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The laughter echoed out unnaturally, ringing among the fallen pillars of a dead world. The darkness swallowed it without note, the void hungry for all — even the bilious warmth of mockery was devoured. The Ogre King's mere presence was an oppression itself, heavy with purpose and meaning as much as mass, Bart could see it in his companions and God knew he felt it himself, as they had in Lachheim, a washing wave of despair as the monster supped on their hope and joy.

Then, a sound came to Bart's ears. It was not a pleasant noise. It was awful, high-pitched, and agonized. Distant. Barely able to be heard. It echoed faintly from behind the Ogre's great bulk, in the cloying depths of the tower. It came again, and behind his visor, Bart's eyes lit up wide in alarm.

It was a scream.

It wasn't just any scream.

The cry came again, and all came alert in notice. The scream cut the air with aplomb, loud, feminine, and wracked with pain, fear, and of all things — sorrow. A familiar cry, one he had heard in better circumstances, pitched in joy and passion.

“Cithara," Bart breathed, his voice haggard. The realization landed like a catapult stone, crashing through everything else, cutting through the despair and laying waste to the suicidal hopelessness that had begun to consume the Paladin. He felt his heart sing, his pulse pounded and his Mantle cried out for its other half. Out of him burst a response, tearing free from his lips but spoken with the depths of his chest and heart, indeed even his mantle surged as his very soul raised its voice to the choir.

“CITHARA!"

To call the sound that left Bart's lungs a shout would be to do it no justice, nay it was no cry, no sound reserved for the flesh of men. What split the air was a roar, a clarion call of the human soul given sound. The sheer volume of the bellow shook his armor, it split the air with all of the stored-up rage, pain, and desperation that had kept the man walking through this hellscape. His eye blazed golden like a star, his mantle flaring around him like a physical force — It surged in the hearts of the companions, Sikha's orbit blazing with the sudden influx from the source and it even struck the great lumbering Humbaba almost like a physical force, the beast flinching visibly back from the cry — as the darkness, faint and tortured, and barely audible as words — answered.

“BART!"

The ringing report of the Lady in White's voice rang reality like a bell. It struck all into silence, and even Humbaba was given pause as the holy voice rang across a land bereft of divinity, giving mockery and laying falsehood to all the wrongs of the twisted demesne. There was a beat of silence, a moment of haggard breaths, a place where all sound left the world but the rattle of Bart's armor and his own heart in his ears, nothing to be heard but the strain of his own body and the screams of the woman he loved. At that moment, the Paladin made a choice.

“God forgive me," he whispered, and stepped over the edge.

Bart simply ignited. Flame burst from the Paladin's flesh and leapt between the gaps in his armor as he threw wide the gates of the mantle to the raging ocean of divinity beyond; letting that glorious energy wash over him, fill him and empower him. The sheer force of the sudden holy conflagration blew his cloak and surcoat about his frame, blasting the air away from him and scouring the ground beneath his feet of loose dirt and debris as he simply became more. Heavier. Nothing else mattered then, there was no limit he would not cross, no barrier he would not assail. She lived. She lived.

“I'M COMING!" Bart's voice rang out back through the halls, his blade leaping to hand, clapping his visor closed over the blazing star where his lone eye burned, golden tongues of lambent energies leaping between the creases of his armor, immolating him head to toe in a searing aura of radiant fire. Like some terrible steely golem of glorious purpose, he strode forward without even a hint of pomp nor ceremony and simply shouted his rage at the great, eldritch abomination before him.

“GET OUT OF MY WAY."

The blast of power that poured off Bart with that vocalization blew his companion's clothing about and whipped the dead, still air into a flurry of dust and grisly debris. Naima cried his name in concern, Gram and Lidia spat curses, and Rashid shouted in wordless protest. He cared not. He was made to burn, and so he would burn. Burn bright. Beaten, Battered, dented, and stained he stood at the center of that golden radiance unbent, unbowed. Back straight. Eyes forward.

Burn bright. For her. He grasped his mantle with both hands as if it were a cup of her love, and drank deep.

Humbaba snarled something indecipherable through its grisly multi-layered mouth, both maws split in a disgusted sneer at the display of holy defiance before him, instead the beast strode to meet Bart as the Paladin raised his blade and set his shoulders for battle.

He did not do so alone. At his side fell in line each of his companions, bristling with weapons, and in each of their eyes, a renewed fire burned, tempering their worry with purpose. Rashid nodded to him from his right, Gram to his left. Both men's faces were hard beneath their helms. Bart's eyes spoke fleeting apologies to them. Lidia and Nazir ranged out to the flanks, and at their rear, Sikha rose above Naima's head, her hair began to dance and crackle about her as she as well as Bart drew down on his seemingly unlimited power.

Warmth fell across Bart's face, and he looked up. That radiance, that glow beckoned him forward. Past Humbaba, into the depths of darkness. The Light showed him the way. That was enough.

There were no more words, simply another roar as Bart's march became a pell-mell sprint, a charge up the hill at the monster, his friends at his side. A roar Humbaba answered in kind as Bart leapt to the attack, the great beast swinging its massive fang-chattering blade down at the Paladin. The bony cleaver descended like a guillotine with speed and precision that belied the beast's great bulk, the mantle surged with power as Bart levered his blade into a high guard, and with a set of his feet and a bellow of effort, he did not avoid the crushing attack — and instead struck back — and parried the blow.

The impact of the two weapons was so great, so loud that were Bart's blade common steel it would have bent and shattered. His body rocked with the effort, but the mantle sang with Cithara's sweet song. His muscles bulged and surged with might. His feet suddenly dug down, his body's mass and weight doubling as he drew down on his power as he never had before to become immovable, unstoppable. There was a moment's arresting of motion as his blade struck out against the great Ogre God-King's, a straining point of perfect equilibrium as the eldritch horror's gruesome brawn and Bart's divine might stalemated each other for a fleeting, crystalline instance. Their eyes met over the crossed blades at that intimate, mortal distance. Staring defiantly at one another across a moment that stretched into infinity.

Humbaba blinked first.

From the outside, there was but a heartbeat's arresting of momentum as Bart's body strained against the multi-ton abomination, his armor rattling and his feet literally depressing the fleshy earth beneath them in gouts of sludgy gore as he was crushed down into it by the sheer force of the blow — and yet he held. Endured, and overcame — with an audible crunch of bone as his blade's immutable, Absolute Iron stood the test of purpose, it dug deep into the primitive blade it had been pitted against, and found it wanting. A crack shot up the blade's length.

Bart slapped that great blow to one side, shrapnel and debris shattering free as the impact rang in the Absolute Iron like a bell. Humbaba's voice bellowed in rage as the parry's sheer kinetic force blew his guard open — an opening Bart's friends capitalized on.

Gram came hurtling at breakneck speed into the gap, leaping straight forward, polearm leading. Its spearpoint taking Humbaba in the gut, slicing in deep into its ossified, fatty flesh with a grisly crunching sound of thin, shell-like bone, a gush of hideous rusty-colored ichor, and a gruesome shredding noise as the lancer levered his body around it like an acrobat, dragging the weapon through its guts in a wide, ripping tear as gravity pulled him down to earth. Humbaba bellowed in anger more than pain and aimed a blow down at Gram, the chopping cleave far too fast for even the nimble cavalier's reflexes.

A sharp intake of breath was all that was heard before another ringing boom, and above Gram's recoiling form — Rashid had interposed himself, his talwar raised in rigid guard, body surging with his mantle's own internal powers, his flesh rigid and stony as bedrock against the monster's might. The following exhale blasted the battlefield in another gale of winds as Rashid drove the blade wide once more, darting in and answering it with a fresh, deep cut, overlapping the gash Gram had made, the lancer himself rolling clear as Humbaba went berserk on the two armored warriors.

In a display of alien dexterity, the beast raised both blades and rained them down on each warrior with singular attention. Grotesquely, its eyes each tracked the two warriors individually as did its limbs, each eyeball and arm perfectly splitting its attention between the two doughty soldiers of God. It hammered at them with crushing overhands and crossing slashes that rang in the air like a chorus of bells, each warrior parrying, deflecting, and dodging in their own fashion as the giant grew visibly more furious with each failed blow, leaving wider and wider gaps that were rapidly punished with more stinging blows and gouging stabs — Bart in particular spurring its ire as the First Blade's searing Absolute Iron bit deepest and most dearly into its tainted flesh, at last, it broke under the pressure in with a roar and drew in a deep, telltale breath. Bart and Rashid immediately ducked away.

Stomping down, the beast belched forth a great gout of fire, its throat yawning horrifically wide, screaming faces of twisted, barely-human descent writhing in his throat and gullet as the conflagration roared out, chasing the scattering melee with it doggedly until its head snapped back suddenly with a gagging sound of gluttonous surprise — which then turned summarily into cries of pain, as smoke and debris blasted forth from its ravaged palate in a brutal explosion.

“Ye fookin' fell for it twice! Twice!" Lidia cackled, sending the second lit powder bomb sailing into its torso, where it blew apart again, showering the monster in shrapnel and blinding it with rage as much as smoke and debris as she and Nazir darted off to the sides, the monster tracking them furiously, snapping its jaws, rapidly losing its composure — already nearly beyond speech, the God-King's fury becoming not but frothing, animal madness.

“Blaaasphemerrrrs!" came the bellow full of denial and fury, flailing its weapons down at the quick-footed pair in a furious flurry of blows, its hatred fixating on the most recent aggravation. Down rained an almost tantrum-like fusillade of chops and slashes and stomps of its massive taloned feet — yet even Humbaba's unnatural alacrity was not enough to overcome the deft footwork of two well-accustomed to the unfair world of the small and slight. Nazir's hands flashed as he rolled wild-eyed past another cleaving blow, twirling a length of rope above his head. He gave a yell and threw it and its three-pronged grapnel tip in a quick whipping motion that wrapped it around Humbaba's powerful, almost dog-like leg — where it tangled in both cord and flesh gamely; the prongs cared not and simply bit in for purchase. Like a shot, the southerner took off, sprinting around behind the beast and joining up with Lidia, where the pair passed the line between them — the little rogue crossing it back over the monster's front, weathering her own storm of blows with a darting series of hops and skips, moving like a frog across a pond where she dug in her heels and hauled the line taut — setting the grapnel's teeth deep into the beast's flesh.

Humbaba bellowed at her and lunged forward, only to discover the tangle of line about its legs, forcing it to stumble as its stride came up short. In a moment its massive, ponderous weight went from its foremost asset to the abomination's greatest foe as it tried to right itself — Lidia's friends were having none of that.

Bart came out from the right field with a roar. Shoulder leading, the armored warrior hit the titan like a juggernaut, crashing into the hulking creature with enough Mantle-empowered force to fully upset the creature's already unstable mass — and ring his armor around him like a bell. Humbaba's step faltered again, the ropes all but sawing through its flabby flesh as it strained and staggered, turning its inhuman ire on Bart. Down came the blades and the fire in Bart's blood answered his call, the First Blade sang and he met the monstrosity arms-to-arms, blade-to-blade in another ringing parry, the Absolute Iron defiant and adamant against the impossible might of the Other. Bart's body screamed under the strain, Humbaba's snarling countenance turning its displeasure upon him fully, bringing that second blade down onto Bart's upraised sword with a clang; leaning its great bulk onto the Paladin. Locking him in place, compressing his feet once more down into the spongy flesh-earth with a scream from Bart as his body shuddered under the impossible, unrelenting counterforce of tons of raw, animal muscle.

“Hoo hoo... bright little torch, but therrre is naught in that armorrr but ash," the abomination slurred at him, drooling along its blade edges as its hideous nested set of mouths splayed wide with an audible sinewy suck of flesh against flesh, a massive tongue lolling as it bore its weight down on Bart, leaning that hungering maw closer and closer as it inexorably won that creeping contest of strength, the living blades and their tooth-edged lengths rattling and chattering with their wielder's palpable excitement…

Gram seemed to leap whole from the shadows, the tall Darrowmite's frame propelled by a familiar sharp exhalation, the armored man taking flight with the aid of a burst of strength from Rashid, the burly man quite literally hurling the armored soldier into the air by his harness, the blast of air from his nostrils giving the Akali the countenance of a brazen bull, snorting its disdain at this abomination. Up, up and up sailed the glimmering lancer, given no mount he instead rode the air, his bec-de-corbin swung not as a spear, but a mattock — the savage beak-like pickhead taking every ounce of momentum the arching flight had granted him, and transferring it soundly to the crown of Humbaba's hideous skull.

The impact was deafening, the crack like deep winter ice breaking 'neath the hull of a fisherman's boat. The weapon hanging firm in the monster's bony cranium, the sheer weight of the blow and its deliverer's own impact sent the Ogre's mass lurching forward again. The beast's attention diverted as it howled and roared, its head wrenched to and fro by Gram's twisting assault. Bart heaved their locked weapons to the side, sending the monster into another stumble towards the steep grade of the ramp; Gram diverting its attention further with his embedded weapon, twisting and wrenching the square-headed spike in the monster's brainpan, his feet dug into its hunched back for leverage like a mountaineer and his trusty pick. Humbaba's steps were further harried by the ropes, the humble braided silken strands many times stronger than even the great God-King had given them credit for, and even as they frayed and split under every strain, they clipped and harried the towering beast's steps, shortening its stride and forcing all its top-heavy mass forward, and over.

Bart snarled as the monster teetered, setting his feet with renewed vigor: the big Paladin twisted his blade and stamped his foot. Air blasted away from the impact and steel rang against bone as Bart once more wrenched their blades apart in a ringing riposte, smashing the off-balance Ogre King's guard open with the soul-burning strength of the God and Heaven both. Spitting blood to the side, Bart grasped his mantle with a roar, and his fist ignited in glittering, incandescent flame. With nary a thought of hesitation, the holy knight drove forward over their broken bind, forward and up, giving every scrap of power and mass he could into a single, balled fist. Unto that blow, he hung his crown and to his shoulder, he gave the backing of his own throne.

Burn. Burn bright.

The uppercut blow struck the lurching Humbaba square in the jaw, cross-countering the beast's attempt to lunge back in with its yawning incisors and nip the head from his opponent once and for all. Bart's fist landed like a ballista bolt, precise, accurate, and with irresistible force. The blow drove the monster's jaw shut with a clapping noise like a great bone beartrap — literally shearing that lashing tongue in half, clipping it off at the midpoint with a snap of its own teeth. The energy kept going, Bart's pushing assault ramming the God-King's jaw up into its skull with such force that Gram's polearm popped back out of its cranium with a gout of gore from the sheer spine-snapping recoil of the blow. Recoil that rocked back down Bart's arm, the Mantle gobbling it down and grounding it through his legs into the earth, blasting yet more debris clear from the exchange of preternatural strength.

There was a delaying moment of quiet as the searing fist ended its upswing arc, and in that moment Bart gave another roar — and poured every ounce of his anger, his rage, and his faith into the very idea of flame.

Burn bright.

A veritable column of solid fire engulfed the monster's skull, par-broiling its flesh, searing away whole patches and chunks from its skull, and cauterizing the gushing stump of its ruined tongue. Fire, even here purifying the unclean.

Humbaba's eyes rolled and its severed tongue lolled grotesquely as Gram deftly inverted his polearm, driving its speartip down into the monster's neck, getting a loud bark of pain in response as the abomination listed forward away from the new attack, and it found its stride inadequate. Gram kicked free of the monster's back as it lurched forward to try to right itself, balance itself — but it found its feet yet again shortened just one last time by the fraying lines of cord. One last misaligned step and even its abominable strength was not enough to halt it — mass would have its say.

In a great heap Humbaba pitched over mid-stride, face and gut digging a visible furrow into the grisly turf as it crashed forward and down the ramp, Bart and Gram rolling clear of its savaged frame. The added descent only multiplied the force as the massive beast plummeted, the sheer weight of the monster pulverizing its own bones and organs, seeming to collapse in on itself in a grisly, sickening crunch as its own flesh drove its bones brutally into the rancid earth.

Down, down he drove, grinding the bilious skin and turf ahead of him in a mounded-up bow-wave of red-brown slurry as his own mass undid him, dragging him at last to a stop, directly before Naima, who had all this time been simply drawing down energy, her hair and eyes alive with the twisting, dancing power of God.

“Sooo falls the laaaast crooown of Northsea..." Humbaba lisped around its ruined face and maw in a bizarrely prophetic tone; “Lo, I witnessed it allll.... the end of Kings and thronnnes…"

“No," Bart said as he crossed in front of the hewn path of devastation, burning from within with that radiant aura. Upon his open hand danced a thunderbolt, the energies he delicately passed over to Naima's working, where she and Sikha bent and spun it into their great, stored vat of energy, the golden serpent's scales suddenly alight with golden bolts crawling across it like living things. Bart's eyes met Humbaba's defeated gaze.

“One yet remains," he said, raising his head high. Naima gestured obliquely. Sikha cried. Thunder sang.

The blasted, hideous crater where Humbaba's head had once been gushed and twitched; truly the ground itself where he had carved his fatal swath was a hideous mass of convulsing, damaged flesh, and unidentifiable organs. Lidia almost casually vomited off the side of the ramp and its strange, ribbed, and skeletal structures, Gram taking a hand to her back as she heaved up her guts, waving him away. The moment passed in silence before Naima's cry of frustration reached their ears. Frustration, and anguish.

“Bart, Bart you stupid, stupid man!" she cried, running to the flame-limned form, the very silhouette of the Paladin dancing with a thin outline of lazy, golden flame. Her hands hesitated, she held back from embracing him for a moment's fear before swearing and shoving the man's visor open.

Bart's one good eye burned gold on gold, and his flesh lumed from within. Golden flame burned through his veins. The Paladin could only smile, it was a weak thing.

“Bart I told you not to... oh God in his heaven..."

“I can't turn it off," Bart said after a quiet moment of her looking at him, lambent in the Light of God. “I felt something... give. If I let go of the mantle I won't get back up," he said with a fearful certainty. He could feel it, the exterior charge of Heaven, the funnel of power — it was all that kept him moving.

“I knew I needed it. We would not triumph without it," Bart said humbly. “I knew I wasn't strong enough."

“Bart... what did ye do?" Lidia asked him, touching the Paladin's arm, her fingers wreathed in golden fire that did not burn, and instead danced and played — filling her tingling digits with life and vigor.

“He opened himself to the power of God," Naima said bitterly, Rashid sucked in a fearful breath... Lidia's hands grew panicked.

“Bart... Bart ye said that was like tryin' tae fit five pounds o' grain in a pennybag," the little thief said in a panicked voice, her eyes slowly growing glassy with unshed tears of anger. “Ye said it'd tear ye up inside! Bart what did ye do!?"

“I have to get to her," Bart said, even then trying to move forward, punctuated by another scream of familiar, terrible agony from within. Each keening sound unique with its torments, Bart's eyes stared ahead. “I wasn't strong enough," he said, and a greasy, sucking chill pulled at his heart. Sikha trembled, and everyone else as well bowed under a sudden, immense pressure.

Around them the very concept of space and distance briefly distorted, reality seemed to compress to near-nothingness and then expand infinitely for a brief, harrowing moment until they were all simply... aware of a distant place. Rather, it became keenly known to them all that a distant place was aware of them. That pressure grew to an almost unbearable weight, time seemed to slow down, the air froze as all heat drained away from them and their breath misted before their mouths. Every point of light seemed to slowly die out, leaving everyone sitting in a quiet, cold blackness. Alone.

A flash of white in the dark. Teeth. Teeth behind soft lips. They gnashed the shapes of words that the companions felt more than heard, tasted more than saw. It bit and chewed a pronouncement that spoke to the bones and marrow, not the ear nor mind.

i s e e y o u

All at once it was over. It was Gram's turn to be ill, the knight tipping his visor up in time to fall to his knees and be messily sick onto the bilious earth, screaming through part of it as the rest of the party similarly reeled.

“That was the Queen..." Bart wheezed, the mark on his soul from the Wendigo causing him to reel in particular.

“God's Blood... that was but a passing glance..." Naima said, wiping her own mouth as a sudden, harsh crackling groan took their attention towards the distance.

Beyond. The horizon grew angry. The long, distant towers began to twitch and shift, at a distance they shimmered like sharply-plucked strings of a harp, the closer and closer one looked it became clear each of the reaching, hungry threads — each a distant tower as to the one they stood at — were subtly twisting. Turning. Facing them.

Then, they vomited forth darkness.

Great swarming gouts of blackness that seemed to blot out the ghostlight of this dead world, at first appearing to be fog or smoke until one squinted. The masses began to resolve into seething, teeming bodies that boiled out into the air and earth, so many as to block out the sky. So many as to drown the earth. Legions upon legions of the dead and damned pouring out thick as tar into the bleak white plains.

They were coming.

“I wasn't strong enough," Bart reiterated as everyone drew themselves up and square, and that familiar, greasy-cold grip squeezed around his heart, dragging Bart's attention to the tower. It was in there, he knew that now. The Wendigo. Waiting for him.

“They are billions," Nazir said plainly, watching the oncoming horde. They would doubtlessly be there within the hour, knowing no rest no restraint — only hunger. They all knew this.

“There are more inside," Bart said, looking towards that fetid darkness beyond. Naima nodded, wiping her eyes of tears she reached up and turned Bart's face to hers.

“You know only she can save you now," Naima said, and Bart nodded.

“I had wagered as much," he agreed, and Naima drew in a shuddering breath, putting her other hand on his face. Behind her, Sikha rose above them, his voice imperious and unquestionable.

“Thou burn well, Paladin. Thou were made to do so." Naima closed her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks. Bart had nothing to offer. There was a beat, a breath between them as the rest of the companions watched on. Lidia's hand had found Bart's, and it linked them in a chain with Gram, both men's hearts bound up in the little girl.

“We can save her," Bart added, confidence in his voice. “We only need to break through," Naima nodded gravely, her eyes not leaving his.

“So you decided you will be our ram," she muttered, resignation in her agreement as she sank, looking to the others.

“Forwards friends, we have no more time for tears. Bart will lead us, support him how you can," she said, closing his visor and locking it with one last tear rolling down her cheek.

“Burn bright, Bart."

There was sadness in Paladin's smile, it touched his eyes. However in it was also courage. Tenacity. Will.

It was enough.

~ ~ ~

The last moments of quiet gave way to din and mayhem, Cithara's screams rang off the walls of blackness as they crossed that liminal barrier of darkness. Within Bart's radiance drove away the shadows, as he burned with glory.

He felt distant from himself oddly, settling back into that warm sea of power and letting it ignite him, body and soul. The Paladin walked in his boots and felt the earth beneath his feet. His sword in his hand, armor upon his frame — yet and still his heart was elsewhere, beating in the chest of a screaming divinity somewhere farther up this spire — and the closer he got the more real he truly became; all before seeming like a time-lost nightmare. Only near her was he real.

The golden contrail of his eye's radiance marked his movements as he grasped his sword in both hands, moving at the head of their group, he was the first thing through that shadowy threshold, a battered, beaten, and yet still standing bastion of radiance. The Last Crown of Northsea stood defiant.

The light of his blazing aura cast across a vast open space, impossibly large, miles-distant walls vanishing into the far corners of shadow, a massive hollow column rising seemingly infinitely into the darkness above them, inter-crossed by hideous bony outgrowths, weaving back and forth through the misty blackness like threads of sinew for some impossible titan. Sinews that tightened and pulled, forming platforms, distant mantles, and steles of bone-lined fleshy outgrowths, pulling to and fro with a horrid rhythm that undulated and swelled, the very structure itself breathing.

Front and center were stairs wrought of that same round-edged ossified material — interlinked limbs of every form and shape grasping and entwining together like living bricks sheathed in bone mortar like plaster. The pale center rose and rose, a squared-off path of stairs surrounded by a helix of those massive, twitching columns of meaty muscle and bone — slashes of wet red pulsing flesh stark in relief against the off-white of mineralized meat and bone. The angular outline of a spiral staircase rising up seemed itself a mockery of the contrivances of men, rendered in flesh and enamel — yet it was the path forward, and towards it, Bart marched steadfastly.

Yet he would not do so unimpeded, for as without — so within was the tower, teeming with the last vestiges of life. As Bart's hobnailed boot struck that first step, a ripple went up the fleshy structures around them, a deep tone sounding that had no true audible quality, so deeply bass as to be sub-harmonic, vibrating the bones in the chest and skull as much the ears.

Up along those pulsing, stretching strands, those obscene slashes of red flesh split wide in a gruesome parody of birth, and out from them crawled horrors. In shape and form, Bart recognized ghuls — in the same way a marionette was recognizably human. Limbs long and smooth, their skin pallid and unscarred like newborn babes — they were spindly things of extremes, basic shapes. Lacking in fine details like hair or hide. Unfinished. Unborn.

Their hooting screams even sounded wrong as they cried out at the intruders, too high and tinny — like they were imitating an imitation itself. With them came new horrors, wings like fireflies made of skin and bone darted to and fro, their bodies a rosy-smooth mockery of some kind of bird of prey. A long, twisting neck supporting an owl-like head — an asymmetrical nest of eyes covering the whole front of its skull — and its feet ending in hooking bone scythes rather than true limbs; the creatures clicking about surfaces like ambulatory butcher's knives, clinging with wing and maw before casting off into flight, a great swarming cloud.

“What do we do?!" Gram called, bracing his weapon as the bow wave of creatures raced down at them from above, a solid carpet of bodies surging down the stairs ahead of them. Nazir bounced his blade on his palm and grinned fiercely, jerking his chin towards the stairs.

“Follow the Fist of God!" he cried — and Bart did not disappoint.

Bart was magically speaking — a thug. A brute in body and mind, he had all the elegance and refinement of a particularly heavy brick as far as the nuances of spellcraft were concerned. Unlike Naima or even Mihai's fell workings, Bart had little grasp for the finer skills. He was at best, a monkey with a club.

Bathed as he was in God's light — it was a particularly large club, however.

The length of the First Blade ignited — as did his aura, golden flame blasting out, immolating the Paladin in a holy pyre, but rather than stop at simple sheathing — Bart let the gates of the Mantle swing wide, pouring power like a rushing torrent into the simple workings, and they answered. That torrent of power became a torrent of aurum fire, blasting up from the hilt like a solid mass of molten energy, extending out double, triple, and then some of the blade's own length, trailing glittering golden cinders as he hefted it with a roar, that aura of flame blasting out from him in a sudden intense radiance — scaling off the influx of power, the fuel for the fire his faith and blood. Sikha arched in above it, and with a piercing cry of defiance — he echoed Bart's working once more.

The Nagai's aura blossomed, and the air became flame.

The winging horrors lunged down at Bart, and were simply swatted from the air as they crossed that threshold — the golden light immolating them with the sheer divine energy, the fires illuminating their bones through their flesh as they boiled away in mid-flight; Bart's echoed aura a sweeping broom whisking the skies clean. The blade came to bear as the first ranks of unfinished ghuls lunged through him, broiling alive as they attempted to press past his aura — only to be struck back with fire and steel. He raised his voice in a ringing battlecry and struck not at any one monstrosity, but nay instead their whole mass — the very idea of a foe. The sweeping beam of golden flame cut through the front ranks of unborn monsters like a scythe through wheat, incinerating those closest to its edge and immolating those further back, whole torsos and legs flopping twitching, and smoking; all above them simply turned to ash by the divine flame's wake.

Bart was a thug. A brute. An ape with a club. A club forged by God in the crucible of Love, tempered by the hammer of Faith. It was a considerably fine club. Heavy with purpose.

Again came the sweeping strikes, Bart's stamina limitless as he burned bright for all, moving forward in hewing strides, each sweep of his blade reaving swathes through the hoard, Sikha's twisting flight wading into their midst to sear them with his aura, he and the Nagai swept ahead of them as a blazing wedge, cutting through the swarm as his companions fell in behind — finding that the flames of his aura seared them not. Much like their protections from madness, comfort from the flame echoed through the working to Sikha, swaddling them in a blanket of destructive energy that burned and destroyed the flying monsters as they made their way in the wake of ashes and death as their mighty friend threw himself into his task.

“Can he keep this up!?" Nazir shouted, hacking down a surviving ghul, the nimble warrior dancing through and finishing off the maimed, still-burning and wounded in Bart's wake, Naima shook her head; eyes wild.

“I have no idea! No one has ever done this before!" she said, shaking her head; “By all theory, he should already be dead!" Nazir's answer was cackling laughter, joyous even.

“Come on Bart! Let's get more than a passing glance from the Dead One, eh?!" Nazir crowed, leaping to the fray as the swarms redoubled, the press of bodies letting more and more ghul-puppets through. They rushed in, burning and screaming — however, Bart's companions followed Nazir's example and held fast to the Paladin's flanks, covering his rear from the weakened forces attempting to press back against his reaving onslaught, smiles on their faces and ferocity in their eyes — Bart's echoing passion filling their hearts with valor.

“COME ON YE FOOKS, NOT ENOUGH O' YE TAE KILL A BUNCH O' CUTTERS FROM TH' STICKS?!" Lidia howled, darting between the pain-maddened strikes of the unfinished horrors, her emerging style a snapping, flowing one-handed symphony of violence. Her blows flowed wither her single-edged weapon into quick, authoritative chops and cuts that removed limbs, slit throats, and laid open bellies where they didn't simply split skulls. Her willowy form weaved and cracked like a whip, the influence of Gram's teachings clear as day.

“Come now Little Redcap! There's plenty!" Gram snarled back, a perfect dance partner for the little changeling, where she and Bart worked together like a hammering juggernaut — Gram flowed with Lidia, dancing and bending with her motions and his greater reach. The pair together choreographed an almost unnatural dance of death — both long-limbed lovers moving with grace and quickness that belied the force imparted, the cut of a blade or thrust of a spear seemed almost lazy at a distance and carried with it the weight of a forge hammer.

“I'd hate tae suggest Big Brother ain't doin' 'is part!" she cackled, the mood infectious — valorous fools one and all are valorous still.

Up they went, starting slow until Bart found momentum and set his stride, soon they practically were sprinting in a mad dash up the ever-spiraling staircase — Bart a living torch shearing and sweeping all aside with single-minded focus. He simply had to keep moving; one foot forward, hand to the weapon. Swing. Cut. Follow-through. There was no room for anything else, so full was he with the roaring torrent of energies, he felt his ability to sustain this even as he was rapidly dwindling.

“The spiral is narrowing!" Nazir shouted, the fighting growing denser and demanding more of him as Bart's burning aura began to falter under the sheer press of bodies, forcing their pace all the quicker. Naima jerked her head about and pointed.

“There! The top!" She said, and but a handful of turns up the stairs lay a doorway, the distant walls coming together around them to form a ribbed, unsettlingly organic roof — flying buttresses ribbed vaulting made of bone-like projections adding an uncomfortable cadaverous feeling to the top of the tower as it closed in above them.

“What?! That's impossible!" Gram shouted through the melee, chopping down a still-burning flying creature, not bothering to finish off wounded enemies now — the pace too frantic, merely leaving them where they screamed.

“Tell that to the Dead Goddess that built it!" Naima snapped back, ducking low again as Rashid continued as he had since the start, body-guarding his wife with Sikha's aid; the two defending their wedded charge with blade, fang, and scale; “Time and space mean nothing this close to her, the distance we've crossed could be from here to the moon for all we can perceive!"

“Wonderful!" Gram echoed back, spearing another leaping immolated form and levering it over the side; “I did not think you could make me hate this vile place more, alas!" his voice was gratingly cheerful as they rapidly approached the summit.

Bart hit the top of the stairs like a meteor impact, flame and ash blasted before them as they stood at the apex of the tower, surrounded on all sides by the hideous pulsing structure, before them was a tall, narrow door, perhaps a single man wide — and shut tight. The armored Paladin literally bounced off it in his mad rush, pushing off the wall to sweep the platform behind them clean in a brutal one-two cut and kick, bisecting a half-dozen flailing creatures with flame and booting a seventh off the side.

“I can't keep this up much longer, I feel as if I'll fly apart!" he shouted, voice hoarse, the man's armor seemingly held up by naught but luminous flame instead of flesh.

“Rashid, the door!" Naima shouted, rushing to Bart's side, her and Sikha's hands laying upon Bart's back — the Nagai taking up the same supporting strikes with the Paladin as he had with Rashid, the two working in concert to keep the platform clear of the endless torrent of pale, glistening monsters.

Rashid met the challenge with his signature stoicism, advancing on the door with purpose, drawing a small vial from his pouch and swigging it down quickly, casting it aside as he extended his brawny arms out to either side of him. His body seemed to lithify, his flesh taking on the coarse texture of stone as his eyes ran solid gold. Two fingers extended on either hand and then with a great sucking intake of breath, the akali drew both arms back in tightly, filling his chest and drawing those extended fingers up before his nose — staring past them towards the bony barricade with singular golden focus.

The exhalation could have been described as a storm, there was no other sound but the blast of air through the nose and clenched teeth as Rashid simply uncoiled like a massive striking serpent — his fist laid flat into a bracing palm strike, his arm driving forward like a ram. The door veritably exploded, a meaty sound of splintering destruction assailing the ears with its viscous, sickening noise; Rashid's arm bulling open the way forward, the blast of steam from his nostrils perfecting the image.

“Let us go!" Rashid barked, raising his blade anew. The party rushed into the narrow opening, each moving nearly single-file to make it until only Bart remained, backing up as he hewed about him with glittering golden fire — but the flame waned, and Bart's steps had a stumble in them.

“There are more doors!" Nazir shouted from down the pulsing hall. “They're open, we could hold them!" Bart looked back and nodded, his eye a flickering, searing ember. Further, they fell back down the hallway, Bart hacking and stabbing as the confines grew too tight for the all-consuming flame. His boot crushed one unnaturally smooth skull as he drove his fist down on another like a hammer, backing into the doorway as Gram and Rashid slammed them shut, Bart falling to one knee on the strange bony floor, panting heavily as the two brawny warriors drove some kind of organic bar into place, the fragments of which lay about their feet still from Rashid's forced entry of the outermost gate. The aura died around the Paladin, the flames licking low until they fell within the confines of the armor — the Paladin's form returning to normal for all purposes... except his eye. It still burned golden and luminous within the shadows of his closed helm, the sign that he still held the Mantle tight. That he still burned.

“Are you well, Bart?" Naima asked as the first resounding slam hit the exterior door, the whole thing shuddering as Rashid and Gram leaned into it — bracing it with mantle and muscle. The Paladin shook his head, and yet still rose.

“I fear what I look like beneath this helmet now. I very nearly burned up out there," he said, voice shaking along with his hands. He clenched a fist against the tremors as another boom rocked the door. Naima looked at the others, tired and worn, everyone straining to brace the doors with tools and debris from the shattered exterior bulwark. Her eyes met Bart's, the older woman's jaded gaze communicating exactly what Bart feared.

“Go, Bart," She said quietly, touching his helmet. “The others don't understand, but I do. We will keep this door held as long as needs be," she said and gave him a push, her voice low. “You'll save us. I have faith."

Bart felt an agony pass through him as he looked deeper into the fleshy citadel, stairs going up out of sight, this antechamber a rest stop for... the faithful he assumed, one they were turning against the residents. Naima gave him another push at the pause.

“Go, Bart. Accidental prophecy is still prophecy, and it has power. You can wield that against them, we cannot," she said in a hard tone, raising her chin imperiously. “I will die if needs be, as will we all — but there are Unicorns that need saving, and that requires a Hero."

The word 'Hero' struck Bart like a blade, nonetheless, he did not flinch from it, standing tall he simply nodded. He trusted not his voice. He knew she was right, and that is what it ached so much. He knew they would spend themselves for him, for Her. She also knew he could not dare ask that, for he was soft of heart and gentle of spirit. A stoic nod, and then he turned on his heel as another boom rang out from the doors, and he ascended out of sight at all due haste.

~ ~ ~

The booming followed Bart up the stairs, each slamming sound raining on his mind as he was once again alone. The darkness closed in around him — even the vague ghostlight of the world fading to a gray haze that hushed sound and made the world draw in close and tight as he ascended — boots loud as he rushed up the ossified steps two at a time. The booms continued, each a gavel of judgment on his mind. He feared the build-up of each impact, but not as much as he feared simply hearing nothing at all.

The passage was uncomfortably, intimately tight — the corrupting theme of the place only intensifying the deeper he delved. The living, fleshy mockery of a chapel stair morphing into an organic nightmare of ribbed, glistening walls and a vague undulation; The in and out breathing of the whole structure warping the lines and curves of the ascent. The belly of the beast, the heart of darkness. The whole nomenclature never seemed more apt than it did as he walked up that dark gullet of a corridor, his way lit only by the lambent glow of his lone eye and faith. The only sound the rapidly fading booms of the doors below.

Distance and time fell apart. Bart was sure he'd been climbing that stairwell no more than a few minutes, yet turning his gaze back — even igniting his blade in flame for better light — the passage stretched back behind him out of sight, a gentle curve he barely noticed slowly bending the path beyond his vision. Forward was all he could do, each step making the thunder of the assault below fade, replaced only by the anxious pounding of his own heart.

He was alone again. The darkness his only companion, and it was a living thing here. Breathing and tangible, with teeth.

Up he went, still pumping his stride as hard as he dared, his physical stamina long past its mortal limits. The Mantle sustained him with buzzing, electric energy that served to focus him on the task at hand; without that boon, he would have collapsed hours ago from the sheer mental exhaustion — let alone the physical toll.

The silence became loud as a battlefield after a time, and just when the biting quiet was about to drive nails of genuine madness into Bart's brain — the darkness ahead lightened, the inky blackness fading to a gray haze. Bart's pace already bordered on breakneck, and then he all but ran as the shadows fled at the presence of cold, unfeeling light.

The stairway emerged not into a hall, but an open-air amphitheater. The big Paladin's pace slowed to a walk, the flames dying from his blade as he emerged from the steps into a great, open black sky. An infinite tapestry of starless velvet that somehow yawned with mind-crushing emptiness and oppressive claustrophobia both — save for the moons. The Twin-Maiden Moons were large and full, the Elder and Younger sister both, seemingly so close that Bart could skip a stone off their surface. The wan glow of the two stellar masses the source of the ethereal light that bathed the whole platform, nay the world. He had made it, he was at the top, and beyond the rim the very curve of the world was visible to him — threatening his mind with new madness at its scale.

