his expression. He took another long pull off his pipe and sighed. “Boy, your ignorance is not your fault. None yet live who remember... none, but I... and your woman," he said, closing those sunken white eyes. “After we part... ask her of what I tell you. She will not lie, it is not in her nature."

“Is it not in yours?" he asked, and Daedolon laughed.

“I am not sidhe, not as you know it. Even before our great work, Iron bothered us not and falsehoods stayed not our tongues yet — no, lying is not in my nature," he said, looking back up at the sky. “What good is it to waste time on falsehoods and misleading words, there is always work to be done, is there not?" he asked, challenging Bart with the words.

“... Yes. Yes, there is always work to be done, isn't there." Bart said. It was a statement with some resignation in its tone, the Paladin's bearded face growing solemn as he realized that with this ending, so soon would his time in the Glade. In the world beyond, he yet had much work. Daedolon smiled at that.

“It is good to see such understanding in the eye of so young a race." The goblin sat forwards some, taking his pipe in his teeth, speaking around it as he extended his six-fingered hand, his nails gleaming sharp, he stabbed a finger into the dirt... and Bart felt a surge of energy, the hair on his arms standing on end as if a thunder-stroke were gathering near, ready to strike him down.

“The Dragons were not always your God's Creatures, they are older, greater than He," he said, and dragged his hands out from the soil, and with it came a shuddering, vibrating liquefaction of the surrounding earth, and from it rose a roiling, animated image of... a great dragon. Formed of earth and soil, small glittering gems made its eyes, and bits of obsidian its teeth.

“Marvelous." Bart breathed, still not yet immune to the breathtaking sights of true magic, The goblin's grin widened and he twisted a finger into the soil again, the tiny Tor Dragon animated once more, seemingly coasting through the air... it was an alien shape. Its face was vaguely reptilian but... primeval, unknowable angles and points, it had six eyes — three to either side of its heavily-plated skull — and its limbs were multifarious, six as well in total; two hinged to a single forward shoulder and one powerful set of hindquarters affixed to a tail that seemed to span on and on and on forever, coiling back into the earth as its umbilical to the goblin's magic. Despite the myths, it had no wings, its back a sleek series of heavy, plated planes and angles that rose like a geometric mountain range across its spine, leading to a powerful neck and heavy, barrel-like chest shrinking to a waspish waste. It floated effortlessly, twisting through the air like an otter might fresh water, graceful and true…

“It looks nothing like the fairy tales suggest." Bart breathed, leaning forward now, enthralled in part due to the pipeweed's influence... but most of all for the sheer wonder of discovery.

“The truth of their majesty is beyond many mortal's reckoning, the scale alone boggles your kith and kin," Daedolon said, twisting his digits within the soil, clenching and pulling as if manipulating a stubborn doorknob, and the animated statue whirled up into the air, and a new mass bulged up from the ground, a dull hemisphere of earth some two-thirds larger than the dancing beast. A dome that began to populate... with continents, mountains. Oceans. Northsea. “God's Teeth." Bart breathed, the creature dove towards the earthen facsimile of Mistport Bay, and with a splash made of pebbles and bits of loam, dove into the ocean, lazing in the bay's ring of earthen peninsula as he might a beach-side tide pool.

“To call them my Gods would be to cheapen the connection. I am not their child. I was not borne nor created by their intent — I am part of them." he said, pounding his fist fiercely to his chest. “I remember walking their surface in the Astral Tapestry, the void between worlds where stars hang and suns burn. It is as fresh in my mind as your breakfast is in yours," he said, fervor in his voice. “I lived within them, and their ever-beating heart was my eternal companion."

“But... how?" Bart asked, struggling still with the impossible scale of the great beast.

“I was born from the flesh of my father as the earth births gemstones. I remember the first time I breathed his breath, felt his heartbeat alongside mine own. I was formed wholly as you see me now... sans a great deal of wear and tear." he explained, pride thrumming in his voice. “I strode along his scales, through the caverns of his body, the veins of his great form. I cared for him and he cared for me in return, passing through us his great knowledge of the Great Work of the cosmos," he said, curling his fingers into fists before him, the sound of his knuckles crackling as he tightened them with ferocity.

“I witnessed the birth of stars, the forging of whole worlds, I've seen civilizations older than yours grow from caves to shining cities of impossible dimensions, then wither and turn to dust, their empires spinning into the void like funerary ashes," he said, his piercing white eyes wild and full of a depth that forced Bart to look away, sweat beading on his forehead. The animated dragon below danced and frolicked in the air, a casual joy in its motion — the joy of Daedolon's memories given shape and form.

“Such words are a Blasphemy..." Bart said, but his voice had no conviction, what could he offer in the face of such fervor, such dedication? Daedolon laughed, it was an ugly sound.

“I care not for what you consider blasphemy, boy. It is the truth of things, you will accept it or you will not. It remains the truth in either case." he said, reaching a hand out to touch the dancing image of the cosmic dragon, it in turn reaching out a tiny, dirt and pebble claw to touch him back.

“Your Pale God did not create the cosmos, he is part of them, as are the Great Dragons. As am I and my kin. We are all the raw stuff of creation, given form and purpose." He said, letting the little dragon image go, back to frolic on its half-dome replica of Northsea. His gaze was sad, bitterness turning his mouth down around the stem of his pipe.

“He took them, with honeyed words and promises."

“Tell me," Bart said, demand in his voice. Leaning forward over the image, the little Tor Dragon cavorted towards him, looking up at him with curious eyes made of bits of quartz. “Tell me how, if I am to live eternal — I would know it. All of it." Daedolon's face snapped up to him in surprise, but also... gratitude. He nodded.

“Your Pale God came to us, came to The Great Ones, and asked for them to enter his service. He asked it of all the First Ones — your woman and her kith and kin amongst them, and yes... the Sidhe, and us. We are the First. Old when the cosmos was young. He came to this stretch of dimension and he asked us to serve and in that service, create a good and gentle place for his children, for us to dwell upon."

Bart nodded, reaching out a hand to touch the tiny dragon, which shied from his hand and whirled around to peer at him with judgment in its posture. “I know this... he shaped the earth and gave it to Man as its stewards," he said, and the Goblin snorted.

“Not even by half. The Dragons shaped the earth, indeed within it they yet slumber except where we can quietly call to their sleeping dreams, the smallest parts of their vast minds to answer us in faintest echo, so we know they yet live..." he said, gesturing pointedly to the tiny dirt-construct Dragon. Bart's eye widened as it regarded him... it was no mere illusion, it was the avatar of Daedolon's patriarch. Buried deep and slumbering somewhere far, far away…

“Then tell me how it began, I refuse to believe He lied to us." Bart countered, and Daedolon waved his hands dismissively.

“Your God spake to ye no lies, no untruths. He related to your primal ancestors what you could then understand. Omission is not a lie, but neither is it whole truth." Daedolon said, his tone still edged with bitterness, he plunged his fingers in again, and the dirt image shifted. The dragon's tiny limbs extended to a rough, mishmash of shapes. Crags of earth and rock formed to resemble... some kind of great, floating debris field. The little dragon darted between them, tapping and touching them... herding them together.

“Your God offered the Dragons a bargain, build for him a good and gentle place, and within it they could sleep for its lifetime. Such was an unheard-of gift for the Tor Dragons — rest? Who had ever been given time to rest!" he exclaimed, the little dragon pressing the motes of earth together into what Bart rapidly realized was... a world. It was remembering forging a planet through Daedolon's distant contact. “For us, the eons it takes for a planet to dim and crumble are but passing moments, to the Dragons... a single good night's sleep. Something long-craved yet misunderstood. Like being hungry without knowing what it means. They accepted... yet it came with a condition." he said grimly.

“What condition?" Bart asked, nay — demanded. Fire glinted in his eye, Daedolon's own gaze fierce as well.

“We were to give up our forms. Our selves. Your God demanded all forsake the humanoid form, for it was sacred and only for you, His children." he all but spat. “The Dragons agreed for they held no human-like features and entreated us to follow. The other First Ones similarly, were content to take their primal aspect — your beloved Pale Lady reveling in her form as did her sisters across all realities," he said, watching the tiny dragon tuck itself into the world's closing plates, settling into a comfortable, quiet rest as the orb of dirt and loam closed around it like a cocoon, contentment etching its every surface.

“We refused."

Bart's mind raced at that, he thought of the Sidhe, of Daedolon's own people. They were outsiders, apart from God — The Other. His lone eye slowly widened as the truth of things settled over him. Daedolon's smile widened, but it wasn't a pleased smile. It was bitter, bitter as gall.

“The Sidhe similarly refused. They had their own Realm, and had no need for your God's Heaven." He continued, rolling his pipe around his lips, his proboscis-like nose exhaling a jet of smoke down to the small spinning orb of soil, the haze settling over it like clouds. He twisted his fingers again, and the sphere settled back into the earth, expanding to another dome that rapidly populated with tiny, man-shaped figures. Long of limb with squat torsos and long necks: Daedolon's people.

“We had nothing. Death is not a part of our cycle. The dead return to the Dragon's Heart, and are reborn anew in fresh forms, to continue the great work eternal." he said, the figures huddled together, the cloud of pipesmoke swirling above them like stormclouds, suddenly raining bits and pieces of ash down upon them, as they traveled on foot... and then slowly thinning. First a few, then many... and after a long moment, of all the tiny mud and sand people, only one remained: shoulders hunched and bowed against the ashen downpour.

“We died. Were unmade. No Great Ones to return to, no Heaven to take us in. Our essence bled out into the cosmos like so much chaff in the wind." he said, and there was a rawness in his voice, a pain that had never dulled in all of the eons... and to Bart's shock and horror... a single tear rolled down the ancient soldier's cheek, soon followed by another. Pain and loss evergreen.

“We have perfect memories. Perfect recall. We were made to never forget, to never fade. Never let the pain of loss fade from our hearts. It undid us all in the end, scattered us to the winds where we fell, one." he said, taking his hand from the soil as the walking figure fell to his knees, and then crumpled to a fetal position, the image turning back to loose soil and loam in a grim dissolve.

“By one."

“Why turn it down?" Bart asked, and there was anguish in his voice. His heart cracked asunder as the enormity of the loss, of the catastrophe of the Goblins, weighed upon him. Tears flowed from his one good eye and he didn't bother to wipe them, “God's Blood man, we could have been brothers, we could have saved you..."

“YOU COULD SAVE NOTHING, APE!" Daedolon roared, dashing his hands across the dirt, scattering the last vestiges of the collapsed figure, his weeping eyes screwed up into two white-hot points of mournful rage, shaking with the feeling of fury still hot as the moment it was stoked eons past. Bart's hand clenched and reflexively, he drew on the mantle, golden light flashed and both broken men raised their fists — one in anger, one in defense... and then, the Goblin stopped. His hands slowly stopped shaking. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“You could have saved nothing. We were to be unmade one way or the other, either robbed of our Great One's gifts of form and function or robbed of our existence by the winnowing winds of time. To us, both are a Final Death — but one allowed us to choose our own fate." he said and opened his eyes, defiance in his mustached face, teeth clenching as he struck his six-fingered fist to his chest.

“We are inviolate. We were born of the cosmos and will kneel to nothing less. We will not change for petty Gods or empty-hearted claims of kinship. We will walk into oblivion heads held high, that we stand alone."

Bart released his own grasp on the mantle, and the crushing grief he felt was palpable, the young Paladin's scarred, bearded face a picture of misery as he met the Goblin's gaze again.

“You're wrong, Daedolon," he said, his voice small as he reached out a hand... extended palm up. The Goblin recoiled slightly, eyes narrow, shrewd as Bart openly wept now, shoulders shaking in silent, choked-back sobs.

“We would have been brothers," he whispered hoarsely. The Goblin looked at the hand as if it were an alien organism, venomous and unfamiliar. He looked into Bart's eye directly, and for once Bart didn't hesitate, didn't avert his gaze.

They looked upon each other for a long moment, both men naked to one another emotionally. Bart's irrepressible empathy lay his heart open like a wound, Daedolon's endless grief like a yawning chasm one could never escape... and between them in that moment, passed something. Something great and quiet. Something grand in its simplicity.

Understanding.

The goblin slowly extended his six-fingered hand, its gray-blue skin clashing against the ruddy tan of Bart's flesh as he cautiously took it, the big Paladin's face cracking into an almost manic smile as tears flowed anew, squeezing emphatically.

“... Perhaps we would have been." The Goblin whispered in a voice ragged with pain Bart was incapable of grasping, even just the smallest aspect of it was enough to tear him apart, to carry such a burden! Never fading, never softening. Loss as sharp as the moment it happened, forever. “In another life."

“In this one," Bart said feverishly, pulling at the clasped hands, shifting his grip to grasp the Eternal Soldier's wrist in a warrior's clasp. “I swear to you, here and now — I will take this sword, take your Iron — and I will honor it, never will it shed a drop of innocent blood, never will I turn it against brother or friend. Never," he swore, his voice ragged and zealous, one blue eye afire with cerulean conviction.

“... You truly mean that," Daedolon said after a fashion, his clipped, proper voice possessing a touch of a quaver... and he tightened his grip on the Paladin's wrist, and merely nodded.

“Immortal creatures keep saying that about me, I am beginning to feel insulted," he said, getting a sudden bark of laughter from the Goblin, shaking his head as a much-needed chuckle passed between both of them.

“Before you swear anything, you must needs hear the history of this blade, of the Truth in Iron," Daedolon said, turning his gaze to where the First Blade sat, unassuming and utilitarian in its scabbard, leaning on the log between them. “It is why I called for this meeting. I must know that you carry this history, that someone in the Pale God's church knows the full measure." he breathed.

“It cannot be lost with me. This I will not allow." Bart nodded, taking his hand and finally wiping his eyes, beard wet with tears, the Goblin taking a moment to do the same, both wounded men composing themselves without shame as the ancient warrior took time to stare at the sword, gathering his thoughts.

“After the Schism, We dwelled apart from all, vagabonds and wanderers. We kept to the edges of the world: the wild, lost places none claimed and we sang our history to the now-distant stars," he said, no visual aids this time as he settled heavily back against the tree he propped against. “That is when the Mother came."

Bart's gaze flickered with recognition; “This is the War of Fire and Stone, Cithara spoke of it." he said, and Daedolon nodded, folding his hands over his chest as he looked at his now-extinguished pipe.

“The Mother came to the world like a cancer." He said sourly, “Your God offered her armistice, brotherhood..." he paused, looking at Bart with a slow, rueful smile. “I suppose such things do not fall far from the trees, divine or not." Bart shrugged a bit, his own lopsided smile his only answer. Daedolon continued.

“She refused him, of course. A Mother of Monsters, her children were ravenous things she had born of her own Divine Realm, a place of atavistic hungers and primeval darkness, in a strange way the true opposite of your Pale God, not evil as you would understand it, but... uncaring, unfeeling and full of the mindless need to consume of a yawning void," he said, clear distaste in his voice and choice of words. He started to tap the ash out of his pipe, relighting it with another sparking snap of his fingers.

“She set out to tear up the dewy shoots of humanity, root and stem. You were barely more than animals at the time." he said, puffing at the pipe; “Tanned hide clothing and tools made of flint and stone, your brother-race still walked on their knuckles."

Bart stopped cold there, eye going wide. “... Brother-race?"

“You did not know?" The Goblin asked, tilting his head forward. “Man is not an only child, the Pale God had twins," he said, pointing his hands to the sky. “The Twin-maiden moons were hung first in honor of each of you, the Dragons were always sentimental." Bart blinked and shook his head, wholly unprepared for yet another revelation — yet he would have it.

“Tell me, God's Blood man, you cannot just... say such things without explanation!" Bart demanded and was answered with a chuckle from the old Goblin, leaning forward, resting his overlong arms on equally elongated knees, like a gangling, iron-boned marionette.

“They had no name, but we called them Dawn Men. They were much like you, but heavier here." he tapped his brow and nose. “Wider shoulders, powerful muscles. They were... gentle though, oddly quiet. The Pale God made them as the protective counterpart to Man's creative fire. Hammer and Anvil, Cog and Wheel, you were meant to live together. One people in two parts. They were more nocturnal, they enjoyed the twilight hours where you basked in the sun, guarding each other as you slept." he said... and paused.

“I care little for your god, but I found the symmetry pleasing." Bart spluttered a bit, running his fingers through his hair, eye wild as he grappled with the idea; “What happened to them?! Where are our lost brethren?" he demanded, fervor giving his voice a strident edge.

The goblin took a long drag, sadness in his eyes.

“They died."

Bart's eye widened again... and sorrow welled back up, still sharp and fresh from before; now mixed with an alien feeling of loss. He crumpled his fingers into his chest, clawing at his heart, at the sudden, unexpected hollowness there. To learn that he and his... were not meant to be alone, that they were the orphan children of a grieving father. He felt a sense of loss he had no words for; that they had struggled so long, against so many things... and that had not meant to do it all by themselves. Fresh tears sprang to his eye, but he blinked them away, clenching his teeth.

“How?" he rasped, Daedolon's face was sympathetic, the two sharing their hurt.

“They died for you." He said, his head hanging; “It is in a way, our fault... My fault." he said, taking a long breath. Bart did not demand an explanation, he waited with what little scraps of patience he could find.

“The Mother's creatures were to be triumphant. They edged you and your brother race out in ferocity and weapons. Fangs, claws, teeth, and savagery... I believe you've met some of them recently." he said, tapping the pipe, Bart nodded.

“The Ghuls, Ogres, and their kind."

“Indeed." Daedolon confirmed, “Worse still, as they overtook your holdings, they brought their Mother-Goddess' influence onto the lands with them. It tainted the soil, sucked it dry of the life energy the Great Dragons had given it in their long rest. She was hungry and fecund, and demanded more and more... were she to conquer you, she would drain the world into a cold place of eternal night and horror — and with it would go our Great Dragons, our only chance to return to the Astral Tapestry beyond to the Great Work that must be done." he said.

“That... that would have been catastrophic," Bart said, eye flickering as he frantically put the pieces together. “An end to new worlds, an end to... the future."

“Our futures, at least. The universe is a wide place. This corner of reality would end, sterile and empty." he said, nodding — eyes suddenly hard. “It could not be borne. We refused to allow it. It was then we sought out your people, I and eight other masters of our crafts still living. We Nine went to your people in peace. It was then we took the True Iron into our bodies." he said, holding up his nails, baring his iron teeth; “We made it part of us, so we could impart its deepest secrets to you as our own. We taught you to forge iron and bend wood, it was primitive work still, limited by your own lower intellect at the time — but it was the birth of the Prima Materia, True Matter, or as you know it…"

“Absolute Materials." Bart finished for him, understanding dawning on him. Daedolon nodded curtly.

“The nature of the world is as a living thing, the Tor Dragons slept beneath it, and their goodly hearts leeched their virtues into the very crust of the planet — shaped and encouraged by your Pale God's intent. They linked the Earthly and Divine realms with purpose," he said, looking to the sword between them. “It is why Absolute Iron and the First Blades are as they are, they are a purpose — the Fangs of Man, designed to cut and hew The Other, all whom would corrupt and despoil your kind and their domain," he said, chuckling a bit.

“Even us." he added with a bit of laconic dryness; “The Platonic Ideal of a Sword was something so uniquely human, it cared not what it cut so long as it cut well. That was the First Blades. There were nine at the start, the prototypes of what we would teach Man and his Brother-race to forge themselves. Each made by one of us nine masters in concert with a chosen human craftsman." he said, reaching out and touching the simple blade in its scabbard between them.

“This one was mine."

Bart felt stunned for a moment, giving the blade a look of awe and then shaking his head violently. “No, no I cannot accept this then. There is no way I am worthy of... such a storied relic! It is a holy artifact, it should be enshrined in a temple or... no, you. You!" he said manically, eye wild; “You should keep it! It should not be... demeaned by the touch of someone so-"

“Quiet, boy." Daedolon spat, acute anger in his voice; “I have made my choice, do not anger me by questioning my sensibilities. You will wield it, deserving or not, you will make yourself so if you must." he jabbed a finger at Bart, who reeled back... feeling more than a little cowed. The Big paladin took a breath, looking at his shaking hands.

“... I... Apologies, this is just... it's overwhelming." He said, looking away, wiping his face nervously. “I am still just a man."

“And men should listen to their elders." he said, mustache bristling; “Nevertheless, Nine blades as prototypes, then nine more, nine after that," he said, counting off on his fingers as he went. “We forged them and taught the most basic methods of mining and creation... yet the Dawn Men would have none of it, they were strong of arm and long of endurance but they were ultimately gentle souls. They could not bear to see their smaller brothers clawed, bitten, and chewed apart by the queen's forces," he said, taking a long drag. Letting it linger before he continued.

“So they formed the vanguard. They demanded it. The best arms, the earliest armor and shields as we learned the concepts together." he said, and his voice fell soft. “And they died, they died by the millions in a thousand conflicts, pushing back the Mother's monstrous children and burning them out of their stinking holes, they bled and died at the front of a war fought before written language to protect their eternal charges," he said, sadness filling his voice.

“They won. They killed so many in their own dying, that the Mother herself died, screaming and crying of a broken heart, and in it as well — the Pale God wept, for half his children ventured forth to the Balelands and never returned." he finished, taking a solemn pull on the pipe, eyes on the heavens.

“No wonder she hates us so," Bart said, his voice dull with muted sorrow as he took his eyes to the sword. So simple a thing now standing as a testament to the eons-dead, he reached out a hand to the polished, worn grip and felt in the touch a quaver; his heart threatening to break anew. He clenched a fist. “The Empty Queen is an orphan of orphans, as we are all. A cycle of hatred began before we even existed," he said, Daedolon nodding.

“It is there that our story ends." The Goblin said quietly; “Your forefathers blamed us for bringing to them the concept of War, for the loss of their other half to its gnashing teeth. Our would-be-kin reviled us for the iron in our bones, and we cast ourselves again to the fringes. To wait. To fade." he said, tilting his head back and falling into a very final sort of silence, puffing on his pipe.

It was so much to take in. Bart sat there, head in his hands. He was unshaken in his faith, this he knew. God was Good... but wounded, and none he knew were not. Even his enemies, as fell and predatory as they were — themselves were victims of conflicts that predated their existence... or conflicts that to them, were still very fresh. He cast his gaze over the Goblin soldier, if Daedolon never forgot anything, never knew the soft mercy of dimming memories, perhaps they did not either... frozen forever in their own eternal war, still clawing and screaming in the night over the loss of their Mother. Bart felt sick. His guts clenched in a wave of anxious nausea and hollow misery as the enormity of the Empty Queen's heresy struck him.

“She keeps them like you," he said quietly, Daedolon turning his gaze slightly to regard him. “They are trapped in her stagnant time. Trapped in an eternal war, never forgetting the loss of their God, clinging to her stillborn daughter as a pale proxy." the sickness twisted his insides, and became slowly a white-hot rage, his fingers clenched into ugly, knotted fists.

“She keeps them in that pain, unable to forget, unable to move on. She keeps them frozen forever in a despair that knows no end." he hissed between his teeth. Daedolon merely watched.

“It cannot be borne," the Paladin spat. “How could she? How?!" he raged, his broken heart screaming for justice. For vindication. “They are her brothers, sisters, children!" he raved, slamming his fists onto his knees, teeth set. “All trapped in an eternal hell, made into monsters of monsters fit only to kill and be killed. It is a murder of an entire people and she performs it daily, in an infinite loop!"

“You see the truth of things now," Daedolon said, tapping the ash from his pipe. “Does it shake you from your path?"

Bart's eye gleamed with a zealous fury, meeting Daedolon's dead-eyed, sad gaze. He had no words, just feelings. It was enough for the Goblin, who merely nodded.

“Good," he said, slapping his hands onto his knees. “We are done here, as always — I have no use for your kind's love of 'small talk'," he said, reaching to the small bundle he'd set aside at the beginning of their talk. He began to unwrap it, still speaking.

“I will be gone from here soon. I find the company you keep grating. Perhaps one day we will meet again, and I will take your measure once more." he looked up, a gentle smile on his lips; “Do try to avoid dying before then, I will be quite disappointed."

Bart found himself smiling despite his newly-reinforced convictions still burning like a fire in his guts, but his eye strayed to the bundle as he laid it aside in his palm, in it stood a pair of objects, tiny within the massive six-fingered hands of the ancient soldier, he held it up.

“A gift. It is custom among my people that when we part to give a token to those we respect." he said, his smile turning wry; “I will accept the memories of our struggle as mine own and in return..." he gestured to the two, tiny objects.

One was a simple hinged box, unadorned and made of wood clearly sourced in the forest itself, stained a dark hue. Next to it... was a single, immaculate sphere of gold, cut deeply with lined tracery so fine the surface still appeared smooth in spite of its toolwork. Unsure, Bart took the small box first. Daedolon's hand and arm were so solid and steady that they were like outcroppings of stone rather than an awaiting palm. Face full of trepidation, Bart opened the small case.

Within was of all things; a set of razors and small combs along with a tiny, round mirror. All simple and rugged with elegant, purposeful designs — all gleaming with the unmistakable gray-silver mirrored polish of steel. Handles worked from some kind of bone or antler and carved at their base with a small, indiscernible rune that vaguely looked like a Trident within a diamond. A Maker's Mark. Bart realized why the set of tools by the fire had seen recent use.

“You look a fright, Boy. A Knight should have a proper mustache, not a hedgerow." the goblin said dryly, stroking his own long, white mustaches with his free hand.

“This is steel, surely the Erlkin-"

“The Erlking can bring his grievances to me directly, and until he does I will pay him as much mind as I do errant insects buzzing about my head. To the Void with his complaints, steel is your birthright." the Goblin groused, offering the remaining object to the young Paladin. Bart closed the case, taking the small orb to hand, turning it carefully in his fingers.

It was perfectly spherical, at least as close as Bart's naked eye could tell. The patterns wove and twisted on its surface, which was smooth as glass to his touch until he rolled it to one side, the concentric circles slowly twisting together into a familiar shape: an iris.

“That patch suits you ill, I would send my Iron to the world with a man made whole," he said, plucking the golden eye from Bart's fingers. Before he could resist, the goblin seemed to flow forward in but a split second, his long arm reaching out — grasping Bart's head from behind, his long-fingered hand holding it with unyielding strength.

“Daedolon, Wha-" Bart hissed and the Goblin cut him off by twisting his head to one side, exposing the patch-covered socket.

“Hold still, boy." he barked, doffing the patch from the Paladin's face, exposing the ruined socket and its drooping lid. With careful precision — and naught in the way of gentleness — he pressed the golden orb into the empty cavity, drawing a cry of alarm from Bart, who wriggled but found himself unable to resist as the smooth orb sank into place with a strangely alien coolness. There was a shock of energy that made Bart's hair stand on end, and another yelp of surprise escaped his lips before the eternal soldier unhanded him, letting him fall back to his seat unceremoniously before sitting himself.

“God's Blood man, you could have just asked!" Bart spat, blinking his... eyes. He still had the dead zone of sight, but it felt... correct, there was no emptiness, no hollow ache where the missing organ should be. Bart's face was perplexed.

“It will not restore your sight, that is beyond a simple craftsman — but it will preserve the meat and bone beneath, never scratch, dull, dent or corrode — and it stands as a symbol to your enemies of your devotion," he said, holding up a small bit of glimmering aurum. “Gold itself is the first among the prima materia. Where all Absolute Materials hold a purpose to which they must be dedicated, Iron to Tools of War, Wood to the care of Life — Gold is itself, divine. It touches directly to the soul. To the 'Divine Ember' as you call it." he said, letting the little nugget roll across his palm. “It is the stuff of the divine, and your kind uses it to carry with it magic. I daresay if you were to look closely at many potions and unguents from your southern kin, you'd find glimmering grit of aurum within."

“He is shown in golden aspect, and His creatures share it in blood and bone," Bart murmured, understanding settling in. Cithara's golden eyes and golden horn sharp in his mind. He touched his face, feeling the scars there, and took the small mirror from the shaving kit.

His face was haggard now with a bushy beard and the deep crevasse of the scar running from eyelid to the corner of his mouth, but as he blinked, the solid gold-on-gold eye stared back at him, it did not focus nor mimic his pupil's contractions as Cithara's did... but it lent his face an otherworldly air that felt appropriate now. He was changed. Inside and out.

“This is a kindness you needed not give me, Daedolon," Bart said, placing the mirror down. The Goblin smiled.

“I have my reasons," he stated, and then took back the cloth, folding it. “Now, we part. I would be alone with my memories... and you have much to learn from your woman yet." The goblin said, turning away from Bart, who as usual bid the eternal warrior no goodbyes, simply standing — taking the blade in hand and turning to leave his... friend's camp, for the last time.

“Write your story, Bartholomus of Fairharbour," Daedolon said suddenly as Bart reached the edge of the campground. “Write it honestly, the good and the ill. Let them judge you fairly and without reservation," he said, looking up to the sky through the canopy.

“The rest is silence."

Bart felt the cool wind at his back as the trees closed behind him, a wooded curtain drawing shut on a harrowing chapter of his life. He drew a good six inches of Iron from the scabbard of the sword — of his sword — as he walked, looking closely down upon it, he spied something familiar.

Beneath the angelic script that gave it its name, at the junction of the blade and crosspiece, the oldest part of the Absolute Iron was a small etched symbol. A tiny diamond, and in it, nested a scratched trident. Bart's smile was genuine as he re-sheathed the blade, sliding its sword belt around his waist and cinching it with a crisp jerk of his calloused hands. The eye patch drifted to the forest floor, discarded as Bart tramped through the brush with sure feet, joining his fear and preconceptions as things unneeded, and unwanted. There were but memories of conflict, of clashing blades and spraying blood — of understanding met and wrought through iron and bone.

“Strike now, Bart! Loose it!" came a thunderous cry — a roar even, from Cithara's throat, full and heady with passion and ferocity, her exultant tone sending shivers through Bart's mind and body as the turning of time followed the man ever further. Days had passed, days of study and devotion to the Divine Ember and his beautiful, beloved teacher. Within his fingers he clasped a golden, crackling lance of lightning, shimmering with God's own light as he drew his arm back as if he were to hurl a javelin. His own cry met hers, a resonant roar as muscles surged and his spirit howled in concert — the thunderbolt streaked from his hand like a physical thing, arching into the air before blasting into the straw dummy with a cacophonous explosion of light and sound, blowing the target asunder into smoldering chunks of hay and wood.

“YES!" the unicorn crowed, literally leaping into the air as Bart drew his arm back, wavering on his feet — he staggered to one knee. Sweat poured down his face, now cleanly shaved save for his thick, curling mustache, his unruly hair trimmed and cropped back to his skull. His golden eye glistened in the fading crackle of divine charged power as he turned to Cithara — who pranced around him in circles, laughing and cheering in glee.

“That... was exhausting!" Bart heaved out in a breath, mopping his face with the back of his hand. The Unicorn laughed and leaned in close to kiss him, full on the mouth — even going so far as to press her tongue briefly to his. Her eyes aglow with pride.

“That is the most difficult evocation you can muster! You are brilliant_! Wonderful man!_" She cooed, her heart afire in her tone and posture.

“It... took much from me." He said, panting and falling back to sit heavily. Cithara tittered quietly.

“Oh yes, it is not... a practical evocation, but it is a potent one. A dangerous trump card, but one worth keeping close to one's heart — for there are things who ignore the crush of bones or the bite of steel..." she said, turning her eyes to the smoldering target; “... Yet wither and burn beneath the Power of God."

Bart cast his now bi-colored gaze to the field around them. The area was littered with false starts, craters, and one particularly unlucky tree that still smoldered a little from an early attempt — to say nothing of his own blackened fingernails and more than a few charred shirts lying in an ashen heap nearby. He was shirtless, wearing naught but simple hose and boots, the former pockmarked by scorch holes from the multiple errant attempts he'd made to manifest the power as directed. Bart's head for magic was not a strong one, he was a great, big bruiser of a magi — immense strength of spirit, a deep reservoir of power — but little in way of nuance or refinement.

Magically speaking: he was a thug. Fit to crush and destroy, but he found himself lacking when a soft touch was required.

“Aye, including me." Bart agreed, sinking back to flop hard onto his back, an explosive expulsion of air leaving his lungs as he lay in the soft loamy soil. He felt twenty years older, even with Cithara here fortifying his magical and physical reserves, each cast of the lance of electricity felt like he was throwing years of his life down range. The sunlight streamed through the trees, a hazy orange glow that signaled the coming end of yet another day. How long had it truly been? How long ago had he bid Daedolon farewell at his camp, how long had he studied the nuances of the mantle and its uses with Cithara? A horned silhouette covered his vision, his one good eye squinting as his beloved teacher focused into view.

“I think I miss the beard." she said, nuzzling his cheek as he smiled at her, reaching a hand up to cup one side of her muzzle; “It was very masculine."

“It also itched terribly, and was constantly a trap for food and drink," he said with a rueful tone, the unicorn fluttered her eyelashes at him, her smile turning sardonic.

“That furry caterpillar on your lip does not?" she challenged, and he causally stuck his tongue out at her in defiance, letting his head drop back against the turf.

“I am accustomed to my caterpillar, thank you kindly. I did not look forward to trying to tuck all that face-fur beneath a helmet." he shot back, eyes closing... eyes, plural. Even if it lacked sight, over the interminable days the comfort of the socket being whole again was a relief he had not expected to feel. The hollowness had been a distraction he had not understood the depths of.

“As you wish, darling," she said, casting her gaze across the field from where she lay, legs tucked daintily to her side. “You are progressing well... but I fear we have reached the same impasse your swordmaster spoke of. I can teach you theory and give you object lessons... but away from the crush of battle or the urgency of circumstance there is little more you can learn about the finer points of magic," she said, her soft lips turning in a frown. Bart nodded.

“We've covered so much in the time... I've learned to augment my strength and durability, to channel energy through my blade." he paused raising a hand with two fingers and thumb erect; “To heal wounds and replenish my stamina, albeit... in quite a limited fashion" he continued, ticking each off with one calloused digit from his hand, Cithara's horn bobbing along with the list.

“Verily, and now — the projection of energy beyond your reach. An immensely taxing feat, but a necessary one."

“Your lips to God's ears," Bart groused, rubbing a hand over his exposed chest, his pulse skipping a beat every few, his chest heaving; “It feels like my heart is trying to escape my chest," he said, still breathlessly. Cithara's lips turned into a soft, concerned frown. Her orbit flared, and she lowered her lips to his hairy, sweat-beaded chest. The familiar warmth of her divine energies flowed out from the kiss, and he felt his heart slowly settle into a steadier rhythm. His breath came easier, and she offered him an apologetic smile.

“To call the lightning, the power uses your heart as the driver. Like a waterwheel turning a mill, your heart's rhythms create its own tiny thunderbolts," she said, pointedly shaking out her mane into a raucous mass of curls and then gleefully rolling to and fro in the grass, before leaning back up to him and delicately pressing her nose close to his — giving him a tiny jolt of static that passed to him with a little start. He winced and rubbed at his nose thoughtfully, understanding dawning on him.

“The Mantle just... amplifies it, a few million times," she said plainly and gave his nose a delicate kiss before standing, shaking leaves and grass from her shining pelt. Bart pressed his hand over his chest again, taking deep breaths.

“So each time I call the thunderbolt, it is straining not my whole body, but my heart," he said with a grim tone, sitting upright with a groan, stretching his back and shoulders with a series of pops and crackles.

“It is," she said, smoothing her mane back into place with a casual toss of her head, orbit flaring momentarily, puffing her sleek coat and silken locks back into their perfect plaits once more. “Even if your Ember burns brightly, to call too heavily upon the fulminating energies can kill you, beloved." she turned back to him, eyes concerned and face heavy.