Bart managed to tear his attention from the two celestial bodies with considerable effort. Beyond the moons, the peak of the tower was a hellish, cold place. The architecture continued its trend, and beneath his feet, the mineralized fleshy 'stone' of its masonry cracked and crunched disgustingly. It for all the world, was a mockery of the Cathedral of White in Lachheim — or anywhere, truly. It could have been painted from memory of any number of places of worship built in the name of the White God — painted in blood, gore, and foul humors, on a canvas of human flesh, stretched on an easel of bone.

Where there should be sweeping columns and flying buttresses there were instead almost phallic, gnarled pillars of ribbed and ridged flesh and bone — reaching towards the moons and empty skies like the clawing fingers of a dying man. The floor itself was nested in a gnarled and raised texture like shrunken flesh over the bones of the starving — yet it adhered tight as whitewash to hideous parodies of flagstone and filigree rather than skeleton, skin, and human suffering — nay the latter came for free. The centerpiece was built of shapes and an understanding of pews and an altar rendered out of flesh and sinew — bones as bricks and bile as mortar. Candles burned, the wax itself shaped up from the ductile, malleable mass covering the floor and walls and simply twisted into wicks that burned, burned so foul with the now-familiar aroma of searing, human flesh.

It was a vision of hell, painted by a hand mad with pain and resentment.

Bart's horrific fascination was cut to the quick by embittered, hostile muttering; the sound dragging his attention down from the infinite sky and the noisome structure.

“I don't care about excuses, you were supposed to geld him, what happened?" spat a dry, croaking voice to nothing. Parias' voice. “Faugh! More excuses, you have your hooks in him, rend him apart! Fix this, you throwback!"

“It hasn't been for lack of effort," Bart said mildly, his deep voice carrying across the eerie silence, quashing Parias' banter with... seemingly nothing, and jerking the man's attention to the Paladin. He sat astride the altar with an indolent sprawl, legs askew and arms dangling as if it were a cozy sedan couch rather than a mockery unto God. The brutal warlord pushed off the slab, eyes wild but an almost friendly expression on his drawn, haggard face.

Above him, twisted an... anomaly — a writhing, fleshy hole bored and stretched wide in the open air — it yawned like an open wound, and beyond its twisting, glistening borders, Bart could see a writhing, barely visible shape of pale limbs and golden eyes. A keening scream split the air, a familiar voice from beyond this place of nightmare darkness. Cithara. Hope and hate surged in Bart's heart, joining together into a burning determination within his breast.

“Bartholomus! You made it!" Parias crowed, extending his arms outwards in a brotherly fashion as he walked down the aisle of the blasphemous chapel — Bart noting nauseously that the seeming red carpet that defined the rows was itself a rippling, thin, overlong tongue lolling from a tooth-lined crevice at the base of the altar.

“All alone?" the murderer asked in a sickeningly jovial tone. Bart felt his ire rise, but he set his teeth and raised his chin.

“As alone as you are," he said ominously, and Parias' facade of friendliness cracked, the man's tone growing cold and throaty.

“You certainly have done better than they expected. But I — I told them you were special. You were different," Parias said in a wheedling tone, his dead eyes staring out from the deep recesses of his open-faced helm. “To fight off champions of champions, a whole world arrayed against you. Simply spectacular, hero," he crowed, Bart's golden, glowing eye tracking him as he stopped. It was Bart's turn to pace, his sword dropped to the end of his arm and he walked slowly to the left, dragging the blade along pointedly, leaving a scored red line in the fleshy turf with a tight flourish of the blade.

“Want to hear a theory, Parias?" Bart asked, his tone firm. Hard as granite. The murderer's face broke out in a mad grin, and he placed his hands on his hips, his armor rattling as he tilted his head — genuine, actual interest glinting in his eyes.

“Alright, you have my attention. Go on then, Hero." Bart paced back to the right, his blade dragging that line again, deliberately etching it as he never once broke eye contact with the murderer. Parias fidgeted, his eyes flicked wildly about Bart's featureless visor, trying to gauge him, read him — it was difficult to say. Bart returned to the center, staring dead at the man, driving his blade down into the ossified flagstones, resting his palms on the crosspiece.

“All of this time deep in the Queen's nightmare, and never once have I been rent asunder by the mark on my soul," he began, staring Parias down. “No shadows have stolen my companions from my grasp, no reaching darkness grinding them to red paste. No mind-crushing madness from beyond. Nothing," Bart stated coldly, each note setting Parias' teeth more on edge until the muscles of his jaw stood out starkly. Bart jerked his chin pointedly, his own tone growing sharp.

“Where is the Wendigo, Parias?"

The murder's mouth twisted in response but Bart simply bulled through the stammering pablum; “You know what my theory is, Parias?" he asked, eyes hard and his voice growing bleak with the resentment that festered there — the cold, greasy chill raked at his spine, the Wendigo was here. He could feel it, and it only cemented his rationale.

“I... don't know what you mean," the murderer hedged, and Bart simply drove on.

“You know what my theory is, Parias? The reason you haven't killed me, crushed me, or cut me apart with that fell presence you saw fit to sully me with? Why I can FEEL that monster in my teeth and yet I am here, standing — mocking you to your face, and I yet am whole?" He spread his arms invitingly, setting his feet — openly daring the elusive aspect to strike at him. There came nothing, save silence. Bart dropped his hands, pointedly grasping the hilt of his weapon again.

“My theory is it cannot. You did this, with your ego and vanity," he spat, his gaze tilting down as he glared a smoldering golden hole straight through the man's skull. “The Wendigo is right here, but it's busy isn't it?" he demanded, and Parias' expression turned from irritation to actual, bald-faced hatred. Bart sneered beneath his own helmet.

“It's right here, isn't it Parias? Busy keeping this whole God-forsaken nightmare intact, hamstrung by your petty, pithy desire to punish me," Bart raised his finger, and jammed it like a spear at Parias' chest.

“It's right there, in your black, dead heart. Weighed down beneath the folly of your petty ambitions," he said, and flames began to lick up that extended finger, rolling down his body as he felt the rage building from petty anger into righteous indignation. As if by cue, another scream of agony from his beloved Lady tore through the twisting flesh portal above the altar, punctuating his rising fury.

“All I have to do is reach in and crush it."

Parias' blade rasped free of its scabbard, the weapon's matte surface dull in the wan moonlight. “You really feel smug about that don't you, hero?" Parias croaked, stepping forward jerkily, mechanically — like he wasn't fully conscious of his movement. “Figured it all out, have you? Think you understand?" He jeered, his own rage rising, froth flecking his lips as his voice grew louder, more hoarse.

“You walk in a realm built for ME, by my command and my will was this done! A glimpse of the inevitable end and it exists, raw in flesh and bone, “ he drove his fist into one of the spindly pillars as he passed it, wrenching out a chunk of the writhing mineralized material, holding the twisting, still-living meat up in a gore-soaked fist. “Because I WILLED it!" he roared in vile hatred. Bart remained steadfast.

“Willed forth a petty place of petty hungers, tell me more of your failures animal," Bart snarled, still not leaving his spot. The hulking murderer seemed fit to spring upon him for the insult, his frame swelling practically with fury — yet Parias stopped short, seeming just now to notice the line.

“What is this? Schoolyard games?" the warlord sneered, bouncing his cruelly-curved falchion against his leg as he cast his eyes across the red, bloody line Bart had cut.

“A fair warning," Bart said, raising his chin again. “When you cross this line. I will kill you where you stand."

The words were delivered without emotion, without passion. Matter of fact. They shook the air with their finality, Parias himself rocked back from that, eyebrows raising at the pronouncement.

“Big words for one man, hero," he offered in that low, dead croaking tone. Bart's stare was unfaltering.

“You may test that assumption at your earliest convenience, beast," Bart said, and the golden flames climbed further, licking and crawling over him to form a thin, aurum outline of celestial radiance, pushing away the darkness and warming the chill from the dead air.

The two men stared in silence across that distance, perhaps ten paces apart. The air grew thick with tension, Bart's single-eyed gaze boring through Parias with unfaltering focus — and the murderer's mad-eyed stare raked over the Paladin like a thonged whip. A beat passed.

A fresh scream of divine agony split the air, shattering the stillness with its new horror. Parias lunged. Bart's body went rigid as iron.

The clash of blades split the air, in that din there was the ringing battle of ideals. Of opposites. Over it all, the Unicorn wailed in pain.

The first blow was bereft of anything resembling technique, Parias had simply given a howl of animal fury and unleashed every ounce of might his own fell mantle granted him. The blow screamed against the First Blade as Bart forced the parry, the two weapons showering the combatants in sparks as the exchange began in earnest — the hammering blows were barbaric, furious things — Parias' frenzy simply trying to drive Bart down beneath his hacking weapon to end it with pure, brute force.

Bart had endured a long day of impossible things attempting to murder him with equally impossible strength. Not this day, not this soldier. His muscles bulged, and his mantle sang its song as he reached for his own might — and it answered.

“BART!"

His call for power was met with the voice of his beloved Lady, Cithara's pain-maddened cries clearly sensing her champion's struggle through the wending, writhing portal. The sound of her voice split the darkness like a brassy clarion call, his heart swelled and his spirit sang. His Lady was watching. Best not to disappoint.

The resulting exchange was a thing that suited its cosmic stage, the moons looking down as two champions cut loose with everything they had at the edge of the empty sky. Bart's eye blazed like the vengeful spirit of the long-dead stars, illuminating even the wan light in his golden aura as he drove himself forward — Daedolon's teachings ran through his mind, flowing through him like water. In that moment, his blade felt as much a part of him as his arm.

The first exchange set the tone and pace of the fight. Parias simply bulled straight at him, blade in a high guard before sweeping across in a series of brutal cuts at his head and neck not designed to do much at all but worry at the armored soldier's stamina. Bart snapped his heavier blade back and forth with aplomb, rolling the weapon and his shoulders through fluid parries — the momentum in the thicker weapon ably defeated the falchion's brutal cuts and answered back with slices and thrusts that forced the black-armored murderer to weave his head and torso around the ripostes. Parias clearly relied on his cruelly curved blade's chopping power in a fight — and Bart's weapon was purpose-forged to slay monsters, not men. Neither of them was well-armed for a duel against another armored warrior.

They broke apart, both men dropping into ready guards — Parias' blade out straight, Bart's held in a low, wary guard. The warlord gave an incredulous smirk.

“A fool's guard, really?" he asked blithely as he shifted around the Paladin.

“I have such a great one present, It seemed appropriate," Bart answered calmly, getting a flash of anger from the cadaverous man's eyes and he launched himself forward. The guard itself was open, but also extremely nimble — Parias drove at Bart with a thrust so powerful he could hear it split the air with a whistling lethality, the murderer clearly pouring on his own supernatural strength. It was the same form of thrust that had gutted him before, Parias replicating the exact technique that gave the Paladin the nigh-mortal wound that had cost him a year of his life. In a moment Bart's own heavy blade had flicked out with far more agility than should have been possible — compared to Daedolon's blazing swordplay even Parias' brilliant skills seemed slow and measured. Up came the heavy triangular blade and it drove Parias' own aside and down in a textbook half-moon parry, striking Parias' momentum so hard it caused the murderer to stagger, eyes wide with surprise as Bart added his own special contribution to the classic form. A roar split the air, and Bart's balled fist screamed through the middle distance with the same terminal force that Parias had given his thrust — only Bart did not miss.

The crash of steel on steel was so loud on the still platform as to be nearly deafening, Bart's brutal fist like a steel ram, folding Parias' frame backward and clearly, tangibly shattering the man's jaw. Bart felt teeth give beneath the blow, and he answered it with a hearty shout of defiance.

“You only get that once!" he bellowed, winding back up his blade into a high two-handed thrust that the black-armored murderer narrowly slapped away with his gauntlet and a shower of sparks, rolling away from the big Paladin and spitting to the side.

“Augh, mnph," Parias gagged and Bart felt his stomach turn as he watched him physically work his jaw back together, the entire savage wound from the monster's exposed mouth simply knitted itself whole. The grisly tableaux took perhaps a half-dozen breaths, and after a hideous twist of his neck, and a series of crunching pops — Parias was grinning at him with wholly intact, blood-stained teeth.

“You have a habit of striking me in the mouth, boy," The cannibal snarled, lashing his tongue across his too-sharp teeth. “I don't care for it."

“Do something about it then," Bart challenged, raising his blade.

Paris snarled. Literally. The sound he made was reserved for a beast, a creature — no man should be able to make such a noise, yet he did as he grasped his blade, and quite simply shed any vestiges of civility. He lunged at Bart and it was an inhuman motion, his limbs seemed to overextend, his joints bending beyond their limits, and he simply leapt. Bart was forced to just roll aside as Parias cleared a full man's height in one bound, whirling in the air with his tattered clock flapping and slamming his blade down into the fleshy ground where Bart had just stood, the weapon digging a furrow a full span deep where it landed, the murderer twisting his head with a wild-eyed expression, teeth bared as he tracked Bart's motion.

“God's Blood," Bart breathed as Parias just... flowed back to standing, ripping his sword free with a gout of rusty-brown gore, pausing to lick some of the fetid viscera from his fingers.

“Come now, Hero. Surely you did not expect me to fight you fair," he hissed, and lunged again, eyes wide with ecstasy, jaws open. The strike came from an angle Bart simply didn't think possible, Parias' inhuman, whirling motions striking from below his guard, the blade crunched into his armor, throwing Bart back a step as the sheer kinetic energy imparted by the blow drove his guts back against his spine — but the armor, blessed as it was — held.

Bart's stance did not.

He staggered and stumbled backward, sucking at the air for breath from his emptied lungs — and Parias was not about to slacken the pressure this close to a kill. The second lunge came again and Bart threw his blade in its way, slapping the thrust aimed square at his visor down and away — but missing Parias' own brutal follow-up. The murderer's voice raised in a snarl of pleasure as he whirled his body on its axis, and drove his knee — along with its heavily reinforced and spiked polyen — directly into Bart's gut, and this time the armor did not hold. The spike did not pierce fully but it drove a punched divot straight into the enspelled steel and Bart screamed in pain as that dent drove into his solar plexus and cracked a rib. Bart's legs gave out and he barely managed to keep his gorge down as his body reeled from the second organ-shaking blow, Parias was not hesitating at all now, inverting his blade, he lined the point up with the gap in Bart's gorget as the Paladin struggled to right himself against the shock — a gruesome smile spreading on his bloodied face.

“Now hero — you die."

Bart's eye flared like a torch. He did not attempt to escape, instead, his hand lashed out — the mantle fully engaged again, piling on every bit of strength he could gather — and he grabbed Parias.

By the face.

There were no words or mockery, the Paladin simply drove his body forward and yanked his hand and its firm grip on the man's helmet down — and drove his helmeted skull directly into Parias' face.

The golden crown on his helmet had always felt oddly weightless until this moment. In this moment it felt as if it had all the mass of a warhammer. Soft gold it was not, nay it was hardened as any steel by magic and alchemy, and the sound it made as it drove into Parias' own helmet with as much force as he could muster rang the empty air of this dead world like a bell. The murderer reeled from the impact, but Bart's hand held fast, dragging him back again as he drove that solid steel visor back down. Another ringing gong of destruction, another cry from Parias as Bart's steely crown gouged a dent down into the man's helmet. Again. And again.

Bart slammed his head into Parias' skull over and over, a roar of anger leaving his lips at some point as he literally hammered the unholy warlord into the ground with his skull, holding fast to his armor and simply smashing brutal headbutts again and again into the man's face and crown; battering and crushing the helmet, smashing in Parias' face as well, blood and strings of gore clung to Bart's visor as he gave one final roar and loosed his grip on Parias' throat — and drove that fist into his face again, pouring every bit of the mantle's might he could into such a blow. A blow that would have killed a mortal man — simply crushed his skull like a melon — but Parias was made of sterner, far less human stuff, and Bart was instead treated to the unique sensation of a nose crushing flat beneath his gauntlet — and the visual of the unholy warmonger quite literally back-flipping with the imparted force, sailing in a short, ragdoll arc through the air where he landed in a heap, bouncing once before regaining his feet on the second rebound like some steel-armored cat. Bart sank to one knee, panting heavily.

“You will NOT strike me like that again!" The monster howled, his face a mutilated mess of gore and protruding bone, dragging his crushed helmet away he tossed it in fury, the barbute sailing over the side, revealing all of Parias' brutalized visage as it regenerated from the assault, the fell soldier seemingly more angry than hurt.

“You keep saying that, and I keep hitting you," was all Bart said in response, raising a hand to his chest and channeling his mantle into healing himself with that familiar golden glow, Parias' face twisting into a mocking smile.

“Two immortals, locked in combat. Two GODS fighting for a dead world, why are you bothering to stand against me? Don't you feel the power?!" he crowed, flexing his arms as his savaged face restored itself with a mad cackle. “Why struggle, join me and we'll-"

A fresh scream of pain pierced the air, truly they hadn't stopped during the melee — the torture of the Lady had not abated, merely been overshadowed by mortal danger. Bart's eye tracked to Parias, he had no words as the man's mouth slowly closed, and he stood straight, smoothing his hair back.

“Love, is it?" he asked petulantly, disappointment on his face.

Bart winced as he felt the cracked rib mend, and with a grunt of effort, he slammed his fist into his breastplate, popping the dent partially out, letting out a breath of air as it no longer dug into his diaphragm. He stood, giving Parias a withering look as he wiped the curtain of gore from his visor, slinging it to the floor.

“Love," he answered in acknowledgment, and the murderer sneered in frustration.

“Pity."

The two regained their footing, each battered now; each more cautious. Bart's armor was stronger, more durable than Parias' own... and yet he could not seem to harm him, not with main force. In fact, the brutish warmonger seemed to bet his entire methodology in combat around his seeming invulnerability. Bart had done enough damage to his face and skull that his brain should be mush, any normal man — or even many of the Queen's other monsters, would have died were Bart to strike him so — but Parias, here in the Queen's core of power — seemed quite immortal.

It was then he spied it. Parias' body might heal, unnaturally so — but his gear did not seem to have the same benefit. As they reset and rearmed, Bart caught sight of the hole he'd punched in the man's cuirass in their last encounter, the heat-warped section of plate still quite compromised — his blood-stained gambeson still visible through it.

“Tell me, Bart. What's your endgame?" Parias asked, twirling his blade — the man seemed more at ease now, confident as he stalked in a circle around Bart. “Assuming you can kill me, kill the Wendigo with your magic sword there," he said, spitting a bloody wad of phlegm down at Bart's feet near where the First Blade rested in his arms, Bart stiffening a bit in surprise at that. Parias snorted.

“Yes, I know what it is. Do you seriously think someone as powerful as I can't feel that thing? You might as well be waving around a great, big ringing bell tolling your intentions," he mocked Bart, and the big Paladin shrugged.

“I never was one for subtlety."

“Truly," Parias agreed and spread his arms. “What happens then? Die here, alone?"

“I figured I'd throw your body over the edge, and then go home," Bart said simply, taking his blade in both hands once more. “I'm playing this a bit by ear." Parias' smile drained from his face into a look of dour disappointment. “An idiot. I've been tasked this way by a simpleton," he croaked and Bart in spite of himself, laughed. Parias' lips peeled back from his teeth. “Don't you mock me, whelp."

“Oh I will," Bart chortled as he took a deep breath and looked Parias square in the face. “I've told a half-dozen immortals now I am not a clever man, and in answer, each and every one of you has tripped over their feet to show precisely how stupid you all are," he laughed again, throwing his head back.

“I'm a miller's son!" He cackled, drawing himself up straight, “A fat, doughy farmboy playing soldier all grown up. Yet here I am," he spread his arms wide to the cosmic horror all around him; “In a duel to the death at the end of the world with a veritable demigod — who I have hard pressed this entire damnable time," he laughed again, squaring his shoulders to the now-fuming warlord, his glowing eye upturned in grim mirth.

“You cannot say there is no humor to that."

Parias' face was a portrait of doom, cold, apoplectic fury in his dead eyes. Bart took his blade in both hands and with just a touch of remaining mockery, raised it in a salute, bidding him to continue — as if this were simply a practice duel at the lists.

Parias practically erupted. The response was a flurry of motion, He launched himself at Bart with a scream of absolute rage, lashing into the Paladin with a brutal combination of cuts and thrusts much as he had in their first encounter, attempting to overwhelm him by swinging at him from multiple angles — Bart was once again on his back foot, however unlike the first encounter, he was forewarned and forearmed.

The Paladin put on a genuinely brilliant display, weaving his blade back and forth, not in wide beating parries, but strong, tight guards — transferring his blade back and forth, intercepting each ringing attack without giving ground, in fact he leaned into the flurry, pushing the furious strokes aside and stepping into them, forcing Parias instead onto his back foot — moving with heavy, unflinching purpose.

“I am not afraid of you, monster!" Bart roared as he met the final blow head-on, catching Parias' blade in a bind, shoving his crosspiece against the other's, and twisting hard. Parias screamed as the bones in his wrist strained past their breaking point — and Bart lashed his lead hand out, away from the hilt — and snatched up Parias' blade, just ahead of the quillions.

The two men's eyes met over their crossed limbs for a moment, Bart's remaining eye blazing with anger at the recursion of events — there they were again, in the Sidhewood, except Bart was no longer the one pressured.

Bart snarled and twisted his body, stomping his foot down on Parias' instep, he felt the bones there crush under his hobnailed boot, overextending the warlord's wrist to a bone-breaking degree, he tore the blade from his hands, and with a roar, drove his elbow into Parias' throat — shoving him back, and ripping the weapon from his hands, whirling in place; Bart hurled the weapon over the side. Parias gagged for breath under his collapsed windpipe.

Bart hesitated not even a moment, taking his weapon in both hands, he set it into an aggressive posture, high and in line with his ear — the familiar high guard he'd always defaulted to. With swiftness borne of fury, he sprang forward, pouring every bit of his mantle into a single, driving thrust — the triangular blade of Manu Propria leading with glinting certainty — right at the shattered hole in Parias' armor.

The First Blade struck home, the tip piercing his flesh with authority, driving through to the extent Bart felt the point hit the back of his cuirass — and then go through it as he put his shoulder into the thrust — widening the wound in both his chest and his armor with a shriek of both steel and the murderer's cracked lips as Bart impaled him through his black heart in a shower of sparks, the weapon driving into him so hard the crosspiece smacking against the shattered surface of his breastplate with a tinny ring.

“Die, monster," he breathed up close to the cadaverous warmonger, eye-to-eye with him as he trembled. Bart moved a hand to the crosspiece of the First Blade deliberately and twisted. The blade gouged out a bloody hole in the man's chest as he widened the wound, metal shrieking as his breastplate practically came apart — the murderer himself screaming, vomiting up a gush of blood as he scrabbled at Bart's hand, eyes pleading, face twisted in woe... and then suddenly.

Parias smiled.

The black-armored warlord drove his fist into Bart's gut, bucking the Paladin beneath him, then laced both of his hands together and drove both down on Bart's back like a hammer, slamming the Paladin down onto the grisly ossified masonry. A low, croaking laugh escaped his lips as he drew in a deep, gurgling breath.

“Good show, Hero!" Parias crowed in a gurgling tone, blood frothing down his lips and flowing over his chest in an almost uninterrupted stream. Undying, unflinching even. He looked down at Bart, disdain suddenly curling his lip.

“Did you really think your petty little magic sword was enough to kill me?" he sneered, and actual smoke rose from his wounds. A sizzling noise came to the ears, and as Bart raised his head, he could see flesh boiling beneath the Absolute Iron. Making a point of moving slowly, Parias reached up and grasped Manu Propria by its hilt. His hand began to smoke and sizzle, even through the leather of his gauntlet, and making sure Bart was watching — he pulled the weapon out of his chest slowly, inch by inch practically catching flame as it boiled away the black blood on its length.

“What is your plan now, Hero?" he asked, the blade coming free, searing and spitting as it attempted even now to destroy the abomination that held it. Disdainfully, Parias tossed it behind him, where the blade whirled and twirled, and landed some distance away with a steely sound of cleaving meat and bone — burying itself blade-down halfway into the grisly masonry.

Bart sucked in a breath, winded but not broken, meeting Parias' gaze he snarled a single word.

“Improvise."

Parias' expression was inquisitive — and then shocked, as Bart lashed up from the ground, rather than run or give ground — Bart drove himself up from the ground in a savage bull-rush, his heavy pauldron taking Paris directly in the chin and pushing him back several staggering steps with the ringing steely gong of metal against metal.

Bart's hands clenched into fists and he threw the gates wide, wider than he had even at the push up the ramp. His blood sang with the power of God, the very air around him shimmered as those golden flames licked up his body again, and his long eye blazed brighter than the sun as he stalked forward.

“A pretty show, but at what cost?! Is there aught but cinders in that arm-ACK!" Parias' mocking rant was cut short as Bart did not cast magic at him, did not feint or even so much as vary his step — and simply walked straight up and drove his fist into Parias' face with unrelenting force. The warlord's head snapped back so severely that his neck looked nigh-broken, the man screamed in rage, snapping back only to catch the opposite fist with the opposite side of his face in a brutal left hook that sent the black-armored murderer reeling.

“I SAID YOU WOULD NO-" his words were rammed literally down his throat as Bart lifted his leg high and drove his heel with every ounce of his weight into the man's mouth, teeth crunched, bone snapped and Parias stumbled backward again as Bart continued advancing on him like a juggernaut.

“HOW?!" he wailed as Bart drew his fists up and simply began laying into him, slamming jabs and hooks into his face and chest over and over again. Bart had been poor at many of the finer skills of Knighthood, he was modest at best in the joust and as shown here — a poorer swordsman than Parias.

He had, however, always been good with his bare fists.

Parias had been half-beaten to paste before getting his hands up in defense, snarling and howling in wordless rage — his regeneration already putting him back together even as the blazing Paladin hammered him again and again — the two began dishing the blows back and forth, armor ringing as Bart took several strikes to the face and torso and returned them in kind. Each of the warriors poured on so much of their supernatural strength that air blasted away from their delivered blows, scattering the myriad debris of their battle around them and whipping their cloaks about their frames in miniature gales.

Parias snarled and lashed out, grasping Bart by the head and armor, the Paladin's own hands followed suit — arms grabbing his armor and wrist — and Parias' eyes went wide as he realized his folly, Bart shifted his weight, and hooked one hand in the murderer's gorget, then rolling his shoulder with a roar of effort, eye blazing, aura aflame — he flipped the black-armored man fully over his shoulder, using Parias' extended arm as a lever to literally hammer him into the ground with such force the meat and bone bricks beneath cratered under the cadaverous mans' impact.

“You can't KILL me like this, why do you bother!?" Parias snarled from the ground and then was forced to roll hurriedly away as Bart's boot stomped down with lethal force, barely missing crushing his head into slurry.

“No, but I can hurt you," Bart snarled coldly. “And I am going to keep hurting you until one of us gives up," he said and slammed his knuckles together with a ringing chime of steel.

“And I can do this all day."

For the first time, Bart saw genuine fear in Parias' eyes. He had never even considered the idea that Bart might just beat him functionally to death — and keep him there — yet clearly, he had now.

Bart smiled grimly behind his helmet, his eye alight with the power of his mantle as he advanced on his foe.

Parias scrambled backward, nay he scurried. Bart advanced mercilessly, in no real rush now as Parias found his feet, and what was left of his courage, shaking in a mix of rage and clearly unfamiliar fear — Bart mused in a strangely disconnected way, that he probably had not been afraid of anything for a very long time.

Times change.

“We'll see who hurts who, Hero," The murderer spat, and shook himself out, tearing off his cloak and lunging at Bart with a raised fist. Bart easily blocked the blow, catching his arm at the midpoint and twisting it to maximum extension; locking it outstretched behind his own back — causing the black-armored man's shoulder to crunch audibly. The cry of pain was more in surprise than real agony — and then Bart just started hitting him.

The first blow was solid and almost absent-minded, Parias' trapped limb preventing him from pulling away as Bart struck him again. And again. Soon the blows were landing with such rapid, pounding force that Parias was simply half limp, flailing at Bart's torso as the merciless Paladin brutalized him in pure unadulterated fury.

The pain was the point, and Bart was going to make his point in spades.

Parias' head lolled, and Bart's wager was proven correct — immortal Parias may be, but he was not invulnerable. Pain still registered. Bart snarled an ugly sound, and uncurled his fist as a rare moment of genuine cruelty flowed through him — and he allowed it.

His stiffened fingers dove forward at the dazed man's face, and Parias' eyes widened in sudden horror as Bart jammed them into his left eye socket.

“Come, share my point of view." Bart spat with palpable venom, and with a scream like a trapped animal, Parias stiffened like stone — as Bart forcibly ripped his eye straight from his head, gore and strands of flesh sailing in its wake, as he finished with the man by kicking him solidly in the chest, sending him windmilling backward towards the unholy altar.

“YOU DARE-" Parias howled, but was cut off by another cry of pain, Bart cast the gobbet of flesh aside, shaking his hand clean of the mess as he kept walking forward.

“Hurts, does it not? Not only pain, but loss," The Paladin growled. “Will it grow back? If I pull your limbs from your body, will they return as well?" he asked in a cold tone, slamming his fists together again.

“Let us find out."

Parias lashed up from the ground, and out of his belt came a long, single-edged rondel dagger, the bloody mess of his eye pouring gore down his face as he tucked his arm and lunged with shocking speed at Bart's throat. The big Paladin threw his gauntlets into the way of the strike, being forced backward at last as he struck it away in a sheet of sparks, the thrusts came again and again — stabbing at Bart's eyes, throat, and armpits. He hissed as several small nicks found their way through, Parias forcing the blade's tip through gaps in his armor. Bart's cloak snapped in the air as he fell back again... and it drew his mind to his own unused equipment.

Shaking his left arm, he let the half-cape slide into place over the limb, grasping its hem he dipped his head to the side of another thrust at the last minute, getting a shearing scar carved in the side of his visor as he whipped that cloak across the murderer's eyes, its lead edge whipping at the man's bare face sharply, and drawing another hiss of pain as it slapped his ruined socket. Bart held it out ahead of him like a shield. Daedolon's instruction flowed through his mind like second nature, and Bart squared himself up as Parias came back up with an agonized roar — and Bart's empty stomach turned as he stared back at the Paladin with hate — and his eye began to reform, quivering and swelling to fill the once-empty socket and dragging more grunts of pain from the warmonger's clenched teeth.

“I'm going to make you pay for that, whelp," Parias spat, blinking both eyes out of sync until they found timing with one another again, his dead gaze focusing on Bart as the Paladin braced for the assault.

Parias was good. Bart could find no fault in the man's bladework as he rushed him, the mad flurry gone; his blade held close to his body as it darted towards the weak points in Bart's armor with supernatural speed and unholy flexibility — the joints of the monster's body twisting in ways no man should to arc around Bart's defenses, scoring glancing blows and painful stabs in between plates. Bart held his ground, even returning strikes with his hammering fist — his right hand shooting out like a battering ram as he slapped another stab aside with his cloaked arm, driving it into the man's chest, feeling that breastplate crack again — forcing him backward once more.

“Just fucking DIE already!" the black-armored man howled, and his eyes went wide as golden light bathed him — Bart had taken the break to reach for the mantle, and a crackling bolt of lightning danced angrily in his hands. Bart had no pithy words or biting quips this time, he simply hurled the blast of energy at his hated enemy. Parias danced away as it blasted a crater out of the meaty earth beneath his feet, but Bart wasn't finished. Another bolt formed and he cast it again, the blasting missile once again barely evaded by the black-armored man's preternatural flexibility, the overlapping plates of his strange, insect-like armor letting him twist and bend in unholy ways — but he was clearly pressed. More bolts came, Bart hurling them like a brace of javelins as his heart screamed in his chest from the strain. Parias found none easier to dodge than the last, and soon he found himself backed up nearly to the altar — Manu Propria glinting dangerously but a half-stride away.

Bart tried to call one more bolt but his heart quailed in his chest, and he staggered, the mantle slipping from his fingers as Parias lunged again, his body seeming to stretch like some hideous bird's neck straight at Bart's eye, the glinting dagger's blade almost crystal clear — but Bart had one more trick.

Up came the cloaked arm, not to shield, but OVER the blade. Bart felt it cut through the stained white cloth and he twisted his arm, wrapping the folds around Parias' weapon and wrist, and with a turn of his body, he tore the weapon from the man's hand, sending it skittering away, continuing with the rotation, he drove his elbow into the side of the man's head — the heavy couter slamming into his skull with a crack and crunch of bone.

“Thank you, Daedolon!" Bart crowed in a burst of gratitude as Parias staggered back again, hitting the altar heavily. Bart charged, and out flashed his own poniard, the big Paladin hitting Parias form in a heavy tackle, driving him back against the altar. The blade arched down and Bart rammed the point straight through the gap between pauldron and breastplate, through bone and flesh once more — stapling Parias to the altar through the shoulder, Cithara's cries loud above them, mixing with the black-armored warrior's own.

Parias screamed and pulled at the weapon but Bart boxed him across the jaw, stunning him and taking that half-stride — he ripped the First Blade from its mooring in the fleshy masonry with a sluicing arc of rusty gore — and drove it mercilessly through Parias' opposite shoulder, in the gap beneath his pauldron, hammering the five-span blade down into the altar as well, firmly nailing the man in a grisly crucifixion to his own altar.

Parias screamed anew and Bart stood there, looking up at the portal, mind racing.

“Hrrrng, you little pissant!" Parias howled, struggling against the burning of the First Blade and the pinning steel of the poniard, quite without leverage but not for long. “You CANNOT kill me, not here not with steel or torture. I will always come back!" he spat into the Paladin's face. “You will die of old age before I do, whelp! Is that what we are to do? You to cut me to ribbons until your body fails and your bones turn to dust? That is the truth of truths — you CANNOT BEAT ME!" he howled.

Just like that... the answer struck him. Bart lowered his gaze from the portal, the Lady's cries tasking him, taxing him, and he met Parias' gaze.

“Truth," he breathed, “Truth will out," he said... and reached for the mantle. Reached up far and high as he murmured beneath his breath. He murmured in prayer.

“Blessed Father, O Lord in Ivory, I am but a humble servant, your weapon against the dark... please... I ask of you this one time, this one boon... grant me the light to which I may scour this lie from the earth, break this false life, and render him unto your judgment..." he raised his right hand above his head.

“Please, O my Lord God," he said — and clenched his fist.

The White God rarely answers prayers directly, he is a subtle divinity preferring to work through agents and gentle nudges — but he listens to them all. Even here, in the darkest place — he listened.

Bart's fist blazed into light, and a familiar crackling energy raced down his arm to the shoulder, his very limb seeming to become that seething, killing power that Cithara had wielded against the dark, against the evil of the Empty Queen herself. Parias' face fell, fear took over everything and he struggled in a sheer panic.

In Bart's fist, his eye blazing like a reborn sun — crackled the Light of God, the Light of Truth. All-consuming, All-destroying Truth.

“Tremble before the might of God."

Down drove that fist, Bart's body screamed as it tried to fly apart, the Mantle's energies at their absolute limit, his very atoms seeming to shear away from him, his armor chipping and flaking as he slammed that crackling fist into Parias' chest, blasting through armor, flesh, and bone and... going somewhere deeper. Bart's armor exploded away from his arm, blasting apart and embedding shrapnel in his chest, face, and limbs, peppering Parias with the same as the warmonger kicked his heels and screamed like a mad animal. Bart felt... something writhe, something trying to escape.

“There you are," The Paladin snarled and coiled his fist around that writhing presence — and pulled.

Out of Parias' rent torso came a skull-like head, cracked and damaged, with the deer-like visage and now-destroyed antlers, it shrieked in a voice not meant for the ears of mortals, Bart's brain felt like it was tearing apart but he simply roared back... into the face of The Wendigo.

“NEVER AGAIN!" Bart bellowed, setting his feet as he kept pulling, his hands hooked into the monster's skull-faced eye sockets, ripping and tearing, yanking it bit by bit, inch by inch from Parias' spasming body. The monster wailed and shook its head, but was unable to break free from the searing energy of Truth as Bart — feeling the very flesh of his body beginning to flake away — hauled the monster out of the flailing murderer's body, and with a great bellow — slammed it into the Altar right alongside it.

“Your Queen wants a meal?!" Bart snarled at the gasping, gaping warrior, he snatched the First Blade from his body, causing the man to howl again in new, fresh agony as he turned to the Wendigo. The killing energy of Truth climbed the blade, wreathing it and his arm as the Paladin blazed like a star.

YOU CANNOT DO THIS

The words tore at Bart's mind, the screaming madness of the Wendigo clawed at his heart and soul and he screamed, in pain, in fear — and most of all — in defiance.

“SHE CAN HAVE ONE!" Bart roared — and drove the crackling blade directly into the writhing, twisting masses' skull-like face. Drove it deep and hard, until the crosspiece cracked against its skull.

Time stopped. That moment froze, Bart could see shards of his armor, shards of bone, chunks of the altar — even droplets of gore and sweat frozen in the air — then there came a great, crackling sound like an enormous tree felled in one's mind. Light erupted from the Wendigo's skull-faced visage, cracks raced along it — and it raised its head, and howled in a voice that sang the song of the end of days.

Reality shattered.

The air broke like panes of glass, the dark world of grisly meat and bone breaking with it — and suddenly Bart was hurtling forward in blackness towards a rapidly growing point of light. Pain and freezing cold raced through him, and then suddenly intense pressure and searing heat. He screamed again.

Then, there was silence.

The blast of air hit him like a slap to the face, and his eyes snapped open as the familiar stones of the Cathedral of White rushed up toward him. He tucked and rolled by reflex, crying out as he landed heavily nonetheless. Several similar impacts sounded nearby — along with similar, familiar cries of pain. Bart pulled himself to his feet.

They were back — they were home.

“BART!" came a clarion call — the voice of beauty and love, the Lady in White. Bart's eyes fluttered open and he looked up, before them the great, looming pillar of flesh had recoiled as if struck itself, the hideous feminine face's jaw slack as if stunned... and Cithara lay at its feet, sprawled, haggard — but alive, alive and free.

“What have you done..." came a voice, Mihai's voice; the half-nude apostate whirling where he stood to face Bart, his face a white, bloodless mask of apoplectic fury. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

“Looks like your Queen... isn't so particular about her meals," Bart said, rising to his feet unsteadily, the light of Truth yet still crackling around his limb for but a moment, both Mihai and Cithara's eyes widened at that. Bart felt the weight of the power quite acutely, the doors of the Mantle slamming shut on that great, sea of power. The light left his grasp, and he staggered to one knee. His entire arm was bare and bloody from shoulder to fingertips, the armor having been annihilated by the sheer devouring, destroying energy of truth — his arm only barely escaping the same fate.

A shriek came from behind him, and a tiny form flew at his back, a glint of obsidian drove at his face — and then halted with a choking sound. Bart whirled and saw Ishtar there, held in mid-thrust — a mortal one, aimed square at the gap in his visor — by Cithara's glimmering orbit.

“You shall NOT touch him you animal," she hissed as she struggled to rise, and with a sickening sound of tearing flesh — the little girl-shaped monster simply compacted. Crushed by sudden, irresistible force into a hideous, unrecognizable mass of gore, and then simply cast aside. Brutality was not merely Bart's purview.

Bart gathered himself then, he stood before the black altar, and on it lay Parias' weakly twitching form, and also the rapidly-dissolving... mass, that was at one point the Wendigo, its strange, black-fleshed, sinewy body rapidly being pulled apart and absorbed up into the tendril of the Ossuary's open mouth, as it had been feasting upon Cithara's own golden ichor before.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" Mihai roared in a mixture of confusion and fury, seemingly angrier that he did not understand than that he had been routed once more.

“Isn't... it obvious, you apostate cur?" Cithara breathed, chest heaving as she rose. “Your queen demanded an Aspect to devour — and he gave her one. On her own Altar." She twisted her lips in a vicious smile; “She cares not where the essence flows, so long as it flows — you know that, animal."

Mihai's hands clenched into bloody talons — literally, the flensed flesh of his bare arms hardening the slick gore into savage claws. He turned towards Cithara in rage, leaping at her in a frothing-mad frenzy.

A blade sprouted from his chest, a broad, triangular blade. Mihai gasped suddenly. The weapon kept coming, out and out, and a mailed hand grasped his shoulder.

“Now," Bart breathed in his ear; pausing with a heaving breath between words, “You die." His voice was low, and blood fountained from the apostate sorcerer's mouth. Manu Propria practically white-hot as it scalded the unholy flesh, the man arching in agony and surprise — both fully readable on his face.

“Hrrng..." he tore himself away from Bart, snarling incoherently as the weapon came free from the Paladin's weakened hands, buried in the cultist's torso to the hilt, the man staggering — the wound was mortal. Bart supposed in that moment, that the regenerative protection against the First Blade only applied in that fell place... free of it, the Magistrate's nigh-immortal body was a touch more mortal beneath the Absolute Iron's searing edge.

“So be it," The apostate spat venomously; “If I cannot take your life or your essence..." he snarled, and raised his claws, his limb stretching inhumanly; “I will take your joy."

Before Bart nor Cithara could move, nor anyone else so much as blink — the apostate drove those talons forward — into Cithara's breast. The unicorn screamed, screamed as she never had before, it split the mind and rent the heart, and Bart lunged forward, feeling as if he was moving through solid mud... as Mihai ripped a glittering gobbet of golden flesh and ichor from her chest — and with it came a thin, golden thread of her power, a thread that he raised up into the devouring stream of essence from the Wendigo's gutted corpse, joining it, being swallowed whole as Bart crashed into him from the back.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!" Bart howled, grasping the still-embedded hilt sprouting from the dying apostate's back, twisting it and tearing it free — leaving a fist-sized hole clean through the monster's stolen skin. Mihai fell to his knees, laughing, cackling even.

“I took her joy, dear Bart," he hissed, turning and smearing the golden ichor down Bart's visor. “Take pleasure in your might, Bart," he hissed, narrowing his eyes as his body buckled and more bright blood poured from his gaping chest — his heart clearly sheared in two, only some fell tenacity keeping him moving.

“For you will be the last."

Mihai threw back his head, cackling as he rose into the air, pulled into the stream of ichor with it, the great Pillar's mouth opening wide as he threw his arms wide.

“A YEAR, BART!" he screamed as his body began to fall limp. “I do not die so easily, this body is slain — but in a year's time, I will rise again and I will find you," he swore as he spasmed, going pale and wan. “ONE YEAR, HERO! PREPARE!" he shrieked... and then fell limp, pulled into the mouth of the Ossuary's fragment, the twisted visage curling its lips in disdain as it shuddered and then violently retracted, blasting back into the great chasm it had sprung from, retreating — it's hunger sated.

There was a blast of air and dirt from beneath them as the tunnel seemed to collapse behind it, the earth around the snaking track caving in, the Cathedral's ruins faintly shifting.

Then, they were gone. Silence reigned.

“CITHARA!" Bart screamed, dropping his weapon and running — limping really — to her side, where she struggled to stand, breathing shallowly.

“It's... I am... I will live, beloved," she said, and then met his eyes, her own welling up with tears as she coughed, bright golden ichor staining her perfect lips, oozing from the gash in her torso.

“What did he do to you?!" Bart wailed, trying to reach for the Mantle, but finding her face instead pressed to his chest, sobs wracking her as she bawled her eyes into his stained surcoat.

“He... he took it," she gasped quietly.

“Took what?"

“... My power..." she whimpered and finally met his eyes, “I... I cannot bestow new mantles. I cannot make new Paladins!" she wailed, and her face crumbled in despair and loss; “HE TOOK IT!"

The unicorn buried her face in his chest again, grief taking her even as Bart held her close. His own tears joined hers, but he looked up... and saw the clouds clear. The sun rose. Bart held his beloved tight.

“He'll pay for it. This, I swear," Bart breathed, and the Lady simply clung tighter.

A hacking cough got his attention, Bart's head swinging around to see... Parias, still lying over the Altar — still alive, if barely. He stood, loathe to leave Cithara, but he needed to see this through. He limped over, scooping his blade back up as he felt his exertions mount, his empty reserves catching up. His eye flickered, barely holding onto the mantle as he looked down at the dying murderer.

“Come... to gloat?" Parias croaked, and Bart shook his head.

“I came to end you. I said I would," the blood-soaked Paladin replied, Parias nodded, falling slack.

“Then do it... I have lived alone... I'll die that way," he rasped, eyes closing. “Just... tell me one thing."

Bart waited in silence, Parias continued after a moment.

“How did you make it..." he asked; “You... should have died so... so many times... just... tell me how."

“Faith," Bart said simply, limping to the man's side and hefting the blade, “I had Faith, Parias."

“Of course..." he said... but not with derision, simple acceptance in his tone “I suppose... I never had that in anyone... but... my...self..." The blade descended with a steely chime. Parias' body went limp. His head rolled to the floor, eyes fluttering closed.

Bart took the blade and set it aside on the Altar, turning he smiled at Cithara. The light of the mantle went out of his eye.

Then, he quite simply collapsed.

“BART!" she snapped, tears flowing down her face still she hobbled to his side rapidly, laying against him... she finally gazed upon him, in whole and in truth.

“Oh... Oh, Bart you fool..." she mourned, looking over him with eyes that saw deeper than his flesh and bone. “You... you are nigh empty!" she shook her head, “How dare you... how dare you do this to yourself..."

“I... had to reach you. Nothing... nothing else mattered." He rasped from a shredded, raw throat, and behind Cithara, he heard groans, stirring.

“Oy... my fookin' head..." Lidia said, sitting up. Lidia, Gram, Nazir, Naima, and Rashid were sprawled in a heap, ejected from the Wendigo's Demesne along with Bart when he slew it on the altar. Bart's eyes brimmed with tears as he realized this, and he closed them, letting his helmeted head drop to the flagstones.

“I... I did it," was all he said, feeling the darkness closing in. It was not frightening. He felt warm, at peace. “I did it..."

“Shh... rest my love... I... I will take care of you, my husband. My... My last Paladin." Cithara's voice echoed across the darkness — grief and love warring with one another for dominance in her beauteous tone.

Bart smiled, just once — and knew no more.

~ ~ ~

The darkness did not take him, not totally. Time became a distant concept, and he dreamed. Dreams of soft touches, happy smiles, and a world bright and golden. He sat on a bluff of golden wheat, fields of shimmering stalks swaying in the greater distance — spreading out far as he could see — Hamlets and homes dotted the landscape, and in the furthest distance, he saw not the grim outline of the Ossuary, no seeping darkness and chill of evil, simply contentment and a land with space for all.

He felt no pain, no fatigue as he sat there, the warm sun filling him with a peaceful sensation. Bart smiled and he felt naught the strange numbness he'd associated with his lost eye, and found as he raised his hand... he could see again. His smile only widened and he leaned forward on bent knees, on arms and hands free of scars — free of pain. Out beyond he could see figures joyously dancing through the infinite hills of shimmering aurum stalks, and in it, he felt a belonging, a peace he never thought to know. He felt the Light... the light that had called him home in that dark place. It was here. It was for him. For all.

A figure approached him as he sat, his eyes turning to it. To her. A radiant crown of light crested the bluff, followed by the twisting, flowing runic ribbons of majesty — Cithara, in her cosmic aspect, came to him and there were no words as he looked upon her, wholly naked for him — the truth of her form, not Cithara before him, not singularly — The Unicorn, the total entity itself was before him. The purest aspect, the Platonic Ideal. He gazed upon her with eyes full of love and she gazed back with the infinite caring of the cosmos — in her eyes, the universe sprawled before him wide and free, it was not a cold place, not merciless nor empty: it was a place of warmth, of life and love.

In her eyes, he saw The Cycle, and it spun on forever. Warming the lands of life with love, with heart. With heroism. He'd spun that great wheel himself, giving his strength to its eternal turning. Her smile filled him with such appreciation, and at once she tucked her hoof to her chest and lowered her upper half before him.

The Unicorn of Love took a knee to plain, simple Bart. A Miller's son. A Man of earnest means.

Tears touched his cheeks at the beauty, the sensation of that devotion. Then, she quite plainly sat next to him and laid her gorgeous, impossible visage against his shoulder, its eyes full of stars — and love. Love, for this good and gentle place, for mankind.

For him.

She lifted her head slowly, and her lips touched his ear. She spoke something to him, he could not understand it, not with his mind nor ears... but his heart. He could only nod, he felt not unable to speak... but that there was no need. Not here, not with her. Her smile would have raised him from the dead were he not already full of her glorious vitality, and she pressed into his arms as they together gazed out upon the fields of gold, the dancing children... and he closed his eyes once more.

He stirred again, another time. Another place. His eyes opened to pain... but not unfamiliar pain. The aching hurt of wounds on the mend, of life. Sun streamed in from his window at his bedside, his familiar mattress and bed frame creaked beneath his weight, the same it always had since his growth spurt in his adolescence. He sighed in contentment, opening his one eye fully... his one eye.

Bart sat up suddenly, shaking off the haze of the dreamscape with a toss of his head. He was... home. Actually home, his bedroom. Not at The Abbey — but his childhood home. His few effects were still present, the old battered wooden sword his mother never gave up, the odds and ends of his life before. Like a frozen moment in time... how had he made it home?

A familiar weight stirred in the bed near him, and he turned to find the golden-eyed gaze of the Lady In White looking back over him from where she lay, curled delicately nearby with her face upon a pillow, her mane and tail streaming down over her flanks and off the sides of the simple peasant's bed. The real thing, plain, simple, impossible Cithara — and she smiled at him so wide that his heart threatened to burst.

“My love," she breathed desperately and leaned close, pressing her body to his and enfolding him in her limbs and mane, gingerly shifting herself into his lap. He tried to respond, but her mouth silenced him with a needy kiss, her lips were soft, gentle, and warm... and all of his worries melted away as she let her mouth and its soft touches say what she needed. I love you. I missed you. I need you. Stay with me.

Bart's arms rose to enfold her, and he winced, his right arm panging him with discomfort, ringing the bells of the vague ache that had drawn him to sit up. The lady's mouth slowly drew from his, her tongue dancing across his lower lip as she touched her horn to his brow, and whispered softly.

“My champion."

Bart's smile was unconscious as he looked down at his arm, eyebrows raising as he found it bound up in bandages to the shoulder. He flexed his fingers a few times, giving her an inquisitive look.

“Your soul was nearly utterly extinguished when you arrived my darling," she murmured intimately, nuzzling his bandaged fingers gently. “You were wholly sustained by the mantle... and I'm told you did so on purpose," she continued, her eyes going hard a moment. He shrugged — but just with the left shoulder for safety.

“I had to reach you," He said in a quiet tone, he felt like a boy again; his bedroom's soft environs felt oddly mischievous to him, here alone with a girl. “I had to bring everyone home. Nothing else mattered," he explained, gently curling his injured fingers around her cheek. She shuddered, pressing into them.

“Your soul was barren, barely a spark in a pile of spent ashes. It has taken some time for me to gently, carefully kindle that fire back. You damaged yourself greatly my love, you nearly destroyed yourself," her eyes grew pained, frightened, “Not mere death beloved: annihilation." she breathed, pressing close to him even more, as if she could gently nudge herself past his flesh and bone — into the home she had built in his heart.

“If your spark had gone out, your soul would simply have blown away into the Astral Tapestry like so much ash. Gone... gone from me forever," she said, her voice cracking slightly with a swallowed sob. Tears glimmered unshed in her eyes, “Never again, never do that to me again." she demanded of him, the authority of a crown in her voice.

“You know I can't promise that," he answered quietly, not daring to lie to her. She looked at him, and genuine grief reflected back at him in her visage for a moment, but she sighed, and a rueful smile spread across her lips.

“You wouldn't be my champion if you did, would you?" she asked nobody in particular, leaning her face into his hand again. “Your recovery has must needs been slow, I cannot fully heal your body — your spirit would buckle under the strain, even now... all I do is delay much-needed attention. I will need to tend to you as I did before — beneath the boughs of my glade, in the heart of my power. Time and gentle care are what you need — and only there may I offer it to you," she said, but her smile did not fade — instead, it warmed anew.

“However... you are... whole. Intact. All members and limbs... but I fear some scars will endure," she said, her orbit flaring as she drew the small hand mirror from his shaving kit, near his washbasin on the end table. She drew it before his eyes and gazed at him over its rim as he took yet another long look at his face.

It was his face. In spite of it all, it was he who gazed back. Same curling mustache, same crooked nose. No stranger, no monster in the skin of man. For all of the hurt, he was still himself. Still Bartholomus Mueller. Miller's Son. Now also Brother, Paladin, Husband. His face was patterned in new scars, a dozen little nicks and cuts here and there fading into his leathery features, but most starkly was his hair.

His overall curly mop had returned to its deep, glossy black hue just like his dear mother... but the right side, from temple straight back past his ear, was a sharp, white streak. The skin beneath it was red and discolored, leading to oddly pale, scarred flesh down his neck and arm before the bandages swaddled it away from view.

“You are not meant to grasp Truth, my love, it was as if you reached out and touched the sun. It is a miracle beyond reason that you were not unmade, rent asunder by it. Even still, it leaves its mark... these wounds will never quite heal, the scars may pain you for the rest of your life — and that white streak will forever brand you as one who has dared where he should not."

Bart rubbed his left hand over his face, at least two weeks of beard growth covered his chin in a carpet of stubble, giving him some idea of how long he'd been adrift in between worlds. He grinned at her, putting the mirror aside as he ran his fingers through the mop of his hair.

“Oh it isn't so bad, it makes me look distinguished I think. Mysterious," he quipped lightly, tousling his hair in a rakish manner and giving her an impression of a smoldering look. The unicorn tittered at him — a joyous sound that made his heart sing, oh how he had never thought to hear that sound again.

“Marvelous," He murmured to her, stroking her cheek... and drawing her back in for another kiss, this one deeper... and far more intimate. A soft gasp left her lips as Bart's hand slid down her flank, a shiver of anticipation coursing through her…

“OH!" came a familiar voice, and the two lovers gently broke apart to look up, Bart's face coloring dramatically. His mother stood at the door, one hand covering her mouth, the other balancing a platter on her free hand. Bart couldn't help but stare — it had been more than a year for him since he'd seen her, the small woman's curly black hair bound up in a bouncy tail of dancing ringlets, shot with streaks of silver — her bright eyes and olive skin making her always look freshly bronzed from the sun; the waters of Mistport sang in her eyes and it's sun-baked shores on her skin, their history visible in the lines of her face and the curves of her tiny, delicate body, grown a bit soft and curvy with age. “I heard his voice, my Lady... I did not mean to interrupt."

“No, no, goodwoman stay. He has only just awoken, we were merely..." Cithara cast Bart a sultry, loaded glance; “... Assessing his condition." she finished, and Bart — firmly the color of a beet — nodded.

“Yes, I'm feeling much better. Feels like I've been asleep for a tenday," he said, rustling his hair as the older woman chortled softly.

“More than that! You've been swaddled in here with the Lady for nearly three weeks. She has not left your side for a moment, none have even been allowed to tend you but her... save well," she bobbled the platter a bit, on it was broth and a loaf of steaming, fresh-baked bread and butter, with a little pot of honey. Bart found himself suddenly ravenous. “I have been helping her feed you, mostly broth and water while you slept."

“She has been very understanding, beloved," Cithara agreed, and a new voice echoed through the house — a familiar, graveled baritone.

“Eleni? Is he awake?" came the voice of his father, the off-kilter clump of his cane and brace sounding his arrival long before the stocky, tree stump of a man stuck his head around the doorway, leaning on it for support. Bart smiled wider, the sight of both of them together filled a void he had not known he had felt in these long days of conflict and strife. Eleni and Adelbart Mueller, a study in contrasts. He was dark where she was light and vice versa in her respects. Dark eyes, fair hair, fair skin — broad nearly as he was tall. A pugnacious boulder of a man, even with the brace and limp. The pair of them tugged something in his heart as he looked down at Cithara, her eyes looking at him with adoration and joy. Contrasts... yes, something he had in common with them now, wasn't it?

“Yes Dad, I'm up. Sorry for being such a layabout when there's work to be done," He apologized, and the older man snorted, face twisting in a wry smile.

“To hear the Lady tell it, you did plenty of work getting here. I'll allow a bit of lazing about on account of her Grace here," he said, and Bart grinned at the warm tone, his father grinning wider. “Don't get used to it though, boy. That millstone's still off balance."

“Is it the pins?" Bart asked, and his dad nodded, scrubbing a thumb along his own stubbled chin.

“Yup. Just like I thought. Can't get it fixed with all this bedlam going on, gotta have a strong back or ten to move it proper."

Bart could only grin wider, “I'll come by just as soon as I'm able, I have some very strong friends now."

“Oh, yes we've met them!" his mother gushed, bustling over to him to bring the small platter of food, laying it by his bedside table. “They are all so helpful, though the little redheaded girl is as shy as a baby bird," she said, arranging the food on a tray for her son. Bart completely forgot himself the moment it was in reach — he was ravenous — fumbling with his left hand for the steaming slices of bread and hand-churned butter, the scent alone made of memories and comfort. A gentle golden outline stopped his clumsy hands — catching the honey pot and its dipper as his inelegant fingers upended it. Cithara smiled at him, her eyes luminous with her orbit and her love as she righted everything. Bart's mother and father stared in quiet awe as she simply... buttered a slice of bread.

“Been watching her do that for a tenday just about," Bart's father said in a small, reverent tone. “Still hasn't lost its spectacle."

“It's just a bit of magic," Bart said with a wry smile... and as the words left his mouth he felt the change in them. He looked at his mother and father, their eyes. Cithara caught his gaze with her own, there was a glimmer of understanding there as the realization struck him. Even here, he was already apart from them. He had strayed too far, and seen too much. Things were different now. Things would always be different.

“She is something, isn't she?" Bart said humbly, Cithara did not seem to mind the stares or the secondary speech — and why would she? Bart loved her with his heart, body, mind, and soul — and to each part of them she seemed more real than reality, her gleaming frame casting the mundane nature of the world around her in stark relief — her flesh as if marble and polished gold could breathe and flow as skin and sinew — her poise effortless and eternal. Bart had himself become almost inured to it, but his parents? Nay to them, she was a wonder, the light of their faith made real and whole. Cithara smiled, there was a sadness in it.

“I have missed the good people of this world," she said softly, her orbit deftly setting the honeypot drizzling before floating the steaming, crusty whole to Bart's hand, where he happily bit into it. Heaven itself could not compare.

“We're honored to have you in our home, Lady." His mother said, her voice small and awed still as she leaned up to touch Bart's face. “Oh god... I was so scared I'd never see those eyes again..." the little woman said, putting her hands on Bart's face — the smooth, calloused fingers so warm and familiar it even managed to stupefy his hunger — the bread forgotten as he looked into his mother's eyes. His eyes — the brilliant blue mirrored in his own. Her hands traced the damage, the age... a lost year of torment and hardship etched into her child's flesh. She touched the torn eyelid, and her hand flinched away from the golden prosthetic that stared at her from within, a clear wave of grief rippling through her.

“She told me you... you had been hurt by terrible people," she said softly, stroking her hands over the scars, the changes. “That they had done awful things to you. Things she couldn't mend," she continued, sniffing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “She told me they had hurt my little boy so bad he couldn't wake up." Bart felt his own cheeks grow wet, tears falling on their own accord as the hands that made him... shook against the damage he had endured.

Eleni Mueller was no shrinking violet, the woman was her town's heart and soul; being a baker was no small thing. Everyone relied on her, her ovens, and her hard work for their daily bread. He had seen her be so strong growing up — day in and day out, steadfast. He had seen her cry only a few times in his life, one had been at his grandmother's passing. One had been when his Father had nearly lost his leg.

Then here now, as she looked upon the Man that her boy had become. They were tears of grief — but also of fierce pride, there was a joy in her smile as she daubed her eyes with her apron, her hands cupping his scarred visage again.

“She told me you were a hero," the small woman said, and she smiled with a bit of the lopsided edge that for a moment, made her look twenty years younger — a glimpse of the fiery, willful woman who had drawn his father's eyes and then his heart. “But she didn't have to. I knew it. I knew it a long, long time ago," she murmured, reaching out and touching one last scar — the oldest one there. The crooked, askew planes of that signature, hooked and broken nose of his.

“My little boy's always been a hero. Now everyone knows." Pride swelled in Bart's chest and he worked his mouth, unable to find words. Able to fence with demigods and hurl curses at sidhe lords — he found himself speechless before one little blue-eyed woman. Humbled, he simply closed his eyes and leaned into his mother's touch. They stayed like that for a long moment before she spoke again.

“She told me she loved my little boy. I believe her now, I see what my little boy does for those he loves. Looking at you now," his mother's voice was warm, her eyes looking down his body, down the rents and gashes, the sheer horror he had survived and grown stronger in spite of — he was simply... grander than he had been before. Larger, stronger... even with the scars, he was more now than he was before. Her eyes turned up at the edges, her smile full and honest.

“You love her. You love her more than anything," she said, with the surety that only a mother could have. Her gaze went to the Unicorn, and her eyes drifted lower as she took Bart's hand in hers, pulling it along.

“And she loves you," she said, closing Bart's hand over the Lady's breastbone... and his eyes widened.

Beneath his fingers, the silky smoothness of Cithara's pelt was interrupted. She turned her gaze to Bart, meeting his eyes steadily as she turned her chin upwards, baring her breast to him without hesitation. The smooth perfection of her immaculate pelt was ruined — a fracture-like pattern of scars ran along her body, the place where Mihai's terrible claws had driven into her divine flesh and torn out her joy. However, it was not the ugly, red scars of mortal men — she was a grander thing than that.

Gold gleamed in an irregular pattern, more like cracks shot through a fine porcelain vessel than the patterns of cut flesh or torn skin. Gold glittered there as if it had been made molten and poured itself into the wound, sealing it closed and welding it together anew. It splayed across her shoulder and slightly to the base of her throat in an asymmetric web that eventually narrowed to gossamer thin lines of aurum that faded still into her silvery-white pelt.

“She bled gold like that for days even after we brought you in from the road," Bart's father explained as his Mother's voice failed her, the broad man lowering his eyes reverently. “Wound wouldn't close, and she wouldn't bother with it while you were gone from us." The last words echoed thickly with swallowed anxiety. Bart's eyes met the Unicorn as she gazed at him without a hint of remorse or apology even as incredulity and a touch of anger spread through his features.

“I had to reach you, Bart," she said simply, her word choice deliberate and pointed. “Nothing else mattered." The Paladin's heart ached for her, and his hands pressed over that gleaming, gold wound... it felt like flesh, and yet to his eyes, it was flaxen metal, unalloyed and bright. “I wear it proudly. My champion carries scars earned in my name — and I will carry this one, earned in his."

Bart was once again without words. Anger, Love, and Duty warred for the lead of his tongue but in the end, silence won its due. He simply smiled, it as always better suited him. A gentle nudge took him from the reverie, Cithara's dainty hoof, extended for all the world the same as any woman's dainty hand on his thigh, her eyes warm and reassuring.

“Eat, beloved," She cooed gently to him; “We will tell you what you have missed." The three filled Bart in on the events of the past sum of days. The road back from Lachheim had apparently been a march of ruin, beyond the fallbacks the Queen's forces had ranged out, Bellway and many other towns were simply... gone.

“Flattened. Not a single brick atop another, not a nail left driven to its eye," as his father had explained it with a haunted expression, he had of course been on the volunteers to seek others in the wake of the Empty Queen's defeat at Lachheim — Mueller men were all of a piece, it seemed. Bart absorbed that loss, his mother and father having sat in the chair across from his bed as he ate — the little dark-haired woman perched in her husband's lap as natural as anything, the brawny man's arms around her, absently. Instinctively. Intimacy like that was a sight to behold in and of itself, and Bart — well accustomed to her proclivities now — saw it in Cithara's eyes that she recognized it. True love. Bart's mind was drawn to the future, his own hand idly finding Cithara's foreleg as they lay together, Bart's father meeting his own eyes for a moment together — did he see it too?

Bart cleaned the plate as it was presented, and didn't lament the lighter fare as his father returned to matters of war. Though those outer communities were lost — the Abbey had rallied behind the refugees at Fairharbour — The Lord Protector himself leading the defense, Bart's father's eyes gleamed as he spoke of it.

“To see it puts zeal in your heart," The miller said, his bristling brush of a mustache turning up in a fierce grin. “He strode the defenses like a lion, a blade in one hand and a bolt of lightning in the other. Frozen, like as he'd just plucked it down from the sky simple as you please," the miller shook his head, stroking his wife's hair idly, and she picked up the thread.

“You become so used to the man, you forget the Mantle he carries. I forget he's the Lord Protector some days, I just remember the gentle, quiet man who comes and asks me to roast coffee beans for him," she said, smiling smugly with a proud little raise of her chin. “Nobody else does it the way I do." Bart smiled as well... it was how they'd met at first, how he'd joined the order. The Lord Protector simply had asked of his mother a simple task. A chance encounter that set everything else in motion. His father sighed, shaking his head.

“It was true of all those boys. They're so gentle and humble, it's been so long since the Gray Plagues. I think we'd all forgotten that our little town makes warriors," he said, and there was a mixture of pride and alarm in his voice. “Those nightmares hit their ranks that first day... and I would not believe it had I not seen it from the walls with the rest of the village. Like the Fist of God." he shook his head again, Bart could imagine it — he'd done it. His mother took over again.

“There were losses, of course. We've had to bury some very good young men, Dain and Edwin from down the lane, you remember them," she said softly, and Bart felt a stab of guilt. Two of the highborn refugee boys who'd broken his nose back when — Dain the one who'd done the breaking in fact. They'd stayed in Fairharbour, Dain's father became their silversmith. “They were just goodmen, but the Lord Protector needed everyone with four strong limbs to help with the evacuation." she shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “They jumped on one of those eyeless things with mattocks when it overwhelmed one of your Brother Paladins at the line. Saved his life at their cost of theirs," she said, wiping her eyes again. Bart settled back to digest that. Dain wasn't a bad person... they were just kids, just scared angry kids... but it had set up a bitterness that never really faded between them. As he had realized in the Glade, a bitterness that had colored much of his life in subtle ways, he felt guilty that he never had a chance to apologize to Dain for that. A bit of pride swelled in him though... it felt good, to be wrong about the man.

“They... they did the world a better service than they knew. God keep them." Bart said, Cithara's eyes heavy with the meaning... she had said as much to him before he lost consciousness: that he may very well be the last of his brothers — and the glimpse they shared spoke silently that conversation was yet unfinished.

The conversation continued after a moment of silence, Bart gathering himself as he settled it in. Many of the community had suffered losses, two of the other millers in the area had lost sons, and Forgemaster Balgus had lost one of his apprentices — and a dozen or more novices he had trained with now awaited him not in the halls of the Abbey, but the halls of Heaven. Bart took a time to swallow unexpected tears, Cithara's warmth welcome as he digested the grief.

His parents told him of better things, they said that many of the refugees had made it; much of those he had fought to save with his own hands were here somewhere, and had begun to rebuild. They spoke of familiar faces and names, and the discussion turned to his companions, Bart's mother a bright star as she spoke.

“Lidia, the little redhead has been a blessing," She said, idly stroking Adelbart's large, gnarled hand. “She's barely been out of earshot since we brought you in, if it were not for the tall, dour-looking fellow she dotes on I'd say she was in love with you," the woman tittered, Cithara herself joining her in a quiet, girlish laugh.

“She loves him, but that part of her heart belongs to Gram," Cithara confirmed, Eleni nodded; clearly, still a little awed by the cosmic being.

“It's been lovely having a..." she bit her lip and looked at Bart; “Well. It's been rather nice having a girl about the house, you were very, very much a boy after all."

“Very much," Cithara murmured in intimate agreement, Bart's ears burning anew as his mother continued to swell with happiness, clearly — nothing made the woman happier than mouths to feed and a full house. There was a contentment in her again, even now Bart saw that sparkle in her eyes that gleamed whenever he and Lucian would pack her shop with hungry novices.

“She's practically one herself, but we worked on that a bit for her own good," the goodwife continued, Bart raised his eyebrows at that, and Cithara smiled and gave him a nuzzle — the unicorn had slowly, subtly occupied more of his lap until they were a mirror of his mother and father, the Lady in White simply flowing across him as if she belonged there — astride him in quiet dignity, her smile her crown and his heart her throne.

“You'll see, however, she is very self-conscious," the unicorn said to him, her eyes turning stern. “Don't. Laugh."

Bart's response was an innocent expression, his mother and Cithara both heaving a simultaneous, long-suffering sigh.

“She and the young southerner have been fair useful since the fighting stopped," Bart's father added, stroking his wife's wealth of curls absently, the jet black ringlets shot with more silver now than black on one side, a feature Bart also now shared with his mother. “Lots of us local folk are laid up with hurts from the fighting or the running. Nothing vital, but we're sorely lacking for just good, strong backs," he continued, his face gaining a contented little smile, just a bit crooked with pride. “Saw that southern lad, Nazir, Spring up one of the windmills in the south field quick as you please. Didn't even use a rope til he got to the top, like a billy goat on a crag," he said, making a swooping motion with his hand for emphasis. “Threaded a line for us in seconds." the older man shook his head.

“Marvelous." he and his son said in unison, drawing a knowing look from Bart's mother. Adelbart cleared his throat. Cithara beamed at him, meeting her husband's eyes.

“Naima has been helping me tend to you, she is able to relate to me more of the... particulars of your injuries in that fell place," the unicorn explained, her smile saying everything to him about how she felt. “She has been such a comfort to me if I am honest," the Lady said, getting all three humans in the room to look at her in at least mild surprise. Cithara's expression was patient, if a touch embarrassed, “She is so like my dear sister, Manasa. I have not spoken with my sibling in a very long time, but I hear her voice in Naima's words, see her expressions upon her face. She has impressed herself indelibly on her students, and that heartens me."

“The rest..." his father said, and set his jaw; “Well. I think it's best you see the rest of it yourself when you're able," he said, shaking his head, “The world's changed." was all he said. Bart understood.

Sobering a bit from that, he looked out of his window — even from here he could see the toll of the assault on his home, the scorched fields, the ruins of windmills in the distance. The platter and its dishes were empty as they finished, having talked for some better parts of the afternoon. Bart was restless and the break in the conversation allowed a look to pass between his parents, Eleni raising her gaze to Cithara.

“Speaking of, Lady. Would you perhaps care to show me how you like your coffee prepared? You mentioned a particularity for it." she said, the unicorn smiling at both the obvious lead and the sentiment.

“Of course, Goodwife. I'll show you, besides I needs speak with Naima now that our charge will be up and moving about," she said and tilted her mouth up, catching Bart's with her own, a brief promise of a kiss more than anything else, her eyes trailing along his body as she followed his mother out — the two setting into discussion of water temperatures and bean roasting. The door closed on Bart and his Father, the older man sitting back in his chair.

“The Lady and you, is it?" he asked finally. Bart nodded earnestly, shrugging with his unwounded shoulder, favoring his left limb still.

“I love her," he said, and his father's gaze was appraising.

“We all love her, son. But you love her," The older man corrected pointedly, his tone still thoughtful. His mustache bristled as he looked over at his son, clearly trying to square the circle

“You touch her with comfort, absently. You don't think about it," he mused, “You touch her how I do your mother. She wears that nakedly." he said, and there was a strange sort of concern in his eyes as he looked after her. “... She is breathtaking, don't get me wrong son but..." Bart gave his father a flat look and the older man shrugged and turned a hand palm-up inquiringly, “... Is this why you showed no interest for none of the local girls...?" his father left it hanging and Bart slapped a hand over his eyes in irritation, wiping his face with an explosive exhalation.

“Father, I did not get along well with local girls because I was terrified of them not because I was lusting for farm animals," Bart said flatly, his face incredulous, pointing a hand after her again, his voice low; “... Does she look like a carthorse to you?"

“Point made," Adelbart agreed with a nod and a wry smile, scrubbing his fingers through his short sandy hair; “I don't know what to call her but beautiful. Every time I think I've seen some part of her be like to another thing, I look closer and it's not quite right." Bart grinned and shook his head.

“I swear Father, she's special. Being near her, touching her is like nothing else I've ever known." he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out wistfully before cocking his eyebrow sardonically at the older man; “No father, I was not indiscreet with any livestock. I was just a teenager with a big gawky body, and no idea what to do with it," he said, looking down at his hands and flexing them. “Truly, not much has changed."

“If everything else grew at the same pace no wonder you need a wife with four legs," His father said with such unruffled coolness that Bart was stricken into dumbfounded silence. The older man grinned at him with a smug gleam in his eye and leaned forward, “You got more from me than my chin, boy," was all he said, and Bart's eyes widened a bit at that, sinking back into his bed.

“... Poor mother."

Bart's father simply made a quiet sound of assent, leaning back into his own chair as the two were left to ponder their own mutual new understandings of each other.

“So you and she are husband and wife intimately, not in some..." he wiggled his gnarled fingers in an arcane way; “... spiritual mystical sense, right?" he asked directly, seeming concerned for his boy; “That all... works, right?" Bart's face grew incredulous, but more amused than annoyed.

“Yes Father, we can make love like any husband and wife does — she IS a woman, she's actually rather insistent about it."

“So, your mother and I will get grandchildren then."

“Yes Fath-" Bart trailed off as the older man looked at him pointedly, Bart having realized he'd never truly considered that himself, but... well... she'd had children before, with a man. He rocked back a bit like a physical blow had hit him at the rather... obvious realization, looking back at his father with one wide blue eye.

“... Yes, Father," he concluded in a stunned tone, and the old man smiled wide.

“That's my only worry solved then," he grunted, shaking his head and looking out into the distance. “Would be a tragedy to claim the heart of a goddess only to be denied fatherhood," he said simply and stood with a creak of both bones and furniture as he drew upon his cane for support, the bent old man leaning a powerful, gnarled hand down to rest on his son's head, gathering a familiar handful of the curls there. Those hands had never been anything but gentle to him, strong and firm — hands he'd based his whole being on.

“'Tis' been my greatest joy," he said, and Bart felt something swell in his chest... and something else click into place as his father cupped his cheek fondly.

I will take from you your joy. A monster had said that... and as he looked up into his father's eyes and felt that pride reserved just for him — he realized that monster had been wrong. There is yet and still joy to be had.

Bart smiled fiercely. His father did as well.

“C'mon then. You're probably tired of the linens," the brawny miller added, opening the old trunk at the foot of his bed; producing the traveling kit he'd left with Viconia's men, which meant fresh clothes — and a trip outside.

“The view is a bit samey." Bart agreed with a hearty chuckle from his father, “Hey... dad?" Bart ventured, the older man meeting his gaze earnestly.

“Things are going to be different now but... thank you," he said, swinging his legs shakily over the bed. “For everything. No matter how different I become, I need you to know everything you did for me," Bart touched his chest, felt his heart and the glittering presence of the mantle there.

“She built a home here, but you laid the foundations for her. I am proud of the man you made me," he said and another unshed tear threatened to course down his cheek; “Before this life changes me aught more than it has, I wanted you to know that."

“Life changes us all, son," Adelbart said, and the Paladin shook his head.

“Not like mine. I'll... tell you about it sometime later. I think I'd like to see the others now," he said looking at his clothing and up to his father, the brawny stump of a man nodded solemnly, giving his son's mop of curls another affectionate tousle.

“I'll send in your Lady to help you dress, no sense in two cripples flailing at one another," he said and turned out the door, not even pausing his stride as he continued;

“Life changes us all, son, your time is better spent not worrying about the what-ifs and focusing on what you have in front of you," the old miller said, and pointedly opened his door out to the common area — Cithara's face framed by afternoon sunlight greeting the Paladin's gaze as she turned towards the door mid-laugh, her eyes meeting Bart's. His father grinned wider and made his way past with a quiet murmur to Cithara, the glimmering mare giving him a warm expression — and a little kiss on the cheek — as she rose to join her champion once more.