“I would not have you die of a broken heart. Be cautious with this power, darling mine." Bart gave a solemn nod, watching her with a mixture of quiet desire and devotion... he had come to know her in such intimacy, that it still felt like a dream whenever she was near. She warped his reality, fired his senses, filled him with her love and strength — to look into her eyes was to feel as if he could prosecute this war all on his own; tear the Ossuary of Man down with his own two hands. He wondered if all Men felt as such... or if he was special. Her lips turned softly downward, a contemplative frown on her muzzle as she approached him.

“May I ask you a question, my dearest one?" she queried, her voice oddly... small. The forest quieted as she trotted towards him, and once again he marveled at her alien grace, her hooves barely touched the soft soil, and her limbs flowed without the heavy sway one would expect from an equine frame, truly he forgot frequently that she bore any semblance to her other four-legged imitators — she was simply Cithara. His beloved, His Lady. His life.

“Anything, my Lady." he breathed, folding his hands in his lap as she settled near him. Not looking directly at him, gazing past into the far distance.

“Can you tell me why you love me?" she asked — a touch of fear adding a quaver to her voice, her eyes distant as she caught her lower lip in her teeth; a nervous tic he'd seen upon her features during his many duels with the now-departed Goblin Swordmaster. Bart was stunned into silence by that for a moment, turning within himself to ponder it.

“That... is quite the question, my Lady." he said, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders; “Are you asking me this as your Paladin and Warrior of God...?" he began and she shook her head, her glittered solid-gold eyes turning to his at last, old worry warring with older sorrow.

“Nay, darling mine. I ask you as a woman asks her husband. Can you in your heart of hearts, tell me why you love me? I, Cithara the Unicorn. Not the Lady in White, not the Queen of Love... just... Cithara." she asked and her voice quavered with a vulnerability he'd never expected to hear from something so stupendous as she.

Bart was forced back to a mute state, his eyes wide as he considered such a question. He'd questioned it himself, of course, it was only natural — he carried doubts with him into the Glade as well…

“I... am not the most faithful soldier." he began after a long moment, reaching to his neck, where the blood-stained lock of her mane still hung by its thong, dancing as it always did on wind only it could feel. “I believe, clearly. I trust in God. I carry his message into battle and peace alike." he said, the Unicorn's eyes met his, searching as he leaned back on his hands.

“I doubt. I doubt a great many things. Chiefly, myself." he continued, feeling once again young and awkward. “I am yet untested it feels. I have overcome so many great and terrible things, monsters and men alike — but I have not done it alone," he said, reaching to his chest, touching the long, grisly scar that ran up it from hip to collarbone — one of Parias' gifts from their last encounter.

“Alone, I have always faltered. Tripped, stumbled, and fell, heavy and hard. I have always had friends, allies, and comrades to lean upon... and yet, I feared even then that caught alone, put to the measure by but my own steel and grit..." his hand touched beneath the now-golden eye and its gruesome scar.

“That I would be found wanting. Truly, that was proven time and again," he said in a small voice. Cithara shook her head gently as if to speak, but Bart held up a hand, gathering himself back from the precipice of that inner darkness.

“Then I met you," he said, his voice soft. “I met this... this woman that laughed, and loved with every fiber of her being, that loves coffee and sweets. That enjoys singing with the birds in the morning light. Who snorts a little when she laughs too hard." he continued, the Unicorn's ears laying back in embarrassment as he smiled.

“I met this woman, who finishes my sentences. Who talks with her mouth full when she's excited, and dances from foot to foot when she's eager. Who looks upon me and cannot keep a smile from her lips. She's a wonderful, caring, tremendous person with a heart of purest gold held in place with a bolted and forged lattice of most doughty iron. A woman who held me when I cried, who kissed me when I hurt, and listened when I wept." he said, his hand returning to that lock of her mane as his eyes went to the setting sun through the trees.

“I gave that woman my heart and my virtue, she took them in her grasp, gently and softly. She guided me to such peace and knowledge that I would never have believed possible. I fought for this woman, I screamed her name in defiance of things without their own. I carry none of those doubts anymore, she has fortified me, built a home in my heart so I am never truly alone again." he breathed, and closed his eyes firmly. In that darkness he pictured his life, what it could be, what may be and what he most wanted — and in that gloomy darkness of possibility, he could no longer see anything but two, wonderful golden eyes staring back at him. He smiled a true and honest smile.

“I love you Cithara, because I want to. Because the heart wants what the heart wants — and mine wants this wonderful, silly, magnificent woman who kisses me first thing every morning and last thing every night. You and your sister can speak of prophecy, or the lusts and travails of an adolescent boy's fantasies all you wish — but I did not fall for the Queen of Love nor the Lady in White, I did not fall in love with a Unicorn..." he said, and reached out and cupping her face, bringing her close to him, his voice dropping to a whisper, just for her:

“I fell in love with Cithara, with you. Snorting laughs and coffee stains, not crowns nor thrones." he breathed, his lips inches from hers now. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her lower lip caught in her teeth as he smiled at her and drew his mouth to her ear.

“I love who I love, and I love you Cithara."

She gave a soft, wordless cry and pressed into him; bowling him over into the grass in a graceless tumble as she devoured his mouth with her own. She kissed him like he'd not been kissed since their first night together in the moonlit pond, giving her affirmation at first not with words but with the soul-to-soul touch that only a kiss could grant. He embraced her tightly, kissing her back with a fervor borne of struggle and hardship, of a man who'd learned to savor every moment of life given. His eyes swam as they did not come up for breath for a long moment, before her lips broke away from his and she gasped, a mix of sobs and laughter escaping her as she finally, raggedly managed to respond.

“I love you Bartholomus Mueller, you wonderful, silly, incalculably noble brick of a man, you. I love the way your mustache tickles my nose, I love the way you snore when you sleep on your back, I love your broken nose that causes it. I love these great, big gentle hands." she breathed, pressing her face into his palms. “Such big, strong hands. So dangerous... but not to me, not to any innocent life," she said to him — the echoing gong of Knowing as she Spake his name sending fresh chills down his spine.

“I love you, Bart. I will love you forever and beyond. When the earth crumbles to ash and the sun wanes and flickers I will carry my love for you to the stars and write it in the cosmos for Gods and Monsters alike to see." she was weeping again when she sought his mouth with her lips.

“I love you, husband, now... love me back..." she concluded hotly, pressing in much more closely to his bare chest, her voice full of a hunger he was now quite familiar with…

“Oh, Bart..." Cithara's voice breathed in his ear. Another time, another place. A comfortable one... Time though. Time had caught up, and soon as he stirred in the now-familiar sheets of a far-too-familiar bed, he found the golden eyes of his beloved staring back at him, mane tousled with the rigors of lovemaking, lips flushed and swollen from kisses and cries of pleasure, and chest heaving softly. So little time was left, and they both felt it now as day had passed to night, unmitigated by the Unicorn's influence. Time would have its say.

“Would that we could stay forever," she said, pressing her face closer to his. “Would that I could take a form like yours, abandon this all... would that I could be like other women," she said, a bit of mourning entering her voice as they lay naked and tangled in sheets, limbs, and emotions.

“I would love you the same were you a common maid or Queen of Love." Bart echoed, stroking her face. She pressed into his calloused hands, shuddering intensely, almost as if he was within her once more, but her eyes opened, and sadness sat within their golden pools. Bart's smile in return, was wan and rueful. “Yet..."

“... It is not for us," she answered for him. The intervening days had been free of lessons. Free of struggle and toil. He had never felt such peace, such contentment. He exercised the last of his hurts free of his restored body, hunted the woods with the Sisters for game and sport, and spent warm nights in Cithara's caring embrace... it was a heaven he had never dreamed of, and yet... they both knew it was at its end. The future would not wait for them to have their fill of eternity — it would soldier on doggedly, even as the Lady in White arrayed all her might to slow its pace — inexorably, the days marched on, and with them the looming threats, and mounting worries.

“I cannot stay here, no matter how much I crave it," Bart said to her, their closeness had become second nature. To think he'd become accustomed to lying embraced with a cosmic being, let alone... someone he was supposed to pay fealty to. “I have people who need me. I have friends in danger, nay..." he paused and closed his eyes, images of Lidia, Naima, Rashid, and Nazir, of Young Salim and his fiery spirit. Of Lucian and his gentle eyes. Mother. Father.

“I have family waiting for me to come home."

The unicorn's gaze searched his face, and her smile softened at the edges with a knowing sort of sorrow, she shook her head, closing her own eyes. The faintest glimmer of gold showed through her slitted lids as she brushed her foreleg up along his face as gracefully as any woman's touch.

“You wouldn't be you if I kept you. I cannot lock you away, keep you for myself no matter how much I selfishly desire such, and oh I desire it strongly my love," she said, the electric thrill of her touch so soon after their intimacy drawing new trembles from the big paladin. “It gnaws at me, knowing what I could have... were I as any other woman."

“Were I as any other man, I would let you." he said, closing one calloused hand over her caressing limb, his eyes meeting her own again in similar slits; “Yet we are not as others. We have a duty to uphold, others who need us."

“Heavy ever is the crown, even that of Love." she agreed, smiling softly at him; “You are worth waiting for. I would not love a man who would forsake such things for earthly wants."

“There will be time enough for us when our work is done," Bart said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We will have that time, my love." she breathed with a quiet fervor, horn glimmering as it touched his brow; “It will come long from now, but have faith — we will have it."

“Someday." Bart chimed in, smiling at her. She smiled back.

“Someday." she agreed, her eyes slightly sad, pressing in close to him, she shivered as her softly furred barrel touched his bare chest. “Just... hold me, Bart. Just for a little while longer."

His arms closed around her, her frame so small; he forgot that she was such a lithe, delicate thing — her presence was so large... and yet now, she didn't feel like the mighty aspect of love, not a cosmic force of nature here, but a woman daring to love again. Bart said nothing, winding his arms around her, fingers nestling in her mane, toes curling gently with dainty hooves and a leonine tail. He closed his bi-colored eyes and listened to her breathing, soft and warm against his neck. He did not deserve such love and devotion... he had barely known her for long at all. But he loved her, without reservation and beyond any compulsion of gods or men. The heart wants what the heart wants. His had made its choice. Together they drifted in that intimate embrace, ensconced in their silken fortress, protected. Safe.

“Bart?" Cithara asked in a small voice, were it minutes later or hours, he had no reckoning.

“Yes?"

“If we endure this whole and hale... I have a request."

“Anything."

“... Take me to your home. Where you were born. Take me home with you... just for a while."

“You are not the only one to ask of that, and as I said to them I say to you: Happily." Cithara's sound of pleasure was the only answer she gave, and the two drifted back into each other's dreams, soft breathing and the sound of peaceful night enveloping them like a blanket.

So ended his time in the glade. With it, the last true peace he would ever know.

~ ~ ~

The clatter of buckles and steel was a familiar comfort to the Paladin, working the leather and clasps himself was difficult — but he needed something to busy his hands with.

“I have had Perchta and Holda's brothers and sisters scouring the borders of the forest since the incursion with that 'Gatekeeper', they have found little but they confirm what you say." Cithara's voice came from his side as the big man laced the mail sleeves into place.

“Then Fort Ivory has fallen?" he asked grimly, his lone blue eye hard, the unicorn shook her head.

“Nay, but it has weathered poorly. They say the breach of the gates led to a splitting of the forces, the keep's two halves fully encircled. The army of the lost and damned souls in thrall to The Wendigo remains there and harries them day and night. Their losses mount. They cannot hold forever."

“Meanwhile I dallied here in a den of pleasure and softness," he growled, and Cithara gave him a sad, weary glance.

“Bart... you were on the brink of death, and even then — you yourself know you needed the strength you gained here. I kept you only as long as I deigned necessary," she said sternly, her voice laced with concern — and steel.

“How long?" Bart asked — for the first time. Cithara's eyes were level as she inclined her head.

“For you, or them?"

“Both."

“A year," She said tersely; “You have been in my charge for a year as you felt it, beloved." That knowledge hit Bart like a ballista shot; a whole year of his life spent here, apart... his eyes tracked to and fro over the middle distance, mind racing as he tried to put the phantasmagorical experience into any semblance of chronological order. Shaking his head, he met her gaze with his own.

“And the outside?"

“Three months, no more."

He blew out a breath he had not realized he was holding, three months... not so long by a season's reckoning, but as a siege... it may as well have been an eternity — the whole of Spring at war. He set his jaw, pulling the straps on his breastplate tight. He was not wholly accustomed to full armor, but he'd had time to practice... more time than he realized.

“Three months at siege while I had a year in Paradise." he hissed, guilt stabbing into him as keenly as Parias' gutting blade had, his hands worked over his greaves, pulling buckles and straps tight with fingers slowly growing familiar. Cithara raised her head imperiously.

“I kept you as long as I deigned necessary," she reiterated, her voice backed by that steely finality again, Bart shot her a look out of the corner of his good eye, the gleaming gold facsimile following its track. “There were things that must need occur, you needed time. I made that time," she said. It was a statement of fact, it brooked no argument — and he rankled at it in spite of himself. Her features softened as he stood, stamping his feet to straighten his armor around his legs.

“What reason could there be other than my own weakness? Surely the Lord Protector would have recovered faster, learned faster." he hissed, rolling his shoulders as he strapped the heavy, asymmetrical pauldrons on — Master Balgus had been right, this was much more of a pain to don on his own. There was a flare of gold, and suddenly, the plate wrenched from his hands and settled into place; the straps artfully looping together, tightening snugly. Cithara's eyes were aglow with her orbit, and a soft smile on her face. Sheepishly, Bart allowed her to help... it dawned on him that she doubtlessly recalled putting this exact armor on The First Paladin on many an occasion.

“Have faith, my love." was all she said.

She armored him in silence after that, the two alone with their thoughts together. The armor fit him as if it were made for him and him alone, the magic of the Triune soaked into the very grain of the steel and fiber of the leather, even the padded gambeson had pulled over and fit like his mother had hand-tailored it to his body, a marvel of magic and a testament to the love of not only Cithara the Unicorn but her siblings and God himself.

He cut an impressive figure in full harness, he was bigger in body and mass than the First Paladin had been, owing to his father's Reiklander heritage — and the armor's enchanted steel seamlessly molded to that, somehow both slimming and adding mass to his frame all at once. He regarded himself in the mirror, the black and gold armor making him look nearly a foot taller, like some great crusading golem. Its asymmetrical, high-winged pauldrons and dangling half-cape broadening his shoulders into a steel-shod mountain range, the Lord in Ivory's lidless eye sigil emblazoned down the back of the cape. Not only that... but he had changed as well. The year in paradise had not passed without marks, his face was thinner, his neck thicker, and his muscles more well-defined by rigorous training and battle... he looked older, his baby-faced smoothness having worn away in places to a more adult cragginess, his cheeks and chin stark and angular now; more suited to the askew bend in his broken nose. The golden eye stared sightlessly from the ruined socket, adding an imperious hardness to his gaze that he wasn't wholly comfortable with. He stared at this man in the mirror, this man he had become. How different did he look to Cithara? How would he appear to his friends? Cithara pressed in close to him, looking into the mirror alongside him, her gaze appraising.

“It suits you better than the common armor of a soldier. Your strength befits a crown," she said, her golden orbit flaring, handing to him the helmet with its five-pointed crown as its heraldic.

“Wear it proudly, for this day you are Queen's Consort and King of Love. Might of God strengthen your arm, for I will strengthen your heart," she said with a fervor that stirred his blood, he raised the helmet to his eyes, running a thumb along its golden, sharp-edged crown and draping orle and mantle. It was in many ways, a holy vestment. A clergyman's cassock arrayed in steel and rivets rather than cotton and bone buttons. He shivered at the title. King of Love. He had not sought a crown nor throne — and yet he had one.

“No my love," he said, tucking the helmet under his arm. “I am still just Bartholomus Mueller, a Soldier," he stated plainly, looking at himself in the mirror with her beside him.

“I fight for my people, not for the rank or privilege of a crown." Cithara smiled at him, and with her orbit plucked the helm from his hands... and there was a flickering of the light, and like that with no fanfare... he saw her drop all pretenses, and stood there alongside him in her true Aspect, her blazing crown of light a mirror of the helmet's own, her trailing ribbons of angelic runes and gleaming frame no longer taxed his mind or assailed his sanity — in fact, he reveled in the sight as her Mantle swaddled him in its protective energies, she turned him to her.

“That my champion, is why you are fit to wear it," she said, her voice echoing with the power of ritual as she smiled at him; with a simple gesture, she opened the helm, and set it upon his brow. Closing it around his face, her eyes never leaving his. She turned then so he could see them together in the reflection, both in their true aspect. Bart cutting a striking, almost dire image of militant might, and Cithara in the radiance of her true nature... and it felt right.

“Have faith. I have made thee as thou must needs be." Bart laid his gauntlet-clad hand on her neck as he regarded the image and her poignant words. He had in many ways, died on Parias' blade that day... for the glade and the Unicorn that dwelled within had done more than make him whole, she had indeed remade him.

“Come," she breathed as he removed the helmet again, her aspect waning back into secrecy, “We have a council of war to attend."

~ ~ ~

Bart's armor of office felt needed as they reconvened within the throne room, Cithara wearing her simple form and its quiet dignity like a gown as Bart — the First Blade conspicuously at his hip — kept his place aside her, a united front of strength. One sorely needed.

For they faced monsters.

Before them, sitting in a great chair manifested doubtlessly with his visit; was the Erlking. Unlike Cithara, he saw no reason to restrict his aspect for the comfort of mortals or weaklings — a label he like as much considered to be the same in most cases, and thus Bart felt the oppressive weight of the towering sidhe lord's presence leaning on his mind. However, unlike their first meeting, there was a cushion to that leaden persona; Cithara's mantle wrapped him in a silken layer of protection, offsetting the abrasive grit of the Lord of the Wild Hunt's weight in reality.

He was still an impossibly massive, stony-skinned humanoid, but the light here made some of his details easier to discern; his topless frame was decorated in a series of tattoo-like engravings that seemed some middle-ground between ink and some kind of scarification so deeply were they literally cut into his flesh. He wore the foxfire glow as a mantle, roiling about his head and shoulders like a tartan of eerie green flame as he leaned forward, his posture aggressive, arm resting on one massive knee to bring his eternally-shadowed face closer to the mortal creature who viewed him. Even here, the light touched not his face within the depths of his great, antler-topped helm and cowl, only the burning foxfire eyes and the suggestion of a stout jawline, all else was darkness. Indeed all of his extremities were dipped in shadow, his massive, leather-bound feet ending in shadowy hooked claws, and his fingers as inky, heavy black talons; as if only ever partially within the world of light — the sun itself fearful of the Lord of the Wild Hunt.

He was flanked by... what could only aptly be described as a 'Pack' of retainers, milling in similar stoic dourness to their leader. Man and woman alike, there seemed to be no segregation by gender. They wore the same outfits he'd seen the sisters in before; more nude than not, wearing clothing that consisted of little more than leather wrappings, hooded tartans, and tight-fitting breeches or dangling loincloths. To a one they were all covered in the same deeply inscribed markings, each one unique as a signature. Indeed it was the only discerning feature they had, for all of them were faceless, hidden beneath the foxfire cowls he'd seen on Holda and Perchta, much like their leader — only glowing sickly green eyes of flame were visible of their concealed visages. A score or more smoldering viridian eyes.

All trained on him.

He set his jaw, hand firmly on the hilt of the First Blade. They were staring him down, gauging him, seeking weaknesses, observing him... stalking him. They were predators one and all, and he had to convince them to help him.

“Tell me Pale Lady, prithee why I should care for thy petty quarrels with the Dead One?" rumbled the Erlking, his voice comparatively quiet for his tremendous size — but to Bart's ears it was a peal of thunder.

“It concerns you as well as I, Horned Hunter," Cithara said in a firm tone, her posture erect and imperious on her throne. “The Empty Queen's forces have not once, but twice now in short order pierced your borders, laid siege to my home within your boughs and trunks, she holds no fear of you or your might any longer," she said — and the Erlking answered her with a low, mocking laugh that rattled off the walls and shook Bart's ribs within his chest with its resonance.

“The Dead One verily is ignorant and foolhardy, prithee she is welcome to test me and mine, her darkness wilt avail her naught in the shadows of mine arboreal sanctum." he rumbled smugly, the milling honor guard of sidhe echoing his derisive laughter — all but two, a pair of female forms immediately to the Erlking's sides. Bart recognized Holda and Perchta — and how they flinched away from Cithara's narrowing gaze at their father's mockery. They had seen the Gatekeeper, they had fought and bled against it — they knew the threat. Bart felt his ire rise as Cithara spoke her rebuttal.

“The beast she sent upon us had stolen my magic and used it to heal and burn alike, what will you do when she decides she fancies this wood — and comes bearing burning flame and cold iron?" she challenged him, her eyes narrowing; “You would forsake your oath of fealty at such risk?"

“Thy own Oath is remiss — thou shalt recall I swore only to harbor thee and thine acolytes safely, ne'er was it sworn that mine own would rally to thy banner. We are apart from thine petty conflicts." he hissed back at her, leaning forward in his own throne menacingly, to the point Bart could smell his breath, rancid with the scent of blood. Cithara visibly wrinkled her nose at him, her expression disdainful.

“So you will do nothing? Are you so confident that her attention undivided, she will not simply do away with you to seize my throne? You will sit here content, an enemy at your gates unguarded?" she all but spat at him, her tone like the iron the Sidhe Lord feared. He leaned further forward, his burning green eyes narrowing to slits of verdant flame.

“Mind thy tongue, Aspect. Thou are owed my fealty, but mine ire and wroth will not be tested idly." he snapped at her in a slow, clipped voice that rang like a crumbling mountainside on the ears. Bart set his teeth, that tore it.

“To think, the King of the Wild Hunt was a coward," Bart spat full-throated and venomous. All eyes turned to him, including Cithara's, her golden gaze wide with shock, her mouth hanging open at his bold impropriety. The Erlking was equally shocked, his posture leaning in close to Bart again, his shadowed visage filling his sight; the Sidhe Lord's head easily as large as the Paladin's entire torso as he snarled, spittle flecking the words from a mouth hidden in arcane shadow,

“Thou art bold stripling, bold and foolish. I warn ye to bend knee and stand thee aside, lest I reave thee for thy impudence."

“Spare me your threats, I've been threatened worse by better." Bart snarled right back, causing the Lord of the Wild Hunt's emerald gaze to widen in shock and outrage, Bart spread his arms, glossy steel wreathing his body, causing the Lord to recoil slightly as the Paladin advanced a step, murder in his dual-toned eyes.

“Let us have it then. I have crossed blades with the Wendigo itself, a Goblin Swordmaster, and no less than two veritable demigods," he barked, and his hand went to his blade. Cithara's eyes widened to perfectly round circles as he drew Absolute Iron, the blade singing like a bell as the Paladin pointed it with alarming swiftness to even himself — its point leveled a mere span from the Erlking's stunned visage.

“What's one more monster?" he growled, the weapon all but humming in his grasp, the First Blade's inbuilt murderous desire for The Other practically champing at the bit to cut into the Sidhe Lord, to drink his blood and lay him asunder. At its hilt, dangled a familiar sight: Lucian's charm. Bart's eyes flicked to it, surprised... when had it gotten there? He had left it on the ruins of his axe... and yet now it hung free, tied to the pommel-lug of the great wide-bladed sword. In his periphery he caught Cithara's gaze, her eyes wide and blank with shock... and yet they caught his gaze, and a brief smile crossed her lips as she realized what he was looking at. He felt a new surge of courage fill his heart as the braided locks of distant friends swayed in the breeze, Cithara had understood the charm's meaning... and he did as well. He faced nothing alone — even this.

“Thou's mind has left thee, thou art battle-mad from thy foolish contests," The Erlking snarled, and around him the retaining guard milled, partially surrounding him, and yet... they made no move, they watched not only Bart... but the Erlking as well.

“Perhaps I have," Bart agreed in a dour tone, narrowing his scarred features, gaze hard as agates. “Perhaps I am mad, damaged, and rabid — can you handle that? The Lord of the Hunt is decided by power, is it not?" Bart asked... he knew his share of legends and lore — and he had a hunch. The Sidhe's verdant gaze widened, and the flaming mantle suddenly erupted in a geyser of emerald flame that spread down to his arms and along his great throne as he threw his arms wide, fingers curling into hooked, gnarled claws of rage as it roared into Bart's face, spittle once again flecking him;

“THOU DARE, APE?!" the fae hunter bellowed so loud Bart's ears rang and he felt tears spring to his eyes, but he backed down not an inch, setting his teeth.

“I dare, pixie," Bart spat back with equal venom — he was through with these alien braggarts dictating to him how things would be, through with monsters and abominations spouting proclamations to him as if they held any power in the face of God.

“Bart..." Cithara breathed behind him, her face a mask of shock... and fear, worry etching her as the Paladin squared off with the King of the Unseelie Court — he also wore a crown now, and he'd be damned if he was to take this.

“You swore an oath of fealty to the Queen of Love, and that means you swore an oath to her throne and all who bear its authority," Bart barked, blade still extended, rock-steady as his lone eye flared gold as he embraced the mantle with both proverbial hands, his entire body suddenly alight with golden radiance, whipping and writhing off him in a liminal outline of holy power, he took his helmet from beneath his arm, and pointedly placed it upon his head, clapping down the visor and securing the hinges with practiced ease — golden eye a single searing point of aurum fire beneath it. Atop it — the crown of his station gleamed in regal gold, and the Erlking's gaze did not miss it once, his verdant eyes aflame with fury and realization.

“I carry that authority now, Queen's Consort — the King of Love. Do you dare defy me, and defy your oath?" He asked with a steely tone, the blade jerked forward another demanding inch.

“Thou offer me challenge?" The Sidhe Lord asked with open, mocking incredulity in his voice and Bart nodded but once, and a sudden, deafening silence lapsed over the watching sidhe... Bart's gamble was paying off, as the irate sidhe lord stared at him with furious slits of flaming green... and then after a moment — he laughed. A loud, bellowing, full-throated belly laugh that threw him back into his seat, head back — cackling loudly. Bart remained unmoving.

“Verily! Thou wouldst be a mighty challenge if thy deeds claimed art true. Thy bones would be worthy adornments for mine own throne," he growled, leaning back forward, propping his chin on one titanic fist. Bart's eye flicked to the throne... and he realized it was constructed not of wood nor stone — but bones. Bones, horns, teeth, and claws of a myriad of beasts — and indeed, men. Trophies of the Wild Hunt. Bart swallowed and narrowed his gaze.

“I challenge you for the authority of the Wild Hunt, war is upon us — the Empty Queen has violated this place and broken many rules and laws — including your own, she offers you and your kingdom insult and disdain. You will either rally to my banner to answer that insult, or I will bring you to heel and seize your forces myself." Bart thundered, drawing a soft gasp from Cithara... to either side of the Erlking however, Perchta and Holda... smiled, ever so slightly. It was then Bart knew he'd gambled well. The Erlking's laughter rang out again.

“Truly thou art brave — or thou art a fool. One looks much as the other mayhaps..." the Horned Hunter remarked, drumming shadowy talons on his jaw, twisting his head in a feline expression of stalking curiosity. “I am sorely tempted to accept thy challenge and see the mettle of the 'King' of Love for its measure," he continued ominously, staring Bart down, still vibrating with tangible fury, every muscle on his gray-skinned chest and torso taut with restrained rage... and that great horned head tilted again.

“... It would be a pity to cull so young a buck before thou have time to grow into thy new rack of antlers and its station. Well met, 'King' Of Love. I will answer this call... however," the massive form leaned forward once more, steepling his massive fingers beneath his chin as it carried out that long, unspoken 'but'.

“Thy challenge is unabated, merely delayed. Thou offered affront to me and mine and that balance will be redressed anon," he rumbled dangerously, viridian eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits of pure, unadulterated malice.

“I am the Hunter of Hunters. I will stalk creation itself, and one day anon — I will hunt _ thee. _ Then, we will take thy measure in full."

Bart couldn't suppress the shudder that cold, unambiguous threat — nay, to call it a threat put a chance of failure in the mind — that promise, instilled in him. The Erlking smiled, so the upturn of his glowing green eyes belied, and he nodded once. Bart lowered the blade, but raised his hand in that familiar fencer's salute of a 'touch' on his chest, getting a respectful nod of his head from the titanic Sidhe Lord.

“Boldly played, Pale Lady. Thy Consort art steely and gallant. For the promise of such canny prey, we will sweep the chaff from our doorstep — but nay shalt we step a span further beyond our borders, we stand apart, inviolate and unfettered — and so shall it remain forevermore."

“Well-Bargained and done then, Lord of the Wild Hunt," Cithara said, her eyes still shocked as Bart fell back to her side; “Array your forces, I will call upon my own Order once the siege is broken," The Erlking nodded, and leaned down to one of the Twins, murmuring something in a language Bart could not understand. Cithara turned and stared at him with a look that waffled between fury and wonder.

“Bart," She whispered under her breath; “I know I said I loved surprises — but Dear One, please warn me before you do something like... that! You've agreed to an eventual duel to the death with one of the most powerful beings in creation!" she almost wailed in her quieted voice.

“If I did that, you would have tried to stop me."

“Absolutely, the same as I would were you to thrust your hands into a roaring fire!"

“Can you argue with the results?"

The Unicorn paused, blinking and looking back to the assembled Sidhe... and they all looked at Bart with appraising eyes, gone was the palpable feeling of disdain, replaced with... curiosity, and perhaps a hint of respect.

“... That I cannot. You gamble far too well for a man of God, darling."

“It's only a bluff if I was lying," he answered her, and she gave him an incredulous look.

“You would have fought him? As you are now?"

“What's the worst that could have happened, I die?" Bart asked laconically, the Unicorn staring at him dumbfounded before she also quietly broke into a brief fit of giggles.

“You are a thoroughly infuriating man, and I love you."

“I live but to serve."

She smiled ruefully at him as the Erlking dispatched several runners, and began to discuss in that strange guttural tongue between his two daughters, both parties stern and vehement. Bart's eye turned back to his sword hilt, his eyebrow raised again.

“Cithara," He began, inverting his grip on the still-held sword, presenting her the pommel and its swinging charm; “What is this?"

The unicorn turned back to him with wide, innocent eyes in their brief moment of rapport — her face guileless and infuriatingly pure.

“Whatever do you mean, My Champion?"

“Where did this come from? I left it on the haft of my axe."

“Oh! That," She said cheerfully. “I simply put it where it belonged while armoring you," she said in a soft tone, her eyes flicking back to the sidhe lord — Bart realizing at this moment the Unicorn's only true ally in this room was he himself as she turned her gaze back to him, eyes warm.

“You never fight alone, my love. That charm belongs at your sword arm, not in a keepsake chest."

Bart looked at it, and in truth... he had put it away. Out of sight, out of mind. Easier to move forward not thinking of his friends and the danger they were in, merely to act on it. He realized the foolishness of it now as the familiar softness of the braided hair played against the unyielding steel of his armor.

“I suppose you're right, My Lady."

“I usually am," she agreed with a brief flash of a smug smile before restoring her mask of imperious determination,

“Steel yourself, my love. We march to War."

~ ~ ~

The planning began in earnest. The Erlking despite his standoffish and imperious nature was a brilliant tactician, the massive table they usually ate upon instead spread with a tremendous map of the forest's edge rendered onto a buckskin with what appeared to be... flame. The details burned onto the hide line by line until they formed a map of the woods and Fort Ivory, a startlingly accurate one.

“This is marvelous, how do you manage all of these details?" Bart asked as he leaned over, even the individual boughs of the great, primeval trees were rendered in flames and scorch. The Erlking tilted his head, his massive hands flat on the table as he leaned over it — every part of his being was intense, brooding. Predatory.

“Thou stand in mine own demesne. The Pale Lady exults her influence only upon my leave within the boughs," the Sidhe Lord said in a clipped tone, and with a raise of his hand, he snapped his fingers, drawing the talons back down over the center of the woods. Fire leapt from the buckskin, sizzling and searing increasingly complex patterns that drew Bart's eye closer, leaning in as they etched out the perfect outlines of the Hearththrone, its small cottage... then the table... and then a tiny, perfectly etched outline of a familiar armored figure... Bart jerked back, his face a mix of wonder and wry irritation.

“Cute," he murmured, earning a dark chuckle from the Horned Hunter.

“This wood is mine own, and none know it better." Bart folded his arms across his chest, and he met the immense Sidhe's eyes for a moment. He curbed the pithy comment he felt boiling in his guts on how great this influence was that the Empty Queen could simply trip over his border and attack him in his bed — but there was naught to be gained provoking an ally he already had so deeply offended.

“Then you are aware of the place and quality of their forces?" Cithara interjected, sitting across from the Sidhe lord. The rest of the 'pack' had dispersed into the woods, leaving just Holda and Perchta, who had fallen into their roles as handmaidens — this time for their Father and Lord as much as the Lady.

“Indeed. Prithee, observe," he intoned, waving his hand at the blank canvas across from the burned stencil of Fort Ivory, tiny flames licked across it again as his alien will gleaned the disposition of the enemy forces, filling them out in alarming detail, Bart could swear if he squinted some of the tiny soldiers had eyebrows.

“They loiter well within mine own view, verily I have sent forth hunters keen of eye and silent of foot to stalk and bleed them by inches. They will be blind and unaware of the mortal stroke until the moment it falls."

Bart looked over the map, at last, they were in a place where his admittedly limited intelligence shone well. He was attentive in history lessons, and with history came the planning and discussion of great battles. He was meant to be a commander, a leader of men — they all were. Time to put his lessons to work.

“What is this?" He said, pressing his fingers to a particularly large knot of heathen bodies beyond the gates, around some kind of mass. It lacked definition, merely a blank space on the map left to imply the greater army... but there were bodies arranged around it, and the sprawl of troops seemed to be coming from it. The Erlking's eyes tracked to it, and a wave of his hand summoned more of those minuscule inscribing sparks, engraving the hide with details like a furious white-hot quill. All eyes followed the flames they twisted and traced around a now-familiar, abominable form.

Asymmetrical limbs and blackened sooty details above a misshapen, pale skull — the burned details even catching the gaping, hollow hole where its eyes should be. Bart, Cithara, and Perchta's eyes all widened, the Paladin setting his teeth as it fully resolved into view.

“A Gatekeeper." He growled, slamming his fist into the table.

“So there are more," Cithara said with anguish in her voice, the confirmation chilling them both in ways only members of their Order could truly understand, the Erlking's eyes flicked to him.

“Thou slew such a beast ere this encounter, verily with thy bare hands," He observed, his thunderous, rumbling voice approving. Bart nodded.

“I have killed one before, but it took the help of your daughters, the Lady, and a great deal of luck to do so. Moreover, I surprised it and struck it off balance," he said, stabbing a finger at the still-warm hide; “This one expects battle."

“It will have spent its time simply disgorging more and more abominations onto the field," Cithara observed, leaning forward and scanning the detailed mass of bodies the flickering flames had drawn, “There, standing are Plagued Men — but among them walk Ghuls and Ogres as well," she said, gesturing with an artful brush of a golden hoof, her eyes met Bart's. “The Wendigo reinforces its claim, it intends to take the Glade whole and by force."

“It shall not be borne," The Erlking growled, his foxfire eyes narrow as a blade, curling its shadowy talons in clear anger. “This day I hunt the Dead One's children, I shall reave them anon — and send to her their death agony as tribute."

“That settles it, the Gatekeeper needs to die. Today." Bart said, palms going flat on the table as he met the Erlking's eyes firmly, Cithara blanched a bit.

“Today, dear one? That is sudden," She said in light protest, yet Bart shook his head, stabbing a finger at the mass.

“This thing is birthing infinite horrors into the laps of good men — and my friends, my family. They cannot last, I have dallied enough here, given this thing enough headway," he said, the Unicorn's concerned features hardened, and she nodded.

“The time aligns correctly, it must have come to the Fort at the same time as the one within the Glade," she said, setting her teeth and drawing breath through them in frustration, Bart met her gaze.

“Trust me, My Lady. This is what you founded our Order for. I know what must be done," he said with absolute certainty, his mind made up. She stared at him in surprise a moment, and then with a warmth touched the edges of her mouth she nodded in approval.

“Today, my Champion."

Bart's head lifted to the Erlking who regarded him with curiosity. “I will not pretend to understand your... Hunters and their tactics, so I will instead give you a target." He said, gesturing to the massed forces. The Map itself showed the army had encircled the whole of the fortress all the way to the trees — and a mass of bodies both man and... other, had taken up residence in the access corridor he had dueled Parias in after the gates had fallen. He tapped the thoroughfare with a finger.

“We shall clear the middle. Break the splitting of the siege and rally the internal forces. You strike at the edges. Anything larger than a man I want dead as bloody and brutal as possible." He said, and the Erlking nodded, his posture interested, inquisitive.

“Thy shall have thy brutality in spades. Me and Mine will carve a bloody sigil into this ground ere will nary be forgotten by the Dead One nor Man alike," The Sidhe Lord agreed, standing and meeting Bart's gaze. “Wilt thou manage alone, O Prey of mine? I would be most displeased were I denied my hunt by foolishness."

“Worry not, I will not be alone," He said, meeting Cithara's gaze, her golden eyes growing steely hard as she nodded, and Bart met the alien warlord's face once more; “Have faith."

The Erlking paused, and threw back his head, laughing erupting from his hidden lips at that — and he carried that laughter with him as he strode from the room, the peals turning into a malicious cackle as he summoned a great, green-flamed mount, clawing its way from the ground in a gout of emerald fire. A hellish mix of horse, elk, and unknown fauna that stamped and clawed at the ground with split hooves that ended in talons. The Erlking's baleful laughter pealed and rang as he tore forth into the woods at speed. A brassy, hollow blast of a hunting horn split the air. The Wild Hunt rode.

“No sense in wasting time," Bart said, picking up his helmet and gauntlets, sweeping his sword belt up as he walked towards the door. Cithara paused behind him as he buckled it on, shifting the massive blade into its comfortable and now-familiar hang at his side.

“A moment, my love... I am under-dressed," she said. Stepping forward, her orbit flared with an intensity he'd never seen before, blasting the air away from her, rattling the cups and map on the table as her aurum eyes ignited in golden flame, every yellow glinting tracery upon her body illuminated in a manifestation of absolute power. Bart was forced to shield his eyes as the swirling sphere of her power grew to an intensity as if to rival the sun itself. Within it, there was a clatter and singing sound of steely metal and mystic manifestation. Her form was obscured but for the shadow of her being within the swelling luminous tempest, and then like a soap bubble meeting the sharp end of a needle, it vanished in a rush of light and sudden shadow. Bart blinked his dazzled eyes clear, looking over at his beloved.

Cithara stepped forward, her frame was no longer the petite, doe-like body that cuddled close to his chest at night and whispered sweet nothings in his ear, nay she stood now fully hoof to withers on par with the mightiest war horse. She also was in full panoply — her glorious form armored nose to haunches in a suit of glimmering golden barding, gleaming like hammered-out fistfuls of good coin, and yet even here he could sense the durability of the mystical suit. Heavier than any he'd seen, a massive peytral protected her chest — set with the same Lidless Eye sigil as his own surcoat, draping sheets of golden mail lined her belly and flanks, with matching flanchard, croupiere, and criniere protecting her flanks and neck the same way his tassets and gorget did him. She smiled at him from behind a glittering helmet-like chanfron set around her massive, gleaming horn — at her current size it had gone from a smallsword to a true heavy saber, its corkscrew length seeming even more deadly at this scale. All of this was topped by a military saddle, one conspicuously free of reins and bit... clearly, she did not require them.

“Come, my love, we ride."

~ ~ ~

They made good time, Bart felt strange to be atop her in such a... different context, but the way she moved beneath him was otherworldly, never in his life had the Paladin been astride so nimble a mount. Her hooves seemed to barely alight upon the earth, and her gallop half-sprang, half-ran, as if she were lighter than air.

“Do you have a plan, my love?" She asked as they galloped through the woods, he had no reins to grip but the saddle horn provided him plenty of purchase, he shrugged his shoulders, laughing a little as they cleared another bluff, the shape of the walls of Fort Ivory beginning to loom out of the misty forest.

“I planned to charge them and start swinging!" He crowed, and she twisted her head back at him as he started to laugh, her eyes alarmed... but also amused.

“You call that a plan, dear one?"

“I said I had one, I never said it was good!"

“My champion the barbarian!" she huffed with a titter, but poured on more speed as the sun broke through the mystic woods, and for the first time in a year — Bart tasted the air of the mortal realm, felt the natural sunlight upon his face. His breath left him, blinking away the feeling of unreality as... he cast his eyes upon the gates he'd fled from Parias through.

They were in shambles. Both sides of the Fort's concourse were shattered and torn asunder, hanging from their massive hinges by twisted threads of metal and splintered wood... and within the walkable path where he'd witnessed the Wendigo's gruesome might, stood a host of horrors.

There was perhaps a full company of irregulars milling around, halfway between a military posting and a refugee camp, the entire area was spotted with knots of men and monsters around greasy cookfires and staked, flensed bodies of fallen defenders hoisted up as grisly totems. Bart reigned himself in as he lost count of his enemies at fifty. There were more than enough to sate the boiling sea of rage that roiled up in his guts.

“I need to be heard," He said from where they stood, still unnoticed. Cithara nodded and her orbit flared, eyes aglow.

“Speak as you would my love, all will hear."

Bart clapped down his visor, and with a shriek of singing steel — he drew the First Blade, its pitted iron and perfect edge gleaming golden-black in the sunlight as he held it aloft.

“IN THE NAME OF GOD!" he thundered, and his voice rocked the very earth boosted as it was by Cithara's mystical might; his thunderous proclamation startled birds, rattled trees, and even blew dust from the fallen gates — and the response was immediate. The nearest monstrosities and cursed men looked up and scrambled backward, grasping at weapons as Bart in turn — grasped the mantle. Golden flames leapt up his blade, and his lone eye flared into a furious torch of aurum light, smoldering like an open flame, leaving glorious tracers in its wake as he moved.

“MAKE THY PEACE, FOR VENGEANCE IS THE LORD'S — AND I HIS INSTRUMENT!" he roared, shaking even more of the walls and scattering the rabble before him as they scrambled to find weapons and create some semblance of a defense with their wizened, twisted frames. Atop the walls, the defenders stirred, pointing and running as Cithara reared, her orbit flaring again — her and Bart linked heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul — he needed not give her direction, they were as one. A great wrathful sheathe of crackling, killing energy sheathed her savage horn, and Bart took his blade in hand as she came down in a full-force, barreling charge — Bart's voice raised in one final bellow as they lit off at speed.

“OMNIA VINCIT AMOR!"

The battle was then joined, and with it, the world shook.

Cithara's mystical mass carried with her like a bow wave as they crashed into the rushed defenses of the Plagued Men, she and Bart struck as one, horn and blade, flame and killing energy reaving and rending apart. Bart hewed and hacked, rising in his stirrups to wield his sword with both hands as he cut a gruesome swath through the defenders, bodies ripped apart, stomped lifeless beneath Cithara's wicked-edged cloven hooves, burned alive by the hungry golden flames of God's Wrath. They were a rolling wave of death and fury — most terrifying of all was Cithara, the Queen of Love in full panoply was an awe-inspiring force, and all who stood before her died. Died screaming.

It was as mere moments before they'd covered fully half the distance, and left a trail of dead and dying in their wake twice as wide as their own gait, Cithara's voice raised in an inhuman song of battle that spurred Bart's heart and muscles, and seemed to rend at the ears and mind of the devilish forces arrayed against them. Her orbit flared around them as they rode, shearing and blasting apart anything that made contact with them as they barreled through, a searing comet of blades and holy energy.

“There!" Bart shouted as they rode — before them rose up one of the great Hecatoncheires, lumbering around the gates they had shattered a year before by Bart's reckoning. Its body was a fused mass of a hundred or more men, all writhing in agony and hatred. Cithara raised her head, song keening louder as she barreled directly at it, Bart's whipping cloak snapping behind as he bellowed a challenge at the monster, one it answered with a foghorn roar of its own.

Cithara leapt into the air, igniting herself like a star as she did, her orbit immolating a dozen men, dashing the heads of several more howling Ghuls beneath her hooves as she bucked her hindquarters, and Bart kicked free in perfect synchronicity of movement — and in that moment he took flight.

Boosted by her powerful throw and his own grasp of the mantle — blade aflame with holy energy, his lone eye left golden contrails of fury as he vaulted forward like a ballista bolt, a human missile of holy might. The giant swung at him in midair, but was too slow — Bart came crashing down upon the swinging arm as it missed and buried its hundred-handed, grisly mass into the ground in an earth-shattering crater that would have smeared him across the field like a bug. Yet sure of foot, the burly Paladin charged up the street-wide arm, laying into it as he went, lopping great chunks of flesh and errant grasping once-human arms free, a roar of pure battle-mad rage tearing his throat as he never once stopped or hesitated, bringing his searing blade high — he mounted the abomination's shoulder as it recoiled.

“DIE, MONSTER!" he bellowed, swinging the massive blade down — this was it, the test of his mettle and the magic of man and blade alike. Were it to deflect, stop short — he would be dead, the beast would end him before he could draw back for a second swing. He grasped his mantle and howled a wordless war cry and put every iota of might he could manage into one, perfect cut. Daedolon's lessons like second nature as it fell with picture-perfect execution, perfect synchronicity of blade and body.

The First Blade did not disappoint.

It cut across at a diagonal angle with the monster's horrid, root-like sinews of its neck... and nary slowed down a bit. Through muscle and bone, it sheared, cutting and cleaving its way with authority, laying open the monster's neck all the way to the twisted, horrific nest of bone and human cadavers that made up its mutated spine — all the while fountaining fetid gore across the Paladin's form. The Hecatoncheires bellowed a pained gurgle and fell backward, its massive scale making its movements seem slow and ponderous as it fell to one knee, Bart never slowing down as he leapt free of the swatting hand that rose to crush him, inverting the blade — he stabbed it down into the beast's back and let himself fall, dragging a horrid line of gutting, rending wounds down as the Absolute Iron gleefully feasted upon its favored foe, showering Bart in a fountain of black and yellow ichor as the monster screamed its agony as the blade's hilt stuttered in Bart's grip as it cleaved through flesh and bone as if it were a tapestry in a fireside story of heroes.

Cithara's frame leapt into view again, her body a searing nimbus of magic as she drove down at the towering, wounded behemoth, her hooves struck its head with such a force that the impact visibly displaced air and dust in a shockwave, crushing the creature's brow and the crown of its head like an overripe melon, its head didn't simply crumble — it exploded — what parts of it were not simply driven by the furious Queen of Love's might straight down into the ruined stump of its neck.

She sailed past again, landing lightly on her feet next to Bart as he hit the ground in a run, grasping her saddlehorn and swinging himself back into the seat, as behind them both the giant fell forward in a gory ruin, crushing a score of its own defenders beneath its hacked, burning bulk. The two of them had broken through, ripping out across the open field towards where the Gatekeeper waited, the concourse routed in blood and flame.

“Hark!" She called to him, whipping her head around; “The defenders rally!" He twisted in the saddle, eyes on the walls. Out from the gates of the concourse had rushed a crush of armored bodies in a shocking opposite of the ragtag forces of the Plagued Men, shields and spears pressed the advantage as a flanking force of Calvary exploited the gap they had created, fully routing the enemy remnants in a sudden explosion of well-ordered violence, a familiar electric blue sash flapped at their front on an equally familiar black horse, a thick, curved blade lashing with preternatural strength at foes. Bart pumped his fist with a cry. Rashid! His friend lived! “Ha ha, YES! Forward! We have an appointment to keep!" He roared in triumph, and Cithara raised her battle song again on fiercely smiling lips, and they poured on even more speed, barreling towards the second line and destiny.

“Bart, I am weaker this far from my throne, I cannot so easily save you if you are wounded...." Cithara shouted across the din of battle and the thunder of her hooves, her worried eyes looked back to him as the army crested the horizon, a seething mass of black bodies and monstrous forms. Her face set hard and determined; “I have already expended much of what I gathered to myself breaking their line."

“I will make it enough," He growled, tightening his grip on his blade as they drove forwards, faster, faster until the sheer pressure of the wind threatened to tear him from the saddle, he felt... free. Exhilaration coursed through him like lifeblood, and together he and the Lady in White rode towards the crush of conflict as a single entity. In his mind, a million images rushed to him, the soft sighs of pleasure, the caress of lips and flesh. Happy laughs, and warm gazes exchanged in the dark of night. Quiet breathing as rain pattered on wooden shingles. His heart filled with his love for the Unicorn, for the woman she was. It spurred him and fired his passions and determination. It fueled him like fire, burning for justice and righteousness.

Were he to die here, for this — it would have been a life well-lived.

The army rose up above them like a teeming mass, behind them the defenders had rapidly finished their rout of the enemy forces, and had begun to build defensive lines of the concourse... and alone on the killing field between fortress and milling host, was the streaking white and gold form of the Lady in White and her chosen champion. He raised his blade, jabbing it forward.

“It rises to meet us!" He crowed, and indeed, shambling up from within the teeming riot of irregulars and monsters was the twisted, tormented form of the Gatekeeper. Bart's heart hammered his chest as he saw it was massive, easily half-again or more the size of the one they slew in the Glade, its features in-line but different. Where the other's strangely conjoined skull had resembled two dog-like forms joined — this one was distinctly bovine, a crown of twisted, gnarled horns around its head — three such skulls fused together in a hideous trinity around that perfectly round, gaping hole where its eyes should be. Rearing its strangely serpentine form above its massed forces, its three mouths split in an echoing, bestial screech that split the air like a jagged blade, its asymmetrical limbs gesturing violently forward — and with it came the answering call of the infantry of men and monsters rushing forwards.

Bart raised his blade and with an instinctive grasp of his mantle — he answered with a clarion call of human defiance, his voice matched the impossible monster's note for note and Cithara poured on the speed — there was nothing else for it, no other way but through. Here they lived or died by the cut of a blade — and there was no other way he would have had it.

It was then, that the very sky itself split. The roar of the paladin was answered by a haunting blast of a horn, and above them rolled and roiled a cloud, a seeming sudden surge of foggy stormcloud that roiled up from the Sidhewood like billowing smoke. The horn sounded again, and within where one might have expected crackles of thunder and forks of lightning, instead... was the eerie glow of foxfire.

From within the cloudbank burst the Erlking, his impossible mount lathered and storming across the sky on trails of verdant flame as if the empty air were doughty turf. In one hand a massive hooked blade, the other a curled hunting horn. He raised it to his shadowed lips and blew another clarion blast... and the foggy embankment erupted.

Hundreds, nay thousands of smaller, fox-fire-limned forms broke free, a thundering, howling, and screaming bow wave of sidhe warriors and inhuman forms on mounts of every possible shape and size. Eyes and limbs varied from two to six and every arrangement in between, all united in the baleful viridian fire of their mantles.

The Wild Hunt rode.

Like a streaking meteor the galloping mass of ethereal riders arched over the Fort, converging at Bart's back as they rode towards the enemy lines, meeting and passing him up — they made contact with the enemy force like a gigantic pincer, hitting it from either side like flame-spitting hammer-blows, the fae hunters ripping into the Empty Queen's forces like a scythe through a field of grain, the casualties mounting by the dozens every moment that passed, chewing their way through the amassed force as if they were a living thing filled with terrible hunger. Bart laughed and leaned forward further in his saddle, eyes focused on the Gatekeeper. To his left, the massive form of the Erlking joined him, his mount's flame-limned hooves never quite touching the earth as he raised his own blade.

“WELL STRUCK, O PREY O MINE. WE SHALL OPEN THE WAY." he thundered, his voice raised in raucous laughter at the sheer scale of the bloodshed, and he spurred away, his maniacal cackle following him as with him came an arm of the invading hunters. They struck the line ahead of him almost at the same time he did, and before him, they parted the way, bodies and monsters fell like reeds in the wind, hacked and torn asunder by blades, claws, and teeth. Cithara's glimmering golden hooves leapt over the fallen as the Erlking plowed the way ahead of them clear personally, his massive hooked sword literally slicing whole towering ghuls in twain. To Bart's left, he saw another Hecatoncheires bellow its death-agony as it was swarmed over by a seething mass of foxfire forms, all swinging blades and gnashing teeth. The Wendigo's forces were crumbling beneath the onslaught, but it was up to Cithara and him to strike the telling blow.

The melee suddenly cleared before them, the Erlking and his kin peeled off as they continued to harry the forces, and before the white and gold pair rose the Gatekeeper. This close Bart was sure it was double the size of the one he'd taken on before and carried many more limbs. It reared, its eyeless face tracking to the two of them perfectly, drawn to the holy energies it fed upon, it gave another hooting shriek and spread its multifarious limbs in a grotesque challenge... and its gruesome ribcage opened again.

Within it were naught one tortured soul, but three melded bodies howling in agony. Bart felt his guts twist, and Cithara screamed in wordless maternal rage and suddenly poured on even more speed as she raised her voice in a clarion call for Bart's ears only.

“DESTROY THAT ABOMINATION! KILL IT FOR ME MY CHAMPION, I WILL HEAR its SCREAMS!" she howled, the rage of which he had no gauge of its magnitude turning her beautiful voice terrible as she drove him forward.

They closed the distance, and she again leapt into the air, a searing meteor of holy energies, Bart felt his own internal reservoir ignite — She was pouring her power into him, giving him everything he could manage. His blood felt aflame, his nerves danced with holy might and his muscles surged. He leapt from her back, blade in hand as she sailed over the behemoth's towering frame. A wordless roar of echoing fury left his lips with throat-shattering intensity as he dropped from the sky like a catapult stone.

“DIE SCREAMING, MONSTER!" he snarled, and he struck the miscreation, his blade led the blow, both hands bracing it downwards into a reverse-gripped thrust. He grasped for the Mantle, his one eye igniting like a golden torch as he poured every ounce of enhancement he could into his brawny frame.

He struck the beast like a calamity, his blow landed true on its bleached skull with a crack that shattered the air and pierced his ears painfully, so loud was it that it even drew the eyes of surrounding Wild Hunter warriors as Bart's impacting weight nearly drove the monster to ground, its massive body recoiling to attempt to ground the sheer shock of force he'd just imparted upon it. Bart held fast, the First Blade buried nearly to the hilt in the thing's skull, square where all three bovine structures melded together. It screamed its pain and flailed, shaking its head back and forth like a wild animal, the Paladin holding fast, bracing his booted feet and twisting the blade to and fro, widening the wound and sending more pain down the monster's quaking form. He'd learned from their first encounter, the creature's great size just meant he had to strike harder.

The monstrosity howled louder and reached up to claw at him, Bart batted away the flailing talons with fists and booted feet, his strength still enhanced by the surging power of the mantle, it struggled against his preternatural grit, both of them nearly a match for one another in sheer raw might as he drank deep of the Queen of Love's power. The wound widened further, Bart setting his arm against it — the cranial plate beginning to lever up as he pressed it — he didn't know if this monster had a brain to smash, but he planned to find out.

The creature shrieked and in desperation swung its head downwards, striking its face into the dirt with bone-cracking force, the blow knocking Bart loose, sending him flying backward through the blood-soaked ground, tumbling through mangled bodies and the still-dying as he found his feet and came up fighting; digging his gauntlet-clad fingers into the turf for purchase after no less than two bounces — the First Blade still firmly lodged in the monster's skull, leaving Bart unarmed, or so the creature thought. He spat to the side through the slits of his visor, his eye igniting in golden fire as he saw the monster recover, looming over him.

“Tell me, you ugly bastard," He rasped as it rushed, he reached for the mantle — reached for the power deep in his heart. “I can endure," he snarled — He remembered the lessons, he drew in energy from around him, pulling from the earth, the bodies, and the monster itself. His heart pounded like a forge hammer against his chest as he raised his hand — and in his palm crackled into being a glaring lance of scintillating lightning.

“CAN YOU!?" he bellowed, full of scorn, his heart screaming in turn as it labored under the mantle's power to create the electric feedback that fed the thunderstroke grasped in clenching fists, the monster opened its multifarious mouth to howl — and Bart hurled his crackling missile.

Straight into the First Blade's protruding hilt.

The thunderbolt left him and with it took a great deal of his might, and he fell briefly to one knee, but the effect was instantaneous. The crackling holy bolt lanced through the creature's body, causing it to jolt upright as its unholy sinews spasmed and jerked to their extremes — the buried blade conducted its divine charge directly down into the creature's brainpan, sizzling synapses and blasting literal chunks out of it as it finally found ground through its many flailing limbs. The force of the shock blew the Absolute Iron blade free of its mooring, the weapon landing point down mere strides from Bart, smoking but otherwise unharmed. The big paladin grinned and took off at a run, snatching the still-warm weapon from the turf and turning it to a high guard.

“Beloved!" Came a cry to his side, Cithara had not been idle, her beautiful coat and gleaming armor coated in gore and ichor, having joined ranks with the Wild Hunt to keep his flanks clear during their duel, and now they came together, Bart swinging himself back into the saddle.

“Together!" He shouted as she leapt into the air, clearing the shaken monster's sweeping claws as she poured more of herself into him, feeding his Ember directly from the source, his eye blazed with golden light like an aurum torch beneath his helm, and he conjured another crackling spear, feeding all of that energy into it. Cithara's song of battle rose as she touched her killing horn to his hand, magnifying the energy, feeding it with her own directly — the grasped bolt expanded, turning from a lance to a scintillating beam of golden fury so bright the nearby Plagued Men shielded their eyes, and later it would be said the defenders could see it from the furthest ramparts of Fort Ivory.

“OMNIA VINCIT AMOR!" they bellowed as one, the tongue of heaven coming to them unbidden as Cithara's powerful neck and Bart's brawny arm swung down at once, together. Love Conquers All. Screamed from the throat of the Queen of Love and her King-Consort, God's wrath momentarily made flesh.

The thunderbolt drove down — no longer a mere spear — a blade of crackling golden light, driven down by the soaring form of the Lady in White and her champion born. It drilled into the creature's cracked skull, down through its body, the thundercrack of its impact blasting the air clear of Bart's lungs, blowing Wild Hunt and Plagued Men alike away by the sheer overpowering expenditure of energy. It ravaged the monster's body, blew free from it limbs, bones, and hunks of meat and viscera as it ran through the titanic monster the same way one would drag a gutting knife through a fish. It writhed and collapsed as the discharging energy literally blew its skull in twain across the crack he'd struck with his sword, the two halves gruesomely flopping to either side as the beast itself fell, twitching and writhing to the floor.

“Quickly, Bart!" Cithara gasped as she landed, stumbling, clearly drained from the effort of pouring her might into the strike; “The Captured Paladins! My boys! End them before it drains them to recover!" she wailed, her legs giving out as Bart leapt from her saddle, his own body feeling heavy as he was forced to relinquish his grasp on the mantle as his heart shrieked and thundered in his chest.

Indeed, the monster was writhing, and the trio of souls screamed as its body began to regenerate. Bart screamed a rousing battle cry and dug deep for his last reserves of strength, he slammed into the twitching monster, making it gurgle a feeble cry as it flopped over, its cracked and blasted ribcage open to the sky — within it the trio of trapped souls wailed, their eyes aglow with the stolen energies, their mantles drained by the monster as it rapidly regrew limbs, flesh and bone.

“My brothers..." He gasped, hurdling a flailing limb and planting his feet on the disabled monster's chest. “May the Lady sing thee to thy rest," His blade raised, and he drove it down. There were more screams, from the souls and the beast itself as he sawed and pried, cutting a brutal incision into it like a hellish surgery, hacking their fused bodies away from its horrific innards. With a final effort, he dug his armored fingers deep into the mass, and with a roar of defiance echoing the first encounter with this fell abomination's kind — he wrenched their desecrated bodies free, throwing himself and the three enmeshed men clear of the Gatekeeper as the unholy monster began to scream in panicked agony.

The portal in its gut flared, twitching and churning it threw itself wide, shuddering and twisting its rippling black surface like a sheet of silk floating on boiling water... and it began to peel the creature apart. Chunks of flesh and then whole limbs sucked into the collapsing gateway, the creature compressed in on itself with a sickening crunch of flesh and bone, a slurping sound that turned Bart's stomach accompanying a hellish scream of unknowable agony as the portal imploded — and sucked the monster's whole body within it bit by flesh-rending bit. It clawed at the earth as if to save itself until every scrap of meat and sinew was flensed from its frame and sucked back whence it hailed, until only the grinning thrice-fused skull remained, cleaved in half by Bart's thunderous strike. The portal winked out with a snapping sound — and that dead skull fell unceremoniously to the earth, clipped from the monster's neck in but a moment, digging a small crater as its two parts landed. Dead.

There was a deafening silence as Cithara limped over to Bart and the three dying souls, Bart leaned down to them, raising his visor at the men as they writhed, he reached for the mantle instinctively but Cithara touched his arm with her horn.

“Nay, beloved... I will ease their passing," she said mournfully, settling down and pulling the horrifically conjoined men to her breasts; “Oh... Ser Wallace, Ser Bertrand, and Ser Godfrey. My dearest boys..." She wailed softly, tears pouring from her eyes as she pressed her lips to each one's brow in soft kisses, they shuddered, clearly still in pain but their eyes glimmered with hope.

“We... fought..." Wallace breathed, his long hair matted to his skull.

“With… every... breath." Bertrand asserted, his beard caked in viscera but still full.

“We never... gave up hope...not... Ever." finished Godfrey, his hair a golden flax beneath the black ichor and slime. Cithara nodded and pressed them close in quiet, wailing sorrow as her power gently glowed, and all three men's eyes closed, smiles on their cracked lips. Bart lowered his head, blade down — brow on its pommel.

Then, he prayed.

And then, they died.

Around them, the silence was slowly broken by the return of the sounds of battle, Bart's gaze spied ferocious fighting — but far from them, the Wild Hunt shearing through the remaining forces with feral aplomb. The day was won, all but for the bleeding.

“Hail and well-met, O Prey O Mine." came the rumble of the Erlking, he strode across the battlefield, caked in gore, with a veritable skirt of severed heads of man and monster alike dangling from his belt. Trophies of the hunt.

“Hail, Horned Hunter," Bart said tiredly, Cithara still quietly weeping as Bart unhooked his cloak, and laid its enspelled white cloth across the dead men's conjoined bodies, the Lidless Eye of God staring up towards heaven as if to guide their way.

“Twas well-struck, O Prey O Mine. A mighty blow against a foe well beyond your ken." The Erlking laughed, beating his chest in exultation. “Prithee, bring such might to the day I come for thee, and I will welcome our dance."

“You can count on it, Lord of the Sidhewood," Bart said stiffly, spitting blood to one side. A million tiny blows and cuts ached, but... he was remarkably whole. The Definitive Harness had guarded him well. “I do not die easily."

“Verily, O Prey O mine. Verily." he laughed again and strode off towards the remaining carnage, his mount once more gushing in a tongue of foxfire flame from the earth and carrying its rider towards further slaughter.

Bart turned back, Cithara struggled to her hooves, legs buckling under her. She shuddered and in a glowing nimbus, she seemed to... slowly dissolve. Bart gave a cry, reaching towards her as golden energy peeled off her in a field of particles, but she shook her head at him.

“Wait, Love... all... is well," she breathed, and her body collapsed to the ground, and off her peeled even more swirling motes of gold and white... until all that remained, was Cithara. Plain, doe-like Cithara. The woman who had lain in his arms at night laughed at his antics and smiled. Gone was the golden barding and destrier-like mass.

“Mine own power is... quite weak. We are far enough from my Throne, that I must marshal my energies, carry them with me... that final blow taxed me greatly." She explained, struggling back upright after a moment, her eyes tired but smiling. “I merely must rest, my love."

Bart exhaled explosively, his relief palpable. He drew up his blade and looked back to the fortress. Runners were on their way, he saw the pennants snapping in the breeze of the Lidless Eye. His Order. Bart lowered his visor... he felt unsure about himself just yet. What would they think of this random champion, wearing armor torn from history, wielding a blade equally ageless? Better for his heart to be anonymous, just a little longer.

The party arrived shortly, Bart standing over the covered corpses of his fallen Brothers, blade in hand like some gleaming eidolon, Cithara raised her head as they reined up short, each one's eyes wide. At their lead was a tall man, of age with Bart and of a height with him, armored for battle and wearing a plumed helm in the colors of the order — at hand a brutal-looking Bec-de-Corbin, its razor-edged speartip and cruel curving pick-and-hammer head mirrored back in the ranks of all the riders in place of traditional heavy lances. A glance showed its vicious, elegant blade worn and stained with time and battle. A warrior, and seasoned. He snapped up his visor, raising a hand to his breast in a pious salute to Cithara.

“My Lady! We witnessed your flight, we have come to render you assistance," he said in a sonorous voice, within his visor he had a handsome face, truly Bart's opposite; where Bart was rounded and smooth, the cavalier was angular and sharp — his face deeply set with the lean features of Darrowmere, along with its dark hair and cool complexion. He was a striking man of high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and an aquiline nose. His face was clean-shaven save for two long, drooping mustaches that made Bart think sadly of Daedolon.

“Hail, my son," Cithara said in a quiet voice. “Your aid is welcome... I fear that display cost me much. Please... my boys." she said to the cloaked corpses beside her. “They should not be left here with the cursed ones."

The men looked at each other, and the lead man nodded. Two of the cavaliers dismounted and set about gently ferrying the draped bodies to the back of one of the horses, strapping it down gingerly as their leader met Bart's eyes through his visor.

“Ser, I know not who you are — but we are in your debt. Your strength of arms won us this day, I would call you friend," he said, raising his polearm in salute. “I am known as Gram Baudelaire, a simple man-at-arms. Commander of this detachment of the Ivory Spears. May I know thee?" he asked, a touch of ritual to it. Bart smiled and raised his visor, causing the man to draw back slightly at his scarred, Bi-colored visage.

“I am Bartholomus Mueller, Paladin of the Radiant Order, and King-Consort of the Queen of Love," he announced proudly, Cithara's nose coloring slightly as he mentioned her. She was adorable when she blushed, a welcome refrain from the horror of battle.

“Well Met, Ser Bartholomus. Come, we have brought a spare mount in case we found you wounded. Let us away from this carnage, it is poor for the humors." he said, and Bart found himself already liking the tall, dark-haired man.

“Indeed, let us away," he said, reaching out his hand to Cithara as they both walked towards the group. He had plenty of battle for one day. She pressed close to him, her eyes haunted still. Truly, they both had.

~ ~ ~

“Gram? GRAM!" came a familiar call as they re-entered the fortress proper, dismounting at the internal gates to the western wing. Bart turned his helmed face to see a small, red-haired bolt shoot through the crowd, hurling itself into the arms of the tall cavalier. Lidia! Bart's heart soared as he saw his dear friend, hale and whole... and burying her face in the tall man's armored chest. He hugged her back, albeit with clear discomfort for the public display of such affection.

“I am whole, Little Redcap," he said to her, his face amazingly gentle, she looked up at him, tears gleaming in her eyes before she looked over to the rest, just in time for Bart to unhitch his helmet, revealing his scarred visage wholly. Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, gleaming with their fae shine.

“BART!" she cried, and tore herself free of Gram's embrace, hitting the burly Paladin like a red-headed catapult stone. Bart laughed and caught her, spinning her around and giving her a gentle squeeze as he lifted her up, lips spread in a wide grin. “Ye fookin' bastard!" she hissed, and slammed her fist into his breastplate with a hollow gonging sound, wincing as she did, looking back up at him. “I thought ye dead!"

“No, not for lack of trying on Parias' part," He said, grinning at her as he set her back down. “I made a promise, remember?" he said to her, and her eyes once more filled with glimmering tears, and she sniffed loudly.

“Yeah... yeah ye did..." she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands, smiling in spite of her weeping, her freckled face splotchy — she had not the complexion to cry as some women did, much like his mother. She broke after a moment, and threw herself back into his arms with a wail, burying her face in his neck as she bawled. Bart simply held her, meeting Gram's eyes across her back... he seemed untroubled, his face serene. He simply nodded once.

“I thought ye dead... I... I... dinnae know what tae do... I... I... didn't want tae believe it but... they went lookin' after th' armored one left. Th-they found so much blood..." she sniffled and wailed again, hugging him close.

“Oh god, Bart... I'm so, so happy... ye came back... ye... ye kept ye promise."

“What sort of Paladin goes around breaking promises?" he asked, his own throat tight with unshed tears, she pushed back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. Looking him over.

“Ye god... ye look... different. Oh god, yer eye..." she breathed, touching his face, hands trembling. “Ye face... god..." she was speechless, and simply stared at him with mute wonder and renewed hope. He smiled at her, and gently ruffled her hair. A clatter drew his attention, and he looked up to see more familiar faces.

“Th' dandy ne'er believed ye dead," she breathed, and as Bart looked on, Nazir came into view, his khol-lined eyes wild with joy, a grin so wide his skull seemed ready to split in half as he closed the distance, reaching out and seizing Bart's hand.

“My dearest of friends! I knew by the Learned One's own scales you were too tough to be bested by some pompous lunatic in a bad hood!" he crowed, and Bart laughed, shaking his head.

“It was a near thing, brother mine," he said, drawing him into a tight, back-slapping hug as well. Nazir's grin also faded as he looked Bart over more, but he did not weep as Lidia did, but simply made a faint warding gesture and gave his friend's hand a squeeze.

“You have a story to tell, no?" Nazir offered, and Bart merely nodded.

“Dear God, Bart..." Naima breathed walking up behind her twin, her arm still in a sling from where he'd crushed her hand during his sickness. “It is you... my word, you've changed." she breathed, looking at him with eyes alight with truth. She was a carrier of a mantle as well, she doubtlessly could sense the changes to more than his outside to some degree. He pushed past his two friends to the tiny woman.

“I am different... but in wonderful ways... and I believe I made you a promise," he said, and boldly, took her hand from the makeshift sling, she winced in pain but before she could protest, he reached for his mantle. His eye glowed softly, and a luminescence engulfed his hand. In his mind, Cithara's soft teachings echoed, a lesson taught with a wounded bird found in the glade.

“Gently, she is small... guide them back to place one by one." Bart nodded to himself and the memory alike, touching her twisted, crumpled fingers. The radiance flowed out from him and he envisioned her small hands as he knew them. Gentle, strong. Capable. Naima's eyes widened as her fingers straightened, the flesh pinked up, bruises faded and wholeness was restored. She flexed them a few times and then looked up at Bart's face, her own splitting into a grin.

“You did it, you're a Paladin now." she breathed, and he nodded.

“I told you I would fix it. I keep my word," he said, leaning down to kiss her tiny, delicate fingers before looking around. “Where is Rashid? I wish to meet all my friends anew." Naima smiled and took her hand back.

“He is out with the Spears, doing his duty. He will be back, God willing. Come... let us go somewhere that doesn't smell of carrion and fear, we have much to catch up on."