“Important words?" she asked him knowingly, gently easing the door shut with her foreleg in a casual display of alarming dexterity for a quadruped — her mixed use of her limbs and orbit to interact with the world a persistent wonder.

“Likely as you expect," he said and the unicorn's smile turned a touch saucy, her eyes narrowing a bit as she swayed her way closer to him.

“Oh? Is this the fabled 'man's talk' we women hear of so oft?" she asked in a low sultry tone, her orbit flaring and pulling at the sleeves of the simple homespun nightshirt he wore, tugging it gently over his head as she wove his bandaged limb through its folds, baring Bart's scarred chest to her sight as she sidled forward intimately close. “Did you exchange bawdy tales of your womenfolk over lurid snickering?" she teased, running her tongue along her lower lip as she raised her chin up towards him playfully. The Paladin simply let her little act wash over him, lowering his lips to hers in a soft, far more carnal embrace as she smirked up at him.

“Yes, absolutely. Torrid description of your every quiver and quake," he teased her, the little unicorn putting on a faux look of outrage as she pressed her nose gently to his chest, looking at him up through her eyelashes.

“Naughty boy, kissing and telling. Shall I punish you?" she teased him, her eyes darting daringly low down his nude body; getting a little flutter of thrill to run through his belly and settle in his heart.

“Please, I'll kneel and recite a long, detailed litany as penance later," he offered, and her eyes widened in genuine shock at the bawdy suggestion in his tone, her soft nose coloring a rosy pink as she contentedly lowered her lashes.

“So faithful and true," she tittered at him softly, kissing the smooth circle of white over his heart. “I'll hold you to every whispered stanza, my champion." The two of them hovered like that for a moment, the desire crackling between them like golden bolts of his own lightning, the smile on her lips turning less sultry and more wistful as the moments passed. Bart broke it with a touch to her face, stroking her delicate features.

“So, truly then?" Cithara prompted him softly, and Bart laughed a little.

“No, nothing so base as that. They are simple, good folk," Bart said, dropping the playful air to his tone as Cithara's smile persisted through the mood change, her eyes still roaming him — but her gaze was admiring rather than solicitous now. It felt good to be naked beneath that gaze, as comfortable beneath her eyes as a warm blanket.

“No," he continued picking through the clothing presented, finding a simple loose shirt and breeches leftover from Fort Ivory, good working man's attire; “He wanted to make sure I was... fulfilled," he said, not sure how to handle the ideas set before him by his father's words — truly he had not really considered it much himself, who had the time until now?

“In what way? Surely he did not truly inquire after our lovemaking," she said as she lit her orbit, gently helping her wounded champion dress, Bart laughed.

“In a sense, he wanted to know about grandchildren," he said, and Cithara paused midway through helping him fit one leg through his breeches, a smugness turning to her smile.

“Of course, what a natural question to have. I assume you assuaged his fears," she said, drawing his trousers up slowly, her eyes tracking his without error as she tightened his laces gently... it was an intensely intimate way to be dressed, but he did not find it unpleasant.

“In a general sense yes, you spoke of children in the past... I simply had not thought about its possibility in the future."

“No," she agreed with a happy, simple little smile; “You have not." Bart felt that response sail past him with the weight of a catapult stone, and he blinked as she pressed her chest against him as her orbit neatly knotted the laces at his groin, her sinuous body flowing up his with that uncanny dexterity that boggled the mind until her long, slender forelegs were laced together above his head, her sleek body gliding across his craggy, scarred chest and her golden gaze locked intimately upon his own as she drew herself in close — her lips bare hairsbreadths from his own.

“Bartholomus Mueller, I have given myself to but two men on this earth; and in that singular group, you are he whom I would ask never, ever change nor grow harder still — for your bright-eyed wonder is a joy I cannot explain yet savor endlessly," she breathed, and kissed him — slowly, sensually. She kissed him as a lover ought, and for the moment they forgot themselves and simply existed together as a whole. Bart's reward this singular moment of bliss, the silky sensation of her flesh against his, her warmth warding off the ache of healing hurts... aye, it was reward enough.

“Please, I am but a miller's son," he murmured against her lips as they came up for air, his hand rising to stroke down her long, slender neck — the sensitive stretch of flesh causing her eyes to widen ever so slightly and her body to tremble, just a bit at the touch; “I am far too simple for your grand words, milady," he murmured to her, and she gave a breathy little laugh, laying her throat bare as his scarred fingers drew down its creamy length.

“You even now look at me with awe," she said as she let his strong hand frame her face and throat in its fingers; “Having glimpsed the end of creation, after you have felt my heart beat against yours — lain with me as a lover — you still gaze at me with awe in your eyes," she said, her own trembling slightly as she focused on him.

“I would bleed freely to keep that glimmer in your gaze, for I and for this good and gentle place," she said and simply fell silent. Their breaths and hearts filled the quiet between them for a long, heavy moment before she broke away with a contented smile, her orbit plucked the simple homespun tunic from his bed, and in silence, she resumed dressing him — Bart's eyes drifting closed as they settled into that easy, shared presence.

She girded and straightened him, and helped maneuver his arm into a sling. One of his father's old crutches was produced to help the limp he still carried from the wrenching impact of being flung between worlds. His armor was nowhere to be seen, and his sword similarly was elsewhere — no matter what else he may have thought, the message was clear that for now at least, his fighting days were done.

“I will needs be near you at all times my love," she explained as she set about cleaning him up, the Paladin's eyes closed as the lady ran a brush through his tangled mat of curls, their new white streak an amusing commonality he shared with the unicorn now. “The working I must do to keep your exhausted flame burning is rather complex and gets more difficult with distance," she said, smiling at him as she drew her lips along the nape of his neck; “I am sure you are rife with objections..."

“I could get used to not having to lace my own boots," Bart said, getting a soft titter from his wife as they emerged from the bedroom. Bart hobbled along well enough on his crutch, his slung arm only making the whole arrangement that much more ridiculous — at least, that was how Bart felt.

The bedroom opened more or less into the rest of the house, a modest affair of sorts, the walls good stone and wood frames and the roof covered in solid shingles rather than thatch. His father's work, the house itself his lifelong project, and it showed. Bart smiled at his mother, the smell of fresh coffee and bread hitting his nose — and an unusual sight striking his eyes.

A little redheaded woman stood in his kitchen, laughing with a tall, dashing man leaning in the window. She was wearing a green dress that ran down about to her calves, simple homespun — it was the color of forest moss and belted across the waist with a little red sash. She was stirring a pot, shirtsleeves pushed up, her knees visibly scuffed with dirt — familiar black soil from his mother's garden. Her green eyes gleamed with a happiness he'd never seen in them, and Bart smiled as she finally turned to notice him, arms full of a basket of fresh-picked herbs.

“Oh! Ye're up an' about!" Lidia exclaimed with an almost child-like glee and matching nervousness, the big Paladin smiled.

“Good morning to you, little sister," he said, bracing his arm to reach out and give her wild red hair a little tousle — free as it was from her usual concealing scarf and cowl — nay the red sheaf was what he'd mistook for a sash, wound around her with familiarity. The freckled little changeling blushed and carried on, stacking the basket of herbs in the corner for drying before all but skipping back to the window.

Gram looked well, a few new pink scars visible on his face and hands; the man dressed in a breezy white linen shirt similarly belted at the waist with a dirk and pouches — his polearm visibly leaning against the exterior wall of the house where he propped his shoulder, his long black hair spilling down his mustached face as Lidia leaned up to plant a kiss on his lips. The two tangled their fingers together through the window, and Bart could feel the matronly attention vibrating the room between his mother and the Queen of Love both unabashedly watching the youthful lovebirds share a whispered exchange and another surprisingly chaste kiss before the knight saluted Bart through the window and set away, clearly off to some form of work. Lidia smoothed her skirts unconsciously beneath the three inquiring sets of eyes, clearly still finding the attire novel. Not at all avoiding her friend's eyes. Not even a little bit.

“You look..." Bart paused a bit as Lidia's face froze in a mask of apprehension, holding up a hand as if to calm her; “... very happy," he said, and she visibly relaxed as Bart stumped his way towards the door on the crutch; “It suits you, I believe I said as much before." he said and Lidia beamed at him, her lip caught between her teeth with a hint of her yet-remaining shyness.

“Ye did... an' mayhaps I'm startin' tae believe ye a bit," she said, looking out back towards the window where Gram had met with a group of irregulars with hunting spears and pitchforks, training a militia perhaps — or maybe simply offering protection to the workers as they rebuilt? Whatever the task, he left the window's view with a spring in his step. Lidia's smile was small, personal.

“I nae like tae get far from ye, over the last tenday or so," she said, winding her fingers in her old red scarf idly. “So... Gram an' I 'ave been just. Courtin'." she said with a small smile. “Proper-like. He comes tae visit, an' we go fer walks an' the like," she said, beaming up a bit as her chest swelled. “It's... goin' slow. I like that," she said with a surprising note of clarity in her voice.

“I can't have been too much of a handful, I was a potato," he said bluntly, and Lidia shrugged.

“Nae, but ye mother and th' Lady were both quite haggard, they needed a free hand now an' again, an' I'm the only one other than Nazir who knows any o' Naima's weird scrawly shorthand so it only made sense, ye?" she said, the words spilling out of her in a rush of justification as Bart saw the real answer written on his mother's face.

“Thank you, for taking care of them little sister," was all Bart said, and Lidia's smile got just a little bit brighter.

“She has been a blessing. If only for her quick hands," she said, handing the girl a thick-bladed knife and some of the wild herbs she'd gathered, Lidia rolled her eyes dramatically and set to chopping the leaves — Bart had seen her blade work in a much more lethal setting, so watching her nimble fingers dance through something so domestic was a comfortable sort of pleasure.

“Nae anythin' anyone familiar with a blade cannae do," she said as she rapidly chopped and scraped the leaves together, Bart's eyes widening a bit as she... really didn't pay much attention to it. Nothing she did was itself superhuman or even all that expert — she simply moved with such smoothness and surety that it didn't quite seem real. Like the Twins in the glade, her hands almost seemed to preempt their next motion, everything moving together as a piece as she entered into an eerily easy rhythm that made the task simply seem to vanish in half the time it should have.

“I've been cutting herbs for thirty years and then some, child, and I can't do that," Bart's mother said with a tartness that suggested this was a repeat compliment Lidia was not taking easily. That tracked.

Bart chuckled as he leaned against one of the pillars, this one notched with a knife. Tiny hash marks, each showing a year's growth. Had he ever been so small? Lidia's tiny frame barely topped out taller than his mother and was immediately rivaled by one of the lower hash marks on the post: Bart, 14 summers. Ever at his side, Cithara's eyes caught his as Lidia put her hands on her hips; the unicorn's gaze knowing as she added yet another tiny body to his world.

“It's nae anythin' special." she protested, her lower lip sticking out indignantly as she turned back to the cutting board, “Ye jus' showed me how tae do it well is all," she said, getting a long-suffering sigh from the older woman, her eyes finding Bart's, as well as Cithara, gently nestled to his side.

“I see why you call her little sister, like of mind the both of you." she sighed, idly drawing the familiar motions of a blessing across her chest. Lidia groaned and rolled her eyes, resuming her chopping.

“Is that Bart's voice I heard?" came a fourth feminine tone from the side door of the kitchen, and through the window overlooking his mother's garden appeared Naima's head, her long black hair done up in a messy, utilitarian bun and smudges of dirt visible on her cheeks as she looked him over; “You should be sitting with that leg," she said tersely, Bart gave his boot a few taps with the crutch.

“It's just a bit sore, I'll be fine."

“Of course — you only hit the ground so hard you broke your hip," she stated dully, raising an eyebrow. Bart looked around the room meekly, finding none of the feminine faces before him offering any sympathy — only his father, who grinned from his chair by the far window.

“Oh better you than I boy, she's been hounding me about my leg the whole time you've been asleep," he said, pointedly settling back more firmly into his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“Yes ma'am," Bart said to Naima, taking a seat at the table — the strain off his leg was noticeable, Cithara must be dealing with some of it with the working she spoke of, the little unicorn taking her own place at the table — a small stool-like seat sitting there, fresh tool marks still near its pegs. The Lady caught his attention to her chair and smiled.

“Isn't it lovely? Your father's work," she said, letting her tail sweep fondly across it. It was a simple sort of affair made of a dark ash wood, nothing much for details or embellishments, it was a well-made, four-legged little thing with slightly raised arms and no back, with a comfortably polished seat that gleamed with its oiled finish.

“A Lady needs a place to sit." the old man said from his chair, hands folded across his chest, seemingly halfway through a mid-day doze — knowing his father, the man had been up since dawn and working the whole time. Cithara bowed her head to him.

“Indeed, and he set about in but a few days time building me such a thing," she said with a genuine smile. “The gesture was enough, but he saw it through." she mused, looking warmly at Bart; “I daresay I find the sentiment pleasantly familiar." The Paladin felt his heart flutter a little at the words.

Naima entered directly, bringing with her a small bounty of herbs and veggies in the same baskets as Lidia, setting them near her for similar processing — it seemed the alchemist was far more inured to the strange and simply had made use of the little changeling's preternatural agility. Naima was Naima, and nothing would change that.

“Were it up to me I'd have put the both of you on a cart to the Glade the minute you were stable enough for travel, but who am I to countermand the Lady in White?" she said, sitting down at the table across from Bart and his mother in its little clear nook across from the hearth. Bart's family home was perhaps larger than most, but still a cozy, peasant's home. Two rooms connected by a small partition made the living area and the kitchen more or less a continuous fixture, and its three bedrooms all stuck off from one side or another of the living space — all additions his father had built over the years. The third bedroom had just been a dream when he'd entered the Abbey for his novitiate, planned for brothers and sisters that had never come — turned into a project to keep his father's hands busy. Seemed right to see it used by Lidia. Cithara raised her chin dramatically.

“I have all of this authority, it serves that I should every so often — take it out, dust it off, and wave it around when it suits me," she said imperiously, Bart staring at her with a flat, incredulous face as Naima seemed... quite tired, her features remote and careworn — but happy.

“She has been like this since you lost consciousness in the ruins," Naima continued, slumping in her chair and leveling a gaze on the Unicorn like she might a particularly stubborn child. The relationship the Learned One courted with her students was vastly different than the Lady's methods it seemed, “Completely unreasonable, refused to leave your side — you're lucky she has no need to eat because she would have had no time for it between all the wide-awake fretting she's done over you."

“That's quite enough, dear one," Cithara said, and Naima's eyes rose to the ceiling and she let out a breath.

“At least make him take breaks, you know he'll walk himself until that leg falls off if you let him," the alchemist said tersely. Her eyes were tired but warm; “I'll follow you all day if I have to." she threatened, getting a chortle from the unicorn in response.

“I promise I'll keep my beloved champion hale and whole," she said, Bart's mother delivering a small wooden platter full of simple earthenware mugs, his own still having the little chip in the handle it always had, bringing a smile to his face. The Lady's orbit seized hers and drew a deep inhalation of it as Bart simply took a sip — Naima however, leveled a finger at the Unicorn.

“No lovemaking! You'll break that hip clean-through if you get remotely as vigorous in bed as you do vocal," Naima said in response and Bart's eyes bugged out as he choked on the hot brew — Cithara however, coolly sipped at her cup, and turned her eyes to the matron of the house.

“Most excellent, Eleni. I see why the Old Wolf enjoys this roast so," she said, Bart's mother flushing with pleasure at the literal divine compliment, Cithara's golden eyes turning upon Naima. “Moreover, if you think I cannot make love to my husband without breaking him, you are not as learned as I first assumed."

Bart stared at the two of them, completely dumbfounded and also hideously embarrassed as the two ladies stared at each other. Naima for her credit looked as completely taken off guard by the rebuttal as anyone else in the room. Adelbart's laughter spoke for itself as it echoed off the walls from the living room.

“Dear, be polite," Eleni said to her chortling husband, Cithara's expression suitably coy — and unassailably smug.

“That said — no I did not intend to ravish my champion until he is well, your concern is noted and appreciated," she said, dipping her head to the alchemist beatifically. Naima looked somewhat bewildered, her eyes flicking between Cithara and Bart before she simply lifted her coffee and sipped from it, her eyes going wide.

“Oh!" she murmured, taking another drink. “It's... good," she said in seeming shock, looking up to Bart, then his mother, gesturing with the heavy mug at the Paladin. “The way he makes coffee I simply assumed he'd never learned."

“I like strong coffee," Bart protested to his mother's own laughter, the older woman wiping her eyes.

“Is he still brewing that mud he passes for coffee?" she asked, and Naima nodded gravely, cradling her mug in her hands and seeming to nestle into the old, well-worn chair with the beverage.

“Oh yes. It's enjoyable in its own… bracing way. Thick enough you can stand a dagger up in the pot — on the point," she said and Bart pouted, sipping at his own cup... it was good. Cithara smiled and nosed him.

“It's fine my dear, I love you still. Bad coffee and all."

“Husband, was it?" Eleni asked afterward, Cithara's eyes going wide as the matronly little woman settled at the table, and in spite of her awe at the cosmic being that was in no short supply even now, there was an iron in her gaze. Bart was her child, Unicorn or not, Lady in White or not — a Mother took a certain tack with her babies.

“Why, yes. I consider Bart my husband," she said plainly as if it was obvious to anyone. Bart's mother narrowed her eyes, taking his hands and looking at them pointedly.

“I don't see a ring, where was the ceremony?" she asked — the thread of steel following her otherwise soft voice, Cithara's ears laying back as suddenly, the infinite, immortal manifestation of Love had indeed — found she may have erred.

“Well... we did not have one, I bound his essence to mine own with the Mantle, there is no closer a man can be to me than that," she said, and Eleni's eyebrows raised, her expression not changing.

“Same as any of the other fine young men who aren't my son," the goodwife said plainly, taking her own cup in her hands — the strength of her little frame leaping out, her arms weathered and corded with hard-working muscle despite her tiny build. Years of child-rearing, baking, and kneading of dough had given his mother a petite sort of strength and it stood out in both her body — and her presence, as the Lady in White was simply stunned into momentary silence.

“Well, no it's... well yes but... there simply has not been time..." Cithara stumbled over her words, as the immortal being realized it simply had not considered things from this angle. Bart was speechless, not for lack of things to say — but for sheer terror — of his mother.

“So, you've been sleeping with my boy out of wedlock then?" she asked, and Cithara's face seemed to somehow pale — a feat that Bart was stunned to witness.

“N-no I would never... surely a covenant with me is valued highly enough?" she said, and Eleni's steely stare did not abate.

“Better than a covenant with God?" she asked and Cithara blinked, her jaw falling open. Bart winced. That was a tactical blunder, had Lionel not had a mother? No... likely not, not living at least. The First Paladin had probably been a singular entity due to the ravages of the Black March — Bart had family.

“I did not mean to offend, it simply... well it slipped my mind in all of the concern and..." she seemed to flush, her nose getting particularly pink. “I had considered it... inappropriate, to seek mortal matrimony as one of God's Triune," she answered in a small voice. “Mocking, even."

Eleni nodded at that, and took a long sip of her coffee, “Oh I understand, but clearly you have time now don't you?" she asked pointedly, Cithara's expression once more becoming alert — the same way a cornered deer was. Lidia was in a complete state, snickering into her chopping — and furthermore, it was Naima's turn to wear a smug expression at the Unicorn, pinned down as she were by the matron of the household. Bart felt it was once more, his duty to rescue his beloved — even as his father caught his eyes at the shift of his shoulders, and gently shook his head. Don't do it the silent gaze said, yet Bart was never one to shy from danger — perhaps he was stupid rather than brave.

“Mother, it's been quite a journey for us all... I can't even begin to describe the things I've seen," Bart began quietly, his sober tone and matching expression drawing Lidia's attention from her chopping, the knife falling silent as Bart continued. “I was lucky to not dream of it, but surely my companions were not so fortunate, and have spent this time with the weight of such things on their minds," he said, meeting the little changeling's gaze across the table. The tiny red-headed girl's eyes grew a touch hollow as she failed to hide a shudder. Bart smiled at her by way of comfort, earning a nod and a wan little smile from the little redhead after a deep breath. Aye... the scars of their experiences would not fade soon, Bart could see it in her eyes. Naima's gaze as well was a bit deader when he turned back to the table, clearing his throat his throat.

“I think we all just needed some distance, some time. I need fresh air anyways, and I always loved the parish chapel's garden — perhaps I could speak to Father Logan about it?" he offered. Cithara's expression looked as if he'd wrest her from the jaws of a Gatekeeper once more so thankful was it, and his mother smiled.

“Oh, that sounds lovely, dear heart," she said with a smile, taking his hands. “You did have quite a harrowing journey, you take the time you need," she said, and he smiled. Bart might be more stupid than brave... but he knew how to handle his mother. Not that anything he said was untrue... just, leavened with a certain flair. Cithara looked at him with a brief but meaningful glimpse that sang of her appreciation for the rescue, a smile was all he offered as he finished off the coffee.

“I'm feeling restless, so why not now? I have a beautiful woman to show around my town." Bart said, leaning over and kissing his mother on the cheek, getting a grin from the older woman — who leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight.

“I'm so glad you're awake dear heart, the Lady wasn't the only one losing meals and sleep," she said, and Bart squeezed her back in spite of his injuries.

“Sorry to make you worry Mom," he said, and she put her hand on his cheek.

“Oh it's a mother's job to worry, just go on as you are dear heart. You are doing just fine." Smiling, Bart went to rise. Pain flared through his leg and it buckled beneath him with a surprised oath, his mother gasped, Cithara called out, and Naima all but dropped her cup as he felt himself lose balance... only to stop halfway — tiny, surprisingly strong hands having caught his shoulders.

Lidia looked up at him with a strained smile, the little changeling had moved like a shot, the knife she'd been wielding against herbs and vegetables still spinning where it had landed on the cutting board. With an effort, she set her legs under herself stoutly — Bart easily weighed twice as much as she did, and it didn't look easy, but she grinned all the same.

“Lean on me, Big Brother," she said simply, and Bart saw his crutch hover over to him, limned in golden light.

“Lean on us both, beloved," Cithara said, gently pushing herself beneath his opposite arm as the big man pulled his weight back up, the crutch bearing him off the two small women, green and golden eyes staring up at him, full of new love he'd never thought to see. His mother smiled and Naima let out a sigh, though her smile didn't stay totally hidden behind her covert little sip of coffee.

“I suppose I should become accustomed to it," Bart agreed, pushing himself off the tiny sidheborn girl and the equally small unicorn. They stood before him, and Bart realized they were of a size... Cithara could really be however large she wished he wagered, yet she always made herself small. The two women's eyes met one another, Cithara smiled and leaned over; kissing the little changeling on the brow and giving her a gentle nuzzle. Lidia laughed and put her arms around the Lady's neck as the two gently embraced.

“I told you, he'll break himself before he asks for help," Naima said, reclining back in her chair with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I'll leave him to you, it seems Paladins one and all are stubborn bulls of men," she said, Cithara raising her eyebrows at that with a smile.

“By design." was all the unicorn said, and Naima laughed into her cup.

~ ~ ~

Bart emerged into the sun, springtime was waning in the Heartlands, and the harsh heat of summer had begun to stir, making the air thick and humid beyond the cool confines of his family home. Cithara pressed close to his side as he looked out across the village. His home was near the mill itself, the arms of the great windmill swinging lazily in the breeze a short walk down the road. Bart could see many of the familiar faces of workmen his father hired down near it, repairing visible damage and tending the grounds — not one of them free of bandages or signs of minor wounds. Many more mills proceeded down the road, the other side of the well-worn path once full of great, golden wheat fields — early spring planting by rights should be halfway ready to harvest now — but across the way was a battlefield.

Many of the fields of golden wheat, barley, or oats that should be swaying in the early summer breeze were instead pockmarked by runnels, craters, the remnants of hastily constructed barricades, and the usual destruction of open warfare. The earth churned and stomped beneath the feet of man and monster alike.

“Not much left of the harvest," Bart said grimly. Cithara looked up at him with ancient eyes. Eyes that had seen this before. So had Bart once upon a time. She nodded solemnly.

“There was little choice, the food..." she trailed off and Bart followed her gaze towards where he'd seen Gram walking to, where men were working in those shattered fields.

“Or the people," Bart finished for her, nodding as he started hobbling towards those working souls on his crutch. “Nay, no choice at all."

The couple made their way up the road towards the fields, Bart pausing to cast his gaze back toward the Abbey itself. It stuck out perhaps a few miles in the distance, proud and strong upon its hilltop base. It was an unassuming building despite being built of faith for the faithful. Whereas the Cathedral of White had been a grand monument to the Glory of God — this was a fortress to train the faithful. It was a place of work and refinement and had far more in common with Fort Ivory than the Cathedral of White or the Grand Basilica of Darrowmere. It was a boxy, angular compound of turrets and redoubts with square buildings made of vaulting buttresses and doughty stone masonry. A castle in all but name, with the addition of its cloister and dormitories, the martial citadel of a fortress married to the humble church and library of a monastery — all ensconced in high, sheer walls of weathered granite.

“I remember when we built it," Cithara said to him as he gazed on. “Our power was grand then, unfettered by worry or circumstance yet, we wrought wonders in the exultation of our charges," she mused, looking up to him with a wistful smile before returning her gaze. “I remember working with Gigas to tear the granite from the very earth, to cut and shape it for your masons with our orbit and power. All the while Manasa and your greatest master builders labored over design and considerations. It was built in but a few scant years when it should have taken decades."

“You've spoken often of the Learned One... but what of Gigas?" Bart asked as they had that moment, the curiosity sparked within him.

“Gigas? The Lord in Iron?" she asked somewhat surprised, but the smile crept to her face nonetheless. She loved him, it was clear. “My younger brother is... direct. Proud. He is a revelry in fury and a veritable font of strength upon strength..." She trailed off, her lower lip caught between her fangs, “... He is also measured and gentle. Loyal, brave and true to the smallest of promises... and he loves children," she finished in a small, intimate voice, smiling not for Bart, but her distant kin.

“You speak fondly of him," Bart murmured.

“I love him dearly, beloved. He is a longtime companion of The Unicorn — he is my counterpart, my complementary opposite — where I am stern he is understanding, where he is fierce I am gentle. We have been brother and sister in many times, places, and worlds before... and his heart is much like yours," she said, turning her eyes to Bart's full of warmth.

“Thou art courageous."

Bart smiled, had anyone else sung such praise to him he would have shied away, humbled himself — however, not everyone was The Lady in White, Cithara — his Lady and Liege — and as much, his wife. Taking a moment to tousle her mane, his response was his smile. His eyes once more however turned to the fields and filled with clouds of worry, and his feet found their way to the road, the Unicorn not a step behind. Together they would face this, never to be alone again.

They followed the well-worn, stone-paved track towards town, taking them through the heart of Fairharbour's breadbasket. The fields that had survived were in constant care, his neighbors and townsmen waving at him as they dug debris and snag from the swaying stalks. The strains of song caught his ear, a full buttery baritone that was familiar to him. Pushing on a bit more over one of the gentle, rolling bluffs that made up the fields — Bart spotted the singer.

Gram was leaning on his polearm at the edge of one of the far fields, near where the fighting had been at its fiercest. There the townsfolk worked to dismantle the wreck of battle and its barricades, fixing fences and dislodging the remaining unholy dead where they had not simply been burned on the spot. Gram's voice was raised in a shepherd's song, singing of a mysterious green-eyed lass who'd stolen his sheep, and his heart. Standing sentry no doubt, he yet and still — sang for them, and they raised along with him at the chorus, voices full of passion for the mysterious flame-haired nymph of the far lands. Gram's voice thrummed with passion and clarity, his tall frame stretched along the length of his weapon, mustached face raised to the sky in song, steady and true.

“How curious for a monster to learn of love," Cithara mused quietly as she caught up a half-step behind Bart, the Paladin turning a sharp eyebrow on her, and she smiled. “Oh dear one, I can see your hearts as easy as I do your smiles. Gram's inner coldness is known to me, he is... damaged, in a way. Put together out of alignment, in any other circumstances — men like him become beasts, monsters. Things like Parias," she said, but there was warmth in her voice. “But not Gram. Not this one," she said, and it was spoken with pride.

“He is one of mine, in heart if not spirit. My boys are doughty and true. He has found kindling for fire inside him, and it will burn, burn until it finds an outlet... and it seems to have found it," she said as his voice washed over them. It was no secret who the red-headed paramour was in the shepherd's song, there were dozens like it, yearning ballads of soaring vocals composed so the pretty lass in the pasture over could hear. In that tradition, Gram had indeed — found the outlet for his fire and its fuel.

“I forget how well you read us sometimes. I have become accustomed to it too comfortably," he said, looking down at her and then pulling her away towards their goal, not wanting to interrupt Gram's song — nor his duty. They left in silence, both seeming well content with the quiet introspection of their companion's song. Movement ahead drew Bart's eye: spying a familiar electric blue turban on the oncoming road, worn by a stolid, bull of a man who was walking calmly towards the pair, his face a mask of serene stoicism.

“Brother Bart," Rashid greeted them, a basket of parcels slung over one shoulder. Rashid much like Gram, sported a few new scars, more visible on his unarmored form, ropy red welts from fang and claw on his tree-trunk-like arms, the outlines of what looked like a bitemark peeking up under the collar of his wound blue robe, short sleeved and as usual, sashed across the torso and waist with bright yellow. His usual armor was absent — but not his deadly tulwar, tucked into his sash at his waist.

“Rashid!" Bart called warmly, bracing his weight on the crutch to give the bull-necked man a clasp of the arm, the two brawny warriors squeezing fondly as a smile came to the southerner's face.

“It is good to see you walking, even with an extra leg," He said, releasing Bart's arm. They were of a size but not a shape — Bart the great broad-shouldered bear to Rashid's barrel-chested bull. The Paladin laughed,

“Just trying to get closer to my beloved here, is all," he said teasingly, Cithara tittering at him as she walked up between the two burly men.

“Quite so, hello dear Rashid," she said, leaning up with that unerring, unearthly dexterity to kiss him upon the cheek, the southerner smiling at her and bowed his head reverently.

“Holy One, it is good to see the wind in your mane again. I thought you would wither in the dark like a flower without sunshine," he rumbled in return, his serene expression returning — the smile just touching the edges of his artfully curled mustache. She beamed at him, a soft laugh escaping her.

“It was a very near thing dear one, but my beloved is made of sterner stuff than even I dared hope," she said with a warm smile. “He endures."

“So my wife has said with both fondness and incredulity," Rashid rumbled with a faint tremor of laughter, the usually stoic man's overall demeanor was light and airy, a contagious sort of mood. Bart felt himself relax, Cithara's nose twitching towards his parcels.

“Ah, for Naima?" Cithara asked him as she flicked her gaze to his rough-spun basket, it was then Bart realized it was the one his mother kept near the rear door for shopping. Rashid nodded, the smile growing broad and a warmth spreading on his face, he was practically glowing as he bounced the burden a bit.

“Indeed. She is as ever, a creature possessed of tremendous forethought. I found the needed reagents with little trouble, Fairharbour is a very independent place," he said with a tone of quiet approval, Bart grinned.

“Sounds right, 'Why buy what you can make' might as well be the town credo," Bart agreed, Rashid's demeanor seeming to improve by the moment as Cithara smiled at the two of them, pushing against Bart's side with a smile, further surrounding herself with the two power men's looming forms.

“It takes a certain kind of man to be a Paladin, and certain kinds of people are attracted to those sorts of men," Cithara said with airy confidence, in some ways, Bart felt less that he was showing Cithara around his hometown than he was simply present for her own long-delayed homecoming.

“It is a good place," Rashid agreed simply, turning to Bart with a shift of his burdens; “Are you bound anywhere in particular?" he asked, eyes pointedly looking at the crutch, Bart nodded.

“The Parish, I had a mind to speak with Father Logan about a... ceremony of sorts," he said, and Cithara gently tittered at him, but Rashid nodded sagely, his smile widening.

“An important thing, it would not do to continue to make a dishonest woman of the Lady," Rashid agreed, which caused the Unicorn's nose to pink up a bit more in consternation as Bart nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Yet again my blessing is not enough? I have wed him to my soul with God's power!" she said with a bit of pique to her light voice, and Rashid laughed. It was a good sound, deep, basso, and full of a light-heated zeal for life that ever glimmered behind the hard man's eyes. One might even go so far as to call it jolly.

“Holy One, it is a simple failing of us mortals. We must needs have everything in its correct, appropriate place for our happiness and comfort. We are imperfect creatures, and you must be patient with our petty little ceremonies," he said to her, and in spite of herself, the cosmic entity smiled through her light irritation, letting out a playfully exasperated breath.

“They are not petty! They are wonderful displays of love, I just..." she said with a soft laugh and smile that became a pensive frown — her ears laid back, her whole frame seeming to shrink in on itself as even her mane seemed to droop with the weight of her embarrassment; “I do not like to think I have been defiling my husband in the eyes of his family."

“That seems a bit much," Bart hedged, and Rashid grunted.

“These are an earthy folk. I wager that passion gets put before ceremony quite often here."

“Frequently," Bart agreed, and Cithara sighed at both of them with a faint pout, but her smile wouldn't be denied.

“You are too forgiving, my husband. Someday you will be forced to be cross with me about some failing of mine, I will insist upon it," she said, and the two warriors exchanged a smug grin and together bowed their heads before her.

“As you wish." they both said in unison, and the Unicorn puffed her cheeks in irritation.

“Oh stop that immediately," she huffed, giving them both a gentle bump of her hip as she turned around to face the road, Rashid's mood only improving further, the man practically glowing as he cast his eyes back towards Bart's home, Cithara's gaze catching his, a brief wordless nod passing between the two.

“Immortal insecurities aside — your dear wife will want those things as soon as possible. I'll save the rest for the right moment. Blessings upon you, dear man," she said and gave him another kiss on the opposite cheek, the burly man grinned wider, white teeth showing as he folded his hands together, giving her a deep — almost ceremonial bow.

“My family accepts this gift with grace, Holy One. My thanks," he said and clasped Bart's arm again, the two men simply nodding to each other as they went back to their accepted tasks, Rashid's step light and energetic as he went by. Cithara's gaze upon him was wistful as he went, the tall man disappearing slowly over the gradual rise of the bluff.

“What was that about?" Bart asked after her, the little Unicorn turning back upon him with an incredulous smile upon her face, searching his features with her eyes, her own wonder seemingly only growing as she did.

“You are truly blind to it," she stated, laughing at him gaily as she swept up beside him, winding close to Bart's body before looking back at Rashid with that same... glow he'd had before, a shiver coursed through her as she lowered her voice just for Bart's ears; “She's pregnant."

Bart blinked, looking between her and Rashid's back; “She is? But when? She did not look with child this morning!" he protested lightly, his features screwed up as he played the morning's events back in his mind, looking for some tell. The Lady's laughter was gentle, like silvery bells.

“Blind and deaf, my dear boy," she said, grinning at him with almost giddy enthusiasm. “She is not showing yet, however, I knew at once," she said matter-of-factually, Bart looked up at her and then nodded after a moment's thought. Sure. Love and Lovemaking weren't so far apart, she'd made such very clear about her links to fertility in the past — verily as she walked the path beside him, the grass bloomed ever-so-slightly, a tiny pocket of springtime with a winning smile and beautiful eyes.

“Sikha told her," Bart said suddenly, the idea striking him out of nowhere. Cithara's brows raised, and she smiled appreciatively at him.

“Why, yes! Bart that's very astute of you!" she beamed at him, carrying on, “Sikha was able to tell when her spirit became two," she confirmed to him, turning him towards the town again as they resumed their walk. “My sister's servants are logical beings, so he saw simply fit to tell her as it became known."

Bart shuddered a bit, Sikha's fervent, calculating eyes shining in his mind. Thou burn well, Paladin. “Indeed, logical," Bart said, shaking off the uneasiness he still felt around the being and its uncanny nature. Cithara happily picked up the thread,

“Rashid is very happy, he had feared they would never have children," she said, and Bart looked back towards the man's now-distant figure, concern on his lips.

“They seem perfectly hale and whole as a couple," Bart observed critically, and Cithara nodded.

“Naima is very small. It can cause difficulty for some women in bearing children, particularly if their husbands are far larger than they are still — as you are aware," she said, looking up at Bart pointedly, the big Paladin nodded with a sad sort of smile — his mother had similar issues, a tiny woman with his brawny father. Bart's brow then furrowed in confusion.

“Wait, I thought that the Learned One arranged all her marriages via prophecy?" he said, and Cithara nodded in affirmative.

“She does, in a general sense," she said, and Bart frowned harder.

“Then why arrange Naima and Rashid if they would struggle so?" he asked, and she parted her lips in a little 'ah' of understanding.

“She arranges them so they will be most happy, that generally speaking overcomes most difficulties in producing children," she explained, smiling at him with a tiny sultry edge to it as they walked. “No... this is technically my fault, I believe," she said, and drew her tail around herself, gesturing at the bits of grass beneath her hooves and the warm aura she seemed to gently infuse into the air around her. She looked up at him pointedly, Bart's mind working through the pieces of things before he blinked.

“The night on the riverbank," he said, recalling her words and she nodded, a flush of arousal coloring her nose and ear tips at their own remembered pleasure that night. “You said we were not the only ones..."

“I believe it happened then, yes," she confirmed with a toss of her mane, pushing close to him once more as they walked. “My presence and its orbit encourage life around me to flourish and quicken. In this tenday I have been here in your beloved home I have met and lingered near much of its people — I would not doubt if there were a surge of births some nine months hence."

“Marvelous," Bart said, and she blushed at him, biting her lip.

“Flatterer," she said, and let out a breath. “But nay more than mine own power, I believe this was as much your and Manasa's fault as mine," she said, looking up at him and quirking an ear. “The wake of prophecy draws like to like among it, a hero must needs doughty companions after all." She eyed him in a canny manner; “Have you perhaps noticed other relationships blossoming a touch too quick and neat?" she said, and in the silence, the faint strains of Gram's singing echoed on the early summer air.

Bart's eyebrows raised in realization — and alarm.

“Truly? I caused that? Gram and Lidia?" he asked and she tittered softly, shaking her head.