Bart simply nodded. Nazir grinned and pumped his fist with a crow of delight, and Lidia had taken back up to standing near Gram, his large, long-fingered hand entwined with her own. Yes... yes, it seemed they truly did. Bart opened his mouth, turning to speak to his friends as he tucked his gauntlets in his belt... and instead saw Naima's eyes go wide, and to her sides, Nazir and Lidia followed suit. Gram's face was solemn as he drew his arm across his chest in a salute, followed by all of the other men-at-arms, falling to one knee around him and everyone else with a clatter of armor. A company of men bowing their heads in reverence. Bart turned suddenly, and a smile spread across his face as a familiar voice spoke:

“Hello to you all. You must be whom my Dear one has spoken of so, so highly." Cithara stood at the gate's threshold, her coat shimmering and pure once more, her orbit's magic having whisked her clean of the gore and grime of battle so she shone like the sun. All around them, the defenders of Fort Ivory took a knee in respect as she clopped past delicately, smiling at them and giving a playfully rueful sigh.

“Every generation I ask them not to do this, and every generation they disobey." she chided the men softly as she joined Bart at his side, only Gram's eyes were not somewhat wild, having witnessed her in her aspect within the battle up-close. The Unicorn stepped up to the trio and then called back to the door.

“Are you coming, Sister's Blade? Or would you have me introduce myself?" Behind them, his bulk nigh-filling the gatehouse's threshold was Rashid. Bloodied and battle-worn, but whole. His blade was stained as well as his electric blue slash, yet his eyes and face remained untouched by the horror, the same serenity there he'd always seen. He smiled and walked past her, carrying the same casual reverence for the Queen of Love that Bart had grown into. He understood the burly Akali now.

“Of course, Blessed One," he said, and Cithara gave him a devastating smile as he joined his wife and brother-in-law, looking down at his tiny bride's whole hands, eyes going to Cithara, who shook her head as he cradled the revived digits.

“Not mine. Bart did that. He's an able student." the Lady in White said, causing Bart to blush.

“Hardly, I'm a gross kluge with the mystic arts, but I made sure to learn that. I made a promise." he protested, getting a quiet titter from Cithara as she moved closer to the trio of adventurers.

“My beloved has spoken of you all, of your deeds and your hearts. I am full glad to be able to meet you properly, as you deserve," she said, turning her eyes to Lidia, who had been left standing awkwardly when Gram's kneeling had broken their embrace, the Aspect of Love stepped closer to her.

“Particularly you, changeling. He has spoken of you with great warmth and longing for family. May I have your name from your own lips?" she asked, tilting her head and giving her an encouraging smile. “I am afraid there are rules for mine own... but my boys understand the secret, do they not?" she said a bit louder, and Gram once again leading, clashed his fist to his breastplate, all of the men-at-arms following in unison, in one voice.

“Until the Pale Dawn calls us!"

“Such wonderful boys." she smiled. Lidia blanched and looked around, taking the edges of her tunic and raising them in an awkward curtsy crossed at the ankle, her bright green eyes round as dinner plates.

“L-Lidia. Lidia Shaw, Lady." she stammered in a small voice. The brash little thief completely on the back foot, he'd seen her face down horrors in the dark, and men of station without fear — but the kind gaze of the Unicorn stripped her to the bone, and to it she was defenseless. “'Ahm jus' a... Jus' a sneak thief from Lachheim's gutters, Lady. Surely Big Bro- erm... I mean, Ser Bart is exaggeratin'." she managed, her Heartlands accent thick with agitation as Cithara giggled gently.

“Be at ease, Lidia. I have been told no lies by tongue, Bart's heart spoke to me, and it knows not how to bear a falsehood, as I am sure you are aware." she soothed the girl, who blushed furiously at that.

“I am the Lady in White, Queen of Love, and Holy Beast of Our Lord in Ivory." she said with regal poise, but simply shook her mane out and added in a quiet tone; “You may call me Cithara."

“You still ended up introducing yourself, beloved," Bart noted from her side, the unicorn shooting him back an arch look he answered only with a bemused smile. His companions' eyes danced between them with a quiet kernel of realization yet beginning to bloom.

“She is... so small." came of all people — Naima. The little Alchemist out of all of them, overwhelmed by the presence of the Unicorn. Cithara tilted her head at that, a smile coming to her lips as her golden eyes took in Naima's familiar appearance.

“As are you! One would think you would be accustomed to authority within compact packaging," she asked wryly, getting an embarrassed blush from the southern woman.

“My apologies Lady I... I honestly do not know what came over me, that was very out of character," she said, seeming absolutely mortified. The Unicorn only laughed.

“My sister must be a terrible scold after all this time if you are so worried about such things, I am small because I enjoy it. It makes the presence of my dear boys so very comforting," she said, looking up at Bart with warmth in her gaze, and then to Naima who took her words quite well, seeming reassured — then to the rest of them she spoke. “I want to meet you all, but going down the line in turn like this as we all stand smelling of sweat and blood is just dreadful, perhaps we can sit somewhere warm — with something tasty to sip upon, while my allies finish outside." she offered pleasantly.

“Will the Wild Hunt be so kind as that?" Gram asked in a respectful — but highly critical tone, Cithara turned her gaze to him, her gaze warm but her tone decidedly icy.

“Stay within the gates, man them. Bar access to all who would attempt to escape but leave not this fortress until the dawn my beloved. Nothing in that field will be left alive."

Gram blinked from that statement as if she'd slapped him, and a gentle discomforted murmur rippled through the assembled armsmen as he nodded. “Right then, you heard the Lady: man the gates, our guests are indiscriminate so let's make sure they have plenty of easier targets," he said, clashing the butt of his polearm on the stones, getting a series of salutes from the assembled men-at-arms, Cithara turning her gaze upon him.

“This means you are the one in charge then, my son?" she asked, Gram nodded.

“Provincially, My Lady. We lost a lot of command staff during the first month before we secured the underground from ghul incursions," he said, holding up Lidia's hand daintily. “The Little Redcap's first-hand knowledge of their tactics was invaluable in that, but alas a costly lesson to learn." Lidia blushed furiously, taking her hand away perhaps a bit more hesitantly than she otherwise would have.

“Nae much o' a feat, tellin' ye what kind o' holes they like," she said, looking away. The girl who sought nothing but praise now flummoxed when faced with an overabundance of it. Gram sensed his opening and thrust further.

“Nay, such by itself would be — but as well you also brought practical recon, who else taught them to slice the soft belly, or sluice them with lamp oil to weaken their hides with flame?" he challenged her, leaning towards her concernedly. “Nay, Little Redcap. I fear without you here to tell us what was happening, it would be all of us dead instead of a precious few."

Lidia's face was trying to mimic her favored red hood as she coughed and said. “Nae, Gram is the Field Commander o' the siege, but the proper Commander is laid up after takin' a bad knock tae the 'ead." she said, Gram nodded, accepting his win with quiet grace. “A ghul ambushed him in one of the early raids, bit down on the crown of his helmet. He's been comatose but alive since. I was but a seasoned Sergeant-at-arms, but the Ghuls seemed to know when and where and more importantly who our officers were, and set about eliminating them in these warren raids."

“That is because they likely did." Nazir ventured, breaking his silence as his mind worked through things — as was Nazir's way, the dandy's frivolity concealed a mind keener than any blade Bart had wielded. The party looked his way curiously — Cithara did so with an impressed expression. The dandy grinned a touch nervously and shrugged.

“We all saw the big one with the skulls, saw it... disgorging more and more of those terrible toothy things to which I wish to never have seen twice and yet have seen thrice in just this lifetime, a poor state of affairs," he said quickly, smoothly and earning himself a soft titter from the Unicorn as Bart grinned at the familiar presence of his friend.

“We know the Queen's creatures out there are... engaging in some fell magicks of some sort, it stands to reason they have — or had," he said, eyes going a bit distant as he shuddered “Thanks to our fair folk friends outside, some kind of diviner, some way of seeing or hearing us from far away. It just seems reasonable anything that can move... mass around, can move their perceptions just as easily." he said, his eyes a little wild as he gesticulated about him, Naima and Rashid seemed deadpan to it, Lidia smiling and Cithara's eyes were wide and approving.

“My dear, do you have any formal training in divine theory?" she asked him quietly.

“I listened while my sister studied, that's all," he said modestly with a disarming shrug, and an absolutely dazzling smile and the unicorn could only return it with interest.

“You quite by chance just figured out one of the key mechanisms of divine orbit theory, and that yes anything that can move something within its range-" she began, and suddenly a harsh, hoarse, and familiar voice interrupted her from one lone corner.

“Can extend its senses through that same orbit, yes. Very, very well done, Dandy." Everyone froze. All heads turned. The room they were in was essentially a staging room, lined with first-defense arms and armor, as well — recent casualties. There was a small, solemn row of shrouded forms who met God in the recent press to retake the concourse. One of the bloodied, torn forms sat up jerkily, looking about through the blood-stained shroud.

“Tsk, this simply won't do at all." came the stately voice. Around them, weapons bared, came to ready in able hands. Bart felt the First Blade come to his grip readily, Absolute Iron singing as the animated corpse stiffly drew itself to its feet; the shroud falling away from a pale-skinned, sandy-blonde young man, dead from a shredded throat and torso. His death was likely from a Ghul's savage hooked front claws from how his breastplate was bent down and outward, The savaged throat clearly making it difficult for the puppet body to speak.

“A moment," it gurgled and its limbs twisted and writhed jerkily as the body seized in spasms and tore wantonly at its clothing, tearing away its armor and underclothes under it was bare to the waist, where the corpse's torso suddenly swelled and it gave a seemingly nonchalant groan as Cithara's orbit flared in time with Gram shouting 'TO COVER MEN'. A dome of golden energy encased the stolen corpse as everyone else ducked or raised shields — Gram covering Lidia with his entire armored body as Bart leapt instinctively before Cithara, putting himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Rashid doing the same for Naima and Nazir.

Meanwhile — the groaning corpse writhed, twisted — and then exploded.

The dome of force flickered under the sudden assault, the assembled men-at-arms flinching back collectively from the contained concussion. The entire interior was perfectly coated in a solid layer of red gore, the room watching warily as Cithara suddenly gasped in surprise, jerking back from her orbit as if slapped.

A low, familiar cackle echoed as suddenly the bloody dome of force was blasted outwards, along with its bloody payload, showering much of the room in a fine red mist of gore as its occupant walked forward. The corpse moved fluidly now, skinless from the torso up, it rapidly was regenerating what flesh had been blasted clean of its form, rebuilding a familiar supple, broad chest and sharp-edged features. A long neck and slick, dark hair and piercingly cold blue eyes perched above an aquiline nose and full, pouty lips — lips that grinned wickedly as he spread his arms.

“A touch dramatic, but what is the point of power if you never exercise it for its own sake?" asked the former Magistrate, Mihai Aldea, looking down at his bloody, skinless arm as it regenerated to his own, familiar flesh before casting his gaze languidly over at the pair, Bart in particular.

“Bart, how good to see you again. In the flesh this time, borrowed or not," he said in a droll tone, smoothing his fingers through his blood-slicked hair with a deep breath. “Ah, yes. The smell of freshly minted devotion, a Paladin proper now," he observed and grinned with far, far too many teeth.

“You have been very, very inconvenient, I want you to know that. Truly. I have had to radically alter many of my plans, in some places you have truly foiled me and for that — I wish to pay you tribute." he said, giving a genuine bow, free of mockery or pomp.

“Worthy foes make for better glory, and you are irritatingly hard to kill." Bart gave his answer with no words, a sudden rush and a sing of bright metal, and there was a downward flash and the sound of metal chopping meat and bone — punctuated by a few shocked and disgusted gasps — as Bart chopped the First Blade down straight through the crown of Mihai's stolen body, cleaving his head completely in twain from nose to scalp. Bart set his face in a hard snarl as the stolen corpse veered back... and then the split skull gruesomely turned, one eye shifting to meet his.

“Haven't we done this already?" he croaked, tone neutral as one hand reached up to grasp the blade, wrenching it out of his skull, Bart bringing it back to a guarded posture as the puppet body righted itself and the flesh hideously flowed and knitted itself back together. “An ensorcelled blade and Absolute Iron may be formidable were I here in my own flesh, but it costs me nothing to pump errant life into this puppet as many times as you want, it's not my body you're hacking apart," he said, cracking his neck and spreading his limbs. “So go on, get it all out of your system now so we can speak as equals," he said in an open challenge.

To his surprise, Bart simply shrugged, reversed his grip, and drove the blade into his heart with a thrust so hard and crisp that the crosspiece rammed into his stolen body's sternum, blasting the air from his lungs and sending him staggering backward... where to now everyone's shock, Lidia darted up — and drove her booted heel firmly into the Magistrate's groin, drawing a fresh look of incredulity from him as he spread his arms at the pair of them.

“Really?" he asked as Bart jerked his sword free, and Lidia gave him a rude gesture with one hand.

“Yer a right fookin' pisspot, an' that's my friend yer wearin', shitbird." she spat, and Bart narrowed his gaze.

“I know my brother-in-arms would respect the message," Bart answered, and around him, a murmur of assent came from the assembled men at arms. Mihai sighed, looking bored as the hole in his chest regenerated.

“How very droll. If only there was a way I could have gotten to all of you alone without such... audience." he sighed, folding his arms over his bare chest. “Yet then I would have had to pick up this poor man's corpse, and jaunt with its bloodless limbs all the way through the fortress to whatever room you were in, killing Mother knows how many soldiers on the way just to have this conversation alone." he shook his head, seemingly mildly annoyed at the concept. “This was much more economical, but it does lack the personal atmosphere I wanted. Ah well, sacrifices made for timing," he said, shrugging his shoulders, then jerking a finger outward — pointing square at Bart.

“You, I have words for you," he said, eyes narrowing to slits. “Parias very nearly made a hash of decades, nay centuries of planning by starting up this foolish vendetta with you, putting you in play FAR too early. Rushing you here, had he simply kept his foolish dick in his pants, you would be dead in the fires that even now consume Lachheim," he said, seething as he turned his eyes to Cithara.

“She was supposed to be alone. You were not supposed to be there." he spat, clear — visible anger in his features. “Parias' meddling derailed a hundred years work! Oh be assured, he has been gentled for stepping out of line. He's very, very eager to vent the frustrations of that on you Bart... but having you not close at hand..." the mad-eyed man trailed off, drawing his hands together, and blood streamed from his still fleshless arms and hands, forming a flat plane between them, from which began to form shapes, topography. A large building. Windmills. Bart's throat seized as his eyes recognized the location. “... I will simply have to allow him nearer outlets."

Bart's hand creaked on the haft of his sword. The blood image was of only one place. The Abbey. Fairharbour.

Home.

“Heartless, godless bastard." Bart snarled, bringing his sword up as if to strike the very idea down. Dropping the globe of blood with a disdainful gesture, where it landed with an unceremonious slap of liquid, the Magistrate raised a finger, expression scolding.

“I'll give you two out of three Bart, my boy — but I am anything but Godless," he said, raising his arms up, and pulling all of the spilled blood painting the room in as if it were tugged by a massive, invisible lodestone — his eyes locked on Bart's, teeth clenched around words said in an absolute, blind fury.

“Lachheim. Get there. Sooner rather than later." he spat with such force his teeth clicked on the hard consonants. “Every one of you special little lot, get there. Every moment you dally is another moment you leave Parias and the Wendigo to get bored. Have you seen what they do when they're bored?" he offered almost apologetically before his features hardened once again.

“A fortnight, no more. A single minute beyond that with neither hide nor golden hair of you or the Ivory Broodmare and I cut Parias' leash," he said and turned to point directly at Bart.

“And I'll point him directly at that little bakery off main street with the wonderful sweetrolls." he purred almost lovingly. Bart's eyes went wide, only making Mihai's smile grow more crazed. “Oh, did you think I stayed in that cave in the wake of Lachheim's glorious immolation? Oh no, there were MANY refugees seeking solace in the fair arms of Fairharbour," he said, his face dropping into a shockingly anguished expression. A face full of fear, grief, and self-loathing.

“Oh dear goodman, I have seen such horrors, hell upon earth — monsters eating the flesh of men, the dead rising. Powerless to save anyone — even my own staff! Please is there room here in your mill house for one, shamed old noble to do honest work with his hands?" he sighed at Bart in a convincingly guileless, self-deprecating tone full of guilt and recrimination... the kind of tone men like Bart — and Bart's Father — would take earnestly. Bart stared at him with open-mouthed horror as the guise slipped off the Magistrate's face back into his leering, mocking smile.

“Monster." came a quiet voice. Cithara spoke, her voice like a chime in darkness. “Monster. Filth. No more my child, she has hollowed you out and filled you with evil like a parasitic wasp." the unicorn spat, coming to her beloved's side. “You pollute everything you touch, how very dare you threaten innocents as such."

“Oh, I do not make threats, White Slut." Mihai said quickly and coolly, his tone clipped. “I make promises, and this is not a threat — it is an absolute assurance for our dear 'Hero' on how things will or will not go," he said, snapping another finger at Bart — the blood all following the motion, pointing at the Paladin like a thousand tiny lances. “A fortnight, Paladin. You show on time and who knows, perhaps Parias still massacres your town, perhaps you are there to save it — perhaps your holy sword and divine bitch will be the edge you need: perhaps you kill us both, save the world." he pointed that finger again for emphasis. “All these things could happen, but only if you show. If you do not..." he paused and drew his tongue slowly, horribly across his teeth.

“Then we find out if Parias shares my opinion of that little bakery's confections."

“You will wish it longer when I arrive, in that you may trust," Bart said, Cithara grit her teeth at the meat puppet as it grinned back at her.

“I will punish you, apostate." Cithara hissed, her voice cold as the void between stars. “Your end will not be merciful, and it will not be swift. I will visit upon you the unfettered, heedless anger of a mother forced to bury her children." the unicorn raised her horn imperiously, the gesture as much a literal as a metaphorical threat. “I will not be kind."

“I do hope you are this defiant when I throw you to the ghuls." he purred to her, licking his lips. “We've been training them on mares we capture. Teaching them all the ways to enjoy horseflesh." he crooned, venom dripping like caustic acid from his words. “I wanted you to feel at home when you died."

Cithara's eyes hardened, but she said nothing. Mihai laughed softly.

“I would love to stay and chat, in fact, I would enjoy telling you my entire plan — in detail, but your faerie murder mob out there is startlingly efficient at well, murder — so the Gatekeeper you did not find will be dead very, very soon. Oh, I hope you like them. My design." he said with an artful bow, staring up through his hair and eyelashes like icy blue daggers at Cithara. “I have so many more of them waiting," he added, Cithara's sharp fangs showing as he twisted the knife. Standing back erect, he spread his arms. “When it dies my orbit will no longer reach here, so I will have to save that for later on our little road trip. All of you, do try not to die early. I have such sights to show you." he said, grinning wider as the body he was puppeting began to vibrate quite violently as he turned and casually said to Bart — and the room at large.

“Oh, you may wish to take cover again." Bart and Cithara were both wide-eyed in their backward scramble as they saw Mihai's face smile too wide and shout one last time. “A FORTNIGHT!"

He then exploded. Again. This time was much more violent, Bart hurled himself across Cithara's white frame, feeling chunks of meat and jagged bone shattering and ricocheting off his armor, embedding all around him in grisly, bony shrapnel — somehow shaped into a living bomb by Mihai's fell magicks. Bart sat up, taking stock of the room — none seemed severely injured, merely cuts and abrasions from bone chips. Nazir stood up first, brushing off the front of his tattered, open-necked shirt, and pointed at the gory stump of legs and torso that had but moments before, been Mihai Aledea in all but truth.

“Yes, see — that is basically what I was talking about."

“Truly, your intuition is formidable," Bart agreed laconically, getting a slightly crazed laugh in response from Nazir, one that spread infectiously to the rest of the assembled armsmen, breaking the tension of the portents laid before them. The Men of Fort Ivory were not paladins, but they were by no means average men. Hard men, men of faith and ability.

Just another day.

~ ~ ~

The reunion was placed on hold as reality demanded its due. Bart and Cithara's arrival had changed the paradigm on who might live and die in the heavily-savaged fortress. Gram reported their casualties as something close to a third of their overall forces as they led the injured to the sick room, the fortress itself showing evidence of it. The Central concourse had been entirely occupied, and much of the outer walls rolled up after that. Siege towers were almost permanently affixed to the white curtain walls, and there were signs on the ramparts and outer, unsecured sections of enemy camps and patrol points — now swept clean by the Wild Hunt.

Bart and Cithara joined together with Naima to clear this standing order of critically wounded, tired as they may all be — there were lives to save. Lidia and Nazir pitched in as well — though Gram and Rashid excused themselves.

“I have to help secure the walls, the Wild Hunt still rampages and I trust the Lady in White, not her... allies," he said coolly and Rashid nodded.

“I also will lend him my aid, fae hunters oft need to have their manners adjusted to keep them task-focused." the big man added as they set off, getting a series of laughs and giggles from Cithara and Bart, much to the rest of the party's confusion.

They caught up on immediate events as they worked, Bart and Cithara healing the gross injuries and Cithara mending many mortally wounded men — including the concussed Commander of the Fort Itself, a rangy bald man with a severe, clean-shaven face and kind eyes.

“I never even saw it coming," he said as Cithara's orbit flared and she molded his savaged body like clay, guiding its accelerated processes with thoughtful intent, like an artist shaping its medium. His wounds were minor externally: his brain was the concern. “We heard the alarm, and it was above me in a corner, leapt down upon me, and then... everything went black," he said to the room, the commander in the sickroom along with the common soldiers, clear evidence of Naima's long-term care about him as Bart and the Alchemist worked elsewhere.

“Shush dear one. This is more difficult when you speak." she admonished the soldier as her eyes focused on something he couldn't see.

“Apologies, Lady," he said, falling silent with eyes cast not at himself, but the other wounded men. Bart looked up, he had abandoned his armor for a smock and was bloody to the elbows. He couldn't simply mass-heal everyone, he lacked the strength to do that to all who needed his help — so instead, he was a surgical instrument, Naima carried him along and guided his hands to mortal or crippling injuries, and he healed the critical damage; saving life and limb while still leaving them to recover normally. He was very tired, but dozens of men once looking at bone saws now were looking at crutches, a worthy trade.

“Why do you not have him asleep? You put me into dreams when you fixed my brain." Bart said, getting Naima's eyes looking up at him in alarm as Cithara did not avert her gaze as she worked, her orbit still glowing in a faint outline around the Commander's shorn skull.

“Your particular damage my beloved, was in a place that being awake could have harmed you. Commander Maxos here is the opposite, if he falls back asleep like this he could very well die. I need to see his reactions as I work." she said, and the Commander's eyes flicked wildly, and he added in a small voice.

“All the same Ser, I would prefer you did not distract her while she was metaphorically elbow-deep in my nugget, Ser," he asked Bart very cordially, and he once again was struck with his still-new rank. Paladin outranked a Commander, once more.

“Hush, dear one," Cithara said sternly, and Maxos once more fell silent, his eyes forward. Stoic.

“You damaged your brain?" Naima snapped at him with an almost motherly mix of concern and spite, and he grinned, grasping his mantle and setting his one eye aglow as he clinically set a soldier's shattered leg back into place.

“Parias killed my horse. I fell off it. Hit my head on a rock hard enough to smash my helmet." he said, flicking an eye to the thin, pale scar peeking from his scalp where the crushed helmet had cut into his head.

“Cithara says it damaged part of my brain, and she put me into this long, lucid dream as she fixed it." he continued with a shrug. “It's well beyond my understanding, I can heal a great deal of things but that's because I understand the basics of how they work and 'whole or not whole' but don't ask me to fix anything like that," he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn't know where to start."

“Nor would anyone, Bart. Don't be hard on yourself. To heal the brain and its many complex pathways as I am doing requires perceptions beyond your current mortal abilities, the Mantle carries with it a great deal of..." the Unicorn paused, her eyes narrowing as she focused a moment. “... call it, hereditary knowledge, when it comes to healing. It does the theory, you do the work." she answered and then pulled away, smiling as Commander Maxos blinked a few times. “There, dear one. Good as new. Your head is very solid." she complimented him, leaning down to kiss the top of his bald head gently.

“It's a family trait, Lady." The Commander said as Naima looked on in wonder.

“Centuries of the alchemist's art and we cannot begin with our strongest medicines and most powerful infusions to even approach what you did just now while having a cheeky back and forth," she said, shaking her raven locks and going back to work splinting the man's leg that Bart was working on, her lips set resolutely.

“It is not fair to measure yourself against my siblings and I." Cithara soothed her in a quiet voice, stepping away from Maxos, who nodded, clearly preoccupied with his own lingering disorientation, a young squire bringing him a small cup and pitcher of water, the Unicorn smiling at him. Her presence energized the entire room, the vital energy pouring off her here even as it had in the glade; even the gravely wounded had a fiery gleam in their distant eyes. Souls buoyed by the presence of the divine beast.

“We are made of the cosmos themselves, a piece of reality that walks, talks, hates, and loves," she said, leaning in close to Naima and gently kissing her on the forehead.

“Your minds and hearts are easier for us to fix, because we Know them, dear one," she said, and her orbit flared. The man's leg gleamed in its radiant outline of her power, the soldier gasped as the flesh flowed and knit, forming ugly scars but strong, powerful muscles.

“I know what you ought to look like whole, making you that way once more is our purpose, with our Wisdom. Our Might. Our Love." her eyes faded from their glowing sight beyond sight, the gaze warm and proud on Naima. “The path of the healer is much, much more difficult, for you do the same — but with only your Faith to guide you."

Naima drew her hands back, watching in wonder as the Unicorn's majesty brought the young soldier with the shattered leg; once destined for amputation, then for a lifetime of discomfort but mobility — back from all of that, now totally whole safe for a racing heart and ugly scars. Cithara's words were only extra bricks in the mortar of her convictions, and she immediately wiped the soldier's brow and offered him water, smiling at the Unicorn.

“I was worried you would be... imperious, haughty. Some high-minded creature." she began, looking over her bloodstained hands and dressing at the Holy Beast, “Judgmental perhaps, critical and demanding... but you remind me of my mother." she said, and Cithara tittered softly. “She was so strong, so capable and so... warm — and she made it seem like it was no effort at all, just her role."

“Motherhood is a powerful crown, one I wear with pride," she said, bowing her head to the little Alchemist. She shivered a bit, her body clearly sagging some. “Whom next has the most grievous wounds? I am taxed, but not yet spent while my boys suffer."

“This way, Lady mine." Nazir piped up, carrying an armload of fresh bandages. Cithara perked up at that, her hooves clicking as she trotted towards him; “It is grisly, mostly men who lost limbs to... the hungry." he said, making a face of clear distaste. Cithara shuddered.

“Such wounds are terrible, even I cannot fully restore them but... yes, yes Little Lion, lead the way," she said, Nazir's eyes widening at that, shooting Bart a questioning glance, and only getting a shrug in response.

“Little Lion?" Naima asked as they left, Bart smiled.

“She sometimes gives people she enjoys nicknames," Bart said, scratching his growth of beard. Naima raised her eyebrows, a wicked gleam shining through her eyes, and showing on her lips in that sultry, full smirk he'd come to associate directly with the flinty, formidable woman.

“What does she call you?"

“Things I cannot repeat in polite company."

~ ~ ~

The immediate crisis passed with more idle talk and very busy hands, Much of the companions had endured almost as much as Bart had, packed into only three months of siege. Nazir was a stand-out among his friends, the young dandy was noticeably more muscular and harder in the eyes than he'd left him, and he had a sword at his hip. Not a large weapon like Bart wielded, or even Rashid, it was an unadorned thing that had a gentle forward curve before curving back into a slim, chopping end. It was clearly something he had requested made on-premises: its handle and hilt were distinctly Reiklander in design, and it was made of base steel and leather bindings... and it was also the first time he'd seen the dandy merchant with anything larger than his curving, formidable dagger.

“I am unaccustomed to seeing you under arms, brother," Bart said later that day as they stood together, elbow to elbow and bare to the waist, washing themselves in basins of clean, vinegar-tinged water — to fight infection and putridity in their patients. The dark-skinned man smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes, whose kohl had run in a few places, giving him strange, black tear streaks as he spoke.

“No, it is not my custom either yet... well brother mine, when you were thought lost, the siege spared none of us," he said with a shrug, looking down at his body. He wasn't profoundly larger than before, still a small man of compact build — but the changes were noticeable, he had gained muscle and conditioning. “I was forced to adapt much as anyone else."

Bart stood back, drying his arms and chest. It wasn't a hot bath, they had reserved those for the ladies, but this would do for now. He regarded his friend in silence and simply nodded. He didn't have words for the shared feeling as the two met eyes. Bart could see the familiar hardness there of someone who had seen mortal combat from the hilt-end of a blade. Nazir continued, sluicing his own arms into the basin, turning the water pink.

“Naima was still injured, so she was unable to work at full capacity. My dear sister would have none of me 'babying' her, and I was able-bodied and quick of foot." he said, frowning as he scrubbed his chest and neck, making faces as he took sweat, blood, and grime off in layers.

“So, they took me and Lidia when the underground was invaded by those... savages," he said, spitting to one side and shaking his head with a shudder, he met Bart's eyes again. “No place for soft merchants and thready cutpurses."

“That explains a few things," Bart said, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, thankful to be done with the shaggy mane, but he didn't mind the slightly longer cut, curls were nice. “For you and Lidia both."

“Truly, brother mine," Nazir said, taking a handful of water and washing his face, the basin dying a deep purple as he scrubbed his running kohl clean. He dunked his face and came up with a gasp, slicking back his hair. “She took the worst of it, but Little Redcap there is good at covering up her hurts — and she was in fair better shape than I to begin with," he said with a grin, showing off his perfect, straight teeth, but also new wrinkles and worry-lines.

“So, you learned then?" he asked, and the smaller man shrugged.

“I refreshed myself, remember brother — man of many talents, master of none," he said, twisting his mustache back into shape, far more sleek and well-tended than Bart's, it also was a bit... ragged around the edges. “I, of course, learned to fight as a boy, I did not live as a warrior, however," he looked down at himself, and flexed his arms, muscles were there — good, solid, lean muscle. “My body was a temple devoted to the happiness of others, I danced, I sang, I traded goods and stories. I wasn't made to be a fighter," he sighed, rubbing at his neck as he looked back at Bart. “That was your domain, Rashid's. Big men with big arms, big hearts. Broad chests." he thumped his own, Bart smiled.

“You sound like my other 'brother', Lucian," he said, looking to the corner where the First Blade sat in its scabbard, the braided charm hanging from its hilt — Lucian's bright white lock shot through it like frost. “We came up in the ranks together. God's Teeth we grew up together," he said, shaking his head. Nazir seemed intrigued even as he ran a come through his sleek black locks.

“A small boy then?" he asked, and Bart nodded.

“About your size, thinner. Albino too. He was sickly as a lad, the Order treated him and left an impression." he said and Nazir gave a faint 'heh', his shoulders rocking.

“I imagine he wasn't on the same track as you are, o champion." he teased the big warrior back, earning a faint blush from Bart, who shook his head.

“No, Lucian wanted to be a Hospitaller. Not a Knight of the Thorn," he said, tapping his chest. “We're both taught to fight, but my training focused on front-line fighting, multiple opponents, heavier armor," he said, jerking his chin towards the wall. “I'm more or less Rashid's counterpart in the Radiant Order." Nazir made a faint 'ah' sound and nodded, wincing as he tugged a knot free from his hair.

“I see, I see. So this Lucian friend of yours is more like Sister Dearest," he said, and Bart nodded.

“It's a fair approximation. When he goes to the Lady to receive his mantle, his might will be far more towards the curative arts." he looked down at his hands, embracing the mantle a moment, eye softly glowing gold. “Mystically, I'm a thug. A big, heavy club to hit the unclean with."

“Ah, but you do it with such fervor, never has there been a more enthralling cudgel." the darker-skinned man grinned at him, getting a chuckle from Bart. “However, yes. That is not too far from my own merits. I am not incapable of violence but..." he sighed, closing his eyes.

“The killing, it sits ill with me. Even monsters," he said, lowering his hands as he looked at the murky water in the basin. “I was not made to take life, but exult it. There is something..." he smacked his lips, groping for a word as if by taste. “... Incestuous, about killing a man or beast after so much training and time I've spent with Naima, killing with hands made to heal," he said, and Bart understood at once, even as Nazir continued.

“I am somewhat of a flighty, aimless person," he said, and Bart snorted, getting a wry grin from his friend. “Quiet, I am self-aware enough to see my flaws. I simply embrace them," Bart held up his hands as if to ward off a blow, and the Southerner carried on. “Flighty, Aimless. I follow my whims, I am not like my sister, not like Rashid." he paused and looked Bart square in the eyes.

“I am not like you, Brother. I was not made to destroy." Bart felt the words almost like a slap to the face... but he could not deny the truth in them. Bart considered himself a good person, loving, careful... but he could not argue that his talents truly lie in that of death, destruction, combat. He was in fact, built to fight. Built to destroy. The vulnerability in that moment from Nazir was tantamount to nudity, and they both looked away. Falling silent for a long moment.

“I do not fault you, or think less of you for it," Nazir said after a long moment of scrubbing and washing. The two were alone, among the last to exit the sickrooms after the crisis of wounded had stabilized. “You are a good man, I consider you a friend and brother — and for I to say such is rare," he said, smirking a bit. “My flighty nature means I call everyone friend, but I only mean it to a select few."

“I'm touched," Bart said, without a hint of irony. The Southerner smiled at him.

“However..." he shrugged, eyes distant. “You are made for this life, my brother. I have seen you hurl yourself into impossible contests that turn my bones to water, shrivel my manhood up into my belly," he said, shaking his head, turning to look at Bart with haunted eyes.

“When you rushed Humbaba, I thought I might vomit with sheer terror. The idea of... hurling yourself at something so great, so terrifyingly powerful. I couldn't do it. But you could, Rashid could," he chewed his lip, frowning fiercely. “You two took to battle like a heron to the reeds. I, however, felt cowardice chilling my guts."

“Nazir... it is not cowardice to be afraid in battle," Bart said, shaking his head as he leaned on the nearby wall. “You watched me weep like a snotty baby when I killed my first man, and he wasn't even truly human," Bart said, and Nazir smiled halfheartedly. “I cried ugly," he added, shifting from his shoulder to be back against the cool masonry, looking into the middle distance.

“Even now, that day haunts me. Not because I fear battle, or weep for every slain enemy... more that I do not," he said, getting in response a shrewd, concerned look from the dandy.

“In my dreams, I sometimes see the faces of dead men, dead things... however, I most often don't," Bart explained, frowning. “I have in so short a time, grown hardened, calloused against the death-agony of battle... indeed I exult in it," he said, raising a hand and flexing the fingers. “I feel alive in the clash of battle, I feel righteous and powerful. It is... compelling. I can become almost drunk on it." he shook his head, his own turn to carry a haunted expression.

“I did not expect to become so casual about killing, and yet... I have. I am. I cannot undo that, it is the brutal calculus of war." he said in a small voice. “It just happened so fast..."

Nazir nodded, leaning hard on the Basin. “The first person I killed, truly slew by my own hand — wasn't a person. A ghul." Bart listened as the dark-skinned dandy stared into the swirling basin of blood and grime. “It was the first patrol, Lidia and I volunteered because we're both nimble, and there was climbing involved," he paused and looked at Bart. “This fortress is built over a limestone spring, there's where its water comes from... it also has a fairly large natural cavern under it," he said and Bart nodded. Nazir did as well and continued.

“I came across it alone. I wager it was a scout, same as I," he said, eyes distant. “I only had a knife, my kirpan, ever faithful — the swords the Knights carried were too large for me to wield, and I had no training with a straight blade regardless." Bart felt the man's pain, his recent schooling at Daedolon's hands all too fresh in his mind.

“It jumped at me, I of course was the quicker. Dancer's reflexes," he said, trying to smile off the trauma. “I cut its back tendons after it failed its lunge, blinded by my lantern," he made two quick little motions as if holding a blade. “Snickt, snickt. Hamstrings. Just like I had at the ziggurat. They rolled up like coiled parchment, and it screamed and whirled at me faster than it should have been able." he said and looked down. There were scars on his shoulder, new ones. Bart peered closer, and recognition dawned: teeth marks.

“It champed down on my shoulder, barely missed my throat. I thought I was dying, so I began stabbing," he pumped his arm in phantom motions, memory clearly fresh behind his wild eyes, stabbing forward like a piston on a waterwheel. He took a deep breath and leaned on the basin anew.

“I mortally wounded it, hit something vital. It let go and went mostly limp on top of me. It was so... dense. I was pinned," he said, and his eyes welled up with tears.

“... then it began crying."

Bart froze. He remembered the praying Ghuls beneath Lachheim... was that not compelled by Mihai? Nazir sucked back a sob.

“Bart, brother. The monster cried. It was afraid of dying... I couldn't understand it, but it bled out atop me, repeating a word over and over again, I couldn't translate it... so I asked Rashid later, he has some... knowledge of the dark speech of these things." Bart felt his stomach grow hollow as the dandy turned his face to his, eyes full of anguish — the pain and sickness that doubtlessly had ridden upon his features when he'd slain the plagued men and blooded himself as well.

“Mother."

Nazir's teeth clenched and he heaved, barely preventing himself from vomiting ... the experience was still fresh for the young Southerner, he had not had a year and then some in distance from it as Bart had. “It cried out for its mother, over and over... until it died, right on top of me. I felt it shudder and go still. It was completely cool by the time Lidia found me, buried under thirty stone of 'monster'," he said, spitting that final word like a curse. He closed those striking golden-hazel eyes.

“I knew then I must fight... not out of hatred..." he trailed off, and Bart understood.

“... But out of mercy," he finished for his friend, the dandy nodded, sniffling hard.

“It died... ugly, afraid. It is my enemy... it is a monster... but monsters even have mothers it seems... and I could not bear to kill another like that, to have it whimper and beg for a distant parent as it emptied its heartsblood all over me," he looked up to Bart with red, tear-filled eyes.

“Even monsters deserve to die clean."

Those words cut Bart, cut him as sure as any blade, tooth, or claw. He fell silent, avoiding his friend's eyes. He chose his friends well, so he thought to himself in that moment — Nazir was not even a man of God, and yet he exemplified the ideals he lived towards far, far better than he did at that moment. Had he even considered the Empty Queen's creatures as... anything but abstract enemies to be slain? Sure, he had been told of their suffering, their losses, but ever had it seemed to him that they were themselves, mindless slaves driven by their stillborn god. In this... that was all put into question, they felt fear. Not just animal instinctual fear of pain, fire, or death... fear of loneliness, loss. The two men lapsed into a tense silence for a long moment, disturbed only by the lap of water on the basins as Nazir finished his rudimentary 'bath', smelling of vinegar and rose petals, rather than just blood and sweat.

“I have upset you," Nazir said after a moment, and Bart shook his head.

“No. Well... yes, but not by your words. More by my own thoughts," he said, and Nazir raised an eyebrow over those still-haunted eyes. Bart shrugged. “I never considered the Ghuls or Plagued Men as anything worth showing mercy to. Of being capable of... feeling things. You heard Humbaba speak," he said, Nazir nodded, turning his gaze away.

“They are terrible, awful things. To them, we are food or playthings. This I know, Brother," Nazir said, staring into the murky basin again, eyes hard, tears still falling from them, causing ripples and ribbons to appear on the surface. “... but they have mothers. They cry out for them, they cry. God's Blood, Bart they cry without eyes to shed tears," he hissed and shook his head, lowering it. “It is supposed to be easy, to fight the darkness and slay it, burn it away with righteous light."

Bart had no answers for that, he struggled with this new information as much as Nazir. The southerner went on.

“I still... revile them. They are ugly, grotesque creatures. Awful things that exult monsters like that thing Humbaba as their betters, Gods even. The Empty Queen draws these... things towards her, but does she do it out of love, like our God?" he said, his face hollow as he wiped his hands across it. “Meeting Cith-... Meeting the Lady in White made it so, so much worse," he continued, tripping over her true name as if it were ill-fit for his tongue. Bart had a turn to raise his own brows at that.

“How? She's... she's so full of life, of love!"

“Indeed, as well she is full of righteous fury and scorn for her enemies. Did you hear her when she spoke to this 'Mihai', this Magistrate of yours?" he said in a dull tone, a shudder coursing through him. “It chilled my very marrow, such... unrelenting hatred, such power behind it." Bart felt a fury rising in him, his Lady, his Love... his Wife... and then he paused, thinking about it rationally... she had been so... implacable. There was no forgiveness from her, not for what she viewed as crimes against her 'children', which to her mind — was all of humanity. Nazir carried on.

“She is... lovely, I find being in her presence inspiring. She is the goodliest creature I may ever encounter, even trumping the Learned One for sheer..." he groped for a word, “... Benevolence of presence? I lack the grasp of your tongue to truly put forth the feeling." he said, shaking his head and dismissively waving a hand. “It matters not... but seeing her in that wrathful aspect. It put in my head the idea... is this not how the Empty Queen views us?" he said, and Bart set his jaw.

The idea that the Empty Queen loved her children was not alien to him, it was posited by the Queen of Love herself, after all. However, the fact that this might extend to her children in their various forms, and they themselves returned that love — not only to her, but each other... it was all so obvious but at the same time a challenge to understand. Nazir took that moment to sum it up in crystal clarity:

“If the Queen of Love can be so full of righteous fury that she turns my blood to icewater... does it not stand to reason the Queen of all things dismal, dark and fell may just be directing that same aspect of herself, unto us?" the dandy said, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. Bart could simply nod at first, the big Paladin was hardly what even he would consider impartial in this manner. He had chosen a side, chosen it so mightily it colored the nature of his soul. He was a Paladin, built to destroy as Nazir so aptly described. Built to drive out the darkness by fire and naked blade. Yet... in that moment, he understood Nazir's struggle.

“You're right," Bart said, getting a look of stunned shock from the Southerner. Bart continued, “I have seen much of Cithara... she is not a simple beacon of joy and happiness, she is Love. With that comes passion — and you perhaps know best of all of us, what passion, love, and power make when mixed together in a pot."

“Fury," Nazir answered immediately, and Bart nodded.

“I have learned much of the supernatural in my year away... they are elemental beings, but that leads to bizarre combinations of traits you wouldn't expect... take the Sidhe for example," he said, scratching his chin. “Would you believe I secured their help by threatening their leader's masculinity?" he said, and Nazir snorted in sudden laughter, his teary eyes closing.

“You jest."

“Not even a little. He was to refuse to help. I more or less challenged him to a fistfight or get called a chicken." he said, grinning.

“That's insane." Nazir balked, and Bart laughed.

“Completely, I thought Cithara's eyes would pop out of her head. But it worked!" he crowed a bit, and Nazir raised an eyebrow.

“So how is this odd?"

“Well." Bart began, cracking his neck and groaning. He felt stiff after heavy mantle use, every time. “The Sidhe of the Wild Hunt are all very... pragmatic. They're consummate predators, they respect strength, intelligence. Will." he said, chuckling a little. “But... they're also prideful of BEING consummate predators. You challenge that with anything even closely resembling credence, and they will throw it all aside to prove they are in fact — the apex of the hunt."

“I see," Nazir said, eyes gleaming as his admittedly quicker mind worked through the problem. “They embody all aspects of their limited role, and the extremes interweave to in effect — have them embody their opposite at times."

“The coin has two faces, always." Bart agreed, shrugging. “Cithara isn't actually a being of fury and malice... but is there truly any fury greater than a mother defending her children?" he offered.

“And is there a greater source of pride, than the apex predator who fears not but a greater predator? Indeed."

“I loathe to think of what love among the Empty Queen's forces looks like... but yes, much as the Queen of Love can be a bastion of fury, the Queen of Darkness can doubtlessly be a font of love... in her own fashion," Bart said, and here he could help his friend.

“Feel for our foes, but do not hesitate. They are not like us in that they do not truly die. That Ghul you slew, dying atop you begging for its mother?" he pointed off, unerringly towards the Ossuary of Man. He could not see it, but ever since he'd left the Glade he could feel the darkness of the place through his mantle. An unerring compass towards the heart of evil.

“It is likely now, being reborn. Fully there within that hellish tower that reigns over us as a shadow."

“I... do not understand, Brother," Nazir said, and Bart sighed. Closing his eyes.

“They do not have a Heaven, Nazir. They destroyed theirs when The Mother, their first god, died."

The dark-skinned man's eyes widened at that, and he looked down into the basin as his sharp wits knitted the new information together, golden-hazel eyes flicking to and fro across the middle distance.

“God's Blood that... you mean, every time they die..."

“They return, somewhere in the bowels of that hellish place. For all I know, in full memory of their death-agony and loss. They are all, tortured, horribly insane creatures. The best mercy we can give them is to fight long, and fight hard — so that we can perhaps finally free them from this eternal restless cycle."

“God," Nazir said, looking away. “Ghuls we kill here may very well be ghuls felled during the Verdant Crusade."

“Longer. I have good knowledge that I have killed one myself, that dated back to the Age of Fire and Stone." Bart said grimly, sending a shudder through Nazir.

“Abomination." he breathed, such zealous words ill-fit the gregarious dandy's mouth, but he spat them all the same. “I... am not a man that prays often, I am faithful. I believe." he paused and regarded Bart's scarred frame. “How can I not, in such company?" he asked with a slightly mad little laugh.

“I... do not pray often, however. I feel I am... distant, from God. I frequently engage in less-than-savory aspects of society, for my and my sister's benefit of course." he said, shrugging. Bart had assumed as much; merchants of any stripe rarely got far with completely clear moral compasses, such was the way of the cutthroat world of business. The southerner continued.

“I have prayed, every night since that ghul bled out atop me. Prayed for its soul, if it has one. Prayed for the souls of them all." he said, nodding to himself. “I will continue then. Someone should pray for them, pray for the end of their torment," he said, and then he patted the blade.

“I also trained. Rashid welcomed me and brought me up to something resembling snuff in his spare hours on our hereditary blades, they are more suited for my frame than your great straight swords," he said, drawing his weapon and laying it across his palms.

The blade was vaguely curved — but forwards, rather than back as Rashid's heavy talwar was. It had a gently forward sweeping bend that rounded at the weapon's tip back to a straight, clip-pointed blade that was sharpened again across about a third of its back half, the rest of the spine flat and strong. It was rough and without ornament, as he'd noticed before, but finely edged, straight, and true. The hilt mismatched the southern blade, a straight crosspiece with a heavy 'nagel' or 'nail' as it was known, sticking out of one side of the guard. A hilt much like the Messers favored by Reiklander mercenaries and peasants.

“Your armorer here had little that matched my needs, Rashid had no spare sword. So I took some Reikland blade that already was a touch curved and walked him through my desired changes. He tempered and reforged the blade and rebuilt the handle into this." he said, giving it a gentle flip to its offside to show off its lack of weight.

“An exotic blade, but I see the merits," Bart said, Nazir nodded, taking it by the hilt.

“It is fearsome in the cut, and can thrust well, particularly at downward angles," he said, holding it up to look along its edge. “We call it a Sosun Pattah, it's a bit of an unusual blade, yet our foes rarely wear armor, and their hides are thick and durable. It seemed a merciful end," he said, eyes hard. “It was... I have had many more encounters with the fell, dismal creatures," he added and looked at Bart. “By my surfeit of limbs and lack of scars, you can imagine it has gone much better for me." Bart laughed a little and gave his friend — his brother — a direct look.

“Did you seek out condemnation from me? Anger? Or reassurance?" He asked, his face worried. Nazir shrugged.

“I... truly do not know, brother," he said, putting his blade away and wiping his face, still dripping with tears and water, Bart politely passed him a towel.

“I sought to know you anew, I suppose... to poke and prod at you, to see if you were still..." he looked over the towel, amber-hued eyes cautious, worried even. “... well, you."

“Well, am I?" Bart laughed, truly he wished to know — he wasn't entirely sure himself. Nazir smiled.

“No... but also yes. You are different," he said, but reached out and jabbed a finger over Bart's chest, right over his heart. “... yet not here. That's the same. Seasoned, weathered, beaten, and battered — but your heart, yes. That's the same." he said, smiling at Bart.

“For that, I am full glad," he said, and leaned forward now that he was dry, and ensnared the much larger man in a fierce hug, squeezing him with arms notably stronger than they had been before, he leaned his head into Bart's shoulder.

“It is good to have you back, brother. The fight without you has been dark, hard. Your words now... they soothed much. Put much in order." he whispered quietly, Bart felt no awkwardness at the intimacy, and instead simply hugged his sworn brother back, both men simply staying silent as they attempted to simply crush their feelings into one another, no space for clumsy words.

They stayed like that a time, Bart's mind clear and content. Nazir began to weep again, but it was interspersed with laughter as he broke the embrace, wiping his eyes clear. “I have not cried so much since I was a boy." the dandy remarked, he looked... oddly naked without the thick kohl and well-styled hair and mustache, so ragged and raw, it almost didn't look like Nazir... and yet now that he had wept and wrung his hands — that familiar, trickster's gleam had returned to his golden-hazel eyes, a quirk of adventure to his smile — even if through cracked lips. “I suppose I was due."

“We're all due now and again, a good cry cleanses the soul," Bart said, and Nazir laughed.

“Well, my soul was definitely overdue a cleansing, I could tell you stories. Why this one time when Naima and Rashid were busy, I had this... dalliance with one of the Learned One's other students, by god Bart, she was a potions student, and the concoctions she brought out in the boudoir..." he trailed off as they left the small privy they'd been packed into, Nazir's story leading to bawdy laughter and clapped backs aplenty.

Two men changed and yet — still the same at heart. Bart had always wanted a brother, too.

~ ~ ~

The night crept slowly upon Bart and company; it felt like he'd spent another year binding wounds, healing hurts, and reassuring frightened young men-at-arms. They were all veterans, but even veterans were not immune to fear, let alone to being maimed.

He'd gone on after Nazir's little chat to take what food he could; he was heavily spent from his efforts, but he felt... ill at ease, taking what little they had from their siege stores. Nevertheless, he accepted a helping of potato soup, hard cheese, and bread from the mess hall. The men were all eating tiredly but in good spirits. They looked to Bart with expectant eyes... and he didn't know what to tell them. He was the hero of the hour, but not for wisdom or intellect, but simply main strength. He found their gazes heavier than any armor, and drew away — he did not want accolades nor cheering, he was never comfortable with glory, not in full. He had not sought this power out for personal gratification, perhaps as a boy... but that had long been beaten out of him by life. He took his food and left the hall, Cithara was nowhere to be seen, he'd last caught sight of her having an animated conversation with Naima and Rashid after the latter had returned with the detachment sent to secure the walls. His head perked up at that thought.

The walls, that would do. The big man took his steaming bowl and ascended the granite stairs, pushing through the fortress proper to the edges of its fortifications. Following a long turret up to a catapult nest that had survived the siege unscathed, he looked about himself. It was empty of sentries after the warning to be away from the walls, but Bart felt safe enough with the First Blade at his side, even if he'd left his armor near a cot in the barracks. The big man sat down at the edge of the battlements, tucking himself into the hollow of a crenelation as a table, looking out across the battlefield and the last foxfire glow of the ravening Wild Hunt patrolling the field. His eyes turned up to the moons again, his first good view of them in a year, large and full as they ascended the horizon over the sharp-edged, stony spears of torn earth extending out along the Kingsroad. The moonrise had more to offer his mind than before, the meaning behind the Twin Maiden Moons weighed on his heart as he ate, watching them rise with naught to keep him company but the faint caress of the wind and his thoughts. It was quiet. A good quiet.

“Hey," came a familiar voice, in a familiar context. Bart turned his head a bit.

“Hey," he responded to Lidia, the little thief settling down in the crenelation next to him, her face flushed and almost shy as she met his eyes, shoulder to shoulder with the big Paladin, leaning gently against him. He leaned back, just a bit.

“I been lookin' for ye for a spell. Sommat the boys saw ye goin' up here, so..." she spread her hands. She wore much of what he expected, but her soft clothing and exposed limbs had been traded for a shirt of mail over a padded gambeson, bracers, and gloves over her delicate hands. Her fiery red hair still was bare though, save for her signature red cowl and scarf, all still wrapped around her in comfortable familiarity.

“I needed a bit of quiet, that's all." Bart answered, looking back up at the moons, “It has been a full day, to say the least." Lidia laughed at that a bit, nervousness in her tone.

“That's puttin' it mild as plain oat mash," she agreed, threading her fingers together as she looked up at the stars and their two sister satellites along with him. Silence fell over the two of them again, a comfortable blanket as he ate and the two simply abided in that quiet.

“Gram seems a doughty soul," Bart said after a long while, licking the bits of cheese from one finger as he turned his bi-colored gaze on the little changeling, her eyes gleaming with the inhuman shine in the night's dimness — and her face with the blush.

“Ye... he's a good 'un." she hedged and bit her lip a bit. “Cithara seems... well, she's a right pretty thing. Gorgeous and uh..." she hedged back into silence, Bart grinned at her.

“Are we to dance around it all day? Yes, Little Sister — Cithara and I are together. I love her as my Lady, Patron of my Order... and as a man does a woman." he said, and the little thief's eyes went a bit wide, and she colored a bit more, eyes flickering across the middle distance.

“... So ye've... you know." she met Bart's gaze a moment then made a circle with two fingers and bawdily thrust her index finger into it. Bart laughed.

“We have, I will not besmirch her by giving you details," he said, and Lidia held up her hands, waving them in mild panic.

“God's Blood nae do tha'!" she spat, her face a furious red hue.. yet she paused and gnawed her lip once more; “I mean... well... does it ye know..." she swallowed, her curiosity burning her from within, and the red of her face showing it. “Ye know... fit together, right." Bart grinned at her and looked back to the moons.

“Like I was made for her. In all ways," he answered succinctly, and the little changeling's blush did not fade a bit with that answer, but she nodded furiously, folding her hands as Bart took a long sip of the waterskin he'd carried with him, offering it to her out of kindness — to occupy her hands, and her mouth before she kept going. The little thief eagerly took it, sipping happily to wet her suddenly dry mouth.

“Does Gram 'fit' with you properly as well?" he asked, hurling a spear into the elephant in the room without hesitation. Lidia coughed and spat out a mouthful of water as it went clear up her nose, the fit of hacking brief as she shook her head, wiping her mouth.

“Nae ye fookin' prick." she hissed at him but was smiling as she said it. “... Ye noticed, did ye?" she asked, and Bart nodded, smiling at her.

“It was a surprise, but hard not to notice. You look at him as Naima does Rashid." Lidia sighed, folding her arms.

“I know. Nae a person here who dinnae know I guess," she said, but she was still smiling as she hugged herself, leaning her shoulder into Bart's. “When ye... fell. He was there to offer me comfort." she said and hesitated... “... not like ye'd think. He... prayed with me." she said and Bart raised an eyebrow at that.

“He's a man of the Faith then?" Lidia nodded.

“Paladin in all but name, fer all ah'm concerned," she said, trembling. “He... was a good man tae me, Bart," she said, smiling down at nothing in particular, clearly seeing not the stone but recent, warm memories. She paused a minute, looking back up at Bart.

“Will ye God want me? I'm not... one o' his, not all the way through," she said, her alien eyes gleaming with worry. Bart reached out, putting his arm around her. She shivered but leaned in close to his chest, letting him simply hold her there.

“God would love anyone who asked, even the Queen's monsters were offered solace under his Lidless Eye, as were the Sidhe... Cithara already has designs upon you, at the very least," he said, having seen the familiar gleam of possessiveness in her eyes when she'd met the little thief. Lidia's heart fluttered a bit, and she took a deep breath.

“Gram said as much, not as... particularly as ye, but... well ye're shaggin' a literal goddess I cannae just assume ye don't know better," she said, getting a snort out of Bart for that. “Anyroad... Gram prayed with me. Taught me ye faith... more than the wee bits I 'membered from me Da." she continued, seemingly more comfortable in Bart's familial embrace.

“It... well it dinnae jus' happen in any fashion, I decided..." she frowned a bit, looking up at him. “Promise me ye won't be mad?"

“Why would I be angry at you for wanting what your heart wants?" Bart asked her, leaning his head down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I'm 'shaggin' a Unicorn, I feel I have lost much ground to judge others upon for matters of love." he answered, getting a childish giggle from the young changeling as he said the word 'shagging' in a horrible approximation of her Heartlands accent.

“Well... o' course, but... well when ye fell... I felt a hollow space. Right 'ere." she said, touching her belly. “Ye'd filled in that space, I dinnae even realize how much. Big, strong Bart," she said, shivering a bit. “I needed sommat like that. Gram was... Big. Strong." she smiled, an intimate smile Bart felt he did not deserve to see. “Warm. Inside an' out. Just like ye were but..." She bit her lip.

“I ne'er saw ye in... any romantic way, nae offense intended but..." she smiled at Bart, meeting his gaze. “Ye're my big brother. All muscles and smiles and bigness. Like Da was. Good, big, dependable men ye both." she said and looked away. “Gram was... is, more. He dinnae fill in the same spots, but new ones next door, ye know?" Bart nodded wryly, scratching his bare chin.

“Yeah, I do. Now, at least," he said, and she nodded. Puffing out her cheeks as she blew out her breath.

“Well, tae make a lot of sobbin' soft-hearted shite short, we spent time together. He simply was... there, where nobody else was," she said, shrugging. “Naima and Rashid were so very busy, so much tae do when you're powerful. Th' dandy was stuck in his own shite. Nae one o' us was truly well when we thought ye gone." she explained, Bart's face fell at that, looking away from her and getting a bump with her shoulder in answer. “'Ey, don't be like that... it's not like ye went out ye way tae die."

“No, but I am plagued by such choices — putting myself at risk with no thought of the hurt it causes my loved ones," he said, and she reached out, grasping his hand and giving him a smile, a warm sort of smile that was only for him.

“Iffin' ye stopped darin' the cosmos tae do the worst they can, ye wouldn't be you anymore. Yer stubborn, and brave and I cannae tell some days iffin' its 'cause ye are valorous — or just too dumb to know better." she said, squeezing his fingers.

“Thanks... Little Sister." Bart said pointedly, squeezing her hand back. He had heard such words from Cithara and others... but such recognition from the stalwart, cagey little changeling was meaningful to him in ways he couldn't parse. She nodded, taking a breath.

“Gram is a good man, Bart," she said, shaking her head. “He would nae even touch me at first, even when I made it clear I fancied his looks," she said. Bart grinned at her wickedly.

“It's the mustaches," he said confidently, and she blushed, puffing her cheeks at him a bit.

“... Ye, It is a bit. I like mah men tae look like men," she said implacably, earning another smirk from Bart.

“Ah, so this is why you and Nazir jockey like fresh recruits." he said, stroking his chin; “Although, Nazir is hardly the foppish dandy we met in Lachheim." he hedged, getting a disgusted snort from the girl.

“Ugh, that painted popinjay? Ach, ne'er in a million years, big brother," she spat, shaking her head. “He's a good man, but I cannot stand the constant cock o' th' walk routine," she said, shaking her head, giving Bart a bit of a glare and he held up one hand.

“Easy, easy, I get it. No more interruptions," he said, miming locking his lips with an invisible key, Lidia gave him an obscene gesture casually and leaned against his arm.

“Nae, ye were right. Nazir... he and I are tae much alike really. Scrappy and shite. Ne'er would happen... but Gram." she went quiet a moment, eyes wide and full. “He's special... forgettin' bein' tall and strong and quick as a whip, he's dedicated." she breathed, looking up at Bart with great big eyes.

“Ye prolly understand that better than anyone else, but he has so much... passion, for his duty," she said, smiling. “It's comforting, tae be honest. He would nae touch me, calling me 'Little Redcap' and giving me the grace of his pretty tongue an' soft words." she said, looking up. “You know he composes music?" Bart raised an eyebrow.

“Music huh? Nazir must love that." Bart remarked thoughtfully, Lidia grinned.

“Aye, that part is true. The two o' them together, two voices o' the angels singin' jus' for us." she said a bit dreamily, shaking her head. “I had tae climb him to make my intentions known, ye helmets are a fookin' pain in the arse tae remove, jus' so ye know," she said with a hot blush on her cheeks. “Worth it though... nae my first kiss, but..." she hugged Bart's arm a bit. “... should have been."

“I'm glad," Bart said, pulling her close to squeeze her, getting a little cry from her as her ribs creaked.

“Ye gods, Hayseed." she hissed, pushing at his chest a bit; “Ye muscles have muscles now, fookin' Lady's Teats," she said, getting Bart's eyes up at her tiny bit of blasphemy, she made a face suddenly, meeting Bart's gaze. “Oh... right I suppose I should nae use that one anymore..." she said, Bart nodding.

“Besides, her teats are fabulous, do not take them in vain," he said, and Lidia's face once again heated as if her blood had reached a rolling boil under her skin, causing Bart to cackle darkly at her embarrassment, earning himself a little dig of her elbow into his ribs.

“Anyroad." She continued, over Bart's tittering. “I staked my claim in sight o' god on him... in perhaps a less than godly way, but he still would nae touch me more than a mite," she said, a bit of frustration in her voice. She frowned. “He told me 'Such wants are desperation, not love. Slow is the fires of the heart.'" she said, assuming his careful, cool tone in slight mockery, her breath in a soft huff. “An' then he kissed me so hard I lost th' feelin' in my toes," she added in a quiet voice, causing Bart to grin.

“I've had a few of those." was all he said, and she nodded furiously.

“So... that's all of it. I think ah' love him, Bart. Well and truly." she said, shaking her head. “Ah'm sure if he'd caved, ah'd have jumped his bones in grief an' need and been worse for it, instead..." She looked at her fingers, flexing them a bit. “He jus' took me hand... and held it through the hurtin'," she said, looking up at Bart with wide, vulnerable eyes.

“He took me hand, an' asked nothin' back but me love Bart. I cannae believe such a thing, but he did."

Bart's surprise was only overwhelmed by his happiness, Lidia deserved this. She deserved so much. He took her little hand, leaning her against his shoulder again as she drifted to silence, he had nothing to offer that... his words would just be pablum, the reassurance she sought he could only deliver with touch — touch that both of them had been denied all their life. The familiar, familial touch of siblings.

“What's she like... ye know... intimately," Lidia asked after a long several minutes. Bart raised an eyebrow and she frowned; “Like Gram is, not in the bedchamber you fookin' brick." she hissed, getting a fresh smile from Bart as he leaned forward onto an elbow, propping his chin in his palm — he could feel her presence somewhere close, downstairs — likely with the faithful, or more likely still with Naima, speaking warmly of her distant sister.

“She is... immense, deep like an ocean, I can lose myself in her touch, her scent, her warm, welcoming eyes. She fills in all the places that were empty with her love, she put me back together after Parias nigh-on killed me," he said, and Lidia reached up gently, touching his face by the golden prosthetic eye, he shook his head.

“Nay, that was... someone else. An unexpected friend, another time — I'll tell you about him," he said and she nodded. Daedolon was a difficult conversation to have... and he simply had not the strength to relive the year of brutal training at the moment.

“How can ye... you know... love her, like that?" She asked him in a timid voice, “Isn't that like sommat like lovin' a 'superior officer'?" she asked, hedging around what she clearly wanted to ask. Bart shrugged.

“She is beyond me, but I apparently was... made for her," he said, looking off towards the twin moons as they coasted across the sky slowly. “It seems trite, yet it is truth. I am... I am some tool of fate." he said, Lidia's gaze never wavering from his face as he stared beyond. “A figure of some loose prophecy none speak of nor know... but I know that I was made to love her, built for her to measure by my life's circumstances," he said solemnly, a smile breaking his face as he looked down at her.

“Imagine that, fated to fall for the Queen of Love. 'Tis like a storybook with half the pages soaked in blood," he said and fell silent for a long while as the little thief laid her hand on his heart, leaning against his arm again.

“Ye say it... an' I believe you. Incredible as it be tae hear... I believe you." she said, looking up at Bart with a smile. “Ye heart's too big for any ol' lass o' the dales, makes a queer sort o' sense you'd only be filled by someone with a heart too big for the whole world," she said, squeezing his hand.

“She's great and terrible. I have gazed into places through her that no man was meant to, and yet I walked them unafraid... she makes me want to be better, to push forwards for eternity until she, I, and our love are all that is left." he breathed, and Lidia looked up, eyes a bit wary.

“Surely that's bein' a mite poetic..." she hedged nervously, and then... Bart sighed. His shoulders sank a bit and the little rogue pressed closer to him. “... It's nae poems and pretty words, is it Bart?" she breathed. He shook his head, meeting her gaze.

“I... spent a year in her constant care. She... radiates life. The very essence of vitality at all times, just being near her speeds healing, charges the blood and bones with vigor..." he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “... Extends life." Lidia's own gaze went wide.

“Ye... ye were with her a year..." she murmured, putting two and two together. She'd always been smarter than Bart as well, his adopted Sister and Brother too, sharp where he was dull. Bart sighed.

“I... will likely live forever, so long as I remain at her side," he said in quiet finality. “If the claws of a beast or the blade of a foe do not end me early... I will see the end of this world, and whatever waits beyond."

The words struck Lidia like a blow, and she fell silent. Curling around his heavy bicep with both arms, she pressed her face into it, her grip growing painfully tight. A pain he bore without complaint.

“Ye... ye won't leave me, then. Not ever, right?" she said, hissing through unshed tears. “Ye almost broke that promise once... ye won't do it again, right?" she begged him in a small tone. Bart smiled, but it was full of sorrow he had yet to parse.

“I don't know, little sister. I will try my best, God's Blood I'll tear the earth asunder and pull down the stars to keep that promise if I have to," he said, and she squeezed him ever tighter, her grip stronger than it had been before — like Nazir, the months of siege had hardened her, inside and out.

“Ye promise?" she asked again, her voice small, childlike... but he reached out and took her face in his palm, all of his new scars and tanned skin stood out against her pale, freckled face — it had new scars as well, a thin line across the bridge of her nose to just beneath her right eye.

“I promise. As I promised Cithara... until the Pale Dawn calls me," he said and she nodded, sniffling hard but not crying, not yet.

“I still 'ave to carry th' Moons," she said quietly, leaning her cheek on the man's arm. “I can't put the world on my back, ye still only got the shoulders broad enough for that."

“I've been exercising, I think I can manage the world, and you too," he said softly, and she smiled, and then the tears fell and she hugged him. Not his arm, not around the back — she pressed herself between him and the rampart and burrowed herself into his chest, weeping tears of happiness and relief into him.

“Oh god Bart... it really is you..." she breathed, the second time that night he'd heard that phrase, she looked up at him with naked relief. “I... we all feared, ye had been taken by the fae, or that the Lady was... not as she seemed, ye seemed so... different. So much more that ye had been. But it's really ye under all the armor and glamour." she bawled to him, her ugly crying face reassuring more than anything else could be. He hugged his friend — his sister truly — back, and for the second time that night, he simply held someone deeply important to him as they let themselves go in his arms. The concerns of his self and soul seemed to be shared... they truly must have thought him lost.

“I am myself... just tempered, sharpened, and made as I should be," he said to her, and she leaned back, looking him up and down. At his broad chest, scarred hands... and the golden gleam of his prosthetic eye... but also the gentle softness of the blue one she recognized.

“That ye are... could ye..." she swallowed hard, wiping her dripping nose on a sleeve. “Could ye tell the Lady... tell her thank ye," she said, hugging him tightly.

“Thank ye, for bringing my big brother back."

“She knows. She felt it the first time you laid eyes upon her," he said, and she shook her head.

“I dinnae care. Tell her anyway. My heart's mine, and I'll spill its bloody contents on my own time." she sniffed defiantly and huddled close to him again. They fell to silence as the shapes of the wild hunt twisted and danced below on the field in their grim revelries.

“Can we stay like this, just for a while?" she asked, a mirror of his own words, at a time and place they'd shared a year before in Bart's mind, and he smiled at her and nodded.

“I think the world can wait a little while longer, little sister," he said, and she laughed and leaned her head against his chest, looking up at the moons and the stars.

Bart knew not if his heart could be filled... but he knew now, this night — in the presence of his beloved, his sworn brother and sister, and dearest, strongest friends... if it could be topped off, poured until it overflowed — it did this night.

He would have it no other way.

~ ~ ~

A while turned into an evening of quiet companionship, Lidia leaning against his arms as they both watched the stars and foxfire ghosts of the Wild Hunt's predatory patrolling of the routed forces, chatting about nothing of import. Before long, that quiet togetherness reaffirming a much-missed bond turned into the little thief's drooping form falling into a deep slumber against his shoulder. Bart couldn't help but smile, tousling her sleeping hair slightly, before carefully hoisting her slight frame up. She stirred slightly, but slept still — her little body was tough, but she'd clearly pushed herself beyond even her scrappy tenacity. Bart carried her gently, taking her back down the stairs towards the citadel proper.

The massive walls themselves opened into the great, green ward between the outer and inner curtain walls — each citadel was practically a small village of soldiers, goodmen, and working folk who tended to the needs of the fortress beyond that of the militant nature. Bart paused as his slumbering companion shifted to just look out across the nighttime green. Craters and smoke scattered... but it was strangely peaceful inside of the walls. Animals milled and peered at him with gleaming eyes from their posts, and a patrol of guards with lanterns nodded at him as they passed. Beneath the shadow of the curtain walls, the Fortress was more like a small, cozy city. It felt almost like the Abbey... it felt a bit like home.

Ascending the steps back up the Citadel towards the Barracks, Bart met few people, the changing of the guard had been an hour or so before, and currently, the Citadel was quiet, serene. A few soldiers nodded and saluted him casually, but they offered little more — a comfortable arrangement as far as he was concerned, despite schooling on command — Bart was far more comfortable as a solitary agent, and truthfully that was his order's primary thrust. Turning a corner with his red-headed armload, he found a familiar face looking up at him: Gram.

“Ah, Ser." He said, lowering his resonant voice to a low whisper as Lidia lightly stirred at the sound of it. Bart felt a brief tension between the two of them as Gram's steely gray eyes ran across the little rogue's slumbering form. He had little chance to really interact with the Cavalier, a member of the Ivory Spears — Fort Ivory's principal Heavy Cavalry unit, his armor festooned with the motif of a curling, noble horn — a symbol they carried at hand in their chosen polearm weapons. Each one of them was a master of all manners of spears, poleaxes and pikes both mounted and afoot. Gram being in command of them raised Bart's opinion of him a few notches, his knowledge of them purely academic — yet reputation spoke for itself.

“Shh, she is dead to the world, but only just," Bart said in a similar hushed tone, smiling at the other man. “She bawled herself tired. It has been a full day."

Gram smiled at that, his emotions subtle and measured but clear upon his face. “The little redcap is prone to such outbursts, she is loathe to admit such to herself however," he said coolly, bringing himself up straight for a salute — sans the clashing fist on his breastplate, lest he wake the napping changeling. “It is good I found you, I have been searching for you for a while, a few men said they saw you towards the walls," he said and gestured for Bart to follow. “I've taken the liberty of moving your effects to the officer's quarters, at the Lady's behest," he said, and Bart raised his eyebrows.