“Not insomuch as to be worried, beloved. Remember prophecy is a comb through tangled threads, drawing like to like as fast as must needs be done to enable its tasks — and the greater the import, the more hurried its draw along those tangled threads," she said, and turned her head to listen to the cavalier's silky tones as they drifted, carried only so far by the winds, her eyes meeting Bart's directly once more as she continued. “Verily you were, but for a few moments — the most important man in the world."

Bart was rocked into silence by that. The weight of such a thing, an accidental prophecy for the most unlikely of people. It felt like a fairy tale for small children — and yet Gram sang for his red-headed lover true as anything. Cithara pressed close to him anew, her warmth catching his attention as her breath tickled his ear, her voice a sultry whisper.

“For my concerns and care — that moment has yet to end, my champion," she breathed, and Bart's body quivered with delight — a confirmation of purpose, his very essence plucked by the Lady's intimate approval. Could there be words for such a feeling?

“I love you, Cithara." Bart breathed, and she smiled at him with such honesty it made his heart ache. Aye, words enough.

They made it into the town proper after a quiet walk of gentle companionship — Gram's voice eventually fading entirely to pure silence save the rustle of grain and the call of birds. The actual center was a busy little knot this early in the day, shops, businesses, and artisans all plying trades and working on various repairs — even here in the town's heart there was visible damage, burned thatch or a crumpled wall or flattened section of roof. Yet still they endured, and as Bart crossed into the town square a call went up — small voices, raised in excitement,

“It's her! It's the Lady! She's back!"

A tiny invasion of miniature people rushed at them from seemingly out of the very cracks of the earth, all of the small children of the town bouncing and skipping to form a chaotic honor guard as the divine pair walked through the streets, cheers and questions bouncing off them rapid fire:

“Where are you goin'?"

“Is that Big Bart?"

“Of course it is, dontcha' recognize 'em?"

“He's kinda beat up."

“What happened to his eye?"

“He fought the monsters, an' won!"

“Can I touch your mane?"

Cithara laughed, seeming to swell with delight at the fusillade of questions, endlessly answering them in turn with brief, polite responses in kind even as new questions came. She cleared her throat and all fell into rapt, attentive silence.

“My dear ones, this is Bart — my champion, you know him from the Abbey!" she began, letting her gaze sweep between the little ones; “He was hurt fighting The Empty Queen's strongest monsters — and saving my life. A very, very bad man hurt him and it is taking longer for him to heal," she explained and everyone nodded with a communal 'ooooooohhhhhh' coursing through the crowd.

“But where are you goin'?" came a high voice, and everyone else agreed. Cithara laughed again.

“Oh, the exuberance of youth. Well, my little angels," she said, moving forward and leaning down to them. “If you can keep a secret, I'll tell you all," she whispered conspiratorially. All of them at once fell silent and pressed forward, practically climbing over each other's backs to get close enough to hear. She smiled wickedly at Bart a moment before leaning down.

“I love Bart very, very much — so much, in fact — that we're going to Father Logan, to be married," she said in a hushed tone, her voice loaded with constrained glee. “It's supposed to be secret, but I can trust you all, right?" she said, fluttering her golden eyes at them. They stared dumbfounded but excited as only a child can be — the eager little gap-toothed grins and gleaming eyes telling of a story they would cherish forever. They all began to nod wildly, nudging each other and their neighbors until every boy and girl in the gaggle was in agreement. Cithara beamed.

“Wonderful! Well then, go play little ones — and remember! It's a secret!" Everyone ran off them, all waving and cheering and wishing them goodbyes before breaking up into tiny little close-knit groups of eagerly muttering friends and siblings — Cithara's face was alight with glee.

“You know every single person in town will know about it inside of the afternoon, right?" Bart said to her in a low voice, the prancing little Unicorn turning her gaze upon him smugly.

“Of course, what child alive could keep such a thing to themselves?" she said knowingly, giving a girlish little titter; “Come betrothed, I yearn to be a proper woman for you," she chirped at him playfully, her tail swishing up high as she trotted past him.

Surrounded as they were by the crush of life, it seemed to invigorate the Lady herself. Far from her usual serene imperial grace, here among her people, she seemed practically giddy, energetic, and well... lively. Full of it, of life. It shone from inside of her like light as she skipped on dainty hooves from one storefront to another, greeting a dozen artisans and blessing the whole of the town on their walk with her smile, her light. Hobbled as he was by his crutch, Bart was forced to watch her flow and frolic between people and place — but it was hardly a punishment.

To see her lit up like this, so full to bursting with joy after having witnessed her so wracked with grief and despair... the glittering golden scar on her breast stood out as sole testament that it had ever been real at all. Like aurum fractures in a perfect statue, it somehow only added to the unreality of her being, this deliberate, almost artificial flaw in her perfection. Sharp angles and harsh geometry in ugly contrast to her flowing liquid beauty — Bart felt that cracked fracture as if it were his own heart, had he been faster, more decisive... less merciful. Had he hacked and chopped Mihai into so much gore as he deserved, then he never would have laid his foul hands upon her inviolate flesh. Some debts remained unpaid, and he did not think one clean death would suit the sum owed him by that apostate monstrosity. Laughter echoed as she turned, catching his gaze upon her fractured breast — her smile turned demure in the midst of yet another meeting with his fellow townsfolk and childhood acquaintances, her lips clearly, slowly, and deliberately outlining three perfect words.

I. Love. You.

His heart swelled and the darker thoughts were swept away. She did not look upon him with disappointment in her gaze, those golden eyes only held for him pride and love. Her overwhelming presence filled him through their connection, and he felt his doubts quietly pushed to the side. There would be a time for such things but now was not it.

The parish was an odd sort of outgrowth of Fairharbour — which ostensibly sprang up around the Abbey itself — but the tor was a steep climb and a considerable defensive feature in its own right, and over the decades few common folks felt that they enjoyed the idea of a long walk on a steep trail for every church service. Thus, like in every sleepy town between here and the Northern Sidhewood, a tiny stone chapel had emerged and eventually became a stout and doughty little church, manned by a single clergyman in service to the spiritual needs of the local lay folk, leaving the seminary within the Abbey to minister to its novitiate and clergy in more exclusive capacity.

Father Logan was a familiar face, Bart had known him all his life: he'd married his father and mother and presided over his own anointing into the faith as a babe — but time had marched steadily on. There was more gray in his beard and hair than the merry red it had once been, yet that welcoming steadiness stayed in his eyes. He suited the station well, a product of the Heartlands as much as the grain; he was fair-skinned save for his leathery tan, and his build was broad and stocky — his hands gnarled from decades of labor rather than simple scholarly pursuits — he found the closest he was to God was tending His land, and the garden of the parish was his lifelong project.

The garden was where they found him, wearing a sleeveless cassock and mantle, his corded arms bare as he sang a hymnal to the Lady, knelt down over a bed of flowers — weeding shoots and stems from them, among bits of other debris and detritus blown-in from the battlefield to the north. Cithara's face was aglow with child-like glee as she listened to his deep, basso voice sing, thick arms pulling weeds and plucking stones from the beds in time. Bart's head canted, he recognized this one — a hymn for bountiful harvests and fruitful births said to the Lady's name. The tiny unicorn crept up behind the working clergyman, Bart's hobbling sound further down the cobblestone walk as he made his way. She leaned in close behind him for a moment, before smiling and raising her voice just so.

“My ears were burning," she said softly, and the priest gave a start, turning to look and his eyes going wide.

“Heavens Bless us, Lady Mine — don't be fouling your fine dainty hooves in this mess of mine!" he said, seemingly mortified at the state of the garden, his lilting heartlands brogue adding a lightness to his otherwise brassy bass voice. Bart made the grounds in time to see why he fussed; the garden was... well it was not without its own scars. Cinders and shrapnel from the burning of the outer defenses and the sweep of the town had reached here, patches of the grasses scorched, and bits of the flowers and hedgerows crushed and charred. The damage extended to the church itself, the stolid little stone chapel nigh-impervious, but its brilliant stained glass windows were pockmarked with holes. Cithara simply laughed and pranced in place through the grass in a neat, impish circle.

“My dear boy, do you think I am to be kept in a nave and doted upon with only oiled offerings and delicate shawls?" she teased him, leaning up and kissing the man fondly on the cheek — as was her custom Bart had come to notice. She expressed her love elementally as one could — with a kiss. Father Logan laughed, though his face was awed still as he drew himself up, brushing mud from his knees and dusting his hands of dirt, he spied Bart making his way up the hill on his crutch.

“I would better try to put a gilded cage on the winds themselves, Lady Mine," he said, turning to Bart and putting his hands on his hips. “Lo lad, some poor excuse for an escort you make in this condition!" he chided Bart playfully, but he grinned through the dense thatch of his beard as the Paladin closed the distance, bringing his big, leathery hands up to grasp the taller man by the shoulders — Bart was a head nearly above the sturdy clergyman — and he gave him an endearing squeeze. “How you been Lad?" he asked softly as if they were simply meeting again in the streets — not in the wake of such madness.

“Been in a dark place for a long time, Father," Bart said honestly, the priest nodding as he stared into Bart's eyes — yet another man who'd seen him grow and change.

“Aye lad, I can see it in you. Good to have you in the light again with us all," he said, giving him another firm squeeze, but offering his strong arm for Bart to lean on as Cithara walked a circuit of the garden, frisking about like a filly, her eyes wide with delight. Father Logan waved him on,

“Come and sit lad, the bench you always liked is already clear," he said, and Bart happily rested some of his considerable weight on the doughty old priest. He led him to a bench in the center of the garden, flush against the wall of the chapel, the light streaming over its stained glass windowed facade. Bart sat heavily, blowing out a breath with fatigue he was unused to feeling, Logan sitting next to him.

“You look good lad, for what they said you did," the clergyman offered, drawing a hardened skin flask from his belt and uncorking it in addition to the kind words. The scent of apple brandy wafted up to Bart's nose, and he smiled and took them both happily. A long drink, the brandy warm and sweet on his tongue, full of the fire of the heartlands apples in its distillation.

“What did they say I did?" he asked, passing the flask back to the clergyman. Another drink. Another pause to consider.

“They say you did what it took, lad. Stormed the gates of Hell itself rightly. Saved the Lady. Served your God," he said after a moment, tapping the flask against his knuckles. “They put more words into it, but I figure this far in you're full up to bursting with praise and well-wishing, aye?" he asked and Bart laughed dryly.

“Not quite, but it is nice to speak frankly of affairs," Bart agreed, and the Father snorted.

“Bless me, you even speak like a Paladin now," he chortled, handing Bart back the flask — only to have a shimmering golden orbit snatch it from his grasp, Cithara trotting up gaily to the pair.

“It is mine own influence, dear one," she said, uncorking the flask and giving it a sniff, her ears twitching as she took a delicate sip, shivering with a mix of delight and over-stimulation before passing it along to Bart. “He has spent some time in the company of ancient things, and we are long of thought and even more of wind." she teased, smacking her lips lightly and glancing at the flask, “That, is delightful."

“Your presence is only a blessing to us, Lady Mine," Father Logan said dryly, taking his flask back from Bart after another round of sipping; “Truly your eloquent turn of phrase only gives us more time to reflect upon your beauty," Cithara cackled at that wickedly, turning her gaze on the priest.

“Oh so silver-tongued for a Man of God, surely your dear wife is the most loved woman in town," she said, and he laughed a bit.

“I've got enough grandchildren to field an entire Abbey Novitiate all of clan and kin. She's as loved as God allows her to handle, Lady Mine," he answered with a cheeky little wink, getting a naughty little titter from the unicorn in response. Bart raised his eyebrows, swallowing his mouthful of spirits pointedly.

“We wanted to speak with you on something similar," Bart said levelly, and Father Logan nodded, raising a red eyebrow up into his balding pate.

“That is quite a topic to seek me out on lad," he said solemnly, and Cithara sighed, casting her eyes skyward a moment before stepping forward for emphasis.

“Oh dear one, we want you to marry us," she said plainly, smiling down at him with a timeless sort of authority. “I would be a proper woman to my husband in the eyes of God and his children," she said with a warm look in Bart's direction. Father Logan's eyes shot open at that, and he leaned back on the bench slowly, looking at the two of them in turn with a slow, measured gaze.

“So it is as they say, no exaggeration," the clergyman mused, and Cithara nodded, moving over towards Bart and nestling herself against him gently, her golden eyes meeting the Priest's own.

“Yes my child, I have chosen a King to rule my throne alongside me," she said with a touch of ceremony. The Father's eyebrows rose again as he turned a smiling face to Bart, his teeth bright.

“They said you claimed yourself a crown lad, they didn't say that you claimed yourself the Crown," he remarked in quiet bemusement, chuckling to himself he raised a hand to grasp Bart fondly behind the ear, cupping his head with a little toothy smile of pride before drawing himself back, Bart and Cithara grinning along with him. The father drew himself up properly, and met both of their gazes with his own steady blue eyes, “Now you've been good, God-abiding disciples of the faith in regards to pleasures of the flesh, yes?" he asked casually.

Cithara's expression was quite possibly the smuggest he had seen her, raising her chin in an imperious little expression of contentment. Bart on the other hand, colored a fair approximation of a beet and idly cast his gaze skywards in discomfort. Cithara gave Bart a sly look and winked at him.

“Well then," Father Logan said with a sage-like nod; “We'll need a ceremony post haste then, cannot be having the Lady herself living in sin can we?" he said, and just like that Bart's expression reversed with his glimmering lover — the Paladin's face twisting into a crooked little grin of satisfaction, and the Unicorn's mouth dropping open in a little moue of outrage.

“Sin?" she demanded incredulously, the doughty little priest nodded gravely.

“Yes, yes. It's a common enough sin, but sin all the same. No shame in it, love is the language of God," he said sonorously in a quotation of scripture — Cithara puffed her cheeks out at him in frustration.

“I know, that, I wrote that passage, child," she said tersely, and the old priest raised his eyebrows at her.

“Are ye flesh, Lady Mine?" he asked her plainly, and the tiny Unicorn came up short, lips parted for a tart rebuttal... and then her outrage faded slowly into a smile oddly in a mirror to Bart's, cockeyed and crooked she nodded.

“Indeed my boy, I am still flesh," she admitted and the stout clergyman nodded.

“Then you can sin. It's all well Lady Mine, nobody will mind if you wear white at the wedding still," he said, and the unicorn's lips pouted at him in faint, amused outrage — her gaze having gone from irritated to respectful — the unicorn did enjoy surprises.

“My dear boy has a canny mind," she said approvingly, and Father Logan laughed.

“I have seven children, and fully half-and-one of them are girls, Lady Mine," he chortled, clapping his stout middle with a hand. “I am well versed in every possible way a man can explain sin to the eager and amorous."

“You trained us too well," Bart mused to her, the Unicorn turned her eyebrow on him, and the battered Paladin smiled with a dismissive shrug. “You asked us to be belligerent, incalcitrant problem-solvers — and lo did we take well to the task," he concluded and her smug little smile turned to a smirk, Father Logan chuckling right along.

“Wise beyond his years," The clergyman approved in faux solemnity, grinning at her with teeth still; “You set a man to a task like that you best expect him to do it properly."

“I'd hate to spend all this effort rescuing Unicorns for them to go around getting abducted again next week. Best do it properly the first time," Bart agreed. Cithara's smirking face swung between the two of them, approval fully replacing the rueful expression — and more than a little smug contentment.

“I should say you have exceeded my expectations dramatically," she said and laughed softly; “Ah, men. Set before them a task, and they will bend themselves to breaking to top one another in overdoing it. How I love thee so."

“And we love you Lady Mine — some of us more directly than others so it seems," Father Logan said with a sidelong glance at Bart full of masculine knowing before peering about at the shambles of his garden — often springtime betrothals were wedded out here not far from where they sat beneath the trellis that looked out over the river — but it much like the rest was burnt and bare in many places, “Shame that the ceremony will have to be in such drab conditions — how often does one get to wed the Queen of Love herself?"

Cithara turned her head to the task at hand — for her boys were but the font that her purity of purpose flowed from, she was its source. A problem was to be solved and solve it she did, striding out into the middle of the lawn.

The grounds themselves were a simple affair; a pair of trellis and hedges divided them into three distinct rows — one of each in line with one of the three windows facing outwards from the chapel's facade. Lovely flowers of myriad colors grew across the trellis, and a rustic lawn filled in the space between fenced flowerbeds flush against the dividing hedges. It was a homey, serene place but as said — not without its wounds. The damage had been patched, fresh slats hammered into the busted trellis, and bent iron fences set right again, but the plants themselves were burned, crushed and twisted, dead and damaged — it would be another full growing season until it set itself right again, the burned patches fertilizer for new shoots.

“It would be a shame for such a rare thing to be marred by such ugliness. Nay, I would have one memory pure and free of war's taint," she declared in a strong voice and stood straight and mighty. Her eyes blazed golden, and her orbit flared to its full glory — even the glittering scar across her chest lit the same as her khol-like markings and hooves — and in it, Father Logan's eyes were wide with wonder, and he grasped Bart's arm.

“Triune preserve us," he breathed as her orbit swirled and grew about her in a radiant sphere — the priest lowering his voice just for the Paladin's ears; “Bart my son, what we write of true love is mostly fairy tale. Many loves exist for each man and woman — but not for her," he said fervently, pointing at Cithara as she stepped to the very center of the gardens. That swirling vortex of energy folded in on itself in strange geometries and angles until it briefly hovered above her head in the shape of a glittering, geometric crown of golden light. Bart was struck breathless by its familiarity.

“She is something that you are made for. She is eternal and infinite, an elemental being. Do you understand the gravity of her love for you, Bart?" Logan asked as she lowered her head, and that crystalline golden light flowed down her horn, and like an aurum drop of oversized dew, flowed out into the earth with a faint thrumming, like a heartbeat.

“A piece of the machinery of the universe loves you, son," The old priest whispered as all went quiet. “This is something you are made for, not something that just happens. That is True Love son, from its source," he smiled wide as tears rolled down his cheeks, and the old priest's easy demeanor broke with wonder at his faith made real and manifest before him.

“God in his Heaven, she's magnificent."

That thrumming came again. A pulse of the earth answering its caretaker. And that golden light crept up from the earth like drops of glittering sap, gleaming like morning dew upon every leaf and blade for a single shimmering moment. Life did not so much explode from the quiet as it did gush, pushing forth like water from a burst dam as the garden simply grew. A surge of vitality blossomed in the ravaged gardens, the green stems twisting and writhing as if they were running at quadruple speed — the burned patches sprang fresh and green — and flowers burst wide and glistening from brand-new stems. Moss and grasses grew wild and free and vines snaked and tangled... and then like that, the garden settled — alive, overgrown even with the sudden surge of green growing vitality. Cithara let out a breath and skipped in a slow circle, turning her gaze on every inch of her work.

“A pretty thing, a temporary one. It will fade as I take my leave of this place — nature will have her say no matter how I delay it — however for now, for us," she smiled broadly and turned to her beloved. “It will be spring, for just a little bit longer."

“Blessed Be, a genuine miracle," Father Logan said, walking out into his garden... it was at once... less and more of what it was. The flowers grew raucous and abundant, and the grass a thick ankle-length carpet... but it was not wild, it was not unchecked nor patchwork, it was ordered — primeval even. He stood in awe as he realized he walked his garden, his life's work — as it was seen by the Queen of Love. Tears came to the old man's eyes, and he touched his brow and heart in a genuine reflexive gesture of faith. True Faith. The old man simply was without words for a long while, lost in it all. His wonder was childlike and pure in the face of his God's power. Cithara was practically alight with her own joy, wandering closer to the man as Bart regained his own feet, the lambent energy in the air spurring him to want to move, be alive.

“My son, it is a beautiful garden. It is good work, as you prayed for," she said softly to the man, tears rolled down his cheeks as he was eye to eye with the Lady in White.

“You hear them, then? I know we speak not of it... but there is always a bit of doubt," he asked in quiet, humble honesty. The Unicorn smiled at him, and there was a moment of brief, blinding glory. To Father Logan, it was just a moment of white light — but from his vantage point, and in his Mantle's shielding — Bart saw it for what it was.

Cithara stood in her aspect as The Unicorn for just a moment, lost in the space between blinks she was a divinity born, striding the earth like a giant, her crown ablaze in its infinite majesty.

“I hear them, Thelonius Logan. I heard you when you prayed for the wounded in the siege, I heard you when you begged for your youngest child in the Gray Plagues. I heard you as a young lad, fancying the pretty dark-haired lass in the library, asking for the strength to ask her for a walk," she said, and to Bart, it was The Unicorn and Cithara, both the same and yet separate, who spoke — transposed impossibly over one another, no clear sign where one ended and the other began. There were many unicorns. There was only one Unicorn.

“I married her," Father Logan answered quietly, wiping his eyes. “Right here, under this trellis when it was Father Arnolds still here, may he rest in peace," he smiled at her with genuine gratitude; “It was that day I knew I would spend my life here, tending these grounds and these souls. There's a symmetry to that." he breathed, reaching out a hand towards her cautiously — yet she bowed her head in submission to him. In but an eye blink she was simple, wonderful Cithara again as Bart had first seen her, as he best knew her. The Priest gently touched her horn but once and drew his hand back, taking a deep breath he looked around, wiping his cheeks.

“Much to do, I'll have to get the grandsons working. It is not every day one marries the Queen of Love," he reiterated, and there was a solidness to the man again, as he found his center in his garden. A restoration to inner wholeness that warmed Bart's heart as he stumped his way over.

“Yes, I will not tarry long here now that my beloved is awake," Cithara agreed as she turned to the approaching Paladin. “You are still quite grievously wounded, both spiritually and physically. I will not unduly extend your suffering merely to indulge my whims," she said, and Bart snorted.

“Oh, it is hardly an indulgence. If you did not take the time, my mother would have followed us to the Glade and done it there," he said, and his eyes widened suddenly in abject horror. “Do not suggest that to her, for the love of God."

“Heavens, no," Cithara agreed hastily, “For the immediate future, my glade is for you and I alone."

“I'll set my boys to work right quick, Lady Mine." Father Logan said, wholly composed again, yet still glowing with that inner warmth that she had so gladly instilled — a glow that would last til the end of his days, and beyond the Pale Dawn. “We got three generations of Logans under this steeple, we'll have you a spring wedding ready in no time," he said, taking a deep breath. “It'll be a welcome change, if I may be so bold Lady Mine."

“Oh?" Cithara inquired, turning her attention from Bart to him again, the Priest nodded.

“Bart spoke of dwelling in a dark place, and he is not alone. There is a great pall over my flock even now in your holy presence, Lady Mine," he said, and Bart felt a hollowness in him... it had been the whole of time between Lachheim and Fort Ivory he had been abed, a tenday or more — but to him it was but a hazy dream of golden fields and then the cold reality of his mortal clash with Parias, Mihai and the Empty Queen herself... He met her eyes.

“I... I have not really reckoned with my trial in the Queen's realm, in the Wendigo's Demesne," he said quietly, rounding his back slightly in a defensive hunch over his crutch; “It... was only a few hours ago, by my mind." he said, getting a worried look from the Lady in White, and a knowing frown from the Priest.

“Aye, and it is the same for many here in spirit if not mind. Lachheim is not quite real to many of us yet," he said and looked to the Lady with sadness in his eyes; “I know my flock Lady Mine, they are cut to ribbons for lack of anything to be done for it, they will do well to have something to work on," he said and put a hand on them both.

“Something to build," he said, and Bart felt the warmth of the man's touch on his soul. He turned to Bart. “Do you want to talk about your trials, my son?" he asked, Bart surprisingly shook his head.

“No, Father," he said, squaring his jaw. “I have a certain individual I plan to speak of them with... you are a good man, with a kind heart," he said with clouded eyes as he looked away. “I would not damage you with the knowledge of what I have seen, in detail."

The priest seemed ripe to protest, but Cithara's eyes caught his, her head shaking very subtly — the look in her golden gaze giving the clergyman physical pause, for they communicated the truth and seriousness of the Paladin's words without a single syllable. Father Logan trembled a moment and nodded.

“God be with you both, my friends," he said, smiling at them once more; “I have much to do, and half as much time to do it," he said and turned to leave, pausing a moment to look at them both, a giddy little smile on his face as he turned back to leave.

“Something changed in that man, just now," Bart said as he left, and Cithara looked at him sharply.

“You noticed?" Bart nodded in response, and the Unicorn's eyes widened a bit. “Tell me what you saw."

Bart repeated the brief vision of her in her Aspect as they made their way back towards town, Bart feeling rejuvenated by her display, and a moment to rest. He felt distinctly more human than before, the aches and weariness a salve of their own after his immortal assault on the Queen's nightmare realm.

“Oh, yes. You saw it, when I looked into him," she said, looking back at him. “I imagined you would see, but I didn't expect you to grasp the significance of it so readily."

“You answered his prayers in front of him," Bart said incredulously. “You have been gone from us long indeed, Father Logan's faith is among the fiercest I know. To have you speak as such to him..." he left it hanging, and Cithara took up the thread gamely as they turned towards the town square again.

“He is at peace body, mind, and soul," she said smiling. “It is no magic nor prophecy, he is just entirely sure of things now. His place in his world," she said, letting her eyes close, her smile content. “It is a rare pleasure that I can bestow upon someone, a confirmation of purpose."

“Oh," Bart began with a raised eyebrow, “I can think of a few other men who can claim such joy," he said dryly, and Cithara tittered at him gaily.

“Yes, I suppose I do provide that for you boys don't I?" she said, looking at him. “I never thought of it as a purpose, but a need. The world needed you beautiful boys. Needs you." she amended at the end, her eyes drifting to her chest solemnly. The shattered, fractured golden scar across her supple breast was stark and visible. “Nay not merely the world. I needed you boys. Need you." she amended once more, meeting his gaze with a sad, but genuine smile.

“You are not the only one who has yet to reckon with their trials, my love," she said softly, “I however, am simply content that we will now have the time to do so."

“I appear to be holding together, though the seams are a bit stretched," Bart agreed with a crooked grin that set his mustache askew at a jaunty angle, Cithara brushed against him gently, setting her head gently against his shoulder as they walked, the distance intimate. Comforting.

“The others have had time Bart," she whispered as they walked down the cobblestone road at a sedate pace, the sparse foot traffic wending around them respectfully; “It has not been an immense amount, but it has been time. What you all experienced was not for mortal minds," she said to him softly.

“I know," was his quiet response — it was leaden and weighty with understanding. The gentle brush of her lips to his cheek was reassuring.

“I have dwelled with the others as you slept," she continued softly, “They came to me, one by one to watch over you. They told me what you saw." her voice was muted, gentle, their stride and close posture isolating them even in the afternoon crowd. The quiet sounds of life were a welcome antidote to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. Cithara continued as silence met her — but her gaze noted her concern.

“They told me you were drawn into the Queen's demesne," she ventured gently, voice inquiring. The pair's pace had taken them beyond the town square, the sun rapidly approaching its noon zenith as Bart found himself trodding the path up towards the Abbey, the sounds of the village gradually fading away. “They said she spoke to you. Saw you."

Bart shuddered, closing his eyes and missing a step. Cithara's body was deceptively strong, her tiny frame catching him, allowing him to lean on her as she met his eyes, fear and worry at war in her golden eyes.

“Bart, please," Cithara begged him against his silence, “I know it is terrible... but speak to me. Let me soothe your hurts," she pleaded with him softly. Bart closed his eyes again, leaning his weight against her, feeling her warmth, her softness. Grasping the reality of her in both hands.

“It wasn't what I saw that haunts me," he said. They'd stopped just beyond the village, on the long stretch between the Abbey's tor and the bulk of Fairharbour. Bart's lone blue eye opened to misery. He remembered it still as if it were but a few short hours ago. He clung to her more tightly.

“In that place... you were dead," he said in a hollow voice. “I could feel it, through the mantle. This gaping, empty hollowness. Like someone had torn off my arm and left the stump, ragged and bloody," his voice had dropped to a raw whisper, and the Lady's face had twisted into a mask of grief and pain she could not understand.

“I... I cannot imagine... when Mihai drew you into the demesne... I could still sense you, I knew you were alive... I just knew not where," she said, the air was still and quiet as Bart felt the weight of the memories take the strength from his legs. He was forced to sit lest he simply tumble over, falling heavily against a roadside stone.

“It was like walking around with a dead thing inside of me," Bart said, curling his good hand's fingers in the material of his shirt, right over his heart. “Like my heart died, and was rotting within my chest," he looked up at her with a tired gaze as she sat next to him, curling her body into his lap, silent and attentive. “There was no hope, no warmth. If I had not had the others there to focus on, to save..." he closed his eyes and swallowed heavily.

“I would not have made it. I would have died there as Parias intended."

“That was always Parias' error. He believed not in the altruism of men, of their good and noble hearts for he lacked one — and therefore assumed all men did," she said to him quietly, laying her cheek to his chest, over his heart as she drew his other around her with a brief flare of her orbit, she listened to his pulse through his broad trunk. “Nay, he was wrong most of all with you my love — your heart is so powerful, so strong I could hear it call to me the moment you touched my Glade's border. He assaulted your body and mind because he could not break your stalwart heart."

“It did not feel so unassailable in that place. The horrors I saw were nothing compared to the constant, gnawing absence, I feared not death... but dying in such a way I would not see you again..." he choked as the memory rushed back, raw and undiminished — the gut-wrenching hollowness, the fear, the despair — it all poured back into him, it reminded him such a place existed, that he could be made to feel as such again. She did not respond, but simply occupied his lap, fitting as much of her divine frame into his arms as she could.

Tears moistened Bart's cheeks as he stayed there with her. He did not think he would weep so often as a Soldier of God, but it felt good. A silent, cleansing cry as she held him there in the quiet at the side of the road, pouring his wordless grief at the wracking horror he had experienced into her mane — crushing her close as if he meant to press her through his chest so their hearts would meet and beat as one.

“I am here, beloved," she said after a long silence — long enough the sun had slipped past noon and the shadows lengthened. “I will never let the dark things take you again. I have failed so many of my boys, but not you. Not again," she choked out, her own turn to weep as they continued to hold one another. “I had no idea Bart... oh God's Blood if I had known..." she whispered to him, and they fell once more into silence.

“It was so real. I find myself even now, squeezing you, feeling you here in my arms... and there's a doubt in my mind — did I really escape? Are you really here, is this real?" the Paladin nigh-babbled, sniffling loudly as his blotchy face streamed tears, she raised her head, visage similarly messy — but Cithara managed to look beautiful even as she wept.

“I am real Bart, and that's the true horror I cannot save you from — so was that other place," she said, her face crumpling with grief. “It was the Queen's own demesne, it was as real as any place you have been before — she is a God, and has the power of creation, however, limited it may be by her own machinations — what exists there, to her and whom she would bring there, was very real," she said and drew in a shuddering breath. “... I was dead, in that place. In that timeline she concocted. Everything you felt was real... and I cannot undo that, I can only soothe the hurts left behind."

Bart nodded, though his face was numb — he felt as if all of him was, at that moment. The rawness, the fierce reality of his memories. He closed his eyes and he saw that place again in all its horror, remembered that isolation — the deadness inside — as if it were but a moment ago. Her warmth, however, slowly drove it away. His thoughts were gradually washed clean of that fell place and given instead the shining, golden radiance of her presence. His weeping stopped as he held her, and a thought came to him.

“I did not dream of that... place, when I slumbered. I dreamed of somewhere else. Someplace... golden. Safe." he said quietly. He could feel Cithara smile against his chest.

“That was no dream, my love. It was real as the Queen's realm," she whispered to him quietly, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes, her own full of love despite the streaks of tears. “All things grand and mighty have a demesne, not just the Queen and her monsters."

“So... that place, the fields of gold...?"

“Mine own," she nodded, smiling. “It is a small place I keep for those I love best. Much like the Wendigo's place, it is part of our Lord's realm... but it is my little corner of it," she said and leaned up, kissing his lips softly.

“Your mind and soul were so damaged, I drew you to my realm, let you rest there as I worked. I swaddled you in love and kissed away the hurts on your very soul until you were strong enough to wake."

Bart smiled through that, and a different sort of tears threatened to spring to his eyes. “So... you mean where I was..." Bart felt words fail him, and the Unicorn smiled.

“Heaven," she confirmed softly, “A little part of it all my own, but Heaven all the same." Bart was silenced by that revelation, and it did much to assuage that horror still lurking. The darkness stayed, it would taint his soul and mind forever, that he knew... but the first-hand taste of the reward of faith — not for him, but those he had failed to save, the men like Ser Eglamour. Knowing in such a personal manner that they were good, safe, and loved for their sacrifices. It salved his heart and brightened the darkness from his soul. He knew what awaited him in the end now, truly and without doubt... and that was a grand comfort.

A thought then occurred to him, as he made ready to stand — Cithara shifting away from him and helping him rise with her surprisingly sturdy body; “What happened to the Wendigo, truly?" he asked, Cithara's gaze turning to him as she wiped her face dry with a raised foreleg. “I know I slew it on the Altar, cut it down with The First Blade but... I did not think such a thing could die."

“We can all die, beloved," She said solemnly, “I hated the Wendigo for its depravity — but it and I were like to like, opposing ideals. You did to it, what Mihai intended for me," she said, Bart and her moving back on the road, ascending towards the Abbey.

“So the Queen... devoured it?" Bart guessed, and Cithara nodded.

“A simple explanation for a vast concept but it serves. She devoured its portfolio, what it was whole. She wanted my love... and instead devoured its hunger," the Unicorn shuddered. “I loathe to imagine how such a thing will change her — she is already a mad thing, unloved and unwanted, to be given as well the whole of the Gnawing Hunger's ideals as part of her..." she shook her head, appearing genuinely shaken by the thoughts. “I dare not even think it, it is far too terrible even for I."

Bart had nothing to add to that, simply blinking away the grim thoughts. It was for wiser heads than he to understand, and Bart was honestly comfortable with that. He would have plenty of time to understand these things after all — so long as he dwelled with The Unicorn. Cithara took her turn to ask a question.

“Who is it you told Father Logan you would speak of things to, if not I?" she asked softly, walking in step beside him. “I do not presume to be the only important being in your life but I am curious."

“Lucian," Bart answered simply, as they came within comfortable sight of the walls. A sentry raised a hand to them a distance away, and a shrill whistle called. Bart paused, and blew the response — much as he had at Fort Ivory, a grin coming to his lips unbidden... memories of his time here filling him with contentment. “He is as a brother to me, and we shared everything growing up."

“You spoke of him often in the Glade, I am eager to meet him," she said, and a sadness fell across her face, looking down at her chest. “I am filled with grief at the fact I will never be able to bless him with a Mantle," she said, her voice growing small. “By your tell, he would have been an amazing Paladin."

“The best," Bart agreed, sorrow tinging his own voice. “It's all he ever wanted... I have no idea how to tell him, I don't understand it," he said, frowning. “I am saying that a lot, aren't I?"

“Dear Bart... you are so far beyond your depth as a mortal, it is a wonder you grasp as much as you do," she reassured him. “You have strode into the depths of the unknown reaches by need, and weathered it with aplomb, fret not."

“Well, when you put it like that how can I argue?" Bart said laconically, getting a laugh from the Unicorn.

“Stop that, you know I love you. Mortal or no," she said, brushing against him fondly, before letting out a sigh, looking down at the fractured scar on her breast once more. “I don't understand it myself totally, beloved... I just... know," she said, straightening her back and neck defiantly against the sorrow. “Mihai tore something out of me, something vital to making those connections anew... I can still feel your mantle and the hundreds of others. Still feed you power... but, it is like the knowledge, the ability to form those bonds anew..." her face scrunched up in frustration. “... it is simply gone, a gap where it should be. I cannot say how he did it... but he took it from me."

“Your joy, he said," Bart growled, “He knew what he was doing, he knew how you loved us."

“He hurt me, Bart. Hurt me like nobody else has," she said, shuddering and pressing next to him. “I feel... sullied, violated by it," she murmured for his ears alone as they approached the gate.

“He answered for it. He will answer again," Bart said resolutely, the Abbey's great doors swinging wide before them at calls from above, the clatter of the windlass a familiar sound, and the rush of air beyond thick with the bouquet of flowers, steel, and stone was equally locked into his memory. Home, as much as his actual house had been.

Cheers rose as they entered the Abbey's gates. Around them, the walls were lined with the usual sentries plus extra — clearly leftovers from the assault — and the yard and green were full of trainees and men-at-arms in full panoply, all of them to a man boomed cries of favor and faith. Bart shrank back, letting the Lady take her due, but she laughed at him softly, turning to look at her beloved.

“That isn't for me my love," she said, pulling him forward with her long tail, turning her face to the roaring crowd as it grew around them.

“Surely, you're the Order's Patron — the Lady in White!" he said to her as the din only grew, she laughed at him openly now, her eyes upturned with mirth.

“My love — you are the man who saved the Lady in White," she said to him, not missing a stride. “They cheer for their hero."

Bart flushed at that — he had not done as he had for accolades or heroism, glory had never even crossed his mind on this whole adventure — yet glory had found him, the men and boys around him boomed with voices and banged fists and weapons upon shields. The last shreds of doubt faded from the wounded Paladin's mind as the cheer solidified into a familiar, yet long-unheard nickname.

“BIG BART! BIG BART! BIG BART!"

“How absolutely absurd," he mused in embarrassment, but Cithara laughed gaily at the sound.

“I think it's fitting, Big Bart the Golden," she laughed again, winking at him with impish glee. “In more ways than just one."

Bart colored brightly at that but looked up to see familiar faces chanting and cheering. It was an unexpected thing, he felt at once too small and too large, obtrusive and oddly under-dressed.

“What do I do, wave?" he asked her, eyes wide, and she continued tittering at him. The dark thoughts and violations forgotten in the joy of the moment, her eyes full of warmth and happiness — and in that same moment, all of the pain and suffering was worth it.

“You truly are without a braggart's bone in your body, aren't you?" she teased him, and pranced around him in short little skips, laughing. “Just smile, and enjoy it, my hero," she purred, and then with a giddy little laugh, she joined in the cheer, his old novice nickname ringing out like a badge of office.