“I do not need such courtesy, I am comfortable with the common men," he said, Gram simply smiled.

“Ser, with all due respect — you are a Paladin. The best of us, as writ by God and Lady both. None of us would feel right having you — and more importantly, the Lady — sleeping in a bunkhouse with nine men-at-arms." he said, back straight and eyes perfectly forward. “It is disrespectful to your sacrifices."

Bart opened his mouth, and then simply closed it. He had no argument with that, not with Cithara being involved. Gram's smile turned slightly sideways. “Regardless, Lidia's rooms are there as well. We put all of your companions up in our officer's wing, it is mostly empty anyways — reserved for visiting paladins and dignitaries," he said, raising his eyebrow. “Which, I believe an Akali and his Alchemist wife, and a House Scion of the Brass Circle qualify as," he added, looking down at Lidia again, his iron-hard eyes softening. “We have space enough for one little redcap." the tall man nodded and gestured for Bart to follow. He did, finding himself curious about this stoic cavalier.

Gram was in many ways, Bart's equal and opposite. Where Bart was big, Gram was big and compact. Where Bart was tall, Gram was tall and sculpted. They were a study in comparable contrasts, Bart's frame even in armor was brawn and brutal strength, main force in human form. Gram by contrast was ordered, structured, and purposeful — a human weapon, forged and maintained with diligent attention to duty. Bart likely outweighed the lean spearman by a stone or two, but that did not make the soldier a weakling. Truly, before the burly paladin arrived, Gram Baudelaire was likely among the strongest and most dangerous men here. By Bart's measure as he walked, as he moved in full armor — he very much still was.

The two men ascended another set of steps, a tight spiral staircase made to be defended in case of invasion, Gram carrying a lantern as they went.

“I must thank you, Ser," He said in a quiet voice after a spell. Bart raised his eyebrows in response, and the angular warrior continued. “I am a man of the Faith, and were you not to come as you had — I may have never had chance to lay eyes upon The Lady — let alone speak with her, or be given her blessing of touch," he said, and Bart quirked an eyebrow at that.

“Blessing of touch, you say?" he asked. Bart had not been able to fully keep up with Cithara's movements during the work to recover from the siege, so much... blood and suffering, wielding his healing energies alongside Naima and her nimble fingers. Gram's mouth turned up at the edges again in that subtle smile.

“She kissed me, just the once. Here," he said, touching his brow. His hair was black as a raven's wing, long and straight, tied back in a severe knot at the base of his skull and turned upwards, to deny a handhold and fit under a helmet, a popular style in Darrowmere for men-at-arms. “Then she called me a 'Good Boy'," he said, that bemused smile not changing. “A simple interaction — but one I will treasure all my days."

“That sounds like her." Bart agreed as they crested the stairs. The Officer's Quarters simply looked like the previous barracks had from the outside, which made sense — the Fortress was designed for function before form. Little use of decoration beyond a few tapestries and bits of sculpture that were clearly added after the fact for the benefit of the occupants. Beyond the two Sentinels at the gates, it was mostly unadorned, stark granite. Gram gestured to one room at the end, and Bart followed him through the simple but heavily reinforced door. Lidia stirred a bit, pressing against Bart's chest, and clinging a bit tightly, Gram's eye flicked to the motion, but he said nothing.

Inside was... unpretentious. A bed, a desk, a chest, and an armoire. Lamps stood here and there, Gram lighting one with a rushlight from his lantern and turning it down low. Bart carried his friend to her bed, Gram turning down the blankets as the big paladin laid her gently down, gingerly disengaging her fingers from his gambeson and smoothing her hair. He stepped back as Gram settled the blankets around her, leaning down to kiss her cheek, high near her ear. He murmured something there, and in her sleep — the little changeling smiled and fell to slumber once more. Bart and him met gazes, a gentle jerk of the head and they both nodded. They exited the room, closing it behind them to let their mutual companion sleep.

“She wept for you," Gram said as he closed the door, taking his lantern back up. “My men had to bodily restrain her from going after Parias in the melee. She was alight with bloody-minded hatred as if she had lost a loved one..." he paused, both in speech and pace, meeting Bart's eyes forthright and unafraid. “... or lover."

Bart took the man's measure then. He was of an age with him, perhaps older by a few years. He bore no visible scars, but the set of his eyes told Bart he had seen his share of combat — the gaze of a man who'd witnessed another man die. The two soldiers stood in that hallway in silence a moment, before Bart's smile broke through the wall of silence.

“I am no rival for your affections. I do not call her 'Little Sister' for no reason." he said, raising a hand to place on the cavalier's shoulder. “She is... as much as family to me, a sibling. My blood far as I care to concern myself. We bonded in times of struggle... and found we complemented the other's pain."

Gram seemed to relax physically, a subtle thing on the taciturn cavalier, but noticeable. His smile returned and he inclined his head. “She is... a marvelous thing. So full of life and vigor," he said, his resonant voice pleasant to the ears — he could understand how such a voice raised in song would be beautiful. “To see such a creature wracked by grief... it cut me to the heart, I could not let her pain go uncaring. I ministered to her at first, and as I grew to know her my animal attraction became that of soul and heart," he said, the words delivered gently, with a lyrical quality.

“Do you love her?" Bart asked bluntly, again a contrast — Gram was a man of careful, refined poise — Bart was a cudgel, and was comfortable with that. The spearman raised an eyebrow, turning to face Bart fully.

“I do," He answered without hesitation. “As much as a man can in but three months' time, yet it is enough for my heart, and enough for God," he said, Bart folded his arms, smiling softly... he found himself further enjoying this man, despite their clear differences in methodology.

“It is enough for me as well." Bart answered, “I do not know the disposition of Lachheim... in the worst case, I and my companions may be her only family of any stretch left alive." Gram's face lost that smile, a hard edge taking his features as they resumed their walk.

“We received messenger hawks from Commander Viconia for a time. Lachheim is lost, the refugees press on to Fairharbour and the Abbey. The human cost is in the tens of thousands." he answered grimly “There has been no word for some time, not since the siege was laid against us. We fear the worst." Bart shook his head, making a fist, teeth clenched.

“If only I had been quicker..." he hissed, shaking his head and dismissing the thoughts. Gram raised an eyebrow at that, and Bart met his gaze. “I intend to pay Mihai and Parias back for every lost life, one drop of accursed blood at a time. You may take that as an oath before God." The tall spearman nodded, approval in his eyes.

“I can see why Lidia speaks so highly of you... and not for your station or your strength," he said, and his lips, soft and full, split in a sudden, ferocious grin. “You are a man of purpose."

“I try my best." was all Bart offered, and Gram's smile returned, the measured man clearly not prone to such outbursts of emotion without reason. Careful, controlled... and not unwelcoming. The very soul of the word 'Stability'. Bart decided he liked the man.

“If I may, a moment Ser." Gram said, stopping them once more. Alone in the hallway, voices still hushed.

“Bart is fine. I am uncomfortable with the ceremony," he said, and Gram nodded.

“I request that when you leave, I go with you. My spears and many more of our soldiers are eager to repay this Mihai and their monsters for our comrades, and the innocents of Lachheim," he asked, his steely eyes blazing. “I would take it as a personal debt. I may not carry magic, but swift steel and sturdy arms fell the beasts as well as holy fire, and broad as your shoulders may be — there is weight enough for all," he said, and his choice of words struck him hard... Lidia's words. Truly, she had shared much with this man, much of herself. Much of him.

“It is a dangerous road, I likely ride to my death," Bart advised. Gram raised an eyebrow.

“I fear not Death. I know the destination of my soul," he answered without hesitation. Steel in his voice and his spine alike.

“Lidia may also face such things, can you manage that?" he challenged, and to his credit — Gram did falter a moment before setting his jaw.

“I would be a poor match for her if I was not willing to face blades and fangs at her side," he answered, raising a hand to touch the spiraling horn device on his breastplate. “Until the Pale Dawn calls me, I would put my body between her and harm," he said — and once more, Bart found himself smiling.

“I will grant it — for you and you alone," he said, holding up a hand. “We will discuss the dispensation of forces on the morrow, there is much that has to be handled... and I am no fool. I do not intend to march but my boon companions and a single holy sword into an obviously baited trap," Gram nodded and seemed to relax in acceptance of that. Bart frowned then. “Were it left to me, I would go alone, Lady included — yet Mihai has spoked my wheel on that."

“Why has he requested you all? The Lady and yourself make sense, but why drag in the Akali and his family? Why Lidia?" he asked, furrowing his brow. His angular features complemented the expression well, to call Gram's mustached face 'intense' was to undersell it, just a touch.

“I do not know for sure — but to quote the Lady — ancient things and beings of prophecy like symmetry. We foiled him as a group, and as a group, he would stop us," he said, shrugging. “Elder Things are quirky like that, I could speak volumes on the assorted obsessions of my Goblin Swordmaster deep within the Glade." Gram's eyes lit up wide at that.

“A Goblin? Do you jest with me?" he asked, and Bart shook his head, raising a hand to the lock of Cithara's mane at his neck, still swirling ever so slightly as if by a breeze only it could catch.

“May the Lady strike my mantle from me if I speak a lie," he said, and Gram rocked a bit at that, a bemused expression finding his stoic features.

“Fascinating."

The two soldiers stopped at the end of the hallway, the most distant room. The lantern cast soft shadows, torches burned in sconces at regular intervals yet did only so much in banishing the cave-like gloom of the dour citadel. He gestured to the door, knocking at it twice.

“Oh? A moment!" Cithara's voice echoed, and a faint clatter of hooves met the ears before the door clicked ajar, Cithara's orbit glowing softly along the handle as she met the two soldiers there, her face springing into a wide smile at the sight of them. “Oh, beloved! And the dutiful Gram, I had wondered where you had gotten to." The tall cavalier saluted, shifting away to present Bart. The two men were in stark contrast once more, Gram rigid and respectful, whereas Bart leaned down and gently kissed the unicorn on her cheek, earning him a soft little giggle as she pressed against him, Gram cleared his throat artfully.

“I set about finding Ser Bart as requested, we paused to exchange some philosophy on the way." the tall Darrowmite said, Bart giving something of a crooked grin in response. Cithara's ears perked forward;

“Oh? Spirited conversation is good for the soul, I know my beloved has lacked for human camaraderie for some time," she said, and Bart caught Gram's eye, the man shaking his head lightly as he gave the most subtle of nods in return. The contents of their conversation were theirs alone, even before the Queen of Love.

“Gram has been a good friend to our little family, I was simply catching up on the things I have missed during our isolation," Bart agreed. “It's good to speak of the faith with someone else who understands as I do," he added, and the gleam in Gram's eye as he nodded said all it needed to. They'd taken each other's measure in that conversation, and together they'd agreed on at least one thing — they would see how the other performed going forward, in good faith.

“Delightful... but I reserve right to be selfish with my Champion," she said, and drew herself up, meeting Gram's gaze directly. “Please take your rest, my dear Gram," she said, not an outright dismissal, but the soldier knew when he was relieved, and snapped his hand over his breast in a crisp salute, Bart returning it with a smile, the tall man departing with a neat turn on his heel.

“Such a good boy." Cithara mused as Bart followed her into their shared room, closing the door behind them as he unbuckled his swordbelt, taking a breath as the weight left his hips.

“That is going to take some getting used to still," he said, setting the holy blade to one side as Cithara trotted back towards the simple bed and slid upon it in a tight, tucked little curl, her head erect, watching Bart as he moved.

“The blade, or the command?" she asked in her usual insightful way, cutting straight through him. He smiled wryly.

“Both. I find the weight equally alien." He said honestly... she always could pull the core of his concerns from him, his heart was open to her utterly. She smiled and simply listened as he continued on.

“I will have to lead men in this conflict, I had of course considered it. It would be foolish to think I could strike down the Empty Queen with nothing but my two hands and a holy sword," he said, peeling out of his jerkin with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air of the fortress. He walked to the lone window, an arrow slit more than anything, leaning out of it on one brawny arm to look at the moons rising above the far walls.

“God's Blood, how I wish it were so," he said, shaking his head. Shoulders giving a little shrug in silent laughter. “Would be just like the stories, wouldn't it? A Magic Sword and a Mystical Mentor, and then I steal away to the Ossuary in a pirate vessel and duel the Queen to the Death." he chuckled, behind him Cithara's voice was edged with wry humor.

“Don't forget the flock of songbirds as you land the final blow, and it being in the middle of a rainstorm, with plenty of lightning and thunder," she said, raising one of her forelegs to her lips to cover a dramatic giggle, Bart shrugged.

“A man can dream, after all. I dreamed of you once," he said, and she colored softly around her nose, her eyes searching his.

“Yet... it still troubles you, I know that tone," she said, and he sighed. “My love I immersed myself in your every breath and motion for a year and a day, I daresay the only woman who knows your mannerisms better on this earth is the one who birthed you," she said, and drew closer to him, her sunny aura chasing away the chill. She remained silent, but she was present and her gaze was pleading, yet patient. Bart smiled... until his eyes cast across the yard. Smoke climbed in the distance of the East Ward. Funeral pyres. They did not bury their dead in times of war, not against the Queen's monsters.

“I feel... guilt. Remorse. Shame." he said honestly, eyes distant. “A year... a whole year where I willfully put them from my mind to focus on..." he twisted his mouth bitterly. “... myself."

“Yes, you did. I recall it perhaps a bit less pleasantly than you do," she agreed, eyes hardening. “Would you like to know the exact number of times I brought you back from the brink of death?" she asked with perhaps a bit more tartness than he expected, to which Bart shuddered and shook his head, getting a small 'hmph' in response from her with a toss of her mane. “It was not a pleasant ordeal, each time I felt the mantle... flicker. Almost snapping back from your broken body, again and again," she said, baring her teeth at the memory, fangs gleaming before she looked back to Bart.

“No, I won't accept that. Not from you, Bart," she said sternly, “You did not have some puerile summer dalliance in my grove, I won't see you undersell the efforts you put in because you didn't bleed somewhere your friends could see it." she said, her brow creasing in concern. “You were tasked with great labors, do you really deny yourself so very much, that even the simple pleasures of food and lovemaking being given to you — freely and without compromise — invalidate your struggle in your mind?" she asked, incredulity warring with genuine concern in her tone. Bart was stunned, she seemed genuinely agitated. He blew out a breath

“It is... not something I am good with. Excess was always my weakness," he said, laying a hand over his barrel-like torso, “Saying no to things that... feel good, is difficult. Self-denial is a virtue." he said quietly, uneasily. “It's easier to live without temptation entirely than it is to balance it."

“Beloved you do not have to deny yourself joy..." she breathed, and her expression was exasperated as he set his jaw.

“I have ill-practice with it... as my year-long 'puerile dalliance' attests to," he said, looking back at her with a single eye, momentarily haunted and hollow.

“You are... so very bad for me." he said in a haggard voice; “Yet... also, so very good."

“You fear loss of control?" she asked him, having drawn closer, the moonlight bathed them both in a stark bar of light splashing across the otherwise dimly-lit room, Bart furrowed his brow.

“I fear how easily I just... give in," he said, eyes tracing over her again. “To my desires, my wants. I feel shame because I know... there were days in the Glade where I did not work my hardest, or put aside my blade, armor, or studies to indulge in you and your pleasures, the wonders of your world so far from my own."

“Bart, that's ridiculous. God himself does not expect such single-minded.... destructive dedication such as that!" she responded, and he set his teeth against her outburst.

“My friends... my family, they have suffered, struggled in this conflict when I was absent. My efforts spared them nothing, not pain nor trauma," he said, closing his eyes, and resting his brow on the meat of his forearm. “I feel such a weight of guilt on me when I see those men who were being eaten alive by these monsters while I was tumbling in the grass with their Patron Godhead like some lonely shepherd boy."

Cithara's head jerked back from that, offense creasing her features for a moment, before she narrowed her eyes sadly, and shuffled closer to Bart, eyes searching his, her gaze suddenly far more worried, far more clinical.

“Beloved... what would you have in its stead?" she asked softly, “Would you be as Daedolon, a simple machine driven by duty and little else? A human siege engine?"

“It would have made this conflict cleaner, I would have saved more men... I would have saved..." his voice caught as he remembered Nazir's words, felt the man's heart pounding against his chest with panic, fear still fresh in his memory. A dark chasm welled in his heart, and in it filled in all of the haunted looks and agony he'd heard from his companions — his family. Cithara read the words on his silent lips as clearly as if he'd spoken him, the way his powerful form crumbled in on itself speaking stanzas and bars all its own. She moved closer, her voice soft.

“Bart...you cannot protect the whole world, beloved," Cithara whispered to him, “Even I tried to do so, and failed, failed so spectacularly that I tore the earth asunder... and destroyed so many lives in the process," she said; old, familiar pain in her voice. “Do not torture yourself, my dearest Bart. You are mighty, mightier perhaps than even the First Paladin was in potential... but you are but one man," she said, and came to his side, pressing herself to his bare trunk.

“Forgive yourself, please. You were strong enough." she breathed to him, and he felt his chest catch as she touched her horn against his heart, against the single, white blaze of a scar where she had planted her mantle on his soul. “You were enough." she almost pleaded.

The words... struck something, an ugly black venom rose up in him, and her eyes met his full of intensity. He felt bitter recrimination, the eyes of the dead and maimed staring back at him from behind her eyes as she hissed.

“No, beloved. That is the Wendigo, it has its mark on you — do not forget." her eyes bore into his as she leaned up close to him; “It will strike at your mind, just like this — fill you with doubts, make you angry, reckless and foolhardy," she pressed her chest to his, nestling her face in his neck, her lips by his ear.

“Pay those black whispers no mind, only my voice. You are enough. You are the best man you can be because you struggle, let no man or fell beast question it while I draw breath." she breathed, and he found his arms crushing around the unicorn.

“I left them, they were in danger…"

“They agreed to that danger, they fought and when they needed you most — you arrived."

“But... I... I dallied, I wasted time they so desperately needed..."

“You loved me and that time was not wasted beloved, it was not wasted by half. You have no idea what your love fixed." she breathed, practically weeping, that black void seemed to narrow as she pressed her horn to his flesh again, and he felt his soul ring like cathedral bells.

“You were not dallying my love, you were quite busy mending a broken heart," she said, eyes glimmering as she pressed into him, and that black venom seemed to ease out of his mind, the unnatural despair easing away. Bart shuddered as he felt a familiar, creeping presence, a flickering of slithering shadows at the edge of the room drew both their attention.

'If there is a seam, I will force it wide...' echoed in his mind as real as sound, and he shuddered as Cithara's warmth and immediate, undeniable presence washed away the greasy cold smear he felt on his soul from the touch of the Wendigo.

“Even here, it can reach me still," he snorted. “God, what a monster."

“The Wendigo is my equal in strength, if not ability. Its orbit is wide, even now I can feel it stretching it thin to touch the brand it left on your heart," she said, her face wrinkling up in animalistic fury. “It touched your heart." she hissed. “How dare it. How dare."

“You are being uncomfortably possessive over that," Bart noted and she drew back to look him dead in the eyes with her gold-on-gold gaze.

“It is mine, I have built a lovely home for myself there and I will not brook some ravenous throwback to darken its doorstep," she said with an almost deadly calm, her words warm but her eyes nearly predatory. “You are not the only one who long denies themselves, and when I was offered a chance to be greedy for myself free of consequence or compromise — greedy I was." she purred, pressing into him.

“You are an indulgence, a handsome, wonderful, refreshingly blunt indulgence I will fight God and Heaven for," she said, pressing close, “If there is no room to live, to love, my dear Bart... what sense is there in fighting at all?" she asked him — and bluntly it struck him across the face. He smiled at her and sighed heavily, weight leaving his shoulders.

“It always sounds so simple when you say it," he complained halfheartedly, and she gently kissed him.

“You just need someone to help you gather it all up in your mind, that's all," she said, nuzzling him reassuringly. “The Wendigo will task you, gnaw at you... I will guard you against it, my love, you need not fear its presence in your dreams... none of my boys shall tonight, nay for once in many nights you will all sleep soundly at peace in my presence," she said, and she smiled looking out the window, a tragic edge forming on the expression.

“We must leave at first muster, beloved. We cannot stay. I cannot drown these beautiful, doughty boys in my love," she breathed, eyes closing. “One night, already I have seen it. The familiar pep of those bathed in my orbit, already I push them out of the cycle by fingers, I will not see it grow further than must needs be," she said resolutely. She slid back closer to him then, much of that steel leaving her in a quiver.

“Come now, my husband. Make love to me one more time before we march to war." she breathed, and then with a smile simply added:

“Let me care for you."

Bart allowed her to draw him in for another kiss. He let her care for him, his hurts, his wants. His needs. The lantern dimmed long before they settled, emotionally and physically satiated. Safe. Whole.

~ ~ ~

The night passed uneventfully and quietly solemn. Guards on watch would muse for years at the eerie, welcoming calm that suffused them until they found their beds. The terrors of the darkness were far away, and only the solace of dreamy slumber remained — so was the power of the Lady in White.

They emerged from sleep to a further spectacle, the cresting light of dawn cast across the great fields of battle... and they were clear and clean. The call came down from the walls, sentries confirming and relaying information with outrider scouts: not a single corpse remained of the invaders, let alone a spot of blood upon the grass. Were the earth not churned by feet and engines of war, it would be as if no blood had been spilled there at all.

“Blood of God," Bart murmured, surveying the barren landscape. He had risen with the dawn muster as had many of the other men, being back in a regimented environment was deeply comforting to the Paladin. He had not realized how much he would miss the sounds of clattering armor and the talk of rough men of good quality.

“Language," Cithara said quietly next to him, her own gaze sweeping across the field with cold approval.

“Oh look at ye, so cavalier wit' th' blasphemy now." Lidia said to him with playful mockery; “How's it feel, Tinman?" Cithara and Bart had been joined by Gram and his riders, which had necessitated of course that Lidia tag along. Gram touched her shoulder in a silent gesture of reproach as the Lady in white surveyed the destruction, as if she were looking for something.

“Naima says the three paladins were burned and their ashes separated and interred," Nazir said, eyes keen and flicking about, his hand on his newly-acquired sword. The young Southerner had gained a sense of paranoia in addition to his newly-honed combat savvy, he clearly felt more useful here than in the keep where Naima and Rashid prepared their supplies for their immediate journey. “Holy One, there can't be anything left to claim."

“A bold assumption, Little Lion," Cithara said as they walked, the riders had ranged out to canvass the area and form a more secure perimeter — the Lady had simply walked boldly forward, unafraid and focused.

“Forgive me, Holy One but... it seems to be borne out," he said, reaching his hand down into the churned soil and digging up a fist-sized clump. The dark-skinned man breathed deep of it, sniffing at it gamely and gesturing beneath him — a sizable divot had been dug, by a great impact; “This is where one of the great giants fell, you can see the outline. They cut it to ribbons and yet — no smell of rot, or ichor of any kind." he said and held the clump of loamy soil out to Bart, who gamely took the clump and breathed in — he had also seen the creature fall, much, much closer than Nazir had, his eyebrows raised.

“Not even a trace, like it was strained through cheesecloth," he said, dusting his hands clean as the Unicorn seemingly ignored them, walking forward a stretch before responding.

“The Erlking and his riders are consummate hunters," she said and turned to them with golden eyes full of knowledge great and terrible, and she added with a simple, matter-of-fact tone that chilled Bart's blood.

“Nothing goes to waste."

Lidia visibly shivered at that, pressing closer to Gram by reflex as Bart and Nazir exchanged haunted looks, the unicorn simply resuming her search.

“Darling, do we need to be so cryptic? They may not show it, but you're frightening them." Bart asked her in a quiet tone, the Unicorn turned to him, her eyes hard and fearful.

“They should be afraid, beloved. There is something out here still, and it is more dangerous than you can imagine," she hissed, her voice only for him. Bart's guard went up at that, and he casually loosened his sword in its scabbard with his thumb, Gram's eyes caught the motion, meeting Bart's gaze momentarily in concern, mirroring the Paladin with a subtle shift of his grip on his polearm.

They continued in silence after that, cutting through the center of the battlefield, eerily quiet. Bart had never fought a massed battle before, but even he found the lack of carrion birds nor the buzzing of flies as was common even during their smaller exchanges with the Plagued Men unsettling, as if the entire offending army had been swallowed by the very earth, down to the last drop of blood.

“I remember this place," Nazir said after a moment, the foursome having pressed past the churned-up frontline where Bart and Cithara had met the crush of the enemy in divine fury. Bart cast his gaze around, in the ruin and wreckage his mind also drew together images from a year and then some ago by his own reckoning, there had been tents, men here, now flattened and hammered away.

“This was Parias' camp," Bart said, and Nazir nodded curtly.

“You have been here before then?" Cithara asked them, and the trio nodded, Bart, extending his hand to gesture at the hauntingly empty grounds.

“When we arrived, Parias had lain siege to the fortress, and this was the back most of his lines. We stole armor and cloaks from his patrols, and blended in to push through their lines," he explained, the Unicorn's nose wrinkling in disgust as they moved through.

“You speak the truth: this place reeks of the Wendigo's cursed presence. It was here not long ago." she drew herself up a bit; “Is still here, in a fashion."

That statement lit up the eyes of the trio around her, Bart's hand grasping the hilt of his sword, Nazir going so far as to slowly slide his odd hybrid blade free of its scabbard, the sinewy young southerner bouncing it a few times in his palm. Cithara's gaze looked over him with curious eyes, her gaze hard to read but the smile that touched her lips briefly was reassuring before casting her sight back to the ruined camp.

The devastation was not total here, where on the field of battle every mote of the enemy's presence had been scrubbed, here and there stood the wreck and ruin of a place once inhabited by at least creatures in the shape of men. Tents and carts collapsed and crushed beneath the trod of the wild hunt, it was a curiously... half-done job. Bart's gaze still found no speck of blood or bodies in the turned earth or collapsed structures, but the foxfire-mantled hunters seemed to have been rushed, hesitant to linger in this place.

“Darling, when you were here before... was there anything that stood out to you as wrong?" she asked, gazing around the destruction, her orbit flaring as she pressed out with senses he could not even begin to understand. The big Paladin furrowed his brow, casting his mind back to that hazy moment, it had been so full of outrage, fear, and pain... he grimaced a bit. To his side, Lidia snapped to attention.

“That wee little monster Parias had with 'em," she said suddenly, stepping out from Gram's shadow. Bart had never considered Lidia fearful... but she seemed much like the others to be deeply unsettled by the empty battlefield and its haunting quiet. “She was... guttin' one o' the defenders." Bart's eyes also lit up in memory, the hellish thoughts unlocking in that day of traumas like a black flood of viscera and gore.

“The Altar," he said in a hollow tone. Nazir merely spat to one side, a visible paleness falling over his bronzed skin at similar gruesome and mostly forgotten memories, both men's eyes meeting for a moment in a shared recall of the battle atop the Ziggurat. Cithara, however, became erect with interest, her eyes blazing with golden fury.

“Show me. This deep in the stink of that monster, I can feel only the darkness and suffering it left behind," she said, visibly gritting her teeth. “Being here for I is like as you wading through a sewer."

“Been there," Lidia remarked dryly, stepping out ahead of the group. Bart barked out a bit of laughter at that, breaking the pall a bit. Cithara raised an eyebrow at him.

“It's a story for later, beloved." He told her as he stepped up his own pace to keep up with his adopted sibling.

“It seems there are many stories I have yet to hear." the Unicorn said, a terse smile pushing past the gloom that still rested over her features. Bart gave her a tight smile in return.

“A few, perhaps," he said with a wink, getting her smile to widen, only just.

They wended their way with renewed purpose through the shattered encampment, and before long Nazir called out to them, picking his own pace up to jog through a burned-out series of tents. The remaining trio caught up to him at a canter, and found him, hands on his hips, looking resignedly at a dilapidated, broken-down... and very familiar wagon. It was burned out, and each wheel twisted from the axles or shattered on it, the bed itself cracked in twain as if something large had trod upon it, the smell of it suggested other... fouler things had been done with the insides.

“Learned One's Pinions, the bastards ravaged it," he said with a mournful tone, Bart and Lidia frowning as they came up, Gram lifted a palm by way of confusion. Nazir turned;

“Our... no, My caravan, from before. I paid good gold and better services for this some time ago. Spent many a coin and favor, built up a lifestyle that suited me, placed it on four wheels, and hitched it to my dear sister's ambitions." he offered as a way of explanation. “We were forced to abandon it to flee the plagued men's ranks and Parias' rage. Seems in the passing months they helped themselves." he groused, Lidia peeked around one side and made a face.

“Aye, looted from top tae bottom," she said, drawing out a torn and stained sheaf of cloth, doubtlessly one of Nazir's own bits of finery from the color, the southern man sighed, Bart clasping his shoulder with one armored hand.

“Twas the culmination of my personal fortunes, looted and pillaged by mindless beasts wearing the shapes of men," he said, giving another discarded, crushed coffer a rueful kick. “It is just gold, possessions, it can be replaced yet..." Nazir seemed truly heartbroken as he touched one of the doors, now hanging lopsided from twisted hinges. For only the second time, Bart saw true grief pass his sworn brother's face.

“It's all different now, isn't it?" he asked Bart, the big Paladin sighed and closed his eyes. His hand tightened on his shoulder, and Nazir wordlessly reached up and clasped his ring-bedecked fingers over the black-enameled plate of Bart's gauntlets, the tarnished silver and dented gold clashed with the battle-worn plates, and fresh, pale scars on the young man's once-soft hands.

“Yes, brother. I don't think any of us will ever be the same, and for that I'm sorry." Nazir nodded, looking over the wrecked effigy of his former life, a tear ran down his cheek and he sniffed loudly, blinking it away and working his jaw to swallow a sob, resting his free hand heavily on the cart's fire and filth-scarred side, his head hanging low. It seemed a small thing, yet Bart understood it.

“Let us make it worth it, yes?" he said after a moment, looking back up with eyes lined with freshly-smeared kohl, “A mighty sum I paid, and I will have my money's worth from the expense," he said, smiling, though there was a bleakness in his tone. Lidia slid closer as well, her tiny hand joining Bart's on his other shoulder, gently pulling the young man into her arms. Bart blinked at that... but it made sense to him after a moment's thought — if anyone could understand what it was to lose a livelihood, a home of sorts — it was the orphan thief. Nazir returned the embrace for a moment before pulling away, resting his head on the knuckles of one hand for a long moment. “Forgive me, it was a moment of weakness. They are merely things, and things can be replaced..."

“No, Little Lion," to their surprise it was Cithara's voice, the Unicorn trod closer, her eyes sad as she surveyed the wreckage, and she turned to him with a wistful gaze. “Do not short yourself so. This was a violation, as much as anything done to your body or soul," she said in a motherly tone. “It is a fine thing to mourn the loss of a way of living earned honest and true. You are a man of rare qualities... and I would have you see them as one such as I do."

Nazir seemed to almost flinch from that, the Queen of Love smiling at him, her radiance seeming to lift a bit of the pall of darkness around them, the southerner avoiding her gaze with his own golden eyes, their amber depths troubled.

“I thank you for the kind words Holy One, but..."

“No buts, Little Lion," she interrupted him softly, her gaze looking to the burned and befouled caravan. “To lose one's place and purpose is... a wound, I have seen such wounds bleed men to death by inches," she said and looked back to him, even as he turned his gaze from hers, shame coloring his features. “There is no weakness in that. What you are now is wrought by circumstance — what you shall become..." she smiled again. “I will watch that path with interest, Little Lion." With that, she stepped forward and gently laid a kiss on the stunned man's forehead, right at the bridge of his nose and brow, there was a faint feeling of... electricity in the air, at least to Bart. None of the others seemed to react — other than Nazir, who stood stunned and seemed like to hide away inside himself from the discomfort, though for a moment — a twinkle of the familiar dandy spread across his face, and he glanced back at the cart.

“I suppose I have not changed too dearly," he began, his spine straightening a bit. “I can still catch the eye and grace of beautiful women," he said, and it was Cithara who reeled back a bit, an incredulous little smirk on her soft lips, and she tittered quietly.

“Oh I like you," she breathed at him, “If only you were taller," she answered with a snide little wink, and the southerner's face drew into an expression of mock shock, touching his heart. Lidia giggled next to him, giving his arm a friendly slug as he turned away to the cart, arms folded across his chest. Seeing his friend standing there, wearing mail and gambeson, a weapon of war at his hips, stronger, straighter... Bart couldn't help but echo his beloved's sentiments. He looked forward to the man his sworn brother was becoming.

They took a moment longer at the wreck, Nazir checking if anything at all was salvageable, and then with disgust he simply drew a tinderbox from his belt, after a few fruitless strikes in the damp and mist of the morning he sighed, and looked up to Bart.

“Brother, could I perhaps...?" he left it hanging, wiggling his fingers in an arcane manner. Bart snorted bemusedly and stepped forward, his eye flashing with golden radiance as he reached out and produced a flame, dancing above his palm with golden energy — this time, he recalled how he'd been taught, pulling the ambient heat from the surroundings in bits. Nazir marveled at the flickering holy fire for a moment and then ignited a bit of tinder with it.

“My thanks," he said, and quite without ceremony — tossed the burning stave into the open bed of the cart. The befouled wood and its destroyed goods caught quickly, smoke and fire leaping high into the air. He watched it a moment, his gaze distant and hard, and then nodded once with purpose, rolling his shoulders in a gamely fashion as he faced his friends. His family.

“Let us be about it then, evil to smite, legends to make," his eyes gleamed with a renewed fervor in the flames.

“This will be quite the story to tell someday."

The five rejoined after a moment's silence, moving forward with Lidia at their head again, her keen sidheborn eyes flicking to and fro, but more so her sensitive nose it seemed; the little changeling had pulled back her customary red cowl and was gently sniffing every so often — reminding Bart of their time in the catacombs beneath Lachheim. It dawned on him then, that must be part of why she was so valued in the siege — early warning of the Ghuls, their telltale stink.

More than just that, Bart was struck by the changes in his little sister. Exposed as she was, her fiery red hair spilled down her cheeks and chin in soft waves, her hair grown out in the three months he'd been gone... she had curls! The wide waves of hair framed her face and pale, freckled skin in a way that filled his heart. No longer was it the hacked-off short style that concealed her identity and womanhood. She exuded confidence rather than defiance now. He couldn't help but smile into his gorget, he and Gram alike in full armor, visors raised. The tall Darrowmite caught his eye on Lidia, and a gentle nod passed to the Paladin, not missing the importance of what they saw.

“Oi, Ah got somthin'," she said, her nose tilting one way and her eyes fixating on a path stamped into the earth through the crushed and ruined camp, Bart was unnerved by how little he remembered of the layout of the place, and how alien it looked to be... so scoured of life. He jerked his chin at her to go on, and she sniffed a few more times and wrinkled her nose.

“Blood. Lots o' it."

The three companions all showed physical unease as she related that — each knew what that meant. The layout of the camp may have been scoured from their minds in the crush and chaos of their escape and the further madness of pitched battle — but none of them would ever forget the presence of that altar.

“Lead us, dear one," Cithara said to her in a quiet, reassuring tone. Her presence buoyed them with her lambent energy.

They picked through at a renewed pace, none of them eager to remain as the air seemed to grow colder, and the sounds of life, even wind distant. The air became heavy and stagnant, and before long even Bart could smell the familiar metallic stink of blood and viscera, as before he could taste the coppery tang of tacky gore in the air, twisting his mouth in disgust. Gram pointedly lowered his visor, clearly finding the steely, sweat-stained smell of his armor preferable to the sickly-sweet rot in the air. Lidia was again, the most affected, looking a bit sallow and green as they found their way towards a depression in the earth.

The details he'd missed before beneath the crush of damned souls stood out as they paused at the lip of the bowl of earth. Beneath their feet simple stripped logs had been beaten into the mud, creating a primitive walkway down into the natural amphitheater that appeared to have been scooped out by hand, exposing roots and the guts of the earth in its loamy soil. Split logs used as pews were arrayed around it in haphazard tiers, leaving a single, central road to the altar... that still stood. The air around them was stagnant and wrong, the earth itself seemed bleached where it was not so soaked in the spilled blood of men that it had turned sticky black, and then Nazir gave a cry.

“The sky!" he shouted, pointing upwards. All eyes looked heavenward, and hands went to weapons. Bart even half-grasped the mantle as they searched... and with shaking comprehension, they understood.

It was frozen. The sun hung perfectly immobile behind clouds that did not dance nor coast on wind that did not blow. The air was dead and still. Little wonder the sidhe had left this place in such a hurry.

“A sample of the Empty Queen's corruption," Cithara said as she stepped down towards the altar, still a simple butcher's block of black stone on rough, wooden risers. Caked in sticky gore, it seemed to almost writhe across its blade-scored surface. The Unicorn continued; “Her presence is here, and with it, her weight drags down time and space around this object of her devotion. The rest of you, stay back." she said and turned to Bart.

“You, beloved. Come." she instructed, and without hesitation, he jogged down to her side in a clatter of plates. Each step closer to the slab seemed to gnaw and chew at his mind, he heard... distant whispers, screams, the scratch of nails on slate... and a sobbing sound he could not place. His teeth set as Cithara's eyes met his.

“Endure it, beloved. My mantle protects you... yet the Wendigo's mark lets it reach into your mind. Listen carefully, learn the sound of the Queen's song — but pay it no heed." she said as they stopped before the altar, the din of sound loud, the air... physically thicker, slowing his movements, pulling at him, forcing him to manually straighten himself against the sheer weight of gravity that seemed to drive him downward, to force him to kneel.

“What am I hearing?" he whispered, chest rising harder with effort.

“The damned, and the lost," she answer sadly, looking back and forth between the altar and the ground, thankfully the bodies that had once been heaped upon the surrounding dais were mercifully absent, diluting the horror, if only just. “You hear the true voice of the Empty Queen, it is agony. It is grief."

“She's... crying," Bart added as he focused more on it. “I do not understand it... but I can feel it. Weeping." he said, and Cithara nodded.

“The Queen's hatred is driven by loss, by grief. A dead child of a dead mother, sibling to dead races. Unborn, unwanted." she said, and there was sorrow in her voice, pity even. Yet there was also steel as her golden eyes flared, her orbit enveloping the stone altar and her head tilting as she seemed to probe and press at it. There was a psychic rumble, a primordial snarl of sorts and she snapped her head back briefly, as if struck.

“Yes, it is the focus as expected," she murmured, “Bart, your sword." At the instruction, he snapped his hand to the blade; the feel of its heavy oblong hilt an immediate comfort in his mailed hands as he slowly drew it with a singsong metallic ring, the pitted black surface of the absolute iron immediately gaining its golden sheen even in the wan light of the frozen sun. He grasped it in two hands, bringing it against his shoulder in a parade rest. Cithara turned towards him, her orbit igniting, a slow, crackling energy crawling up her horn.

“Lower the blade, my love," she said, and he did as instructed, dropping the weapon before her eyes, which then met his sternly, alight with the lambent power of her orbit. “Grasp my mantle beloved, and do not release it until I say — lest this destroy you."

Startled by that for a moment, he lowered his visor, reaching for the mantle — praying for strength. Beneath the steely mask, his eye flashed pure golden, a piercing point of light as he set his feet, holding the blade before him, the faintest glimmering outline flowing around him as the power of the Lady in White buffered and reinforced him. There was a pause wherein she took a breath, and then touched her horn to the weapon. The crackling, killing energy he'd seen her wield against Ghuls and Gatekeeper suffused the entire weapon, leaping across it in a black-on-gold sheathe of hostile, destructive force that engulfed his hand and part of his arm, causing him to tense in alarm... and yet he felt no pain.

“Go, now Bart. Now my champion, strike the altar. Strike it with killing intent," she breathed to him, eyes still aglow as the savage, destructive force he wielded vibrated the weapon in his hand. Grasping it firmly, he stepped forward, raising it to the sky like a beacon of hope in the dingy, grim frozen moment they occupied, he stepped forward into the cut with a bark of effort, swinging the blade down in a brutal overhand chop, as if he intended to shear the stone in twain as if it were a hated foe. Parias' face flickered in his mind, the Wendigo's leering skull... and the distant sobbing became a plaintive wail as the First Blade spat its own venom at the abomination before it…

… and cleave it did.

The blade met almost no resistance as Bart's mighty blow struck down into the stone slab, the mantle's enhanced strength giving the cut such velocity that it displaced the still air around it, snapping the half-cape across his left arm and back in a sudden, seconds-long gale as the weapon reaved its way through stone, wood and finally with a bark of defiance, cleaved the altar as a whole in twain, the destructive energy detonating on impact in a crackling, sizzling force.

The sky then shattered.

A blast of air blew out from the altar, chips of stone and wood rattled against Bart's armor, pinging off his visor, promising to have torn his flesh were it unarmored. The force of the preternatural shockwave hurled Lidia and Nazir from their feet, even Gram's heavier frame braced against it was still thrown to one knee as the frozen moment seemed to catch up all at once, the clouds moving at a manic clip, and the sun streaking across the sky to hang in its proper place. The wind howled and tore at them as if built up behind a dam and finally released in a torrent of whirling air, blasting bits of dirt, loam, and wood around them.

In all of it, Bart's mind was assailed with screaming — an inhuman howling of curses he could not understand but for the venom they were spat with from a thousand voices at a thousand, thousand places in time. It clawed and tore at his mind, trying to drag him along with it — but finding no purchase, psychic talons glancing off the golden shield of Cithara's loving mantle as he drew the blade back once more, there was a whirling darkness where the altar once stood; and by pure instinct, blade still wreathed in that unmaking force — he thrust it with a yell into that writhing blackness.

The scream reached a fever pitch, the inky well of darkness seeming to have a fleshy core somewhere within, it grasped at the blade, tried to yank it and Bart both within, but Daedolon's lessons echoed in Bart's mind, and he twisted and jerked the blade back — another roar splitting his lips as he rolled his shoulders into a brutal horizontal slice, bisecting the shadowy, twisting thing with another blast of force that rocked his companions and buffeted his armored form... and then just like that…

Silence.

Bart held fast to the mantle, blade at the ready... and after a long moment, there came a faint sound of birdsong. The warmth of the sun filtered down over them, the scent of blood and coppery gore lessened, the very weight of gravity lessened. In the ruins of the altar, sat a single, small wicker doll, wrought of mud, hair, and sticks, cut in twain by his blow, the interior of the slab hollow and pouring a disgusting, tarry effluvium like a grisly stone womb for the broken fetish, the substances rapidly dissolving into a greasy black smoke that further evaporated to nothing in the gleam of the sun. The crackling power faded from Bart's blade, and Cithara's eyes and markings dimmed.

“You may release the mantle, my love... there is no danger here any longer, only sadness," she said, stepping forward to look down at the tiny wicker toy.

“What the bloody fi, fie, fo fiddley FOOK was THAT!?" Lidia spat as Gram helped her to her feet, her exposed face and arms lightly peppered in paper-thin slices from thrown debris, Nazir rising in a similar state, his black hair a windblown mess he smoothed out as he spat dirt from his mouth.

“An Altar to the Empty Queen," Cithara stated; “Yet more than that. Her altars are carried from the Ossuary, from the Balelands, made of the bones of the earth, wrapped and shaped around a tiny bit of her own stillborn womb," she said, eyes on the tiny wicker doll. “It was an actual piece of her, given blood and souls to grow and put down roots — creating a slice of her reality, her preferred world beyond the bounds of the Ossuary," she said grimly, turning to meet the companions' gaze.

“We destroyed many of them in the Verdant Crusade. Left unchecked, it would call new worshipers to it, to carry it away — and eventually to feed it more and more blood and souls until it grew wholly into a new..." she paused, considering her words a moment; “... limb, of the Queen herself. She is trapped within the Tombthrone by her own stillborn essence, bonded to the fetid womb of her dead Mother — these altars allow her to reach beyond it, to influence minds and reality as she does there." she explained, shaking the dust from her mane; “Your disorientation and difficulty remembering this place was her influence, she attempted to dissuade us, distract us."

“This is what they took the Ziggurat for, what the Wendigo killed all of those people in the Middlelands to get," Nazir said bitterly, Cithara nodded grimly as Bart raised his visor.

“Could you have destroyed it yourself?" Bart asked and she hesitated, looking back to the shattered altar, its black substance now nearly wholly gone, the little wicker fetish crumbling to dust.

“I could have... but to make direct contact with it, to strike it with flesh and bone is a danger... part of her could have entered unto mine own flesh, earthbound as I am. Thus why I needed your sword," she said, eyes meeting Bart's.

“Iron cares not, it cuts because it is made to."

The five brushed themselves clean, Bart keeping the blade at hand, more out of comfort than any necessity as he passed minor healing out among his companions; it did his heart good to be able to take a proactive role with hurts of the body, he understood Naima's drive even more now.

“Cithara," Bart said as he finished with Nazir, the southerner's bare arms had taken a beating when the altar had split, She looked up at him with an inquisitive glance.

“That power you wreathed my sword in, I have seen you use it before. Against the Ghuls in the Glade, and in our battle here — what is it? Why did you not teach me to conjure it?" he asked, and her eyes widened a little, flicking between the others and himself.

“... It is not for you, beloved." she hedged, Bart released his grasp on the mantle, hefting the blade in one hand. It was more and more comfortable at hand, a year of toil showed in him — and blood had told the story in battle.

“You know I will not accept that answer, not now," Bart said calmly, and the Unicorn sighed, her gaze rueful but she closed her eyes as if gathering herself.

“It is a difficult thing to put into words, you and your kind lack the understanding of it," she said, taking her gaze from Bart, his one-eyed stare intense as he inverted the blade before him, leaning his hands on the broad crosspiece. She paused once more, meditating on it for a long moment before she seemed to shrug her shoulders and then she met Bart's gaze once more, directly.

“It is the Light of God."

Bart frowned, his brow creasing as he looked down at the blade in his hands, running a thumb across the pommel, and the bundle of braids that dangled from it.

“I do not understand, should not such a thing be as to me as the light of the sun or moon?" he asked, and Cithara let out a sigh.

“I said you had not the understanding, and I cannot wholly impart what It is to even you as you are now," she sighed ruefully, her tail whisked and she drew one of her forelegs up to her chest. “It is... God himself, a bit of Him and His Realm. His Breath. A Whisper from His lips. It is Truth." she said, her voice resigned. She looked between the five of them; “None of you, not a one can withstand the unmitigated, unfiltered magnitude of Absolute Truth. Bart?" she said pointedly, tasking her attention to him.

“You have nearly been unmade by it once before." she breathed and met his gaze. “Once before, you gazed into Truth, for only the smallest fracture of a moment."

Bart's mind reeled back to The Glade, looking beyond, into the Cycle of Things. He shuddered and went pale as he nodded, and she nodded in return.

“In that moment, you glimpsed the very barest edge of Truth, you brushed its furthest corner with fingers clad in thick gloves of my love and caring, and yet and still it nearly reaved you apart," she explained, looking between the others. “Such an experience would have torn them asunder, unmade them utterly bereft of my protection."

“That is why I needed the mantle." he mused, and she nodded.

“I am a creature of the Divine Realm, my mantle sheathes you in the stuff of the Astral, and buffers you between its all-defining, all-unmaking Truth," she said.

“Why use it against the fell ones then, Lady?" Gram asked, the quiet cavalier leaning thoughtfully on his bec-de-corbin nearby, the question taking everyone off guard from the normally taciturn manner of the Darrowmite soldier; “It seems quite an enormous expenditure for something that dies well to steel and muscle," Cithara smiled at him, and there was a sadness in her face.

“It is a mercy," she explained, drawing herself up. “I hate not the minions of the Queen for being, merely for what they are, what they do — but they have no choice. No escape. Those slain by the Light of God, exposed to Truth — are reaved from the Queen's broken cycle." she let out a little shuddering breath.

“It is but a drop in a sea of billions, but those few are allowed at last the rest of oblivion." The party fell silent at that heavy moment, Cithara dipping her head with a shiver as she turned to Bart again. “That is why it is not for you. I will not teach you to call upon it, I will not hand you the keys to unmaking yourself, no matter the power it grants," she said with finality, her chin high.

“If God decrees you worthy to wield his Light directly, it will not be I who grants it. That is for Him to choose."

Bart nodded, he could accept that. Lidia looked over at him, hugging herself a bit.

“Ye dinnae tell me a lot o' things about yer time with the Lady, definitely nae bit o' bein' almost obliterated," she huffed at him with an accusatory tone, the big Paladin shrugged, smiling sheepishly.

“It has been a busy day, I was getting to it."

~ ~ ~

The return was a quiet thing, everyone deep in their own minds on the events they'd witnessed. Bart suspected this was intentional, Cithara was a noble, loving thing that filled his heart — but she was also a master manipulator. He had an inkling she'd engineered this excursion for some grander purpose with his friends. To look at them now, he imagined she had accomplished whatever she sought to, and now led their sober little band back to the gates, always a few extra steps forward of the group, just outside of easy reach. It did little to deter Bart, finding himself astray of his friends with the unicorn, her eyes distant.

“They are so young," she said to him apropos of nothing. The phrase hung in the silence between them. Neither turned to meet the other's eyes as they walked, Bart's gaze ahead on the familiar shapes of men at work around the gates.

“You are all so young," she said again, and there was an ancient pain in that voice. A surrender to vulnerability as she lowered her head, tucking her face away beneath the veil of her silky mane.

“It never gets easier, Bart," she breathed, her pace resolute. “Yet every time I see a face so young, so new. So untouched by time as theirs carrying such weight of knowledge, such scars." she shuddered with a sob, Bart was reminded of the specter of the First Paladin, his words:

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.

“To be forced to add to it. To do so knowingly, it is a burden that never grows lighter," her voice was resigned, the pain was fresh but familiar. Bart smiled, it was however a rueful expression: He was one of those things. He had not missed that little verbal tripwire. Too young, too new for the things he'd seen — even he knew as much, knew the weight of what he bore. But he saw the glimmer behind the pain, the steel in the broken parts. He opened his mouth, chest full as he thought to speak — to assuage her fears — and found her shoulder bumping his chest, air puffing out of it in a sudden, uncomfortable exhale. She sighed at him.

“No, No Bart," she murmured, nuzzling his cheek. “This isn't a problem to solve, this is just a time to listen. I am no frail, myopic immortal. I know you are a durable people, but much like any mother it still hurts to watch you trip and fall, even as you must needs do it — and I sometimes simply need to just feel that, in the open." she explained, making the young Paladin once more feel a bit sheepish. She pressed a bit closer.

“Just listen, and then tell me you love me at the end."

“Oh, if that's all," he mused wryly. She smiled at that gently if a bit wan at the edges, simply leaning on him as they walked. Bart was as asked of him — present, attentive even as he watched her wrestle with her memories. Herself.

“I have been gone from the world a long time, Bart," she said after a long pause. “The last I strode these green hills, they were dark with the fires of war... and so it is again when I emerge anew," there was a bitterness there he had never heard from her. “I have never laid eyes upon mine own world, a world my very essence is bound to, in a state of peace. Only in my idyllic, shut-away corner. Distant and far away." she continued, golden eyes unfocused, staring past the fortress to the mountains beyond. She closed her eyes in a sudden grimace, a shuddering breath drawn in as she burst out, voice hoarse:

“I want to see my children flourish, I wish to see their joys, not merely their tears! I want to see my babies grow!" her voice a strangled wail of pent-up anguish. Bart's mute attentiveness seemed to be exactly what she needed, as the cosmic being never missed a stride, even as she sniffed and tossed her mane to one side. A flare of her orbit crisply flicked tears from her glimmering golden eyes and over a series of seconds, Bart watched her rebuild her imperious composure, as if her sadness were an uppity child to be humored and then sent along. Each bit was put back into place until she drew one more breath and stopped, turning to Bart.

“I want to see my babies grow up, Bartholomus," she breathed, her tone neutral, strong. Eyes on his. He saw the distance there, the necessary distance she had to maintain. A distance he would have to learn himself, she smiled — and there was resignation in it, a submission of sorts.

“I already missed it once. Please, don't make me do it again." There was a pleading in that tone, a quiet vulnerability. Beyond their companions grew closer, the long walk back from the battlefield reaching its end as the great white walls of the Fort loomed above them. Bart felt pressed to answer, to say... something, but he had nothing he could begin to say to this eternal, cosmic creature and the very idea of the loss she'd felt. He was a small thing, he was one man. He only had one thing to offer.

“I can only love you," Bart said, honestly. Genuinely, touching her cheek; “Everything else... I am but a man, I have but one heart, one life. I give them both to you as you need." he said, and with a catch in her voice — the unicorn laughed.

“God's Light, Bart," she said, her warm, buttery laughter washing the last dregs of sadness from her; “I said you did not needs fix it, and yet you try in earnest still."

“I merely did as you asked. I listened," he said, turning back towards the wall as their companions closed the gap.

“Then I told you I loved you."

She smiled at that, and her eyes glimmered as she needed not give her answer in return. He felt it surely enough.

~ ~ ~

The walls loomed ahead of them as each of the companions was pulled from their introspection by one another, and by the time the gates once again swung wide, the five were warmly chatting anew. Gram advanced ahead of the party at a clipped pace as the doors opened ahead of them — the remains of his outriders filtering in behind them.

“Sir! The scouts have reports!" came a man in similar cuirassier armor to Gram, the marching cavalier gesturing for him to continue as the massive windlasses thundered their din to swing wide the gates — in the gap, a pair of familiar shapes.

“Ah, we were just talking about when you would arrive," Naima said, hands fiddling with saddlebags on fresh, bright-eyed horses; Rashid stood nearby, a steady, stony presence to his wife's clinical motion.

“It is early yet, we need not rush." He mused, and Naima shot him a glance.

“If you knew how much of our travels were owed to my preparedness and not your faith in the Learned One's prophecy, you might be more thankful," she said with a wry tone as the tall Cavalier strode past them. Rashid smiled widely.

“I am thankful as frequently as you can manage, my Heart," he said to her in that rumbling, basso voice of his, and the small woman darkened two shades deep at that, and she smiled at him with unsubtle warmth.

“Perhaps I can stand a bit more..." she answered playfully as the companions joined them, Gram's sergeant still rattling off a series of reports to him as he moved past the pair... to a line of soldiers and horses, ten wide and ten deep. Bart's eyes widened at that — more to the point, so did Cithara's.

“My child, no..." she began, and Gram looked up, the sergeant pausing in his delivery as his commanding officer straightened, and bowed.

“Respectfully, Lady," he said with a salute. “I will have to refuse that request."

“I will not have you throw your lives to the winds on this account!" she rebutted stridently, stepping forward, bulling past Naima and Rashid on sheer presence, but Gram remained unshaken.

“Lady, not a man here is not of the Faith," he said, and each of them raised their hands in the smooth gestures of the Eye and Horn in unison, a hundred hands offered in supplication. “We are not paladins, but we are men of this land, all of it and we would fight for you," he said, and then with an uncharacteristic lapse of his rigid order, he spread his arms.

“More to the point, Lady — you have no means to stop all of us." he said, and there was a resounding 'HOOAH' from the assembled cavalry behind him, Cithara's face screwed up in first anger, then frustration... and settling on an agonized set of her teeth

“I cannot ask this of you..."

“It is good then that we did not seek permission, Lady," Gram noted, folding his arms into a parade rest again. “I will formally accept responsibility for any indiscretion my rank disobedience causes, it was my idea — the men simply followed orders," he said, though the way he shot a sidelong glance at the soldiers, and the faint ripple of chortling laughter that echoed through the ranks put good-humored lie to those words. Cithara's face crumbled. Bart, ever the hero — came to her rescue.

“A hundred men? We have but a fortnight," he said, skeptically. Gram's eyes locked with his in challenge.

“My men are rangers and longriders, The Ivory Spears may be heavy cavalry, but each of us is born to the saddle and is comfortable living from it as dying in it," he said proudly, gesturing. “We carry our lives on our backs, we need no supply lines or squires," he said, and his eyes met Cithara's again and they glimmered with zeal.

“With the Lady in White's loving presence filling us with strength, we can press limits. Ride harder, ride longer," he said with fire in his soul. “Beneath her banner, a fortnight for my men is but an energetic jog." Bart's eyebrows raised, he had not considered Cithara's orbit and its effects on others quite that way, and the way she blinked back tears made it clear she had not either.

“You know what that means for you, do you not?" she asked quietly. The tall spearman simply shook his head.

“Nay, Lady. We are simply soldiers. We fight for a cause, and just in case you forgot where you are — you, are that cause." he said, truly unknowing and uncaring of the risks. He struck his breastplate loudly, his voice raised in a sudden crack of thunder the soft-spoken Darrowmite seemed incapable of as a rule — and yet it rang out with authority.

“WE SERVE!" he prompted, and a ringing din of fists on armor answered him back, from the assembled men — from men at the walls, from commoners at the edges of the Wards, from every soul gathered to witness the answer was returned:

“UNTIL THE PALE DAWN CALLS US!"

The sensation of that sound, that unified wall of noise thrummed through Bart's body from his nose to his boots, his companions as much seemed in awe, conversation halting, eyes up. Cithara choked on a quiet sob, a glimmering tear darkening the earth beneath her muzzle.

“My beautiful boys," she said, her smile devastating as she stepped up closer to them. “Such valor deserves a better divinity than I," she breathed, her voice was quiet and yet found its way to every ear.

“I will love you twofold in return, ne'er have I asked of men more than I was willing to give, and ne'er will I as long as I have flesh and form. I promise you," she said, stifling another sob. “I... have missed you all so terribly..." she breathed, and then — openly weeping in front of them, she pressed into the assembled line of men-at-arms, brushed past them all, every one of them was given in turn — a moment with her, tears and smiles following in her wake as she blessed the hundred-strong force in the only way she knew how: with her love.

“She is a sight to behold," Rashid said, a familiar sparkle of wonder in his eyes. “I have borne witness to a pair of divinities now, blessed be my days, and neither outshines the other. They simply made room for themselves within me." he murmured something in his lyrical speech; “True in the Beginning, True throughout the Ages"

“You never truly become accustomed to them. There is always fresh awe, if only for a moment," Naima echoed, “Their humanity continues to surprise me... so great and vast, and yet they speak with mouths and hearts like to ours." she rocked herself in her own embrace a moment, eyes fluttering closed. Bart had nothing to add to this moment of wonder, so he simply stood there with them.

“We prepared horses for everyone, including yourself," Naima said after a few quiet minutes. “We guessed you would be eager to leave, considering Mihai's brand of threats — and that the Lady may wish more autonomy in our company than being your mount would allow."

“Oh, quite. I hadn't thought of that." Bart admittedly quietly, Naima smiled.

“You were other-focused," she murmured, her own golden gaze still fixed on the Unicorn, as she was slowly, lovingly swarmed by battle-worn, smiling faces. Kisses were doled out on brows and noses, hands touched and shook with awe... she seemed to literally burst with the love she bathed in, tears glimmered on her cheeks as she met each one.

“She is lonely," Bart said after a moment. “Look at her," he breathed, eyes wide as he took in her glee, her joy. “She craves this, craves us. How could I do anything but love her? She asks nothing more, wants nothing more, and is so very, very alone..." he was crying himself now, tears rolling from his one functional eye. “If she is to destroy me with her love, what greater bliss could I ask for?"

“It is not for us to say, Bart," Naima murmured, placing her hand on his arm as they stood apart, the companions all silent, not a single set of eyes entirely dry as the sheer metaphysical weight of the unbridled, undiluted joy of the Queen of Love washed over them, bathed them in her fleeting happiness.

“Let her burn me alive in that love, let me be a torch bright as the sun," he breathed, fingers tight around his helm held at his waist, around the crown it wore — the crown he wore as her laughter echoed back to him, “I would bear any burden if it meant I saw her forever like this. Burn me on that pyre of love, burn me to my soul." Naima and Rashid both exchanged knowing looks, and the rest was quiet.

The silence reigned again, and for a time — there was naught but joy. The air warmed, the very trees flowered along the edges of the forest, fresh grass peeked through the trodden battlefield — life surged outwards. Rose up, renewed, and returned with the laughter, the blissful presence of The Unicorn.

“Oh... my dear, dear boys." Cithara breathed after what felt like an eternity, having walked from one end of the troop to the other and back. “I won't forget this sacrifice, I will endeavor to deserve it. I will remember each of you, your names. Your faces. Your hearts." she said to the crowd of soldiers.

“Know that to walk at my side is to be undone from time, I am sure you feel it — the gaiety of step, the energy and pep," she said, her smile turning sad. “It is my doing, my mere presence pours the essence of life into all around me, bathes you in it — drowns you in it," she explained, and met all of their eyes.

“Each of you, if you continue — will live long, your life extended unnaturally so. Right now it is perhaps a year or two longer in your prime, perhaps old pains will bother you naught or old scars fade early," she said, looking between them in a slow pan, raising her head, chest outthrust stoically. “But if you dwell with me overlong, it will become decades, centuries. You will outlive your friends, your family, your place in the flow of time."

The soldiers murmured among themselves a moment, but nary a single eye strayed from her as she spoke.

“Any man who quails at such a notion is not a coward. He will not be shunned or thought less of for doubting in the face of the unnatural horror that offers. I welcome you, o beautiful boys o mine — but I offer any man here the chance to stand down in honor," she said and added in final note.

“I love you all too dearly to demand of you such sacrifices." The men murmured again, milling about themselves, and one young soldier simply stood at parade rest and struck his breastplate with one fist in salute. Beside him, another paused and followed. Then another. Down the line it went as each man weighed his choices, until a hundred glittering mailed knuckles stood upright in honor, each soldier's eyes hard as steel and full of fire. Cithara's eyes welled up again, both in joy and sorrow as she dipped low on one hoof, lowering her horn to the ground before them all in almost meek supplication.

“Thank you, thank you all, my sweet, beautiful boys." she drew herself up with a shiver, looking back and forth between the others, a look of trepidation on her face for a scant moment as her eyes met Bart's, reaching out to him silently, desperately for aid — her heart warring with itself on extending this moment's joy forever. Bart however, had no chance to swing to the rescue, as the buttcap of a spear rang out on the pavestones.

“Men, to your mounts! We have the Lady's blessing, we have our orders — and we have accounts in Lachheim to settle," Gram's voice bellowed, He thrust his spear towards the sky; “We ride!"

The men all thrust their spears high with a deafening booming cry of assertion, and they all turned with practiced precision and strode as a unit past Cithara to their waiting mounts. She smiled at that, closing her eyes as each soldier broke ranks in perfect order around her, each passing rider touching her orbit as they went by, her eyes opened at last and settled on Gram, and she gave the smallest little nod, her lips parting in another silent 'thank you' to the man, as he and the remains of Bart's companions were lead their own horses by the waiting grooms. Gram took it in stride, the indefatigable soldier saluting one last time before leading his men out ahead of them at a trot.

“Oh, tire of me already?" Cithara asked coyly as she came abreast of Bart's newly-acquired mount, a large, black stallion with fierce eyes and a cagey demeanor. Bart could only laugh a bit, settling his weight into the military-style saddle, already equipped with bags and kit filled with his effects.

“Naima thought of it, as always she is more considerate than I remember to be," he said shamefacedly, and Cithara smiled.

“She is overdue the joy of motherhood, how she dotes upon her charges," the Unicorn agreed, and from nearby Rashid's head tilted slightly, a knowing smile on his lips that caught the Lady in White's gaze, her smile turning a touch wicked. Bart knew that look, the look she made when she was plotting.

“Nonetheless, I daresay you will grow tired enough of the smell of sweat, steel, and leather long before we arrive without bearing my considerable bulk on your back all the way," he said, thumping his armored chest for emphasis. “... and it will allow you to be a bit more free, as you need," he added softly, and she turned away to watch the line of soldiers leave.

“You noticed. I am not so subtle as I once was," she remarked, and it was Bart's turn to look away.

“I understand why you may find being near us... difficult, you shared as much with me in our intimate moments," he said, and she nodded, stepping closer — ignoring his new horse's snorted protest at her invasion of his personal space — and she kissed him, gently and just once, upon the lips — and then stepped away.

“My champion, ever vigilant," she cooed to him and stepped away; moving towards the head of the column.

“Come, my Champion. We have much road yet to cover... and much yet to see," she said, looking out across the horizon, still fading with orange dregs of morning light.

“I have missed much."

~ ~ ~

True to their words, the Ivory Spears were not the meandering, plodding heavy cavalry like Bart's fellows were trained to be, even calling them 'heavy' seemed more an acknowledgment of their equipment rather than use. They marched with spirit that had nothing to do with Cithara's orbit, and their mounts while powerful, were sprightly and bright-eyed things of white coats and spirited intelligence. Bart's heavy destrier was of a size with them, but far more built out of heavy bone and powerful muscle, a battering ram designed to carry Bart and his massive armor and weapons into battle.

The Spears were instead, Cuirassiers; their armor was almost as heavy as the plate Bart wore, but was sleeker, built closer to their bodies, with long, scalloped tassets and slimmer greaves designed to cover their legs on horseback from waist to knee, leaving much of their hips and thighs flexible for the rigors of the saddle. Their gauntlets were lighter and kept their hands free to manipulate their reigns and gear, and each breastplate was decorated with a spiraling horn device embossed into its surface.

They each carried a variety of weapons, the expected roundel daggers of course — as well as all of them their customary polearm, the Bec-De-Corbin, its design like a halberd that traded its axe blade for a wicked pick. These rose into the air above their company complete with pennants whipping in the breeze, each of them also had a brutal-looking single-edged sword; thick spined with a full-tang handle like an overlarge knife and a savagely curved edge. Bart recognized the sabers as a Darrowmite weapon; they lacked much of a guard and were each lightly decorated with wrapped cordage and dangling mementos — the same as their armor, which all had a bright golden sash across the middle and red accents at the ties. The trousers they wore beneath their tassets voluminous and loose-fitting, also marks of Darrowmite military culture. The rest of their kit was almost more like a scout or longhunter than a soldier; they carried bedrolls, mess kits, and packs — and moreover wore traveler's cloaks and mantles over their armor. They rode not as a single column as an army on the march might, but as individual units of ten or so men, ranging from the road itself regularly out to the surrounding grasslands.

Bart appreciated all of this, as their outset devoured the road at a pace they had been completely unable to match while carrying the burden of Nazir and Naima's cart, nor Salim and his workmen — the latter of which had chosen to stay at the fortress for the time being, fearful of being an obstruction to their quest. By the time the sun of that same day had dipped, they'd lost sight of the fortress over the hill... and the still-present smoke of Lachheim's burning came into view. The walk was somber then, the Spears giving them distance, with Cithara seeming to simply wander among them, she would pause here and there, speaking with a soldier or one of Bart's companions for a time before she simply trotted away. Bart found her behavior curious, he had yet to see her around... anyone. He realized not just he — but anyone living had not seen her like this in some two centuries at the least.

They found the body in the road at dusk on the second day.

The call came down from the scouting units, one riding up to him as he and Nazir were scanning for a decent site to make camp, saluting and raising his visor. A scarred blonde lad, who was likely once beautiful before an old injury tore half of his face.

“Ser. There's a dead man in the road," he stated, Bart and Nazir, both pausing, slowly turned to look at the rider.

“Well... bury them then, man," Nazir stated bluntly, blinking at him; “Why the halt?"

“Plainly, Ser," he said, pointedly directing his voice and gaze at Bart; “It was addressed to you."

“Come again?" Bart asked, pulling his helmet free from his head as if he had not heard clearly. The rider simply reiterated.

“Best you see it yourself, it is addressed to you."

Bart and Nazir exchanged glances, the southerner rolling his tongue beneath his lips with a look of consternation, and then Bart nodded, spurring his horse.

“Lead me."

The scene as the soldiers cleared away was grisly. A herd of sheep milled around, lost and confused, the body of their shepherd laying quite clearly dead — throat cut with his shirt ripped open down to the navel, written on his thin chest were words in a concise hand... with the man's own blood.

“We've tried to make sense of it, but well. You'll see." The rider said as Bart dismounted and approached the corpse, he leaned down and peered at the writing in the dimming light.

“To Bartholomus, please cover your mouth." he read out loud, eyebrows shooting up as the other soldiers met his gaze, each of them shrugging in response... and then the corpse twitched. Bart's head whipped around, and the body began to vibrate, rapidly convulsing, by reflex he threw his arm across his face as the body arched up violently — and exploded in a blast of grisly red mist, painting several of the riders in a thin layer of gore — the blonde man who'd lead him up getting a mouthful of it, and turning to retch softly, spitting and cursing.

“And they thought you wouldn't read it," came a familiar, cool voice. Bart's arm whipped down to his sword, and the body rose with unnatural grace and smoothness, its torso flensed wide, its flesh flayed off the muscle beneath, creeping and climbing across it like soft clay as it had before in the staging room back at fort Ivory. Bart half drew his blade as that climbing meat and gore rearranged itself with a gentle rolling and cracking of its neck into a familiar, hated face. A slim, skinless finger pointed at the gagging blonde soldier. “He didn't, and now look at him. I know that taste, it will linger."

“Mihai," Bart spat, and the bare-chested heretic held up a hand, forestalling the last two spans of so of the blade in his scabbard.

“Ah-ah-ah, same deal as before dear Bart, please can we skip the theater. You cannot harm me in any way that matters, not my flesh, so on and so forth," he said, tiredly rolling his still skinless hands and arms conversationally before shrugging with his half-lidded gaze and tilting his head. “Or would further savaging this stolen body once again, make you feel better?"

Bart had to actually consider that a moment — it probably would, just a bit. However, he slammed his sword back into the sheathe and spat at the man's feet.

“What is it, monster. Come to check up on us already? Lay traps, perhaps threaten us some more? We're barely a day out and you already show up to what — senselessly murder some poor boy just to tell jokes?" Bart spat, feeling his anger rising. Behind him, Cithara and his companions had joined the fray, and Mihai smiled, spreading his arms.

“Oh I have little doubt you'll make it. You are a singularly determined individual, a facet of your personality I admire in spite of how frequently you irritate me with it." he paused and looked around. “I am somewhat disappointed in your choice to bring additional... friends, to our little engagement." there was a brief pause as the shirtless heretic shrugged, his lazy gaze meeting Bart's once more. “Disappointed, but not surprised. They will find the noble deaths they seek in Lachheim, it changes nothing but the number of pieces I must needs move on the board," he said, and walked forwards.

“No my dear, stalwart Bartholomus," he said as he stepped... and he nearly said his name perfectly, nigh the way that only Cithara had done. “I find myself... compelled. This particular... ah, dance we do. This maneuvering of Powers That Be against one another, it has all these tiny, unwritten rules and patterns... and I find myself compelled to speak with you." he paused and folded his arms, having made it to a fairly normal conversational distance with the big Paladin.

“Isn't that just strange?"

Bart did not enjoy this closeness, and he felt the smoldering ire of the Unicorn building through his mantle, but even so... Bart shrugged.