Bart slowed to a walk, and then simply stopped before the main building, looking around at the growing crowd of cheering men and women; eyes alight with enthusiasm as he couldn't do anything but smile. A day of peaks and valleys it had been, and here was yet another emotional hill to crest.

“Well, well. I would ask what all the noise is, but I have ears yet," came a dry, deep voice. The doors swung open, pushed by strong hands — and on the other side, wearing his dented, scarred harness stood the Lord Protector, alone and without pretense, his face as always veiled.

“Milord!" Bart said, striking as best he could for attention, but his hip jolted with pain at being forced straight, and the man hobbled. The Lord Protector held up a hand, waving him down.

“At your ease lad, at your ease," He said, his own body language casual as he walked up to the pair, arms crossed behind his back. His eyes met the Lady's and there was a telltale upturn of a smile as he knelt down before her, and offered her his palms.

“Lady, will you bless me?" he asked softly, and she smiled and laughed.

“Always, Old Wolf," she said, and gently kissed each of his upturned palms — and gently rested her horn against his brow. There was a thrum of power — a pulsing he was familiar with whenever he touched her: his mantle resonating with its source. The Lord Protector visibly seemed to relax.

“It has been a long time, Lady," he said, standing as he looked her over. “You've changed," he said with some small surprise in his tone.

“As have you, time and task wait for none of us dear one," she said sadly, her fractured golden scar bright and obvious in the sun and beneath the Lord Protector's gaze, he turned his eyes to Bart.

“You as well, lad. I recall sending a fresh-faced young Knight-Brother to the Lady," he said in a stern tone. “And given back to me is this grizzled warrior whose face I do not know, but his eyes look familiar."

“That fresh-faced Knight-Brother has been through a great deal, Milord," Bart said in a weary tone, but he smiled. The Lord Protector nodded, his eyes tracking to Bart's throat... where he saw the red-stained lock of Cithara's mane, a matching coil of silvery-white hair to the one hanging around the veiled Lord's own throat, his eyes widened.

“It seems he has, and we have much to discuss," he said and looked pointedly at Bart. “Can you manage stairs, brother?"

“I'll be slow but I'll get there," Bart said, and the Protector grunted in understanding, and then walked quietly beside Bart, flanking his weak side — and offered him his bandage-wrapped hand, the smell of herbs and medicinal salves sharp to the nose.

“Lean on me, brother. You have stood alone well enough." Walking out the Lord Protector cast his gaze to the cheering crowds with a smile in his eyes, before his strong voice raised out over the crowd; “Is there not work yet to be done?" he called out in a commanding voice, Bart leaning on his arm for support and Cithara — bright and beautiful — at their side like a beacon. Laughter rang off the walls and a wholly new din of metal on metal as fists clashed to chests in salute. The Lord Protector returned it and the crowd began to disperse — save for a few remaining cheers and exclamations, the master of the order chuckled softly. “Your return was good for your brothers, this is a time when we need heroes," he said, and his eyes trailed back to Cithara's scarred breast. “Now, more than ever." They crossed the yard together, Bart able to keep pace easily with the stolid strength of the preceptor of his order to lean on, he had never had much physical contact with him — few did, out of either reverence or station — yet he was solid and unyielding as the walls of the Abbey itself, even lacking Bart's own burly mass, the Paladin did not think he could move the man unbidden with main strength on his best of days. With his help, they ascended the walls as a trio — sentries and men-at-arms saluting and bowing as they went past — the presence of The Lady in White not lost on them, the looks of reverence here were tempered with the grit of battle and study. They looked at her with soldier's eyes.

“Lachheim is fallen," Baratus said as they crested the high wall, looking north. His tone was crisp and final, Bart turned his eyes to the horizon... and he felt his mouth go dry. The Abbey's tor was just shy of its own small mountain, its gentle and winding path hiding much of its impressive altitude that made it such a stalwart bastion — the reason why the population of Fairharbour had retreated here after the initial assaults were stymied by the Radiant Order. Here, he could see many miles in any direction, and those leagues of sight made the horror of Lachheim's destruction both clear and uncomfortably distant and disconnected.

Smoke was the primary thing to be seen, a great column of it in the distance. The city still smoldered, and would for God only knew how long. Deep went its cellars and sewers, and the fires stoked themselves hungrily on the flesh and bone of the city and its fallen inhabitants alike. Beyond that, he could make out the walls, crumbled and crushed, and much of the surrounding countryside scoured and burned as well, all the way to lost and emptied Bellway before it petered out. He shuddered, he'd known the place... and now it was just, gone.

“We routed the Queen's forces. At one point their commanders and leaders seemed to simply disappear, yanked back into whatever dark places spawned them," Baratus folded his arms as he gazed over the horizon. “I assume that was your doing."

“I killed their leader, Mihai Aldea," Bart said, though his face screwed up at that. “In a manner of speaking, at least."

“So I've learned from others," The Lord Protector said with a nod. “His death was not final then?" Bart shook his head with a shrug.

“He was dead, he died upon Manu Propria's iron... but I do not think it stuck, even by his own dying words — said with his heart sheared in two — he promised to be back," Bart said, leaning on the wall for support, a sigh of relief as he took the pressure off his damaged hip. “A year he said, a year and he'd return."

“We will be ready," Baratus said in a firm tone, gesturing across the broader devastation. “When the commanders were expunged, much of their forces went to ground as they were driven out. The Heartlands sits on top of thousands of miles of underground caverns and natural cisterns from the upheaval of The Black March," he said in a dour tone, his hands leaning heavily on the flagstones of the wall with Bart. “Hundreds of them, now loose and free in the fell places of our land. Monsters in the dark."

“A time for heroes then," Cithara stated in a surprisingly bright tone, her golden eyes meeting the two of them. “There is much work for men of quality now, mantles or no — those strong of arm and stout of heart will be tasked greatly in the coming years."

Baratus chuckled softly, “Indeed, no shortage of work for the valorous. The Abbey will open its gates anew to those who would fight," he said, an optimism in his voice as he at last turned his gaze to Bart and their shared amulets of dancing, blood-marked mane. Bart avoided his gaze, it was uncomfortably intense.

“He knows, Old Wolf," Cithara intoned softly, near his side, “He knows my heart to its deepest reaches."

“It has come at last, has it?" the preceptor asked, leaning his weight more on the wall, a weariness suddenly present in his frame. He looked at Bart, and there was a smile in his eyes. “She told you that many had professed to love her, as a man does a woman, yes?" Bart nodded, Baratus gave a small sound of acknowledgment and raised his own dancing bit of mane in his fingers. “I was one of them," Bart paled a bit.

“I... do not mean to... I never intended..." The Lord Protector waved it away, laughter on his veiled lips.

“Think nothing of it, brother. I was not the one," he said simply, looking out across the horizon, but not truly seeing it — his gaze was on the past. “I still love you, Cithara. Love you with every fiber of my being, dream of you on cold nights," he stated simply, and the Unicorn moved between the two men, settling between them comfortably, her voice a sigh of regret.

“I know, dear one. Yet you cannot love me as I need, and you know that in your heart now as you did then," she said in a soft, almost apologetic tone, Baratus nodded.

“I cannot. I have others who need me, my heart would never truly rest with you alone, I was not made as such. My purpose lies elsewhere," he admitted, there was no malice or bitterness in his tone, he spoke lightly and his eyes carried with them a faint winsomeness that faded as he looked upon Bart and the Lady together. “I knew someone would come, however, someday. You were not made to be alone."

Cithara's eyes gleamed a bit with tears, but a blink dashed them away as she leaned up, and her orbit flared lightly, gently lifting his veil away — Bart was given a brief glimpse of ruddy, scarred flesh, and a grisly, skeletal nose, hollow cheeks and a sharply defined skull beneath thin flesh — as she leaned up and gave a chaste, gentle kiss to his scarred lips. The Lord Protector seemed to go weak for a moment, his body trembled, but he lowered his head as she released the veil, reverence in his entire body language.

“Thank you, Lady Mine."

“You were always a good man, Baratus. I love you still," she said, and her eyes turned up in a smile more than her lips. “Perchta and Holda send their regards, they miss the Old Wolf and his fangs," she said, and he laughed at that, warm and full.

“Those old monsters are still around, are they?" he mused, and she nodded.

“They fought for my protection when the Queen's new monsters invaded my Glade, and again at the Routing of Fort Ivory. They remain as always — ferocious."

“Ferociously tart," Bart added bitterly, getting fresh chortles from the preceptor.

“From your mouth to God's ears, brother," he chuckled, shoulders rocking; “Never had I met more prickly beings in my life, it took some time to realize that was how they showed fondness." Bart made a face.

“Spare me the love of the Sidhe then," Bart grimaced, shaking his head. “I find the Lady's affections far more palatable."

“She is the scale on which all love is measured, this is true," Baratus agreed, and Cithara tittered at them both, her nose pink.

“Stop it you two, you gush like teenage boys with crushes," she teased, and they both looked at her with knowing eyes, which only made her preen herself in earnest — she was a woman still, down to her bones. The preceptor met Bart's gaze at that moment, and he touched his throat where her lock of mane danced.

“We share a bond now, few know of her history — our Oath of Blood keeps it secret," he said, gaining a nod from Bart. “It is a bitter pill to swallow for the common man, to know of the failures of the founder of our order."

“I met him," Bart blurted suddenly, getting a curious look from the Lord Protector. “His shade, at least... when I was sent to retrieve his sword and armor by the Lady."

“Ah, so those were his effects," he said, nodding. “I had suspected, but we have no record of his resting place."

“I took him," Cithara stated simply, looking out towards the horizon — her turn to gaze into memory more than landscape. “I would not have his subjects tarrying and playing political games with his remains. He was mine, and I would keep him from such debasement."

Baratus nodded, his eyes impressed as he looked to Bart; “Even I did not know this, truly she loves you with all of her boundless heart," he said, and Bart laughed a bit, the preceptor leaning closer. “What was he like?"

“Shorter than I expected," Bart said honestly.

“Hardly a fair measure, brother. You are a walking mountainside."

“Fair enough," Bart agreed with a laugh, leaning onto the wall and thinking back, taking his turn down the mental paths of memory; “He was soft-spoken, fair-minded, and full of zeal. I liked him... and I could see how Cithara could have come to love him."

“He was a noble soul," she said quietly, and that was all that remained to be said.

“On to business... my Lady... my love," Baratus said, and with reverent hands — he reached out to her breast, where the wound glittered its golden scars in the sunlight, her breath hitched and she closed her eyes.

“Yes, we should speak of this... it is a fell portent," she said.

She then told him. Told him everything in a quiet tone of loss and anguish, before the end of it she was weeping again, pressed into Bart's arms.

“He took it from me, Baratus," she breathed through tears, “Violated me as surely as if he'd turned my tail aside and ravaged my body, stole my joy and your future from my breast, and fed it to that monster in the Ossuary," she said in a morose, quiet wail — her whole frame seeming to shrink beneath the guilt and woe.

“Bart is the last Paladin I will ever forge," she whispered, tears falling to the flagstones in dark droplets. “Our order is at an end, I do not know how we will hold back the dark without them."

“With faith, Lady Mine," Baratus answered soberly, his fists clenched on the stones. “Faith and men of quality. There is more to a Paladin than thunderbolts and golden flame," he said, and raised his eyes, turning to the men in the yard, training and toiling. Cithara looked at them, her eyes shining with golden pain — but also, hope. Baratus' eyes smiled.

“We are not without hope yet, Lady Mine. We are Paladins. Our lives are for the people, and so long as your glory shines upon us, we will carry on as such. Mantles or not — evil cannot stand before the hearts of good men."

“You remind me why I love your kind so, my dear," she murmured to him, slowly regaining her composure piece by piece as she looked between the two men — the one who held her, and the other who stood tall and resolute. “Man is a doughty creature, perhaps more than even God has reckoned with." Baratus grinned, it showed in the wrinkle of his nose.

“I often wonder if God chose us for that, or if he also looks in wonder at the resilience of our souls."

“He does," was all the Unicorn had to offer, and it was enough.

“We will have to adapt, as we have before. A changing world, and a changing battlefield," The preceptor said, folding his arms across his chest. “A new Paladin for a new war. I have just the man in mind for such a task," he said cryptically, but there was a smile in his eyes.

“You're scheming, I can see it in your shoulders," Cithara said to him, and he laughed softly, his head throwing back as he did.

“Ever transparent to your golden gaze, Lady Mine. Yes, but hush now. I need time to plot," he said, tapping the side of his non-existent nose through his veil before turning his gaze to Bart. “Now, tell me more of this place you went to. I want all of it, no detail is too minor — this is the most knowledge we have ever had of the Empty Queen's demesne since the Verdant Crusade and much of that came from madmen."

It was Bart's turn to seek comfort, he took a deep breath and simply began to explain what he saw, and how he understood it. It was a miserable thing, like dragging a knotted and barbed length of cable through his guts, yet he endured. He always endured. Cithara pressed close to him as he spoke, putting words to horrors and concepts he hoped never to revisit — misery and depravity that lived behind the darkness when he closed his eyes. Baratus listened intently, their place on the turret surprisingly comfortable — the early summer sun warmed Bart's aching body and drove away the chill of the dismal memories — and Cithara's presence chased away the chill that tried to wrap its icy fingers around his heart.

It took time. Bart frequently took breaks to simply sit in silence as Cithara soothed him — his eyes distant and haunted. It had been easier to deal with in the moment — he had a task to focus on, a goal to strive for — that had made the horrors and sheer impossibility of what he had experienced a secondary concern. To re-examine it now was like tearing open a barely healed wound, the pain was fresh and new.

The afternoon sun crawled towards evening by the time he was finished. He felt drained and empty — hollowed out by the remembered experience, absent the glittering, golden power that had shielded him from much of the nightmare. Baratus had sent for an ewer of water at one point, and Bart sat, sipping from a wooden cup as Cithara laid across his lap — Baratus similarly propped up against the far crenelation of the turret.

“That's it, that's all I remember," Bart concluded with a hoarse voice, Baratus' eyes were hard as flint but he nodded, his hands had been busy — the Lord Protector was a warrior first, but that hadn't always been his calling. There were legends he'd started his life a poet before being stricken by his sickness, and his hands scratched and danced a quill over a sheaf of vellum that had come along with the pitcher of water — noting down everything Bart had said in a tight, flowing script.

“A harrowing ordeal," he said, gently waving the page through the air to dry the ink faster, “Your sacrifices will not be without reward — this will be poured over by our scribes, and the Rezarians as well," he explained, nodding at the reclining Paladin confidently. “Well done, brother. You have earned a long rest — if it were in my power, you have earned a quiet life with your blade laid aside," he said and Bart shook his head.

“I thank you for your concern, Milord — but I would not know what to do with myself in such a case," he replied, looking down to Cithara, her golden eyes met his and she smiled warmly, knowingly. “I am built for the struggle, Milord," he said, his purpose having long been confirmed to him. “I endure."

“Truly," the little unicorn agreed with an intimate sigh. Baratus nodded, his smile touched his eyes as he rested back against the wall. The trio fell into a companionable silence as the sounds of training and birdsong wafted through the air. Bart began to doze beneath the comfortable press of Cithara's body…

The peace was disturbed by a ruckus from down in the yard, jerking Bart up suddenly with a gasp, and causing the Unicorn to sit up, eyes wide as Baratus turned his head lazily to the green. Frustrated barks of indiscernible language echoed off the walls — but Bart's head tilted as he heard an all-too-familiar, booming, rich voice.

“... There is no way," the big Paladin said, and Baratus raised an eyebrow behind his veil as the younger man pulled himself to his feet with the Lady's aid.

Down on the green, Bart spied not one, but two unlikely familiar faces — one a lean, compactly-muscular man with a shock of white hair in the black surcoat of a Knight-Brother of the Hospitaller order, and he could not contain his smile as he recognized his dearest friend, Lucian — he had passed his own Trial of Steel in Bart's absence and wore the colors to prove it. Yet it was whom the young albino sparred with verbally that drew Bart's incredulity. Fat and broad, with a massive beard and even more massive mouth opened in a haranguing diatribe to which Bart still couldn't quite hear, gesturing with thick fingers attached to thicker arms, swollen with slab-like, working man muscle.

“God's Blood, Kull!" Bart breathed, and Baratus snorted a bit.

“Ah yes, you've noticed our new stray," the preceptor stated, raising an eyebrow; “He said he was a friend of yours, none believed him but we are loathe to turn away anyone in need."

“Friend is perhaps stretching it, but I consider him an ally of the greater good, at least," Bart said, but in spite of himself his lips split in a grin, and he hastily made his way down the stairs towards the two as the verbal joust began anew.

“I don't care what your books and scriptures say, boy — I'm speaking from experience! There is nuance you are simply not considering!" Kull's deep voice boomed, gesturing emphatically for effect. Lucian rolled his eyes.

“Goodman, I don't doubt your experience but this is a matter of fact — you cannot simply ignore the specifics of something and call it 'nuance'!'" Lucian countered, his pale skin pink with irritation, Kull's wide mouth splitting in a toothy grin.

“Of course, I can, that's why it's called finesse," The fat thief grinned at him, and Lucian's calm demeanor melted in a burst of irritation.

“Selling a simple unguent of camphor as a blessed poultice is not 'finesse' it is lying outright!" the young Hospitaller barked, and Kull laughed full and long, his belly shaking as he did, his wide lips staying split in a toothy grin as he put his arm around the boy.

“It's not lying, all things are blessed by Our Lady's grace, even the lowly camphor plant no?" he said with a sly look, and Lucian seemed fit to burst as the pair approached... and Cithara chose to range ahead with a little cough.

“I may bless all life but I would kindly ask you not to grift the needy and wounded in my name," she said in a quiet, stately tone — jerking both men's attention away from their argument to the divine being as she approached. Kull's mouth hung open, and Lucian's eyes went wide, but his lips turned upwards into a growing smile as he reached over and quite pointedly closed the fat thief's mouth.

“Lady Mine!" Lucian exclaimed, then sweeping himself to one knee, head bowed; “I had heard you were within our fair town, but I had not dared hope to meet you yet." Kull remained staring a moment, his eyes going between Bart and the Unicorn as the former stumped over, trailed some steps behind by the Lord Protector. Bart tapped the side of his nose as Kull raised an eyebrow, turning his shocked expression into a roguish grin.

“Oh, dear one — why would I deny you audience?" she asked breathlessly as she approached the young man, eyes wide with recognition, “I Know you."

Lucian's gaze only grew wider as she raised his chin up from the floor with one too-fluid motion of her foreleg, the delicate limb too-limber, uncanny, and beautiful in its motion. She met his eyes for a long moment, and she smiled wider.

“Blood of my blood... I had not dared hope that any of you yet were born," she breathed, confirming Bart's own suspicions. Lucian paled further than seemed possible for his albino countenance, and Cithara gently leaned down and kissed his brow. Joy and sadness warred with her body language. “My dear one, too long have I been absent this world... it torments me so we must meet like this."

“I don't understand, Lady Mine," Lucian breathed, and Bart picked up the thread.

“The rumors and theories of the Augers and Hospitallers seem to be confirmed, Lu," he said quietly, only for the ears of the assembled five, reaching down and pulling his dearest of friends to his feet. “Your pale skin and flashes of intuition were not madness nor curse — but Blood of the Divine," he explained, and Cithara nodded, her smile radiant.

“You are of my own lineage, many centuries removed and thinned by time... but I feel you in my heart as I look upon you. I see the First Paladin's eyes in yours, his blood pulses however diluted through your heart," she quietly exulted, and nodded at him. “It is wonderful you are here, within my Abbey — one of my dear, beautiful boys."

Lucian stared, flicking his gaze between the two as the Lord Protector joined the pair, silent but approving as he folded his arms across his broad chest. The young Knight-Brother shook his head, stunned as he once again met the Unicorn's gaze. “I Know you as well, Lady... I've always known you," he said, the words full of wonder, a thousand-thousand little connections forming in his mind and heart, an undercurrent within him he'd always known but never been able to put words to now made clear and true. Cithara smiled and nodded.

“Just so, dear one," she said, and then turned her gaze on Kull; “As for you."

“I am your most hearty of patrons, Lady Mine," Kull said with a grandiose sweep of his arm by way of a courtly bow, his wide mouth split in a wider smile. Cithara's own lips twisted wryly at that.

“That remains to be seen — I have heard tell of the great Kull of Lachheim from Lidia."

“All good things, I'm sure," Kull said proudly, Cithara tittered at him, but her eyes narrowed a bit.

“No, they painted you as quite the bully, braggart, and confidence man," she said in a stern tone, raising an eyebrow at him as he grinned wider, glee in his face.

“Compliments all — it is a brutal business Lady Mine, and it requires brutal people," he said, unfazed by the judgment of the divine being before him, his bravado seemingly having no limit nor end, even here.

“A thin justification for skullduggery and grift," she said tartly, and Kull tapped the side of his nose cheekily.

“One I will hide wildly behind!" he chortled at her, and the Unicorn's look of almost amused outrage only drove his laughter wider; “It is a savage world Lady Mine — and your Churchmen and Paladins hew at the great and mighty evils, but there are many common blackguards beneath the notice of the mighty and powerful," he said, giving another bow to the Lord Protector; “It is here that I come into my own!"

“Oh? You, a tick feasting on the blood of my people claim to do us no ill?" she challenged him, and he eagerly raised a finger.

“Indeed! I even would go so far as to say without me and mine — your noble champion would not have made it to your golden embrace!" he said, and Cithara's eyes narrowed — but Bart grunted in bemused laughter, drawing her attention.

“He's right, beloved," the Paladin told her, getting a look of consternation from the cosmic creature, Bart raised a hand with a shrug; “Were it not for his direction, I would not have drawn together the conclusions that Mihai was our traitor — and I likely would be quite dead in the razing of the town." Kull grinned, fingers tucked proudly into his belt.

“Indeed! Your shining beacons of nobility do well against monsters and men-at-arms — but it is me and mine who know the darkened hearts of the common man," he said giddily; “Call me a tick as you will, but I recognize my own — and I loathe competition."

“A patriot," Bart added laconically, Kull snapping his fingers and pointing at the brawny Paladin.

“Precisely," he agreed, his paunch leading him as he rocked back on his heels. “I am a Patriot and devout man of God — how can I not be, I stand in the presence of his majesty given form and beauty!" he crowed, and the Unicorn rolled her eyes — but a smile had wormed its way to her face.

“A gross liar, flatterer, and rake," she accused, but there was only so much bite in her words, Kull laughed heartily.

“Guilty, guilty, and guilty! Tools of my trade, but in this case I speak honestly. I graft and steal — but I operate by rules." he said, eyeing the Paladins. “I do not steal from the poor nor the common folk, and I trod down firmly on the exploitation of children or women."

“You use children as agents, and there was no shortage of whores in Lachheim's gutters." Bart accused, and he laughed again.

“That isn't exploitation — that is enterprise. Those strumpets and ragamuffins were paid a fair wage and given fair representation in my affairs, even the lowliest guttersnipe plying her flesh for gold did so safe and secure for I controlled the streets she walked," he said proudly.

“Another justification thin as gold leaf." she countered with a stern voice, “Another I will hide behind with aplomb," Kull responded succinctly, causing the unicorn to huff in renewed consternation.

“An impossible knave... but I cannot argue that there are zero merits to what you say," she replied bitterly, her lips turning into a thoughtful frown. Kull smiled at her and then let out a deep sigh.

“Sadly, it is all in the past. I have relinquished all of that in the pursuit of nobler goals!" he said dramatically, to which Bart, Lucian, and Cithara stared at him incredulously, Baratus cleared his throat, his rough voice cutting in quietly.

“That is my doing," the preceptor added, getting a sharp look from Cithara.

“You employ this reprobate?" she asked with pure disbelief in her tone, and the Lord Protector nodded curtly.

“I do. Lachheim is gone, reduced to ashes and rubble — and with it, its leaders, its records — taxes, shipping, harvest tolls — all gone in the flames and plunder of the Queen's monsters," he explained, and Kull grinned wide.

“All except here!" He crowed, tapping the side of his head. “I never forget a word I have written with my own hand, not once since I learned the quill and parchment as a lad," he said, and Bart gave him a look full of doubt.

“A tall claim even for you, Kull," he said with an edge, and the master thief turned to him with a smug look.

“Test me then, Se,." he countered, and Bart set his teeth and thought a moment, before countering himself.

“The Mueller Mill, what was its output two seasons past?"

“Five carts of fine wheat, four carts of well-ground flour, and two carts of barley and oats in at a copper penny per measure — a half crown for the flour and wheat," he said without hesitation, Bart's jaw practically fell free from his skull. Kull beamed.

“Never forget a word writ by my own hand," he said confidently, and Baratus nodded.

“He has been a boon for our records and making sense of what was lost — but moreover our dear friend here has offered to turn over a new leaf in the wake of his city's destruction." the preceptor added, gesturing to the man to continue — where Kull picked up the thread eagerly.

“I am no lover of the Queen or her cults. I am a Heartlands man to my teeth, and I keep God and Lady in my heart. I am a patriot and that is no lie, she has struck at my home and I would have satisfaction for that slight," he said in a low growl, raising his chin. “To whit, I have turned my considerable resources beyond this place to the Lord Protector's aid. I have ears in many lands, and my reach is still quite long, even past this great belly!" he chortled, slapping his paunch.

“How... colorful," Cithara replied, getting a fresh grin from the fat thief.

“He has... actually been quite helpful," Lucian cut in, his stunned state seemingly having finally worn away. “Messenger hawks fly daily between the four kingdoms, each always arriving with new movements of the local governments in response to the atrocities of late." the young man said, looking at Bart. “I always had a head for politics and history, you know."

“And maths, theology, and arcane theory," Bart added, causing the albino man to blush. Kull laughed, clapping the boy on the back, hard — causing him to wince.

“The lad sells himself short! He has a mind like a well-honed blade, sharp and quick! I could not ask for a better partner in these endeavors. He can spot coded language and political posturing from a league out! Truly, a warrior and a scholar."

“He has been indispensable in the time since he arrived, the Four Kingdoms look across our borders with open avarice with the destruction of Lachheim — and with it, all of our records and leadership," Baratus said, and took a deep breath, meeting Cithara's gaze.

“My lady — as of but some weeks past — The Heartlands no longer exist as a sovereign nation." Cithara's eyes dilated to points and her face grew stony.

“Explain."

“Mihai was thorough," Baratus answered. “In his razing of the city — he slaughtered every member of the council, and their heirs for two generations. All rolls of order and civil records were entirely destroyed. The full seat of power in the Heartlands is gone as surely as if he had swept it into the ocean by hand." Cithara's eyes narrowed as she grew distant, contemplative. Kull picked up the thread.

“Your neighbors are goodly folk — but they are still Men — and Men lust for power, land, and coin regardless of their good hearts or faithful upbringings. We are all flesh, and therefore flawed," he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt again. “They all eye our lands with open hunger, and it only now remains to see who chooses to move first to claim the bounty left behind."

“Mihai... you bastard," Cithara breathed hatefully, drawing a recoiling look from everyone present — rarely did the Lady utter an uncouth word, and to do so with such venom was a bracing experience. “He truly did plan for all. Even in failure — he has sown discord and chaos in the lands, he needs not even lift a hand — human nature will do it for him," she said with a grudging respect in her tone.

“War is on the horizon," Baratus agreed. “In function, if not name."

“I have been absent too long indeed," she mourned, turning her eyes upon Lucian again, the troubles of Kull and his machinations dismissed for the time being as she stepped closer to the pale knight.

“You wear the colors," she said softly, a sadness in her voice. Lucian blinked, his eyes dilating to points as she approached him anew, looking him over slowly and with exacting precision, a smile coming to her face. “You chose the way of the healer," she remarked, and the young knight-brother nodded, breaking out of his renewed shock by a ripe handhold for his mind to grasp onto.

“Yes, Lady Mine. The Hospitallers tended to my sickness as a lad, healed me, and made me whole." he said, laying a hand over his heart — and the emblazoned Eye-and-Horn sigil of his God and Lady; “I knew then when I felt strength flow into my body, felt no longer trapped within my frailness... that it was something I wanted to bring to others," he said, and with a catch in her voice, the lady stepped closer, taking up the thread from the young man.

“You wanted to make people whole."

Lucian's face lit up, and he nodded, folding his arms around his middle as he looked at her with wonder. “Yes, yes that's exactly it. I see Ser Davis working with Master Balgus, have my whole life," he said, casting his eyes towards the smithy in the military side of the Abbey, smoke puffing up from behind the stables. “He has never once failed to check on that old strip of iron, the pain tasks him as if he feels it himself," he said, tone full of quiet awe. “I wanted to be that for people, to be able to carry peace in my hands."

Cithara's eyes were full of tears, it was a day of such things. Bittersweet tasks and great joys intermingled, to where her mouth smiled in joy but yet again she wept openly as she drew close to the boy, intimately she stood before him now, a nakedness in her gaze as she met his eyes.

“You are so much like her," she stated in a ghost of a voice, her own quiet wonder evident in her tone as she gently nosed a strand of his floppy mane-like tonsure from his eyes, her touch delicate and careful; “Your many-times great grandmother. My daughter."

“I… am afraid I do not know of her," Lucian admitted, the young knight-brother well-read and a learned man in a variety of facets, but secrets were secrets. Cithara smiled sadly as the memories played across her face plainly, for her clearly just as fresh as they had been centuries prior.

“The Horned Saint," Baratus cut in quietly, his voice a low thrum for the group alone. Lucian's eyes widened with understanding, piecing together each part rapidly as his quick wits were wont to do. Cithara's smile deepened.

“Gianna," was all she said for a moment, her voice so low Bart only scarcely heard it before the lady lifted her head, repeating softly; “Her name was Gianna. She loved mint tea, white hydrangeas, and rabbits." the little unicorn looked all around, suddenly seeming quite vulnerable to the four comparatively large, burly men — but her eyes were hard as agates as she looked at them, tears gleaming on her cheeks all the same,

“I would have that kept quiet, gentlemen," she said with a soft tone that brooked no argument, her delicateness worn like a defiant gown, “It is no proper secret, but names are powerful things — and I would have my dearly departed child's name spoken only by those who love me." She said, turning her gaze on Kull in particular as she added; “Therefore if I hear that name uttered for her beyond this fair circle — I will know from whom to extract satisfaction," Kull to his credit, wore a serious expression.

“My Lady I am a Man of God, of that there was no disassembling. For all the cheek and banter I offer, this I will take with me to my grave — blessed be that I came to be in possession of it," he said, with genuine heart in his words. “For a man as I — it will be my greatest treasure," he breathed, eyes gleaming with zeal.

“A secret kept for the Queen of Love. Priceless beyond measure." Cithara stared at him, her sorrow-wet cheeks gleaming even as her eyes bored into the portly thief with the unadulterated authority of the divine and then without ceremony, she smiled — wan and small, but it was the first genuine smile to grace her lips in the rake's direction.

“Thank you, Kull. If it settles your mind, you can consider it a payment for services yet to be rendered," she said, and the fat man's eyebrows climbed with interest.

“Oh?"

“Yes," Cithara continued, meeting his gaze level and firm, “I induct you into my service as a vassal of the church, under your oath of fealty to me." Kull seemed to recoil from that slightly, his eyes wary.

“I value my freedom Lady, a patriot, and parishioner I may be — but I do it my way," he said with a sternness to his tone that begged caution. “Between me and God it is, and I think he'll see the right of it by the end of all things."

“Oh, you may refuse the oath, if you wish," she said pleasantly, daubing her tear-slicked cheeks dry with the downy soft feathers of her forelegs, “I will treat with you as has been custom then, Old Wolf?" she said, turning her head towards Baratus, who tipped his head in acknowledgment, otherwise silent. “How many laws of the Land and Church has Master Kull admitted to violating?"

“Thirty-six, in direct reference, Lady Mine," the rough-voiced old soldier said in a causal tone, “More, if I am looser with my concept of 'violations'." Kull balked as Cithara nodded solemnly, her eyes bright, wiping the other cheek.

“Oh my, now dear one — with Mihai dead and the council the same — who would be the reigning authority in The Heartlands by sovereign rights?" she asked, her tone conversational, innocent even. The veiled leper wasted no time again, his mind for leadership clear and focused,

“The Church would retain its sovereignty over any territories it garrisons, in perpetuity over any other claims — per the original Founding of the Order," he said with the succinct tone of a historian. Kull's face was very pale now as Cithara nodded, turning her gaze to look directly at him as she continued.

“Who is the ranking highest member of my service within The Heartlands, dear one?"

“I am, Lady Mine. Lord Protector and Preceptor of the Radiant Order, there is no higher blade than mine own in the ranks of Men," Baratus answered in a tone with the weight of the grave about it, cold and direct. Cithara's eyes did not waver from Kull's as she asked the final question.

“And Dear one — what is the cumulative penalty for these thirty-six-and-spare violations of law?"

“Church Law is prosecuted by severity rather than how numerous an offense is; of what I have heard from his own lips — the appropriate course of action would be death by having his head cut from his neck," Baratus answered, his voice like the headsman's blade as he said it... and yet almost casual, conversational. Kull looked a bit ill.

“Now then, my dear reprobate," Cithara said sweetly, “You are a free man, free to choose however — I must have law and order with the grave damage that's been done to my world, I must protect my people from those whom would turn to banditry and plunder in the power vacuum that has been created." She looked at him with eyes still damp with tears, the pain adding weight to her proclamation.

“Shall you curb your sinful ways and give me good service — or shall you die a free fool?" Bart was simply dumbfounded, as was Kull. Cithara was such a gentle, benevolent creature that they forgot the Queen of Love was also the Queen of Passion, and passion could cut as hard and deep as any headman's blade. She had wielded her steely passions against him as a trained duelist, and she had paced and countered his every move with a series of swift strokes. He'd been pinned in a corner and pulled apart.

“My Lady has me at a disadvantage," Kull said, taking his small flat cap from his head, and laying it over his heart. “I underestimated your ruthlessness, Lady Mine. The legends said you were great and terrible, but they spake quiet of your cunning," he said and there was no fear in his voice, a cool acceptance... and even a touch of pride in his tone as he said it, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “I will enter your service, Lady Mine. You have my oath, and my respect."

“Of thy own free will?" she challenged, her eyes and horn lit with her orbit — a working in play. Kull inclined his head.

“Of mine own free will. I have been outplayed by my own bravado," he admitted, giving a sweeping bow, before turning a gaze to the three other assembled men, “Whoever said it was better to rule in Hell than Serve in Heaven, has not seen what I have seen — nor has falsified forty years of tax forms," he said with a serious candor. Cithara nodded, her smile was understanding now — and her orbit flared violently. There was a quiet snikt of air, and a coil of her mane lopped free again — caught in its radiant grip as she turned to the fat thief.

“I would have your Oath of Blood then, as is my right." Kull blanched a bit, looking between the three men, and then drew up his sleeve, presenting the back of his gnarled forearm to her, Cithara's lips turned up at that.

“Pragmatic," she said, and her horn flicked with a sinuous motion that rolled from the tip of her tail to the end of her horn like the crack of a whip, cutting a perfect, clean slash into his arm — shallow and neat. Kull stifled a curse as the bit of mane was daubed in the blood, her orbit rapidly weaving strands into an intricate knot, the stained end bright and dangling, same as Bart's or the Lord Protector's.

“I accept thy tithe of blood," she intoned ritualistically, familiar words, “And bind it physically as Word. Thy Oath as Word and Matter both. To break thy word, is to break thy token — and be marked as such," she said, and dropped the now-third twisting charm of her mane into Kull's hands, leaning down and kissing his wounded arm — the cut closing over instantly, leaving a paper-thin scar and naught else.

“My word," Kull said breathlessly, the little ritual intimate and careful — the yard's busy nature provided shielding anonymity even as marvelous as the five were — and he lifted the token to his eyes in trembling hands. “Aye Lady Mine, I will do you good service. This I promise," he said, tucking it away into his doublet reverently. Cithara smiled, turning back to Lucian — who was simply stunned into silence once more by all of this.

“It is with that I will bind you as well, my dearest grandchild." she said, her voice mournful; “For there are tidings we are yet to be honest about with the greater order that I owe you most of all, but come — let us speak of such things in a more private setting at another time," she said, looking to Bart and giving a shuddering breath. “My beloved and I have had a harrowing day as it is, and I yearn for nothing so much as a quiet evening in his arms."

Lucian's eyes were wide and full, but he nodded, and as his mouth opened to speak — he was silenced by a small, silky body pressing into his — Cithara leaning up to kiss him gently upon the brow, laying her head down against his shoulder, her voice a whisper barely heard.

“I am so glad to meet you my sweetling, and I am sorry for what is to come." The group made to depart then, Baratus bowing and exchanging a quiet moment with Cithara and Lucian as she went through the same ritual with him, another sheaf of mane, and this time a line of blood drawn carefully from the tip of a finger — a finger she kissed gently and lovingly, holding his pale hands to her equally pale cheek as her greatest of grandsons composed himself anew, Kull caught Bart's attention.

“Ah, friends and Lady mine I am a very fat man, so I don't get anywhere particularly fast — so I'll take my leave first, however, ahem, Bart? If I may in private a moment?" He asked with a gentle cough before Cithara and the Lord Protector, “I would settle affairs."

Cithara smiled at him, and Bart nodded, stumping off on his crutch a ways with Kull into the yard, where a bench sat astride the main building's walls, one of many arrayed in a series of meditation nooks — nearly every part of the Abbey was but a few steps away from a place designed to sit and be at peace, generations of Paladins having learned all the ways to focus one's mind on God and Task.

“We can both sit, I for my great girth and you for that limp," the fat thief said, settling heavily alongside Bart. “It isn't permanent, is it?"

“No," Bart answered reassuringly, “No, Cithara says she will be able to put me right once we reach the Glade, my ah, foolishness-"

“Heroism," Kull corrected, holding up an admonishing finger. “Call a spade a spade, Ser Paladin. Be humble, but never give yourself short-shrift, it's disgusting to see someone undercut the price on something of value, material or not." he scolded, settling back. Bart's smile turned wry,

“A thief lecturing me on propriety?"