“It is passing odd, yes. What of it then?" he said shortly, the former Magistrate looked around.

“Oh no, I don't feel comfortable speaking as such, so many angry eyes and curious ears... not that I have secrets, I simply cannot be bothered with interruptions while I focus on this flesh-puppet," he said and paused, turning his gaze to Cithara. “Oh, I am sure you can feel it, do not bother looking for the Gatekeeper relaying my magicks, it is roughly..." he took a half dozen steps to the right and then clicked down his heels on a spot some paces where the stolen body had lain.

“... Here," he concluded, spreading his arms. “About a league straight down. You're welcome to tunnel through all of that earth and bedrock if you choose to, but I assure you it — and I — will be long gone by the time you do." he smiled at the Unicorn as she laid her ears back, lowering her head in open hostility.

“I have nothing to say to you, animal," she said, and turned away from him, her eyes on her Champion. Mihai tilted his head towards the setting sun.

“Let us take a walk, Bartholomus. Your Ivory Whore can follow if it pleases her," he said, his lurid gaze full of malice. “She knows her place."

Bart bristled at that, Cithara however pressed her cheek to his arm, eyes on Bart's own.

“He is... correct, there is a compulsion on him, even I can see it through these strings and puppets he uses to hide his frail flesh," she said, lowering her voice. “This is one of Those Things, beloved."

With that, Bart nodded, shoulders slumping a bit as he looked back at the men. “This won't take long," he said — finishing that sentence with his eyes returning, dead set on Mihai's form, turning that simple phrase into a declaration. Mihai simply spread his arms and lowered his head in a courtly bow, crossing one ankle gracefully. Bart sighed at him. His hatred was still hot, but the heretical magistrate's casual manner simply tired him out.

“Go. Do not expect courtesy," Bart groused, hand on his sword, he replaced his helmet and began to march in the direction of the sunset, the Unicorn and the Heretic following his lead.

“Now Bartholomus — Bart, I am not attempting to befriend you," Mihai began in earnest. “Far from it, I fully intend to kill the living daylights out of you the very moment I am given the proper chance, but that's what I wanted — needed — to talk to you about," he said, folding his arms — arms that never regrew their flayed flesh — as if the extra... material was needed to construct Mihai's face and torso on the dead shepherd's body. The entire act filled Bart's throat with bile.

“Killing me? I assure you, many have tried," He said pointedly, glaring at him with one blue eye. “We can discuss it at length, but I fear much of that discussion would be rather..." he pointedly pushed a solid fingers-breadth of blade from his scabbard. “Instructive."

“Quite," Mihai agreed with a strained smile. “No, no my beloved adversary it's just that... I cannot!" he said, spreading his arms and walking ahead of him almost joyously, with such casual looseness to his movements. “Even if that Gatekeeper were here, and you were strapped nude to an altar, you would be safe as a newborn babe in its mother's arms."

“What," Bart said, barely a question as he blinked at the man, who only shrugged, spinning around to face away from him.

“Isn't it ridiculous? Oh, I tried, and I could — before that is. When we besieged the Fortress or ambushed you as you slept in the Grove, oh I could have killed you then, I tried my damnedest in fact." he said, whirling in sudden fury, jabbing a gore-dripping finger at him. “You are stubborn and annoyingly die-hard in your nature. You had NO mantle and a thrice-damned stick and you still bested one of my grandest creations with little more than your bare, mortal fingers." he spat, his own hands clenched into claws of anger, the rage so hot that the skin of his face started to warp and peel... and then he was calm, eyes closed, he smoothed back his flesh-mask and hair, breathing in.

“That... was before. Now... now something tasks me," he said, folding his arms behind his back, pacing as they walked. Eyes distant. “There is... some compulsion to draw you to this place I have made for us to mete out our planned punishments. I cannot overcome it, even though was I to send simply masses of Ghuls and Ogres up from the bowels of the earth at you, or line Lachheim's walls with such horrors that lesser men went blind at their majesty..." he paused and turned back to Bart. “... You would die, eventually."

“Eventually, but would it be before you ran out of abominations?" Bart challenged him, and Mihai smiled, turning to face him fully.

“Indeed... or before you ran out of friends?" he countered, making Bart's teeth set. The Heretic folded his arms across his chest. “I am a very patient creature, Bart. I have been working at this for far, far longer than you would think, a generational effort, in a manner of speaking." he continued, moving a bit closer. “Pragmatism is what took my plans this far, so close... pragmatism and patience. I have no illusions of your power, your might — however much is borrowed from other places," he spat, sparing Cithara a disdainful look. “I have no... artistic or dramatic objections to you and your friends dying in a ditch somewhere, unremarked upon and unknown."

“Yet..." Bart said and he pointed a mailed finger at him; “... You truly cannot, can you?"

“No," the heretic hissed, fingers forming into those bloody, angry claws again as he shook. “It is maddening."

“Well, I'm very sorry for your difficulties," Bart said dryly. “Yet this seems like a great deal of things that are just not my problem."

“Oh nay Bart, this is very much your problem. See... have you had any thoughts of leaving this road?" he asked him, challenged him; “Considerations to take your Divine Bitch, your friends, and simply abandon this task? Perhaps gather reinforcements, assault me with overwhelming numbers?" Bart opened his mouth to respond and halted, closing it slowly as he furrowed his brow in thought. No, of course, he had not. He would never think to leave his family, his friends — never think to forsake his duty or sacrifice innocents for a tactical advantage... but was that because of who he was? Why hadn't he even considered rallying more than the hundred-strong troop that forced their way into his journey? He had wanted to simply go alone, to face Mihai and Parias in single combat, he had thought it perfectly rational, doable. Mihai raised a finger.

“It has you as well, I see it in your eye. Your hesitation."

“It is as he says, beloved," Cithara said, gazing between the two of them, her expression neutral. “Do you recall how I said that some roles must needs be filled?" she asked him, Bart nodded.

“Yes. You said to me that change was afoot in the world, and my place was an inevitability of that change," he answered, and Mihai lifted his head thoughtfully.

“That is quite astute for a brutal kluge like yourself. Realizing your place in the Cycle," he said, and there was a touch of admiration in his biting words. Cithara snorted at him.

“The animal is correct. Most do not ever become aware of when or even if they are part of the Cycle. The Astral seeks a certain balance of things, power attracts power, it focuses on places and people and demands balance to the sums presented," she said, looking between the two. “It seems that the Cycle of things has decided you two are sums that must balance one another in this conflict and is compelling your natures to align thus."

“AHA! And that my dear four-legged whore, is where your precious Cycle falls apart," he said, spreading his arms wide. “It has naught in store to deal with one such as I. My nature is to defy what I am, to defy everything that would be or is — and so when my nature was pulled, tugged, and shoved towards this bloated, theatrical conflict I noticed." he spat, leaning forward to her. “I noticed, and I rebelled."

“... And I am quite comfortable in my nature, so I never felt manipulated or cajoled by... whatever this is." Bart shrugged, arms folding with a clatter of plates. “Even aware of it, I still do not. I am a Paladin, and this is what I do."

“Mother Be, do you ever tire of being so bloody-minded determined?" Mihai asked in a weary voice, sighing as his stolen shoulders slumped, he smoothed back his hair once more. “That aside, I suppose I come out of curiosity — and expediency." he carried on, Bart and Cithara tilting their heads in unison at the heretic.

“I want you both exceedingly dead," he stated plainly, eyes flat and emotionless. “Dead, preferably in a very painful, protracted manner — but dead. I have decided to do everything in my power to spur that little desire to fruition at all due haste — so I have arrayed precisely zero hazards before you." he spread his arms towards the column of smoke that showed where Lachheim still sat.

“Not a man, ghul, ogre, or even Parias' little doll stands between you and the Gates of Lachheim. I have even gone as far as to recall all but a few scouting parties back to myself," he said, spreading his arms boldly.

“The way is clear Bartholomus. I want to kill you. I want to do it so very badly. Thus I will, Cycle and its compulsions be damned. I have cleared the road, opened my proverbial door, and laid out the proverbial welcome for you because it is the only way I will get what I want." he hissed.

“I always get what I want, Bartholomus." he snarled... and that time, that time he Spake his name perfectly. Bart shuddered, a greasy feeling of wrongness filling him as the unholy thing that was Mihai Aldea Spake his name, rang his spirit like a dirty gong. The implication was crystal clear, the focus of the heretic's obsession, the depth of it — made unerringly apparent: Mihai did not want Bart dead alone, but the Empty Queen herself did, and through her puppet — she made as much known.

“Don't forget, Hero." He spat, using the mocking intonation of the word Parias had; “I still have quite a few places to vent my anger if you delay, and Parias is even more eager to settle accounts than I am." he said coldly. “We may be compelled to clash in person, but I will take no dallying from you, not after this much...." he trailed off and his lips smacked as he snarled the last word: “Frustration."

“Twelve Days, Bart," he said, stepping backward away from the pair. “Twelve days until I decide to see how many bodies you can lash to a windmill before it breaks." he snarled, spreading his arms again, palms up. “My even bet is two score, the Mueller Family Mill is stout."

Bart's eyes went cold, even as new, hot rage flowed through him at the fresh threats to his family. He considered drawing steel, grasping the mantle... perhaps he would feel the pain of holy fire even through the connection... but instead, he simply spat, his mouth filled with the taste of bile.

“I keep my promises, monster," he said plainly, and Mihai smiled wide.

“You do. I'm counting on it." he then went slack and his eyes rolled back into his skull, and the body fell unceremoniously backward, a gross sound of splattering gore and meat as the flesh-mask dissolved, Mihai gone from his stolen corpse.

“I truly, genuinely hate that man," Bart said, kneeling down by the mutilated body, pulling the remains of the shepherd's cloak across the gnarled mass of flayed meat.

“A well-earned hatred... but I cannot help but be ill at ease." Cithara said, turning her head to where Gram and several soldiers approached; “He... knows far, far too much. He speaks of things that should be known only to one as I... he is more dangerous than I initially gave him credit for, dangerous not just to us — but reality itself." she said, shaking her head and meeting Bart's gaze.

“One does not simply disregard the metaphysical turn of the cosmos for fun."

“I'll add it to my motivations, as if I needed more reasons to end him." Bart agreed, Gram and his soldiers looking down at the mauled, mangled body, then up at Bart.

“I do not know about you, Ser." He stated plainly. “However, I feel no desire to stop for camp this night."

“Sleep does not seem like something that will come pleasantly after all of that, no."

“Carry on then?"

“After we bury this poor soul."

The two men nodded in sync, and Cithara looked between them with an incredulous smile.

“I do love you boys," she murmured and gave each of them a kiss on the cheek before turning to leave.

“... what was that about?" Gram asked as she glided past, touching the place on his cheek idly, Bart's shoulders rocked in a silent chuckle.

“You have impeccable timing, that's all."

“Naturally."

~ ~ ~

The night carried on and so did the riders, much to Cithara's initial protestations. It seemed the sentiment of pressing through the night sat well with the majority of forces, little comfort found in Mihai's promises, particularly with the equally present reminder that one of his creatures lurked below ground... somewhere.

Weariness claimed a few souls still, Cithara carried herself without weariness or fatigue, Bart wasn't sure even when they laid together if she ever actually slept, her eyes were always awake and gazing at him whenever he opened his. Others slept in the saddles, the various soldiers seemed used to such things, sleeping in shifts as their bright-eyed horses led them safely along the path the wakeful head of the unit trod upon... and yet others had simply not been built for long campaigns, Cithara's energizing blessing or no.

Lidia was one of those beings, ever the night owl, she still had begun to doze in her saddle, swaying in it dangerously as the moons crested high in the sky — only to be scooped from her saddle by Gram as she dozed off. Bart watched as the tall cavalier settled her into his arms, the tiny girl seeming even smaller compared to the lean, long-limbed Darrowmite as she looked up at him with tired eyes and let him cradle her safely in his arms on a pad against his chest formed from her cloak. She was asleep in moments, the tall man leaning down to kiss her hair so lightly she did not even stir in the slightest. Bart reigned his horse over.

“Tell me, Gram," he said, his tone quiet and conversational, helm hanging with his crown — and his authority, as far as he was concerned at this moment — off his saddle. “Man-to-man, what leads someone like you to a lifetime of war?" he asked, and the tall Darrowmite raised an eyebrow at that, no response given initially. Bart hedged a bit, feeling his own youth suddenly... he never had learned quite how to talk to people.

“I mean, well. Why are yo-"

“I know what you mean, Ser." Gram interrupted him, his voice soft so as not to disturb the sleeping changeling. “I have simply become accustomed to not being asked, and not giving answers."

“I... apologies, I did not mean to pry," Bart said, feeling immediately foolish and a little terrible, had his time in the grove so distanced him from people already? Gram simply smiled.

“It is a bit prying, Ser," the cavalier agreed. “Ordinarily, I would choose not to answer. It is no secret, merely my business and none else... however." he paused, and looked down at Lidia. His arm drew across her a bit more tightly, and his gaze went away from Bart towards the obsidian horizon, stars dancing across it. “Our circumstances are less than ordinary."

There was a pause as both men seemed to return to center, Bart settling back on his saddle and Gram stroking Lidia's back as she stirred slightly, curling herself into a tight ball in her cloak against his lap, Bart would have thought his armor uncomfortable and unbearably ripe to sleep next to... but he supposed Lidia had slumbered through worse, had she not? After a moment, Bart spoke again.

“What leads a man like you to be stationed at the end of the world, awaiting a war that may have never come?" he asked honestly, eyes meeting Gram's. “I ought to have met you in the lists as a novice, you have the mettle and the faith."

“But not the spirit," Gram said plainly, looking back at Bart with a steady gaze. “I am a man of faith, deep and true. However, that means I know myself," he said and looked far into the distance. “I am a man of faults, deep, cavernous flaws. There is a certain..." he paused and gazed far away again.

“When you looked upon this 'Kull' of Lidia's, when she told you of him, what were your first thoughts. Honest, do not think. Speak." he demanded of Bart in a soft voice. Bart blinked but responded without thinking.

“Brutal, dishonest, but well-meaning. A bastard true, but fair," he said, sizing up his initial impressions of the portly, bawdy, and canny master thief. Gram nodded and then responded.

“Human filth. Kill him clean. Spare others his pain." Gram responded without emotion, without a hint of anger or rage. He turned slowly to Bart, eyes surprisingly icy.

“I lack a quality of... warmth, in matters of life or death. A quality of mercy unless I focus on it. These qualities ill-suit me to provide succor and solace to the needy, to carry the might of God in my fist. I knew from a young age, that I was cold inside. Not without love, not without humanity... but cold. My Ember burns cool and long, it does not burst into glorious conflagration like yours does."

Bart had nothing to say to that, such self-awareness was uncanny, eerie even — but not malicious. He had never spoken to someone on such things before, those who were paladins simply... were, they were the best, the brightest and most dedicated — and Gram seemed all of those things to him, such a revelation was disquieting to the Paladin.

“It is fair if you consider that a sin, or defect. Ser." Gram added quietly. “I am a flawed man, and the Lady would judge it fairly and turn me away. So I chose the path that helped myself — and those around me. It was best for everyone."

“It is no sin to know yourself well and true," Bart said, looking at the tall man. “I understand why you care not to speak of such things, to those... unlearned to the hearts of things in the ways I am..."

“I would seem quite psychopathic, would I not?" Gram agreed, and Bart nodded. The cavalier simply smiled — he always seemed to be smiling, just a little.

“You are clearly capable of great love. Lidia... spoke to me, of you." Bart added quietly, and Gram nodded once more.

“She is very private, however, I imagined such things passed between you two... and others," he said, looking a bit guilty as he turned his gaze back to Bart. “I must apologize again, I had some quite unkind thoughts towards you when I assumed you were her dead lover back from the grave."

“Oh?"

“I had thought for but a brief moment to murder you. A duel of honor for her hand," He said, and Bart raised a scarred eyebrow at that in surprise, the cavalier shook his head. “It was a brief moment, a custom of Darrowmere nobility, many such problems are solved at the tip of a saber."

“I am glad you did not, I care not to imagine how such a contest would play out," he said, Gram tilting his head slightly.

“I would have given myself the advantage in betting if you did not wield the Lady's mantle against me," he stated honestly, turning his eyes back to Bart. “It is very difficult to fight a spear with a sword."

Bart snorted softly, rubbing unconsciously at his shoulder. “Believe me, I know."

“Lidia would have hated me, however. I realized that with alacrity. Oh, and it was a silly, emotive overreaction — yet and still, I would apologize." he said, tipping his chin in a tiny nod; “You are a man of quality."

“I try," Bart responded humbly.

The two men fell silent again, each stewing in their own thoughts as the stars climbed by overhead. The silence was not uncomfortable, a quality in people he'd come to treasure — the comfortable silence of friends. Gram, to Bart's surprise — spoke first.

“I am a bastard, a cuckoo bird. Falsely planted and falsely raised. It is far better that I am distant and out of sight than I am some chip on a political betting slate."

Silence ruled after that for a moment, as the two men absorbed what had been said. Bart looked at him with a level gaze. Gram spoke first once more:

“I have shared this with precisely three people in recent memory," he said, holding up a hand, one finger raised. “Commander Maxos at Fort Ivory as a matter of honor." he raised a second finger; “Lidia, for I offer her my heart," a thumb joined the two digits. “Now, you. Lidia's dearest friend."

“I am... unsure what to say," Bart replied honestly. “I am... pleased you share such details with me, yet do I apologize? Do I mourn?" he looked at Gram with a hopeless expression, “I am sorry such... matters are above my station in many respects, I am a Miller's son. Bastards and unwed mothers are not so uncommon. They are given a Church name by the Abbey — and simply raised there, or by the sole parent." he said, frowning. “I am... sorry I do not understand." Gram merely smiled.

“It is as I've been told, a Darrowmite issue," he said and took a breath. “My mother was a woman of beauty, poise, and circumstance. My father loved her with every fiber of his being, and she craved him the same. To see them look upon each other now would not say it so, but they speak with their hearts in private not public, it is our custom." he began, and Bart settled back to listen. Gram gave a rueful smile at the gesture but continued:

“Worry not, it is a simple story. Old as time really. My father's family has a degree of power from many managerial concerns. He is something of an..." he gestured for a word; “Accountant, of things to the Nobility. Not a man of glory or prestige, but import. He is very humble." the tall Darrowmite's eyes were warm as he spoke of his father, even in such clinical terms.

“My true father's name is unimportant, but he is my spitting image. Dark hair, tall build... and much of my ah..." he frowned a little eyes troubled; “... unfortunate demeanor. He coveted both my father's wealth and most of all my Mother's beauty. He was a duke of a rival house known for its military might." he paused again, eyes moving rapidly, viewing distance places, distant times in his mind.

“He pressed himself upon my mother, time and again. First in speech, and then in politics, and eventually — in flesh. He threatened my family, my father, and their holdings if she did not give herself to him, and eventually, as the pressure built — she gave in." Gram shrugged.

“Thus, I was born. My father knew immediately of course, as did everyone," he paused and turned. “My father is fair of hair and dark of eyes, and a slight man of willowy build," he said, his own pale eyes, both deep-set and the color of winter skies, spoke quite plainly of the problem. “I most assuredly, am not."

Bart felt as if he should respond, perhaps with an exclamation or reassurance, but instead, he found himself simply listening as the man concluded his story.

“Father found his best revenge in living well. He raised me, loved me. Loved my mother as best he could, she bore him several more true heirs, my brothers, and sister — but yet and still my true father pressed her, threatened my family's holdings — a line of succession would be complicated, the scandal of publicly acknowledging me as an illegitimate heir, coupled with the risk of doing so when my blood hailed from another source made it almost certain that my family would crumble, our assets for seizure by enterprising blackguards." he shrugged.

“So I removed myself from the equation. I was fit, hale, and hardy. I joined the Order Militant of the Church, forsook my titles and inheritance to my younger brother," he paused and looked coolly at Bart.

“And I told my true father someday I would likely kill him, and then I left. My mother left my father in shame, joined a quiet convent." he looked back to the road. “She sends me letters. I sometimes write back," he said and looked back to Bart with eyes that were steady and true, the turmoil of his heart contained and controlled easily.

“That, is why a man such as I — am stationed at the end of the world." Bart digested that for a moment, it was a simplified tale for sure — Bart may be a brutal kluge of a man, but he was sharp enough to know Gram had intentionally left names and places blank. This hurt him still, and he carried it well. He found himself curiously... repulsed and fond of the man, his icy nature was disconcerting, but his heart was a golden throne sheathed in that frost. He was a complicated man, but a good one he thought. Gram spoke once more.

“I would have you keep this to your heart, Ser. It is a matter I share only with commanding officers and family," he said, looking down at Lidia's slumbering face — she smiled slightly, pressing against him as she realized who held her in her dreaming state.

“I daresay you qualify now, in both respects."

Bart smiled at that, and he nodded. Both men turned their eyes back to the road.

“I think you are wrong, however," Bart said after a long while.

“Oh?"

“You would have made an excellent Paladin."

Gram could only smile.

~ ~ ~

Days passed without further incident, the quiet before the storm. As they rode the plumes of smoke only grew wider and far more dark, the familiar greasy scent of atrocities drifting across the air.

“Ach, God." Lidia gagged, covering her nose as they grew closer. “Wha' th' bloody fook' is that?" Gram and Rashid lifted their noses, less sensitive to such things than the little changeling, the two men took a breath, as did several men-at-arms.

“Bodies." Gram said plainly, Rashid nodded.

“Many bodies," he concurred, and Lidia's face went pale. Rashid continued; “If you look carefully, the smoke's bases is white. Hotter fires. Like pyres."

“Do you feel that?" Gram asked, rubbing his fingers together. Bart pulled his gauntlets off, the foul stench turning his stomach slightly as well, his eyes had been stinging slightly since earlier that day, he passed his thumb across a forefinger.

“It's... greasy, almost." he mused.

“Exactly that. Fat and flesh carried in the ash," Gram confirmed. Lidia's face was turning a color of green to match her eyes.

“M'gonna be sick," she gasped, and threw herself from the saddle, hitting the ground heavily she made it off to a stand of bushes before she doubled over, retching noisily. Bart and Gram looked at each other as Naima rode up.

“Good a time as any for a rest, isn't it?" she asked, and the two men once again exchanged thoughtful glances.

“NO! Nae, Ah'm... M'fine...." Lidia said, standing up pale and shaky as she walked through the passing soldiers. “Cannae slow down 'cause ah'm... oh... oh God..." She turned again and dry heaved onto the road, leaning heavily on Gram's horse for balance as her legs shook. The poor changeling's powerful nose was again her undoing around something so vile, Bart felt a bit queasy at the scent — Lidia must be in actual hell.

“If you insist," Naima said, reaching into her satchel and taking out a small, shallow jar. “Come here," she said, unscrewing it. Lidia looked up, wiping her mouth as she walked over, the lid came off and to Bart, the scent of powerful mint hit his nose, Lidia recoiled physically, eyes watering as she covered her face again.

“What are ye tryin' tae do, kill me?!" she barked hoarsely, Naima giving her a patient smile.

“It's a tallow poultice of mint seed oil. I use it for stuffy noses and any time I have to work with the dead. Wipe some of it under your nostrils, it will help with the smell." the healer explained, doling out a bit of the thick, greasy cream onto a fingertip and offering it to her from atop her horse.

“Ye gods that's sharp!" she hissed, leaning away from it physically.

“Your choice. This," she paused and looked towards the column of smoke rising above the hillock they were scaling, raising one dark eyebrow at the little redheaded thief “... or the alternative."

Lidia stared at her with misery in her eyes, and with a shaky hand wiped the little dollop of unguent onto her own finger, wincing at the proximity. She daubed it with eyes and nose both running beneath her nostrils and made another gagging, hacking sound. Several violent sneezes followed, and after a moment she wiped her eyes, face thoroughly miserable.

“... Iz... iz betta," she said in a thick tone, sniffing heavily and wincing. Bart couldn't keep his smile from his face, he knew his friend was suffering... but by God, she sounded ridiculous.

“Wuzzat Tihn Mahn?" she groused, glaring at him; “Sommah funneh?"

“Your face looks like you brushed your teeth with a lemon," he stated mildly, still grinning.

“Ahe ahm 'bouh tah bruh ye teef wih a hannful ah mud," she grumbled at him, pulling her red scarf down and arranging it around her nose. “Bihg, stoopihd, shiny metal...." she grumbled as she climbed back onto her horse, the cloth and distance muting her protestations.

Bart and Gram exchanged a glance again, Bart shrugging. Gram's shoulders rocked with a silent chuckle.

“Something you'll have to get used to I suppose. Go easy on the perfumes." Bart said, and Gram grinned a little.

“I suppose I'll have to keep that in..." he trailed off, eyes wide as the pair met the rest of the troop, who had all paused at the top of the hill, Bart turned to see what had taken his comrade's attention, eyes narrowed in concern... and then once more wide.

Lachheim.

The hillock gave them a view of the sweeping farmland they'd slowly climbed out of on their initial trip and the whole of the city. Columns of smoke rose from walls shattered; massive gouges cut into the defenses by main force. The smoldering, charred ground extended half a league beyond the walls themselves, and even from here, Bart could see bodies in the road, fallen in their escape, never to rise again.

The fires had mostly died down, in three months even a city eventually lowered to a smolder — yet there still climbed many pillars of ash from still-burning manors, warehouses, and businesses. The plumes of white smoke — the hottest fires that carried that carrion stench, were centered in the very middle of the upper district, which put an uncomfortable worry in Bart's guts, one he was not yet ready to give voice to. Not a single building stood untouched from this distance, crumbled turrets and homes, savaged manors and burned-out businesses. It was a scene from Hell. Smaller forms swung here and there from parts of parapets, the gates, and a host of other spots. Any place a rope could be secured. Bart didn't need to be close enough to make out details of what they were. The city was ravaged, in some places as his eyes scanned, it looked as if whole buildings had simply been swept aside, crushed, and flattened by physical force more than the hunger of flame.

A guttural, primal scream of agony erupted from the line of staring men; Lidia again, as her eyes laid upon her city — the only home she'd known for years — her face was a contorted, tortured mask of unknowable grief, wordless pain poured out of her until her lungs gave out. She swayed in the saddle, covering her head and shaking it two and fro, babbling incoherent denials until it just came out in another, wrenching cry of anguish. Gram was at her side like a shot, hurdling his own saddle with alarming agility, his spear dashed point-first into the soil as the cool-hearted soldier all but sprinted, grasping his love and dragging her from the saddle. She wailed and clung to him, beating her hands on his breastplate as tears poured from her eyes. All around them, the soldiers, the group — stopped. There was no sound but the wind and Lidia's heart as it tore apart in front of them. Gram was silent, holding her, gripping her tightly as she hurled her pain out in wordless sound.

“Perhaps now, then?" Naima reiterated, looking down at the little changeling, her own face contorted in almost motherly worry and trepidation, her golden eyes looking back to Bart's with anguish he could not fathom.

“... Yes, I think you are right. Rest would do us well," Bart agreed, turning his head to several men and murmuring orders to make camp, getting stony-faced nods in return. These men were veterans of these conflicts, the atrocity was sharp — but they were hard.

As the men dispersed from the road to make their camps downhill, blocking their line of sight of the horrors, hard they may be — no man wanted to look at that overlong — Cithara was left alone, at the head of the column, standing at the peak of the hillock, her eyes wet with tears.

“Beloved... come away," Bart said, dismounting and walking to her side. She shook her head, her mane catching the wind, bringing a fresh scent of the burned and the dead to them, making her shudder visibly.

“No Bart, no," she whispered, staring. “I... must see this. Must see it all," she said, her voice wan and thin.

“This is not your weight to bear, beloved," Bart argued, and she once more simply shook her head. Staring into the ruins.

“It is my dear one. All of this to lure me to an obvious trap. So many." she shook her head, shuddering as a sob wracked her. “She's killing my babies, Bart. My babies."

The sight of his friend wracked with near-insane levels of grief had shaken him, but to see Cithara, the Lady in White, the Unicorn of Love, crumbling and weeping like a mother over the bodies of her children?

It broke him.

Bart sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her neck, and dragging her gaze away from the horrors, she gave a soft cry and leaned her face into his armored chest, tears pattering to the plates as he held her, his own joining them. He had no words to offer, no solace to immortal grief like this, nothing his young, mortal heart could conjure could soothe this pain she felt... and so he merely gave himself to her, shored up his courage, and let her press to him, suddenly bawling her eyes out, her legs shaking and giving out as she collapsed into his lap.

“HARK!" came a bellow from one of the men, a dark-haired man with a severe nose, he peered forward through a spyglass. His armor and kit painted him as one of their scouts.

“Our banner still flies!" he shouted again. Cithara's head snapped up, as did Bart's.

“The Order Militant fortress! It stands!" he shouted again, turning his head to his fellows. “Our brothers stand!"

Bart reached up and took the spyglass, the soldier willfully handing it to him as he trained it on the city, grimacing as he saw a closer view of the carnage as well... and yet it was true, the fort was intact. Drawbridges raised, banner flying high. Walls scorched and damaged — but unbroken.

“By God," Bart breathed, turning it so Cithara could peer through — awkwardly as her alien skull allowed, but her breath caught.

“There are men on the walls, good, untainted men," she breathed.

“Then there is hope!" Someone said in the crowd of men. A cheer went up, a rousing cry of courage.

“Viconia, you steely bitch!" Someone cackled nearby, getting a brief cheer of her name from the men. Bart and Cithara looked around, she sniffled a bit but smiled.

“Courage... this is why I love you all so," she breathed to him; her voice lapsing into the tones of ancient ritual, “Thou art courageous."

Bart held her close, she knew his heart better than he did... she saw in them clear as day what even great philosophers groped for with words and theories — the Unicorn glimpsed their hearts, and in it, she found something worth loving. That was enough for him.

“I will make it right," Bart promised her, stroking her face and pulling her close as the cheering men set about their work, renewed energy in their motions. “I will punish the men responsible, mercy is beyond such creatures."

“Good, my love. Good." she agreed, a touch of fire in her voice. “This time I am wholly complicit," she said, raising her eyes to his, gold-on-gold glimmering with tears, grief, and love — and a glint of deep-seated rage.

“Wield me, my power. Carve a bloody swath through these monsters. Show no remorse, let none survive your fury." she almost snarled.

“My fury."

Bart felt that ignite something in his soul. Perhaps it was the Ember, the mantle... or just good old-fashioned masculine aggression — but her desires, her command rang him like a great, glorious bell. Sang in his blood and muscles with an atavistic desire to protect. To visit upon transgressors retribution. She stared into his eyes intensely, seeing that change. Feeling that fire building inside of him.

“This is why I chose you. This is what we were made for, darling. Love is jealous and it is powerful, it is what drives the mother and father to fight for their child, the brother to shield the brother. Sister to sister. You were chosen because that love burns in you like wildfire, searing all away so new life may grow."

As she spoke, he felt it. There was no magic here... merely the magic of truth, spoken earnestly. She Knew him, deep in the fiber of his being, and in this — she acknowledged him, his quality. His soul.

“Thou art courageous."

The words rang him head to toe. Filled him. Defined him. He had never before truly understood what she meant when she said those three, old-fashioned words. This time it rang true. It meant something. Everything. It was who he was, what he was. What his ancestors were. The defining concept of humanity in a single, ancient phrase.

Courage.

The two looked out across the river valley once more. They looked over the devastation. The waiting trap yet to be sprung, the hopeful snap and flutter of the Eye and Horn pennant now unmistakable even with the naked eye atop the fortress.

“I love you, Cithara," Bart said softly. Raising his hand to her. “I... never asked you properly, it seemed just to happen, yet I will here. Now. In our last moments of peace." he said, shifting himself down to one knee, Cithara's eyes blinking rapidly as it dawned on her.

“Oh, Bart..."

“Will you be mine, forever — as long as that may be?" he asked her, the eyes of the men around them turning to the pair. Silence ruled as she looked to his empty hand; “Wed me, properly before God and Men alike?"

She laughed, it was a sound full of gaiety and a bit of incredulity. She pressed her mouth to his in a passionate, needy kiss... and laid one of her glimmering golden hooves in his hand.

“Yes, my love. Forever is a very long time... and I wish this time, to see all of it at your side. A thousand times, yes!" she said, and around them another cheer went up. Each of the men thrust their spears to the sky, giving cries of enthusiastic joy. For them, a miracle had occurred — they'd witnessed the promise of an Immortal and her Champion, no greater blessing could be had on their campaign — and they were exultant in their cheers, their joy for this creature that they loved above all else but God, and her chosen.

“Can we... go away from others for a while? I must needs..." she closed her eyes. “Gather myself. My strength. We are far from my throne. My power stretches thin from it and we will need every glimmer of hope I can muster."

Bart nodded, and quite to the surprise of Cithara and the others — swept her up into his arms. She gave a soft cry and was wild-eyed a moment, and then sighed and nestled herself into his neck. Her slight, doe-like frame weighed as nothing in the brawny paladin's arms, and he took her downhill, towards the river.

“Bart..." it was a quavering voice, he glanced down as he passed. Lidia looked up at him from Gram's arms, the tall Darrowmite having taken her to a fallen log on the side of the road, and had simply held her as she wept and cried.

“I made him promise, so ahm' makin' ye too," she said, raising her scarred, calloused hand.

“Promise me. Ye'll kill the bastard responsible. I know I cannae harm these... things. I need ye to do it. Kill them." she spat, eyes hollow and full of fury. “Make it hurt."

Bart shifted Cithara in his arm, and reached out his hand, grasping hers tightly in its mailed embrace. His face resolute.

“I promise. No matter the cost. I promise." he rumbled, his voice like a distant rockslide.

“Ye cannae break this one, Bart." she pleaded with that hollow gaze. “Dinnae break ye promise, ye almost broke the last one." her eyes welled up again.

“They took me home, big brother. They took me home again," she said and began to weep anew, curling herself into Gram's shoulder once more, her own wracked with new sobs of grief filling her. Bart felt sadness war with rage through him as he brushed his hands over her hair, Gram meeting his gaze.

“Together," was all he said, a stoic nod accompanying it.

“Together," Bart agreed. Cithara smiled and slipped free of Bart's grip, alighting on the ground with grace, she stepped forward to Lidia.

“Little One," she breathed softly, the changeling looking up at her with misery in her gaze, Cithara's own eyes softening. “So much pain... you are so strong for such a young thing," she said and leaned down and gently kissed Lidia on the brow, nuzzling her hair softly.

“You are strong enough. Weep your tears, I wept mine... weep them and know all will be well again. The sun always must shine once more." she said, smiling even as a fresh tear ran down her glistening white cheek.

“I promise you."

Lidia's eyes flowed with fresh grief, but she smiled and reached a hand up, touching Cithara's mane, the Unicorn did not say another word, simply looking into the young changeling's eyes.

“I'll hold ye to that, Lady," she replied, voice barely more than a whisper.

“As is proper," the Unicorn replied. “You have not strayed all these years in the dark, the sun will shine again. Have faith."

Lidia bit her lip, and with a nod she simply laid her face against Gram's pauldron once more, eyes closing in a fresh stream of tears. Cithara drew away, catching Bart with her tail and pulling him along, the man's eyes clinging to his... sister, his sister's grieving form.

“Come, beloved. We must prepare. The endgame is upon us." Bart looked back towards the smoke, the barest tip of the parapets visible over the hill. The beginning of his journey, and its end. In it all, the journey's slings and arrows of fortune, the agony, pain, and fear... he'd only had one thing to cling to. Here at the end, as in the beginning, he grasped that quality firmly and would not let go.

Courage.