“A thief lecturing you on value," Kull corrected once more, bringing his hands together before him, his wide mouth drawn in a thin line; “I am a man who makes his living on the presumed value of things. It is very important to me that things are given their appropriate due — my entire worldview hinges upon it. Getting what you are worth and what you are owed are important concepts for a thief," he said, and Bart laughed.

“A good man's money is only worth stealing while the good man thinks it worth protecting?" He ventured, and Kull tapped the side of his nose slyly, a smile coming to his lips, but only fleetingly as Bart shook his head.

“I don't know, Kull — you seem a bit off your game. Swindling merchants, politicians, and greenhorn knights is one thing — but you seem to have overestimated your reach with the Lady," he challenged, and Kull's smile only grew colder, but its chill was not directed at Bart as his eyes turned out across the yard.

“Yes, I presume it rather looked like that didn't it?" he responded in a casual tone. The Paladin's eyes flicked back up hard, the old thief's face was tired, his smile weary and cool, but then a familiar glimmer came back to his eyes. “Come now, Ser Paladin — you know me, you've seen my accomplishments — do you truly think I would begin casually spouting off about illegalities heedless that I was standing within arm's reach of the Lord Protector?" He asked, one thick eyebrow climbing into his scalp incredulously before he turned away, shaking his head. Bart added that up in his head, as always — the Paladin walked around the idea slowly, until he grasped all of it.

“...You were confessing on purpose. You wanted to die."

“There it is, like the mighty ox you always arrive eventually," the thief said with a dry chuckle, his eyes tired. “Yes, Ser I wanted to die. I've divested myself of much of my assets, my kingdom is rubble, my throne sundered," he said and then spat to the side, “I am not fit to sit it regardless."

“That hardly sounds like you, where is all that talk of value from before?" he asked, and Kull turned and met his gaze with a dead-eyed stare that chilled Bart to his heart, Bart knew that gaze, the long look through things. He'd seen it in old soldiers. Hard men. Tired men.

“It was Elly," he answered, reaching into his purse and producing a small arrangement of beads and a tattered bit of cord. Bart blinked as he was treated to a flash of memory — the little girl in the catacombs — she'd been wearing simple bead bracelets like this. He'd not even thought to remark on it at the time, it was simple child's jewelry made from wood and river clay, ubiquitous and ever-present wherever girls played. Kull gazed on it unwavering — as if it were the deepest, most many-faceted gem.

“After Lachheim, after Humbaba. Viconia and the rest of us held the fortress for a while, but it became rapidly untenable," he recounted, not turning his gaze to Bart, but the pause spoke volumes, “You saw it, I need not belabor it. So those of us who were not fighting men were to be evacuated, strong I may be in a pinch — I am no soldier, so with the elderly, infirm, women and children I went." He said, drawing up his chin. “I am not so proud as to say I wished to stay and die a man, I am not brave — I am practical, and I wished to survive," he said plainly, still staring at that broken bracelet.

“I promised Lidia I would watch Elly and the little ones, keep them from harm. Elly had clung to me like a cub since you pulled her from the underground. I kept her close," he said, Bart felt a weight beginning to settle into his stomach as he stared at the bracelet.

“Kull what did you do?"

“I am not as strong as I used to be. I was a quarry worker as a lad," he said and laid the bracelet in his scarred, leathery palm. “These hands once broke granite... and they couldn't keep a grip on one little girl," he breathed, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“We were ambushed at Bellway, I was there with the other refugees when the fell things struck it. It was a sight out of hell, barely any soldiers at the time — they tore through the wounded and the children like animals," he breathed, shaking his head — eyes still locked on that tattered bit of jewelry.

“We fled, rounding up what we could, fighting back where we could. I had Elly in my arms when the crush of the crowd hit us, a beast lashed out — one of those eyeless things — grabbed her around the middle," his voice quiet and tired as he spoke — a recitation he doubtlessly had played in his mind a thousand times since, rote and memorized.

“I held fast and pulled, and pulled with all my strength. I beat the thing, and yelled and boxed its nose... and still, it jerked her away from me," he recounted grimly, eyes dead. “I'm not as strong as I used to be, Ser Paladin."

“She vanished into the mob, torn from me into the darkness — my fist wrapped around this as her screams just.... stopped," he said, closing his eyes. He did not weep... the old thief did not seem the sort to have much in the way of tears left.

“I am not a man unfamiliar with death, Bart. I have killed dozens of men with my own hands, women... but never children," he whispered, folding his hands delicately around the bracelet. “The coldness in which I baited that trap with her was the most evil act I have ever done in my life. Never had I dared risk the lives of the young, they were given play-act roles. Pickpocketing and pretend." he explained — rationalized really, and grit his teeth. “Yet my God-damned ego was hurt, Mihai had stymied me and I felt prideful, I acted the fool and the fool I was."

Bart sat back heavily, the nameless loss of this little girl whom he had barely known striking him in the gut like a blow... he had delved so deep into hell, started this entire psychotic fairy tale that he was the star of... for the safety of this one little girl, and in the end — he hadn't managed to save her. Kull brought his closed fist to his lips, closing his eyes tightly as he centered himself once more. The Paladin didn't know what to say, and the old thief shook his head.

“I do not need your comfort, Bart. I would loathe it actually, no the Lady provided me exactly what I wanted. A chance for penance," he explained, and looked up at the sky. “I have done a great deal of ill in my life, but I am not particularly ashamed of it — there's a certain rationale to the ethics of my life I genuinely, firmly believe God understands — but I have never lost someone to the real, actual darkness before," he said, turning to look at the young Paladin.

“Seeing true evil, unmasked and hungry puts things in perspective. Losing the innocent to it does it with aplomb."

“So this is your penance? What if she had elected to slay you where you stand? She is not the infinitely merciful being you guessed her as," Bart challenged him, and he shook his head.

“No, she is a mother — and that makes her ferocious, but also loathe to waste what is useful," the fat thief said, nodding his head as he spoke, “I am a thief, a braggart, liar, patron of whores and cheats — but I am in addition to all those colorful things useful," he elaborated and turned to Bart again, meeting his eyes firmly. “I always pay my debts, Bart."

Bart looked at the portly man — and anger rushed through him, hot and irrational — how dare he ruin his act of heroism by being weak, by being frail... by being human. Bart's anger cooled nearly as quickly as it flared, leaving him feeling just hollow and sad as he turned his own eyes to the sky, birds flying along, their song echoing over the yard.

“Does Lidia know?"

“She does. I have released her from my service," Kull said sadly, Bart turned his head at him and the old thief shook his own; “I have absolved her of debt and responsibility — she owes me and mine nothing but what she wishes." he said and it was then his voice broke a bit, only a single hitch — and it was only by Bart's rapt attention he caught it.

“Lidia is not speaking to me, and I am in no place to argue. Her young buck and her are over in your house, playing at the life she used to make mockery of — and it looks good on her," he related in a voice that quailed slightly, nodding firmly — the most serious he'd ever been in Bart's view. “A proper girl, safe and warm, not rubbing elbows with murderers and smugglers. You gave her the one thing I could not offer her, and for that, I will be in your debt for some time, Ser Paladin," he said and extended his hand to Bart. The Paladin stared at it a moment.

“I do not presume to be your friend, Bart — but I will be your ally. For what you did for her, and for our Lady's benefit — call upon me, I will be there," he said, and it was a promise.

Bart considered it. He did not like the thief as a person, his moral compass found him reprehensible — but he admired the man's boldness, his passion and intellect. Bart would be a small man if he could not acknowledge such good traits in this blackguard's character — and there was a ring of primal truth to the words he was given. He took the hand slowly.

“I won't patronize you with pabulum or words of piety, I respect your choice — and I accept," was all Bart said, but his lips turned with a smile under his mustache; “... But for Lidia, I will hope that it is genuine. She cares for you, in her own way."

“Aye, she likens me to her late father. He was a good man, always paid his debts on time," he said, opening his hand to look at that broken bracelet again; a grave expression crossing his face before he asked the Paladin: “How did Mihai die?"

“Screaming," was all Bart said in answer. Kull nodded and closed his fingers around the beads again.

“Good."

Bart rose to leave then, hitching himself up as he looked back at the portly rogue, the man looked truly old all of a sudden. Truly like a man out of time, Bart felt a sudden kinship with the thief. His own life a step out of sync already... how will he feel in as many years as Kull? He drew himself up straight.

“Good evening, Kull, and good tidings on your journey ahead," Bart said and paused before turning to add once more. “... I have a feeling, yours isn't at an end just yet."

Kull looked up at him, his face thoughtful but nothing was said as the two men parted ways, Bart coming back to Lucian and Cithara being the last two remaining, the Lord Protector doubtlessly away to commit that report to greater detail — duty was the very air the man breathed.

In the fleeting moments before she met his eyes, Bart made a snap decision — and he smiled. Smiled and swallowed the pain, swallowed the bitter bile of failure. She didn't need to know, neither of them did. He had only just awoken and returned to them from parts unknown — and only for so long — already the distance spread between him and his loved ones, his time fleeting. There would be time for this and many hurts in the future, but in the now they needed him. This would be a private pain, a good lesson in it.

“O lord my God, if you can be a bit less dramatic with your lessons I would be mighty appreciative," he murmured as he closed the distance with a grin.

“Is all well, beloved?" she asked, Bart was able to hide much of his discomfort but not all, the big Paladin nodded — letting the sadness slump his shoulders honestly.

“Simply grim tidings all around is all, none made it out unscathed — speaking of," he turned to Lucian raising his eyebrows inquiringly; “What of Commander Viconia and the men of the fort?" he asked, his concern masking the abrupt subject change — Bart wasn't the smartest man in the world, but he knew how to behave as expected. Lucian smiled, nodding eagerly.

“Why, yes! We had a hawk in from her just today, They've called it secure and will be sending relief columns back as soon as we can support them." he said, shrugging his shoulders with mild irritation; “I swear I'm half a scribe at this point — there's only so many of us with medical training and even less with Mantles whom can heal — so I have been working triage on multiple fronts," he explained, his eyes a bit distant as he said it — Lucian had been blooded by the Queen's monstrosities as well, just in a very different way. “But, yes. Viconia is hale and whole, minus a few scars."

“That's good," Bart said honestly, Cithara's eyes clouded a moment... but he at least it seemed, had pushed the coming discussion down the road for now. Fine by him. “I dare hope her husband made it here."

“Ah yes Goodman Blair came through here, asking much as you did about his wife the Commander," Lucian said, he looked tired. Cheerful, but still quite tired. “He's also well, lighter a few pints of blood and with a few new scars but he'll live — and so will the families staying at his inn," he said with an impressed raise of his eyebrow. “The little blackbird managed to kill two of the monsters, and half a dozen apostates with his meat cleaver in defense of his patrons before help arrived." Bart gave a low whistle — Goodman Blair was not a large man, he was to Viconia as Cithara was to him, a delicate, willowy man of small bones and carefully chosen words.

“Little Bird has talons," Bart agreed, visibly impressed, Lucian nodding along.

“He would have to for Viconia to love him," Lucian ventured and Bart paused, and then shook his head.

“No... No, I think she loves him because he isn't like that normally. I think she loves him because he's beautiful to her," he said, something slotting into place for him, Cithara's knowing gaze met his and she smiled — yet said nothing, simply walking invitingly towards the gate. Lucian seemed contemplative as Bart took his hand.

“C'mon Lu, Mother's setting a table for an army for sure, there'll be room for one more," the big Paladin said, as if it were the old days post-training, he could practically smell his mother's bread from here. Lucian, to his credit beamed at the idea and even fell half a step in line with Bart — before he froze, and looked back at the abbey. The newly-stained token twisted in his fingers pointedly.

“I can't, Bart. The whole world caught on fire just a bit ago, there's so much to do," he smiled and Bart felt an uneasy chill slide through his guts — Lucian looking at the two of them and giving a shrug. “Just because she's right here doesn't mean we act any different, duty is everything," he said... and Bart realized how much both of them had grown up in just a short time. The big Paladin nodded, wrapping his arm around the leaner knight-brother in a hug.

“You're a good man, Lu. Better than I."

“I hardly think the evidence suits that conclusion, “ he snorted, looking between Bart and Cithara, the big man laughed.

“Heroism is the easy part, you just stop thinking and put faith in God," he said with a grin, giving Lucian's shoulder a squeeze; “The hard part is picking up the pieces afterward, who's going to put the hero back together after all that thoughtlessness?"

“It is no mistake that the same words I spoke that bred warriors also made healers and scholars," Cithara said, raising her chin proudly at Lucian from her spot near the gates. “A man's heart is his true strength, and it must needs be set to a purpose, and I would have that purpose be for the glory of God, Hearth, and Home."

Lucian smiled at that, gently folding his hand across his chest in a salute to the pair with quiet dignity. “I have much to do, Bart, but... before you go," he paused, and put his arms around the taller man and gave him a powerful squeeze, “I am not so busy as to not have time to hug my Brother back from war."

The two men embraced fondly, there was no sadness or regret in the touch, Bart squeezed him until his shoulders creaked and his feet lifted from the ground — as he had when they were boys — the two men separating afterward with wide smiles. Some things would never change, however small they were.

“Be safe, Lu."

“I'd say the same, but I won't make you lie to me." They laughed a little, Bart squeezed his shoulders again and looked to Cithara, waiting just out of earshot now, Lucian cast a winsome glance at her before meeting Bart's mismatched gaze again, his smile gentle.

“She's waiting for you."

Bart looked over and saw the tiny unicorn. Perfect, poised... and oddly small. She typically wore her solitude like a crown, her beauty alien, austere, and inexorable... but just now, alone? She seemed tiny, vulnerable... incomplete. She was waiting for him.

“I think she always has been," was all he said, squeezing his friend's arm fondly as he pulled away, the steps between them seemed long — The steps from his old life, his old world to the new. She stood just beyond the gates, just past the threshold. She met his eyes — seemingly aware of the importance of this arrangement, this moment put together by fate.

“Come away with me, and I will care for you," she said softly, her voice lyrical with a tone of ritual, “Yet to dwell with me is to never return, for I must walk the cosmos far."

Bart stared at her, and his wounds didn't bother him for a moment. His weariness drained away, and contentment filled his heart as he gazed into her golden eyes. A part of him yearned to resist, it shied away from the unknown, it demanded he turn back. Return to the world he knew, to the comfort of being small. Beyond was a greater world, a world of layers and concepts that would change him, alter him at his base level — unmake him as he was, into something new and frightening. It begged him to shy away from this defiance of his nature, to return to a status quo. It was a good, logical voice and its words hovered in the air between them as a long moment's hesitation — a silence that stretched between them as he looked upon her beauty in earnest. He looked upon her scars, the dried tracks of tears on her face, the muss of pollen in her mane — the real things laying like so much costume paint atop the impossible clarity of her Truth. He looked upon her — for in her he saw what his future promised. It was a good, logical voice.

Yet and still…

“Take me with you, Lady Mine. Lover mine. I am weary of this world, and it of me. Where shall we go?" he asked and pointedly crossed that invisible barrier, the gates of destiny admitting him as he plainly assumed his natural place — in step, at her side.

“Hither and yon, my love — but your days will be filled with purpose, and your nights with love wherever it is we dwell — for I am thine," she intoned, and there was a tangible click within the Paladin's being, something falling into place — aligning true within him.

“... 'and thou art mine'," he answered, finishing the parable from the Words of White for her, the pair set off down the road — neither to be alone again.

“What more can a man ask for?"

~ ~ ~

The walk was quiet, and absent of traffic by chance or working, who was to say? The afternoon stretched into the evening as they spoke of nothing and silence. Little moments of idle prattle as if they had simply 'Gone Walking' as couples were want to do, a twist of wildflowers into a country braid found its way into her mane before the jaunt was through. It was an intimate, almost meditative experience. Clearing the mind and the emotions as Cithara did as she promised and cared for him, first and most dearly his heart and mind — and oh did her gentle laughter and wide-eyed curiosity warm the cold of sorrow from his bones.

It was the golden hues of early evening as they arrived at his home again, turning down the path to his doorstep, they were stricken with a beautiful tableau. Smoke rose in a lazy stream from the chimney above the hearth, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread and savory herbs — framing the soft swell of the hill that the cottage was tucked into. Gram stood at the window, leaning casually onto the sill where Lidia rested on her arms, face in her hands, the two's lips dangerously close. Beyond, a light flickered in the workshop out back, the familiar shadow of his father's saw moving to and fro. Within the house, the silhouettes of his mother, Naima, and Rashid danced gaily with conversation done over carefully tended work. Out before it all, Nazir sat on the porch, heels kicked up and pipe lit — reclining in peaceful solitude in the shade of the overhang. They beheld it all, simple, common... and wonderful.

“...Ah...!" Cithara managed in a small voice, a sound almost more than any pronouncement as her eyes seemed to ever so slightly glimmer with tears — her face a naked display of emotion, Bart could only smile as he looked at his life, as it was. He was destined to walk far and never again return — yet that did not take today from him. “Will you miss it?" she asked him in a quiet, daring tone.

“Yes," Bart answered honestly; “But not as sorely as if I'd never had it at all." Cithara beamed at him, and slipped closer, winding her tail about him and her neck against him, a little shiver playing through her as she breathed up to him with a smile on her lips and in her eyes.

“Take me home, darling."

Down the path they went, for all but the limbs required, hand in hand. The house raised at them, Nazir waving joyously, and Lidia and Gram coming away from another covert kiss blushing shyly as she waved out the window. All eyes were free of shadows for the moment, dark thoughts gone, the trauma of the infinite packed away for just a bit. Tonight, they were family. Tonight, they were home.

Dinner came together over a much-overfull table, and Bart never would again feel as whole as he did then. Cithara at his side seemed as natural as breathing while stories and discussions rambled across a simple meal of savory stew and fresh, hot bread. There was not room for all, some sat on chairs or the floor. Gram and Lidia ended up on the step by the hearth, the little changeling firmly sat back in his lap as they ate and passed banter. Naima, Eleni, and Cithara flocked together at the table as a tittering cabal of wicked smiles and playful banter, stories going back and forth and questions flying free. All the while Nazir and Adelbart had convened over a small gameboard with two colors of stones, the lean southerner teaching as they went — that was his father, ever a mind for a game of any sort, dice, cards, or stones.

Bart and Rashid sat attentive to their respective mates, neither wanting to be far from the other after the harrowing ordeal — one could watch at any moment and see the pairs in constant contact in some way or another. A hand on a thigh, a brush of a tail or fingertips, an idle caress of the hair. Unconscious and uninhibited, it was a stark contrast to Eleni and Adelbart, so long-lived in their love that it filled the house without pretension, it was soaked into every bite of food, every hand-smoothed piece of wood. New love, old love, and love in its prime all under the same roof — the love of husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. It was as close to a slice of heaven as possible, and with the Lady in White in attendance — much was possible indeed.

The evening wound down to darkness, the stars forcing their way past the remaining haze of the burning city to the North in bright defiance of the atrocity. Talk and gaiety bled out into a comfortable weariness, an emotional release that showed in the faces of each battered soul. Before long, Naima and Rashid had retired to their space in the guesthouse; normally used to house seasonal workers, now it had been swept clear and made comfortable for Naima, Nazir — and the good Salim and his workmen as well, the bright-eyed lad having weathered the refugee exodus all the way from Fort Ivory with no further losses, and a flinty determination in his gaze that had not been there a year past. That was one soul Bart could take from his conscience.

Bart found himself alone with Cithara in his room, the hearth having been stirred to embers and the house having wound down into soft silence as his mother retired to bed. The hour was still, the wind teased through the house's old timbers with a soft cadence like breathing, sighing through the old home with a cozy susurration. Bart lit the lamp by his bed, casting a warm glow across the four familiar walls.

The Unicorn lay astride his mattress and pillows — a lazy, weary sprawl spreading her silky mane and silvery-white coat like a ribbon of the most exquisite paint lain across a well-worn palette. He gazed at her openly with unabashed appreciation — and demurely she responded, stretching her lithe body along the tangle of sheets and cushions, her eyes smoldering with a heady mix of desire and contentment.

“Thank you beloved, tonight was a greater gift to me than you may ever know," she murmured in a breathy voice, a voice only for him. “My heart is full in ways I have never been before," she said, practically trembling as she met his gaze. For a moment, a brief, crystalline moment he saw her again — in her aspect, it's impossible symmetry overlaying her with its blazing crown and infinite gaze as The Unicorn and Cithara both spoke three simple words.

“I love you."

In a blink it was gone, like a blur of joyous tears his eyes fluttered away the image of beyond, an infinity of tomorrows fading back to the humble impossibility of just plain, simple Cithara. Bart's face was sore from smiling, and yet he managed it a bit more for her, reaching his hand out to her — the scars of his fingers dancing along her cheek, the roughness of his tanned flesh a stark contrast to the perfection of her silky pelt and rippling alabaster flesh. Her lips parted in a soft moue of delight as he let that hand explore her, roaming through her mane, and down over the supple column of her neck, the lithe entity arching her body in a sinuous writhe of pleasure as his strong, calloused fingers trailed over her throat with a gentle firmness — his fingertips cutting soft creases into the vulnerable flesh as it passed, her breath catching beneath it in delight.

Down it went, until his palm laid over her breast — over the fractured, geometric scar there. Her eyes fluttered closed, chest slowly rising as he explored the place for the first time truly since he awoke. His fingers felt along it, the flesh exposed beneath smooth as glass, glimmering like the polished gold it appeared for all the world to be, and yet it yielded like flesh beneath his fingertips, it was warm like her. Soft like her. She trembled, and he leaned away.

“No," she stayed him, her breath coming slowly, pressing her scarred bosom into his palm, laying it flat over her heart; “Please."

His hand stayed and he turned towards her more, her glimmering eyes closed and she focused on her breathing, his hand spread over the splintered scar. Like a fractured pane of glass, a broken mirror it stood stark against both his craggy hands and her supple pelt like a starburst. Her luminous gaze opened once more as she sat there, nakedly vulnerable beneath his touch.

“Your hands are warm," she said, eyes closing again and laying back, exposing that alabaster throat again, the milky curves of her body dragging his attention along with her every motion. “Warm, strong... good hands, for a good man," she said as he finally released her, fingers hesitating as they parted contact with her impossible beauty. An eternity of this? Heaven could wait.

“I love you, that's all," he said, and she laughed softly, turning into his pillow and breathing deeply of his long-ingrained scent as she watched him reach to his effects, drawing forth the shaving kit in its plain, unadorned box.

“Oh, if that's all. 'Tis a small thing I suppose, to love The Unicorn," she teased him as he set it on his end table, fishing about for a comb. His fingers clumsy still, knocked the square little case over. Bart sighed and reached for the mess... and his eyes spied something he hadn't noticed before. Cithara's own gaze tracked to the small, black parcel that rolled out.

“What's that, darling?" she asked as he plucked it from the mess of comb, razor, and other such toiletries. He furrowed his brow as he bounced the incredibly light package on his palm before his nostrils tingled, his eyebrows raised and Cithara's eyes widened. “Is that...?"

“Mmhm," Bart grunted, bringing the package to his nose and taking a stronger sniff in confirmation — the heady, spicy scent of the same pipeweed he'd shared with Daedolon as they parted ways. Bart grinned; “I think the old monster is more fond of me than he let on."

“He has always been a capricious creature," Cithara agreed as Bart opened the small bag and raised his eyebrow at her, the little unicorn grinning sheepishly; “I do not mind a little... indulgence, now and again," she said, and Bart laughed, fishing around in his pack a moment, finding the simple churchwarden pipe he'd packed along with other creature comforts in his mess kit, alongside his coffee and a small parcel of dried fruits.

“I rarely see you smoke," she mused, looking at the long, simple bit of wood, Bart shrugged.

“Not usually, a social habit," he said, gently pinching some of the dark, purple-shot leaves into the bowl, packing it like he recalled seeing his father do a thousand thousand times as a lad. Cithara watched, her eyes easy and warm.

“Lionel smoked, I found the scent of the leaf to be enjoyable, and the smell of its sweet smoke still draws happy memories to my mind," she said, her orbit flaring as she plucked the pipe from Bart's clumsy fingers, one hand still quite heavily bandaged and numb. She drew him closer to her, letting him nestle down into the curve of her body as her glimmering radiance suffused the pipe and bag, gently tamping the leaf down into the bowl with an expert's precision, her breath stirring the air near his ear, “I oft would prepare his pipe for him when we were alone, much like this... it is pleasant to do it again," she cooed, Bart reclining against her side, feet dangling past the edge of the bed as she mused.

“Do I remind you of him so?" he asked, and she tittered softly.

“Rarely, you are very different men in spite of it all. Now and again though, I see a glimmer of his values in you, and it warms my heart," she said and there was a golden spark, a tiny lick of aurum fire floated to the bowl of the pipe, and her delicate lips drew from it in soft, gentle puffs until it caught and smoldered, the dank, sweet scent of the smoke filling the room as she exhaled gently through her nose, wisps of smoke crawling between her lips and wreathing her silvery visage in a frame of snaking haze.

“That is reassuring," he said honestly, the pipe passing to him and drawing from it slowly, feeling the familiar warmth and tingle spread from just behind his eyes and down in a cascade of heavy warmth down his spine, taking with it the edge of his remaining pain. “It is quite a shadow to live in."

“Oh, darling — you live in no man's shadow in my eyes," she purred to him, idly nuzzling his ear, pulling it idly with her lips as she shivered, clearly enjoying her own share of the effects; “Mine heart has a place just for you within it, and none other fits that space," Bart smiled as he exhaled his own thin cloud, closing his eyes and letting his body settle.

“I love you," was all he said, and she answered him with a kiss, her lips touching his, carrying between them a mouthful of the hot, spicy smoke. Their lips danced, and the plume wafted from between them as she broke away with a smile and a gentle tug of her teeth as her eyes flicked up towards the open door. Bart's eyes followed.

Out beyond the front porch, a cherry of ash glowed. His father's chair was empty, his own pipe absent its holder near the porch. Bart felt a yearning as he looked out, Cithara's lips ghosted close to his ear once more, drawing a slow, subtle line across his earlobe before she whispered; “Go."

“My love?" he asked, and she nosed him gently.

“Go to them, be with them. I will have you forever and a day — what is one more night?" she asked, laying back on his pillows, taking a final pull from the pipe, its sleek lines dangling from her soft, plush lips. “I will await you here, surrounded by the sights, scents, and sensations of our love. I am weary yet — it will be restful," she said, a satisfied look spreading across her as she laid her face into his bedding, golden eyes blazing with adoration.

“I do love you, wife," he said, drawing her muzzle back down to his face, finding her lips in another tender kiss, she trembled and with a faintly drunken giggle, she nudged him away from her.

“Now, now... not yet beloved, you haven't wed me proper," she said, and her eyes blazed; “I will be a proper woman next time you bed me, and not a moment before," she promised, and he grinned, pulling himself to his feet. The crutch was forgotten as he simply limped to the door, pausing with pipe in hand to look at her. She cast him a wink. “It won't be long, lover mine... I crave nothing more than your touch again," she breathed, shivering. “For you to make me whole once more."

Bart bit his lip at that, and her smile turned a bit more wicked as she settled into his pillow and let her eyes flutter closed, her hoof idly tracing patterns through the linen sheets as she let the warmth and comfort carry her away.

Pipe in his teeth, Bart made his way out to the porch, leaning on posts and walls for support now and again. Outside he found quite a sight.

“Now who is this arrangement of ruffians at my doorstep?" he asked jovially as he leaned on the door frame. From the stoop looked up Gram and Nazir, both similarly dangling pipes from their hands and lips, a low chuckle from his left causing Bart to swing his head knowingly around to the heavy, weathered chair at one side where his father sat.

“Couple of strays is all, good strong lads though. Think I'll keep 'em about a bit." the old man said, grinning as he leaned back. Bart exhaled with a laugh, looking up at the stars with the three other men.

“Didn't expect to see you again after the Lady took you away," Nazir said with a draw on his own pipe, the familiar sweet smell of traditional Mistport pipesmoke coming to the air, his father's own supply — he would have to get some of that, knowing now Cithara's enjoyment of the scent.

“Spirited away by the Queen of Love," Gram added, raising his brows, “'Tis a small wonder we ever saw you again the first time."

“You almost did not," Bart chortled, working his lips around the stem of his pipe, “I daresay she makes for far prettier company than you lot," he added, getting a dry wheeze of laughter from his father.

The older man leaned down and moved a series of stones on that same board Bart had seen earlier, drawing Bart's attention to it lying on a split log in between where the southerner and his father sat. Nazir eyed the move, and quickly made a similar series, depositing many more of the polished stones on his side of the board, the old Miller grumbled into his pipe as Bart settled onto the porch between the southerner and his brother-in-arms.

“I might change my mind about the short one if he keeps winning," Adelbart said, Nazir grinning as he took a drag from his pipe, showing off his winning smile.

“You complained I was going easy," Nazir explained.

“You were," Adelbart shot back, getting a wider grin from the cinnamon-skinned southerner.

“I was."

Adelbart snorted again and made another move — this one resulted in a fair amount of the stones finding their way to his side of the board, and it was his turn to give a smug smile as Nazir raised an eyebrow.

“Well played," he said... and then promptly moved the stones in such a way that he scooped a full measure of his father's pieces from his side of the board, firmly placing Nazir in the lead. Adelbart frowned and started counting out spaces on his fingers.

“Damnit," the old miller said, rolling his pipe in his teeth; “Missed that opening."

“Mancala is a simple game with many not-so-simple strategies, my friend. You learn fast though," he said, resetting the board as they didn't bother to count the stones — the Southerner had won handily.

“They've been at this all night," Gram noted as Bart leaned his weight against one of the porch posts, Gram as always was under arms, still wearing just breeches and linen shirtsleeves — his polearm sat nearby, leaning against the wall. Old habits, Bart guessed. “Nazir will beat him soundly and he'll grumble and they'll go again."

“Sounds right," Bart said with a chuckle, getting a dire look from his father; “Old man never understood when to quit."

“Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, lad," the old miller shot back, to a ripple of laughter from the men assembled, Bart included — making a familiar, duelist's touch on his chest.

“Fair enough, it has won the both of us rather beautiful women," Bart agreed.

“Goodwife Eleni was a pursuit then?" Gram asked as Nazir raised an eyebrow. Bart's father grinned wide.

“Son, Eleni has more in common with that little redheaded firebrand sleeping in my guestroom than either of us is comfortable with," he said, puffing on his pipe, and making his first moves on the refreshed board. Gram's eyebrows raised in a contemplative manner as the older man continued, “Fiery, headstrong, and full of purpose," he said, leaning back in his chair as Nazir made his moves. “I, of course, had to have her."

“All of that in a little hamlet like this?" Gram asked, and Adelbart shook his head.

“No, no. Mistport. Before we settled down here. Before the leg," He said, tapping his knee and its brace; “I sowed my wild oats like all young men did — at sea."

“You were a sailor?" Nazir asked, and Adelbart grinned.

“Aye, at least for a fashion. Nothing but shipping and receiving, but I've seen my share of your stomping grounds as well. Khorrit is quite a sight from the sea in the morning light."

“Ah," Nazir intoned with a warm smile; “The Brass Domes," his eyes sparkling with memory. Bart's father sighed.

“Like molten gold." he agreed, eyes cloudy with his own remembrance. He shook his head and continued. “Eleni was the daughter of a merchantman whose ships I worked on, absolutely did not approve of me," he said and drew a long pull from his pipe, exhaling it in a harsh jet out of the side of his mouth, “Didn't care, chased her anyways," chuckles echoed from the assembled men.

“So how did you win her?" Gram asked, tapping his pipe against his chin, long mustaches twitching to the beat. Adelbart shrugged.

“To shorten a story that is very long for a tired old man — persistence and a blatant disregard for good sense," he explained, grinning and closing his eyes after moving several pieces on the board in rapid succession — counting out quite a few stones into his side.

“Oh?" Nazir asked, distracted as he looked at the board.

“I didn't quit when her father said no. Bought in at bilge-pumping level with his own shipping concern. Earned myself up the ranks, and a little nest egg beside, then walked right up to him, looked him square in the eye — and paid dowry and the rest of my contract outright, and walked out with her," he said, watching Nazir make a series of moves that were not nearly as profitable as his last one. “Didn't say a word."

“Bold," Gram said with a wide grin; “Are you sure there's no Darrowmite blood in you? Such ice in the veins is practically a racial trait," Adelbart just laughed.

“No, no. It helped she was already sweet on me, I may not be tall as my boy — but he didn't get all that muscle from nowhere," he said with a slow wink — and then lowered his hands down to the board, and made a quick series of moves that captured easily a third of the remaining board — netting the old man a fairly clean win. Nazir blew out a breath with a grin,

“Tenacious, muscular, and clever," he said, then looked cheekily at Bart, eyes narrowed with mischief. “Inheriting two out of three isn't so bad," he said, and the trio burst into guffaws as Bart rolled his eyes and drew off his pipe,

“I am but a humble servant of the Lady," Bart said piously, raising his eyes to the skies dramatically. His grin turned crooked and he looked sidelong out of his good eye at Nazir; “... Frequently, at her ardent behest."

Fresh laughter spun out of that bawdy remark, Bart feeling the buzz of the leaf a bit more strongly than he expected, relaxing his usually stiff manner around his relationship with Cithara. Nazir, busying himself with putting away the board after Adelbart waved off another rematch, dared a question.

“What is that like? There are stories of men who've become enamored of divine creatures, but I have yet to meet a credible one."

Bart sat back, unsure how much he wanted to answer, but then answered honestly, “I would not know where to begin, I have no experience with women beyond her... and to say that she is marvelous isn't given proper scale."

Nazir considered that, Gram raising his brow. “Really, Ser Paladin? A virgin?" Bart colored visibly and gave him a dismissive look.

“I was busy being terrified of women, and this whole 'Soldier of God' business I happen to be about," he said, pointing at the dancing tuft of mane dangling from his throat — even now, with barely a breeze to rustle the hair, it flowed and twisted lightly on wind all it's own. Gram chuckled and tipped his pipe at that.

“A fair answer. Women are mildly terrifying — and you cannot simply stab them with a spear," he said and got a snort from Adelbart.

“Not with that attitude you can't," he said, and more bawdy laughter ensued. Bart grinned and shook his head.

“No, no it is... well I assume it is like it is for any man and woman. We fit together well if that is your concern," he said, eyeing his father pointedly — who waved the gaze away, already placated in that regard.

“And she is..." Nazir groped about for a moment; “... Pleased, by your... dimensions?" he said delicately, and another snort of laughter came from his father, turning into a dry cackle. Bart coughed around a lungful of smoke, Gram's eyebrows threatening to vanish permanently into his hairline, so severe were they raised at the lean southerner.

“Did you just inquire as to the tightness of the Lady in White?" he asked in an incredulous tone. Nazir spread his hands, eyes wide as he shook his head,

“My brother by oath is wedding himself to a literal divinity, if he is troubled in the bedroom it is my sacred duty as a man to offer him advice to please such a cosmic lady!" he said defensively, flicking his gaze back and forth between them, “It would be sacrilege in and of itself to bed the Lady in White poorly," Bart covered his mouth as he continued to hack and laugh in equal measure.

“How does inquiring to the, ahem, dimensions of her Holy Lands help with that?" Gram pressed, and Bart howled in laughter, either from the leaf or the sheer manner in which the doughty cavalier delivered the phrase 'Holy Lands' it was hard to say. The chortling cut off into a wheezing cough again, his wounds paining him as he winced, causing his friends to start gently before he waved them away, still hacking softly,

“Look at what you've done," Nazir retorted, “You've killed the man. How are we going to explain to the Lady that her husband-to-be is dead?"

“Not by asking her how snug her Divine Tabernacle is, surely," Gram shot back, sending Bart into new gales of pained laughter. Bart held up a hand after a moment, gathering himself.

“She is well-pleased by my dimensions in all things, that you need not worry about," he said shoulders still shaking with soft coughs as he cleared his lungs and spat off the porch, making a face before taking another pull on his pipe.

“So you being here rather than there isn't a result of..." Nazir flicked his eyes back and forth and gestured broadly at his groin, and Bart snorted.

“No, that all works. I did not lose any bits other than the eye," he said laconically, tapping the stem of his pipe against the gold prosthetic with such a casual, sharp motion every man at the sitting flinched instinctively, “No, she is waiting for marriage now," he concluded, getting a chuckle from his father.

“Isn't that something, Eleni put the fear of God in one of his creatures," he said, chuckling and puffing at his pipe to no avail, taking it from his lips, Bart shrugged with a smile.

“What can I say, Mother makes a good case." he agreed, leaning his head on his knuckles as his thoughts went back to her; “She was mortified at the idea that we'd been living in sin," he said, grinning.

“That's a thought. Living in sin with the Queen of Love," Gram mused with a thin smile, “That reeks of bad poetry written by lovelorn pageboys."

“Doesn't it?" Bart agreed with a laugh, “I have come to accept that my life is a bit of a storybook now," he added as he dangled his pipe from his lips; “Unicorns, Spells, Potions, and Magic Swords," he shook his head, “Like being a Paladin wasn't mystical enough."

“Don't forget a Mortal Foe or two," Nazir added with a puff of his own, blowing the smoke out in tight, well-formed rings, the southerner's casual skill as usual impressive, “You've rightly twisted the Empty Queen's nose and stabbed the daylights out of some of her favorite pets — that's pretty fairy tale hero stuff of its own."

“Do not remind me," Bart groaned as the others made the sign of the White God in warding; “Parias was bad enough, Mihai is a whole other issue well beyond me." the big Paladin groaned, casting a hand out to the stars, “God's Blood, I cut the man practically in two and he gets up from it again and again, even slain properly on the edge of a holy blade, a year is all it purchases?" He groused, puffing irritably on the pipe, throwing his hands out a bit. “At least the monsters in the stories have the decency to stay dead."

“To be fair, most of them you faced did," Nazir added with a pointed finger, “You are quite a monster when your ire takes you in battle, brother Bart," Bart made a face.

“I'm not fond of such parts of me, I'd rather you did not speak of frothing rage as if it were a boon," Bart said and Nazir snorted.

“My friend, my brother," He said, leveling his eyes and two fingers at him, “If it is no boon to become so irate at the harm of innocents, that you transcend mortal limits of pain and fear — then what would you call it?" he asked plainly, and Bart avoided his gaze.

“I do not enjoy losing control, I am... dangerous. It is dangerous for me to lash out, even in well-earned rage." he hedged, shifting uncomfortably; “Even before the mantle — I am big," he stated bluntly, “Very big, and if I am not careful it is easy to do far more harm than intended."

“I don't think God gives much of a damn if you lose your temper and slay a few dozen Ghuls, Bart." Gram said just as bluntly, “You do yourself a disservice with this self-doubt."

Bart hedged away from that as well, buttoning his lip around his pipe as the leaf clouded his mind just enough that he couldn't formulate an answer to that, Elly's face haunted his thoughts — her desperate fear in the catacombs, her hope when he came for her... all for naught. He shook his head,

“Can we instead return to talking about mine and the Lady's intimacy?" he asked in a tired voice, “That was far less difficult to parse," he said, and his father laughed, tapping at his pipe and puffing at it.

“You lads don't understand," he said to the pair flanking his son, “Bart's heart is gentle."

“And mine is not?" Nazir challenged, and Adelbart booted him playfully in the side.

“Not the way you game, son," he answered tersely, getting a chuckle from the southern man before meeting his son's gaze, “No, Bart's heart is gentle. It always has been. He wasn't made for this, and it's why he's the best of us all."

“Not made for this?" Gram protested, pipe in his teeth spreading his hand back towards the north, towards Lachheim; “The man is a veritable War God! I have never seen such ardent fury laid upon more deserving beasts," Bart closed his eyes at that but otherwise didn't respond.

“I know my boy," Adelbart said sternly, “His heart is gentle. He isn't made to tolerate the petty evils of man or monster, not like you, and not like I," he said, tapping his chest with the stem of his pipe. “Bart's heart is gentle, but his arm is strong," he continued proudly, eyes full of fatherly approval, “He isn't made for the crush of war, the normalcy of its horrors, his heart is gentle — he cannot bear suffering," he said and drew himself up straight in his chair.

“So he fixes it. Like I taught him."

“'Never raise your fist except for another's aid,'" Bart quoted, and his father nodded firmly.

“And never has he," the older man concluded with absolute certainty. Bart wasn't so sure... but his father's vote of confidence filled him with warmth, the other two men nodding along with furrowed brows, but no protestations. They knew Bart as well as anyone.

“Well, heavy as this is — I'll not embarrass my boy further talking about him as if he isn't here, turning red in the face at every passing word," he said, looking towards the house. Adelbart groaned and stood with effort, tapping his pipe into the soil beyond the porch and reaching down to pat Nazir on the shoulder, looking over at Gram.

“That little firebrand is crazy about you. Be bold," he said, winking at him and then turning towards the door, before resting his hand on Bart's shoulder.

“Not the wife I expected... but I'll be damned if you didn't follow in my footsteps," he said, smiling and leaning down to kiss his son's head through his unruly mop of curls.

“I fell in love with a woman well beyond my worth and station?" he ventured, and Adelbart grinned.

“You earned a woman beyond your station, your worth was never the question, son," he said, squeezing his shoulder and turning to the door. “G'night lads," and then he was gone, the door closing behind them, and leaving the three young warriors alone with the stars.

“I envy you, Bart," Gram said after a long silence full of the pull of pipes and faint sighing of timber; “Your family is full of love til the seams strain. Your father brings to mind thoughts of my own," he said, pausing and meeting Bart's eyes the unsaid words floating between them: The true one, not the bastard that got me on my mother.

“He isn't wrong, my tall friend." Nazir said, meeting Gram's gaze with his own amber eyes; “Lidia is madly in love with you, desperately even." he said, and Gram smiled thinly.

“I am aware." he hedged, and Nazir narrowed his gaze.

“I don't know that you are, man. She's beyond infatuation, this isn't some girlish crush." he said, pointing his pipe stem at the man; “She loves you."

“I am aware," Gram retorted in a strained tone, closing his eyes a bit, “I am being delicate with it. She is as beyond me as the Lady is Bart." he said, sniffing at the Paladin; “No offense intended, friend."

“None taken, she's quite literally cosmic," he said in a light tone, Gram continuing with a tight smile.

“She has... needs, I am not ready to fill. My heart is cold still, long have I spent with it locked and chained," he said, looking inward as much as anywhere else as he gazed upon the stars. “She deserves a man fully able to give her his heart, and I yet need to chip mine free of the ice it long dwelled in."

“To hell with that," Nazir said bluntly, leaning back on his elbows; “Lidia is a blazing fire all her own, dive in. Let her melt that ice — it'll be all the sweeter for you both," he said, and Gram frowned.

“If it were so easy... but you are right, in a fashion," he admitted, shaking his head. “I am considering a journey, to go home to Darrowmere. Set some things in order," he said, taking a deep breath before looking to Bart and Nazir, his icy gaze full of trepidation.

“I plan to marry her — properly before God and Family, for that... I have to put affairs of title and deed in order." He said, and Bart felt the weight of his words keenly, Gram nodded, “I won't make of her an ignoble woman, married to a man of impropriety. I will set it aright."

“You have my arm in such an undertaking," Bart said, and Nazir nodded in emphatic approval. Gram laughed,

“I value your friendship, both of you — but this is an affair of tact and delicacy, and my dear friends — neither of you are particularly good at subtle."

“Nonsense, I'm very subtle. I sneak up on people all the time." Nazir quipped, getting a laugh from both doughty warriors, Gram shook his head.

“No, let me put it this way — it is an affair of the Darrowmite nobility, and neither of you carries any sway in those courts," he explained and shuddered, “And I'd rather not have the Lady in White storm my family estate in a state of romantic ire," he said.

“She would," Bart noted, and Nazir nodded.

“She takes the title 'Queen of Love' quite seriously," he observed.

All three men nodded at that, no room for argument.

“Still," Bart said, leaning back against the post a bit more; “You simply need to ask, and I will come. Little Sister deserves nothing less."

“Agreed," Nazir added fervently, his eyes blazing with passion, “A tale of such star-crossed lovers one rarely sees in the flesh!" he crowed... and then paused, looking over at Bart with a considering expression. “... outside of this motley crew, that is."

The three men shared another snorting laugh at that, all three looking up at the stars. Time passed like that, in companionable silence, each man busy with his own thoughts before Gram stood, tapping his own pipe out into the soil.

“I should be abed, I have a bit yet to walk to the Abbey still," he said, scooping up his polearm and taking a deep breath. “The wind blows in from the sea, and it is fresh and clear for the first night in many," he said with an unusual brightness to his cold, pale eyes. “A good night for a walk."

“Indeed, I am quite winded myself. Much for an able-bodied man to do in these times," Nazir agreed, similarly rising up and peering out at the horizon. “I think after this, I'll go on a journey."

“Oh?" Bart asked from his place on the porch, Gram also raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Nazir nodded, stretching with a series of cracks and pops as he scooped up his game board.

“I have learned much of myself in my time with you, brother," He said to Bart, running his thumb along a new scar across his chin, thin and pale — a souvenir of his time in battle. “I find this new man I have become is a stranger, but a fascinating one. I would learn more of him."

“Ah," Gram observed with an approving cant of his head, “The journey of self-discovery is a noble thing," Nazir grinned.

“And one I feel best done alone," the southerner continued, peering westward. “I have spent long in the comfortable shadow of my dear sister and her mighty husband... and perhaps that is not all to the greater good of my soul." He observed in a somewhat sad tone, “Dark times are ahead, I can feel that without magic nor touch of prophecy — and I would be a whole thing when they arrive," he said and reached down to Bart with an open hand — one the big Paladin happily, eagerly grasped, even as his bandaged fingers did not fully obey him in the clinch.

“You will always have a home here, brother," Bart said warmly, smiling at him with genuine love. “I look forward to stories of your travels."

“And stories there will be!" He crowed, squeezing Bart's arm with the same fondness, “I have no intention of shirking adventure for safety this time. No hiding behind mercantile shipments or the welfare of my workers, it will be my skin to risk — and my stories to make!" he grinned, and his energy was infectious, Gram laughing as he started down the road towards the abbey.

“Careful, friend Nazir — or the Lady's 'Little Lion' appellation may stick for good!" he called as he went, and Nazir chuckled.

“There are worse titles to earn," he said, grinning as he also took his leave. “I hear Reikstand is wonderful in the summer..."

Bart watched his two newest, dearest friends walk to the end of his family's land, then split off in two directions — Gram towards the Abbey, and Nazir towards his family Mill, where he shared bunk space with Rashid and Naima... and he felt a sort of comfortable emptiness. It wasn't quite goodbye yet, but the seeds of it were there. He would have to bid farewell to many people in his now very, very long life... and this would be the first time.

He was not sorrowful at that. The stars winked down at him as he sat alone, and in that moment of all moments, he was content.

There would always be more stories.

~ ~ ~

Bart stirred in his bed, murmuring softly as he opened his eyes... to blackness. He blinked against his sudden blindness and raised his hand to his face — To find himself blindfolded! He struggled to rise, to pull the cloth off his face — only to feel himself gently eased down by a familiar presence, the smell of wildflowers and spring reassuring him far before Cithara's silky tones and silkier lips brushed his ear.

“Tsk, tsk, Beloved," she playfully chastised him; “It is your wedding day — and it's terribly bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony." she teased, and he felt a tickling sensation on his left hand — a feeling of some cord or ribbon being wound around his finger. His ring finger. The prickle in his spine of her orbit at work clued him into his surroundings even as he was blind.

“Am I to stay abed until called then?" he asked the darkness, and a quiet titter answered him — as well as a warm, and none-too-chaste kiss.

“No beloved," she purred against his lips as his head spun from the intimacy of her touch, “You have much to do. I have taken a few... risks, while you slept. You shall find yourself hale and hearty for the day, at least." she cooed to him, the tightness around his finger drawing away as she kissed him again, and his head swam as the blackness of the blindfold only amplified the intensity of her mouth on his own before she withdrew from him again — her lips leaving his long before her tongue did, causing a delighted shudder to pass through him, “Do not tax yourself overly, but I would not have your memories of this blessed day marred by pain."

Bart flexed the fingers of his right hand cautiously and found them not nearly as stiff, and moreover, as he pointed his toes in delight at her touch, his hip had not tasked him with its previous day's nagging pains. His lips parted to respond, but she shushed him.

“No love, don't question simply obey. If I reveal all of my secrets to you where will the mystery lie?" she teased softly, her laughter tinkling in his ears as she drew away, her voice growing softer as he heard the door click open.

“Don't be abed overlong my love — Master Balgus is eager to speak with you at the Abbey," she said, and the faint click of her hooves sounded away, leaving him alone in the darkness until he was sure she was gone. Her embrace of local tradition appeared to be total, and he found that... highly attractive.

He lay there a long while before peeling off the blindfold, finding it to be a kerchief of some kind of gauzy, white cloth. Unsure where it came from he tucked it away, like the knights in stories did with favors of their Lady — surely this was close enough. The day was young yet, Bart had always been an early riser and he looked down at his body.

She had dressed or rather undressed his wounds as he slept as well, and his arm was a sight — the whole limb was... discolored, pale, and wan — but not like Lucian's albino flesh — this was a pervasive gray undertone to the normal ruddy tan he had, shot with thin, grain-like veins as if it were a hunk of petrified oak — as if the color and vibrancy of life had simply been bled from it. The skin itself was too tight, taut, and drawn like leather across his bulging muscles. Beyond merely that, its entire length was a field of ugly, ragged scars — the shrapnel when his armor had shredded beneath the power of Truth. It had carved across his arm like a storm of knives, leaving it festooned from fingers to shoulder in a hideous cross-hatching of deep grooves and raised gashes. The odd graying flesh was a mark, as if his arm had been nearly unmade, and not all of its own essence had returned — the price of wielding Truth in so unfit a hand — the Divine Truth had taken some of the true nature of himself as a toll.

He once again, took a moment to explore his body as he had after so many previous traumas; fishing his hand mirror from the shaving kit, he peered at the dusky scarring, prodded it... he had feeling, albeit a bit reduced. Like paper-thin gloves up to his shoulder... the cost of dabbling in the power of God. The scarring continued up his neck to a small degree before reaching the white blaze now dyed into the right side of his scalp — the same mottled scarring lightly touched the edge of his temples and jaw as well before fading into the warm tan of his flesh. A constant reminder of the price of heroism. He did not mind. He would bear his penance for his audacity with pride.

He stood and found his leg was without pain, though still weak. He found full strides difficult, but he happily traded a minor limp for the hobbling agony he'd been in before. Remember what his beloved had said, he took his shaving kit out to the small bathhouse by the privies — another addition by his father, at his mother's stern behest. He encountered none of his family, the house empty on the way out — Cithara had said it was his 'Wedding Day' so they surely must be busy.

“Father Logan must have worked the night through," he murmured as he settled into the bathhouse, busying himself with the quiet meditation of readying the bath, the largest luxury their home had. His family had even been so kind as to leave the fire smoldering for the water — or perhaps, more likely Cithara had made this ready on her way out, the fire did seem a little small for the steam rising from the pot.

“Message received, Lady Mine," he said. Settling into the tub, he set about working his way through his grooming. Scraping away the few weeks of beard and trimming his mustache — he even used the bit of wax given to him by Naima to curl it up at the ends as was proper. His hair was a bit shaggy, but for once it was evenly so — no chunks hacked off or burned away. After a fashion, he peered into the mirror and smiled. He was different, but he recognized the core of the man in the reflection. He felt he could grow to like the man looking back at him.

It was a quick trip back to his room after a long, silent soak where he thought of nothing and no one but drifting, comfortable silence as the heat leeched stiffness from his muscles and joints, where he decided to wear simple clothes from his travel pack. Breeches, comfortable boots, and a long-sleeved shirt that laced at the wrists and throat he'd often worn to training, all in light, linen hues. He kept the sleeves rolled down... so as not to draw as much attention to his Truth-scoured arm. No need to alarm anyone any further than he would simply by being present. He belted it at the waist... and realized once more his sword was missing, along with the rest of his armor.

“Must be what Master Balgus wants to see me about," Bart mused... and then paused, looking around at the empty house with a rueful grin, “I've gone daft, so used to mine own little party that I've begun talking to myself." He laughed and shook his head — setting out at once for the Abbey.

The air felt decidedly of springtime despite it clearly having been summer by the calendar's reckoning — Cithara's influence no doubt, she had said as much clearly. The warm sun and cool breeze mixed readily into a gleeful dance of life; birds sang and flew, flowers burst with pollen and scents, and even the beaten and nigh-totally destroyed harvest seemed stalwart and proud in its wake. From the ashes of tragedy, Fairharbour had endured and prospered. Bart couldn't ask for more. He took the path he always did as if he were simply leaving him to attend training once more, cutting across several fields at a comfortable pace, and waving at a few of his neighbors and fellow millers as he did, bypassing much of the town that way, so not to become ensnared in traffic or idle conversation — Balgus was not a man who liked to be kept waiting overlong.

It was perhaps a half hour's walk at his pace and this route, without Cithara to lovingly distract him into dithering and discussion on the way over, he made good time before he was slowly walking up the path to the gates of the Abbey — minding not to strain himself, as his beloved had asked. It would not do to begin being an inconsiderate husband on the day he was to be wed. Her kerchief danced in the wind along with the bit of her mane about his throat as he approached the gate, he had tied the former off on his arm as was proper for a Knight granted a favor — perhaps a bit dramatic — but what else was more dramatic than the Queen of Love leaving you a token of love?

The gates did not open dramatically for him this time, instead, he simply whistled the passphrase up to the sentry, who shrilled back his response, and below the wicket door swung open, a stout man-at-arms in a helmet and brigandine nodded at him. Bart didn't recognize him, but that wasn't entirely fair with the men-at-arms and rank-and-file soldiers, they often rotated out rapidly between Fort Ivory and various other posts within the heartlands.

“Ser Bart," he grunted, nodding to Bart with a salute, which the Paladin returned. “Master Balgus told me to send you right to the forge."

“Thank you... ah... I'm afraid we've never met, neighbor." Bart admitted honestly and the soldier smiled.

“No Ser, Burke's the name, Ser." he said crisply, and then preempting Bart's next words; “Master Balgus said to look for a large man with a golden eye." He explained tapping beneath his own for emphasis, “Easy enough, Ser."

“I imagine it was something more like 'Look for a right big bastard with a golden eye' but I appreciate the directness, Mister Burke," Bart said with a nod and a clap on the man's arm as he continued forward onto the grounds, sharing a quiet chuckle with the soldier as they both went about their business.

Bart cut through the green straight, feeling strong and whole again, his stiff-legged limp had faded off halfway through the walk. He took it easy yet, he suspected this new vitality was temporary with how his beloved had warned him — some cheat or end-run around his limitations she had engineered in such a way he doubtlessly would have protested it were he awake to do so. Instead, he simply did as she asked, and obeyed.

The forge was set into the western side of the green opposite the chapel and library where he'd prayed and studied the Oaths, strategy, and warfare. It was a cozy place, Balgus had frequently been offered new spaces that were larger and more comfortable — but the gristly old blacksmith had resolutely refused to move, his workshop a blocky ordeal that was half-open to the elements and half-ensconced in a heavy turret built into the walls, near the stream that was fed by the deep-shale spring from the tor the abbey itself was built on — the reason this particularly miniature mountain was chosen as it's foundation. The creak of wood and lapping of waves came to his ears ahead of the clear ringing of hammer blows as he ducked into the dim glow of the forge, the bright morning sun a stark contrast to the coal-lit shade. Blinking away the sudden darkness, he almost didn't see the lean, stern man before he very nearly stepped onto him.

“Oy, mind your step you fuckin' bear," the leathery man grunted in good-natured grousing, looking up from where he sat at a tiny iron anvil, pushed out from the inner part of the forge to the cool breeze — his hands wrapped around several pieces of steel, tongs, and a small hammer, shaping and twisting with rapid taps and twisting motions of his whole body, bending the metal with sheer, practiced force.

“Master Balgus!" Bart crowed happily, the grizzled old smith looking up at him with a tight smile, his bald pate glistening with sweat and the curl of his mustache in two neat loops above his bushy, squared-off beard.

“Good tae see ye, lad. Still, a right big cunt I see," he grunted, tapping in another rivet and bending the plate around it, he recognized it as segmented parts of an ornate gauntlet; Balgus' hands practically dancing across them in spite of his bent form and age, his fingers and palms still moved with the grace and smoothness they always had.

“Maybe a bit slimmer around the waist," Bart agreed, clapping a hand over his middle with a laugh, getting a toothy grin from the smith as he worked, “The Lady said you sent for me."

“Aye, wonderful creature she is," he agreed, a glimmer of awe in his eyes, “I hear ye wrecked my armor and my axe," he continued in a stern tone, his warm brown eyes hard as agates as he stared at Bart over the anvil, the big Paladin shrank back from that gaze a bit, feeling all at once like a novice with a chipped practice sword again. He coughed and Balgus slowly grinned again, shaking his head.

“Kept ye alive, did its job. 'Sides I've got ye new arms right over there, an' they're a sight tae behold," he said, genuine awe in his voice as he set aside his hammer and turned to the back of the shop. Beyond the dimness, as his eyes adjusted, Bart saw the raiment he'd taken from the First Paladin's tomb, and the First Blade as well, tucked carefully back on a stand much as it had been when he first saw it, what seemed like a lifetime ago in the Glade.

“Ne'er in my days 'ave I seen steel the like," Balgus continued as he rose. The older man grunted as he forced himself straight, the scars of the wasting sickness that nearly took him raw and puckered on his bare back through his apron. Yet he was still strong, battered and beaten but solid, like the old hammers he wielded. Bart followed him to it, the grizzled smith standing before it with a lopsided smile. The armor and its imperious helm and crown stood over them, and it was indeed magnificent. Balgus had clearly taken some work to it and was still absent its entire right arm's worth of harness.

“I cleaned it up right good, not that there was much o' that for me to do." he said, reaching a hand up and running it across the breastplate; “The dents an' dings just about pushed themselves out on their lonesome, an' the patina won't come off no matter what manner o' scourin' I apply."

“It never will," Bart added, looking up at the crown... his crown. “It is the mark of duty well served."

“Aye, that it is. All the same, I polished it good an' proper and peeled all of the old fittings out and replaced them as much as I could, it's gonna shine like silver in the sun or ye can take me apron and hammer from me, an' that's a promise." Balgus agreed, hands on his hips, eyes on the helm along with Bart, there was a long silence before he sniffed, his jaw setting.

“I saw the eye, lad. The other bits as well," the smith said softly, both men's eyes lost in the luster of the magically hardened gold and its edge's lethal gleam. “Seen a lot o' boys come back like that, broken armor, broken bodies. So I ask you what I ask them," he rumbled and turned his gaze to meet Bart's with a fire in his warm brown eyes.

“Did ye give the one responsible a right-proper turn in exchange?" Bart closed his eyes, there was no smile as he remembered the fight, nay the battle he waged against Parias, every brutal, bone-crunching hit, every impact — every single thrust, cut, and parry. He took a deep breath, letting it out through his teeth and nose, his back straightening and his shoulders setting in defiance of the monster's memory.

“With interest."

“Good lad."

The two men returned their gaze to the armor a moment more, contemplation plain on both their scarred, weathered faces. The bald smith's gaze turned back to him, eyebrows raised and a tone of playful incredulity on his weathered, bearded face, the small spectacles he wore for detailed work down on the end of his nose.

“A crown, lad?" he asked, grinning wider, the silvery glint of his artificial canine bright against the dimness. Bart finally laughed, a smile on his face.

“It wasn't my idea, but when you are to wed the Queen of Love..." he said, turning his gaze back to the gleaming gold coronet, his heart and belly alike fluttering at the weight of its meaning. Balgus' head tipped back with a silent 'Ah' of understanding.

“Ye'll wear it well — it'll distract from that crooked beak o' yours," the smith snorted, getting a laugh from the Paladin as they stepped away from the armor.

“The Lady says it gives my face character," Bart said with a pompous air of indignity, getting a snort from Balgus as he walked around the armor stand.

“Oh aye, the character o' bein' a doorstop," he chuckled — getting a sputtering snort of laughter from Bart — and picked up the sword in its scabbard, the smith bringing it over to the chortling Paladin.

“Now lad, this is somethin' special," he almost whispered as he drew the blade out with open reverence — and the sun streaming in from the outside glinted off its edges with the marvelous blackened-gold sheen of Absolute Iron, the aurum shimmer along its blade like a glittering golden mother-of-pearl iridescence. Not a nick or divot showed on the blade save for its naturally dusky, grainy surface — all excluding that perfect, mirror-bright edge. The words Manu Propria were even more clearly visible, standing out stark and clear in the finger-length fuller at either side of the base of its wide, triangular blade. The Absolute Iron rang like a bell as Balgus laid it across his hands, looking at it with genuine admiration.

“'Tis a work o' art. I could labor for ten decades more an' a more elegant blade I could never wish to craft," he breathed, turning it over reverently, his strong, knobby fingers tracing down the bevel and short fuller like one would caress a child or a lover. “The man what forged this was a master beyond reckoning, I wouldn't be fit tae pump his bellows."

“Oh I rather think he'd like you, Master Balgus," Bart said lightly, the old smith snorting with a dismissive half-smile, Bart raised his eyebrows, “I am quite serious. I met him," he replied earnestly. Balgus looked up at him over the rim of his spectacles with disbelieving eyes.

“What manner of man could bend Absolute Iron such as this weapon?" the old smith asked in a quiet, curious tone.

“No man, Goblin in fact," Bart explained, and Balgus furrowed his brow in irritation.

“Ye need not mock an old man for his joys, lad," he said in a genuine tone of bitterness, but Bart waved him off, shaking his head.

“No, Honest. I met him, he even trained me with the blade. His name is Daedolon, and he forged that blade in its original form, thousands of years ago in the Age of Fire and Stone," Bart said and turned the blade over gently in the man's hands — it was still killing sharp, after all — and gestured to the small trident-like stamp in the very base of the blade where it met the crosspiece at the center of the fuller. “That is his mark."

Balgus' face smoothed out from ribald offense to sudden, wide-eyed wonder, “Tae hold one o' the artifacts of the Abbey alone twas honor enough, but tae know it's maker was beyond that of Man or Beast is..."

“It isn't just an artifact of our faith, Master Balgus," Bart cut in quietly, folding his hand over it fondly, “It is one of the First Blades."

Bart may have been mostly ignorant of the lore of Absolute Iron and its gifting to man before his fateful encounter with the Goblin Swordmaster — but Balgus, master of the forge and chief bladesmith of The Radiant Order was not. The look on his face was one of religious catharsis, a literal tear rolled down his cheek as he caressed the blade.

“Lad... this is a treasure ye've been given. I took my tools tae it, cleaned and polished it, worked every bit of grime, gore, and grit from its every line and angle." he said, smiling softly as he took a deep breath and wiped his eye with one rough hand, “It's the peak o' my craft, and now ye tell me it's one of the First Blades, one o' our people's first strikes back against the dark things." He held the blade aloft, eyes shining with its simple elegance. It's majesty.

“Marvelous, isn't it?" Bart agreed, and Balgus could only nod at first, turning the blade around with a surprisingly nimble twist of his wrist — giving the blade back to its owner, pommel first.

“Aye lad, and it suits ye. Better than that axe o' mine," he said and smiled as he gently bobbed the weapon toward Bart's gaze, a flutter of motion catching his attention. On the pommel facing him, was the woven charm of hair from the novices. Neatly washed, tied, and re-braided together with bands of leather dyed to match the grip to tie firmly at the loop in the peen-block of the pommel — far more permanently than his clumsy fingers had managed before.

“It's yers now, lad. Ye've put yer mark on it," he said with a smile. Bart took his weapon, looking down at it with a strange fondness. He had not cared for the weapon, either in form or function before. Yet now, it felt good. Natural, he and the blade had been through literal Hell together, between dimensions and in defiance of Gods. He took the scabbard and sheathed it snappily, smiling at the smith — who nodded approvingly.

“Now lad," he said going back to what he had been working on; “I cannae properly repair ye armor, not on account o' skill — but time," he said, shaking his head. “Ye're bigger all 'round and only just now are ye up and about for measurement, but we cannot have ye marryin' the Lady in shirtsleeves nor lopsided armor," he said and tapped his hammer pointedly on the plates — it had been a gauntlet indeed, he sat down and produced a tailor's measure and the leather backing to the plates he'd been shaping. “Come on over and give me that big right arm o' yers, we'll get this gauntlet fitted and you dressed and sorted for The Lady's pleasure," he said, grinning brightly.

“Can't send the King o' Love tae the altar without his crown."

~ ~ ~

The morning passed in a quiet blur of conversation and well-meaning cursing as Balgus fitted the new gauntlet to him — and he had been right. Even with his tradition of keeping a record of the measurements of all the Knight-Brothers in his care — Bart's arm had changed quite extensively, even in just that short time.

“Now yer an even bigger cunt," Balgus had grunted as he rechecked the measurements, Bart's arms, both of them were more than a few notches broader than they had been before, as was the rest of him, slimmer around the middle by a scoche, but broader across the chest, shoulders, and thighs. His ordeals had transformed his body in more than just scars and losses, he bore out the fruit of struggle — he wasn't merely stronger in heart, but body as well.

“And here I thought it was just the mantle," he mused as Balgus helped fit him into the armor anew, the interior hardware and whatever magic it had seemed to not extend to the straps in totality, Bart had not really had time to think of it until Balgus had adjusted it with an expert's hand — if there was a true testament to his skill as a blacksmith, somehow he'd managed to make the magical harness fit him better.

His attire was mostly for show — not that he wouldn't trust anything forged by Balgus with his life — but it was a simply gauntlet and couter, only a half measure of the full missing harness,

“I couldn't match the color precisely, and that along with not wishin' tae disturb ye while ye slept, I decided this would be a proper short-term solution," he said, fitting the now-adjusted gauntlet up his hand, to Bart's eyes it looked all the same, he'd even weathered it in a similar manner with a hot wire brushing. “I can always take my time while ye are in the Glade with the Lady, I have your measurements," he said, adjusting the cuff with a raise of his eyebrow, eyes not leaving his work, “The Lady made it very clear she wasn't going to truck with any heroism until you had convalesced right proper."

The rest of the armor had been buffed and polished to a well-worn gleam, the surface's long history of scratches and weathering giving character to the mirror shine. The additions of station, however, gave him pause. The crown, role, and long cloak had taken some getting accustomed to, but now a heavily quilted sleeve in the Reiklands style in patterned black and white lay across his right arm in place of the missing harness, and a matching close-fit surcoat had replaced the simple, open-style traveling surcoat he'd worn on campaign. It fit much more like the cloth cover had over his now-lost brigandine, snug to the cuirass and fit beneath the pauldrons and plackart — its real change was its heraldry. Bart had always worn the simple standard of the Radiant Order, the Lidless Eye over the Horn of the Lady, a simple black geometric pattern. Now he had earned more, the surcoat the same black and white colors, but split at the breast down the middle, the left side a white field and the right black as sable. Onto each field had been stitched a standard for his new heraldry. The white field carried the familiar Eye and Horn device he had worn for years — but the left was new. In pure white across the field of black was the emblem of the Knights of the Thorn — a sleek, rampant unicorn that could have been Cithara's silhouette drawn onto cloth surrounded by a geometric half-ring of five thorns. The Thorns were supposed to represent the Knights themselves — a ring of blades in service of the Lady in White. It had been the goal of his whole life to wear that symbol, and now it lay over his breast. One point for every Kingdom of Northsea, every point of the crown he now wore... it dawned on him in that moment. Turning his head to the helm, to its lethal, blade-like crown — he recognized it for what it was.

“The Crown of the High King," he murmured, bemused by it as he took it in his hands as Balgus went over him with a horsehair brush.

“What's that, lad?" Balgus asked, and Bart raised his eyebrows.

“Old Reikstand history, along with his body, the first High King's crown went missing with his effects," Bart explained, he hadn't been of a head for academics like Lucian had — but Bart adored history, and his mind was full of stories of his father's homeland, “They call it The Regent Crown because all of the high kings since have worn a replica, due to the lost original, “ he said and gestured outwards with the helm and its glimmering adornment, a wry sort of grin on his face.

“Found it."

Balgus paused, his incredulous expression taking a moment to register as he looked from the crown to the Paladin, and a snort of laughter escaped him, continuing into a crooked-mouthed chuckle as he went back to work, Bart's own chortles joining him as he shook his head. Prophecy was a funny thing, even accidental ones couldn't seem to help but be dramatic.

It was about midday when Bart was deemed 'acceptable' by Balgus, having buffed, adjusted, and arranged the armor on him in a half-dozen different variations until he felt that the harness was more a part of him than his own bones. Balgus was a stickler however, and his standards were higher than Bart's own, but by the end of it he'd deigned him 'Ready to dance in a ballroom or a battlefield'. They'd replaced all of his underclothes and gambeson as well with a quilted one that matched the decorative sleeve, and it made him strike a sharp contrast between the blackened, gold-trimmed armor and its clean white and black linens. As they worked, the silence became very apparent.

“Bit empty around here, isn't it?" Bart noted as they were fixing his cloak pins, and Balgus nodded with a crooked grin.

“Almost like there's some fancy event to which all manner o' folk are rather keen to attend," the old man answered in a gruff deadpan, his gaze over the rims of his glasses frank and mirthless. Bart blushed a bit at that, shifting about uneasily in his armor — it really was more comfortable, but his hesitation added stiffness to his shoulders,

“I suppose there is."

“Scared, lad?" Balgus asked quietly, simply sweeping up and attending to the mess of armoring a King, as it were. Bart frowned,

“Yes, but not as I think I should be."

“Oh aye?"

“I should be afraid of the commitment, yes?" he said in an uncertain tone, eyes distant as he stared into the gold of the crown; “This woman and you, forever... yet that does not frighten me."

“Aye no?" the smith muttered back, stacking tools and raising a brow; “The Lady doesn't give ye a bit o' pause as a mate?"

“Not a moment's," Bart answered without hesitation, “You do not know it as I do, to be with her is to be defined by her, and I want nothing more than that... no, it's far more common than that," he said with a sigh, his shoulders slackening their stressed hunch as he gestured with the helmet — with the Crown.

“It's the station. The authority," he said quietly, honestly. “I am ill at ease with the title 'Hero'."

“But ye are one," Balgus stated knowingly,

“I am one," Bart echoed in stoic agreement, his face lowered. The wiry blacksmith drew himself up and walked to the Paladin's side. He was a tall man after all, only a few fingers shorter than Bart's towering frame, he rarely stood straight — always hunched at task. Being upright as such made him look strangely... younger, more vital as those brown eyes gleamed with familiarity.

“Aye lad, ye are. Ye know it, they know it. Yer hesitation is part of what makes that true," the old smith said with a weight of years in his words. Decades of Paladins, decades of real heroes being armed and armored by his hands had doubtlessly seen such hesitation plenty. “Ye do not seek glory and are uncomfortable with station, 'tis what is the makes o' a great hero, and a humble king," he finished pointedly, pushing the helm and its golden crown towards him.

“What if I make mistakes?"

“Ye will."

“What if I get people killed?"

“Then they'll die, and ye'll carry on in their memory, listen, lad," Balgus interrupted the young man's nervous spiral with a firm hand on his cheek, turning the scarred warrior's face to his, “Ye heart is good, but ye head's in the wrong place, stop thinkin' about ye fears and worries o' others, think about her." The old smith whispered, giving him a gentle shake, “Be selfless another day, today is about ye and her. Whatever else ye union might mean tae the whole o' the world is another thing entirely, but this is for ye and her and damn the rest as ceremony."

Bart took a breath and let it out through a rueful smile, his mustache bristling as he shook his head. Balgus was always reliably direct — and habitually right about these things.

“You're right," He admitted, nodding, “Her. My wife, mine," he said, eyes lidding warmly at the possessive, masculine desire attached to those thoughts. Quite selfish indeed.

“Good lad," Balgus grinned, patting his cheek as he turned to the sound of hooves, a groom coming along with a great black war-horse in full parade tack of matching black and white style.

“Get out of ye head, and take a little ride on down tae the chapel," he said, wiping his brow. “Go be selfish for a bit, put on a bit o' show for the Lady. The King o' Love is going to come riding over the horizon on a mighty steed to wed her, ye're a fairy tale hero now, lad — might as well enjoy it."

Bart laughed at that, nodding his way through as he took the reins and swung himself up into the saddle, settling his finery about himself and taking his helmet from Balgus, the old smith grinning up at him.

“Go get her, lad. She's waiting for you."

“Thank you, Balgus. For everything," Bart said, and the old smith nodded, folding his arms over his chest.

“Good steel, it'll serve you," Balgus agreed humbly, the old man's back straight and his shoulders square as he watched, then with a sharp whistle he got Bart's attention. “One last thing," he said and produced the long sheaf of silk he had brought with him.

“A champion ought to bring a Lady's favor back to her," he said, reaching up and tying it back around Bart's left bicep, where it flowed and glided in the light breeze like a pennant. Balgus nodded and stepped back, “I'll see ye up ahead."

Bart smiled, and spurred the horse, taking his leave out the now open gates at a comfortable canter. The mighty horse putting on a bit of a show itself — prancing a bit on every step — clearly sensing the air of import about his own finery.

“I feel it too, friend," Bart mused, patting the young frisking stallion on the neck as they descended the Abbey's tor for the second time in his life, under arms and blessing. The second time, he rode to meet his Lady to seek her blessing.

Life had a symmetry to it like that.

~ ~ ~

The quiet followed him, as he found much of the town proper similarly abandoned, a few people here or there waved to him as they tended last-minute responsibilities. There was a curious sense of stillness, the town in quiet tableaux that drew his thoughts inwards. He thought of the future, and the past in equal amounts. Of his time here as a lad, seeing ghosts of places and people now gone or grown, changed forever as he rode past now-empty streets and alleys he once played in. His mind wandered to what lay ahead, he would leave this place again and who knows when he may return? He was to go to the Glade with the Lady and there she would care for his ravaged spirit, this borrowed vitality a temporary reprieve. He knew not how long he would be there, the Lord Protector had dwelled with her for years healing his body of the ravages of leprosy, and even now they spoke and abided with one another as old friends might. How long would the damage he had wrought upon himself with truth take to make whole? How long would it be to him? Would he go into the green trees for a decade and come out to find it had only been a tenday or two?

The true question was: if he did descend beneath the green boughs with her, ne'er to return — would he care?

In his heart of hearts, he considered that question, want warring with duty. It was a question for another day, however, as he crested the bluff from midtown up to the chapel — where a cheer began.

Stretched before him was a field of beautiful flowers, the grassy knolls that spread hither and yon about the Chapel all in raucous, impossible bloom. The air was a heady mix of pollen and sweet nectar scents that swirled and danced across the senses. They wreathed around the fences that marked off the roads and borders and climbed up maypoles and pennants erected with loving, if hasty hands. Everything was covered in white and pink flowers, the Lady's joy and favor given form. A gleeful blanket that swirled in the air as loose petals and laughing children, and yes the cheers.

Before him, the whole town very nearly had assembled, in the green and the fields everyone he knew had turned out in their spring best. The women and girls were all in flowing, clingy dresses of linens and silks, hair braided with flowers and ribbons. Ribbons were everywhere, he did not think there could be so much in his little town, but they hung as streamers from every surface, man, woman, and child. The men too were in casual finery of light colors and loose fits, dancing, laughing, and drinking. In the distance he saw latecomers still coming up the roads, waving and cheering as well as they came into sight of him, a ripple going out through the crowds to tell of his arrival. Music played somewhere and kicked into a higher key, and a swarm of flower-bedecked girls and boys mobbed up to his horse as he rode up the road, straight to the chapel gardens.

The Lady's favor flapped in the wind as he went, dancing with the petals and pollen in rippling glee. He lowered his hand to the children as he passed, patting several of them on heads and shoulders fondly as he went, their cheers and sing-song praises following him in the form of childish rhymes about the King of Love. It seemed his title had preceded him. All around him, people raised their hands and flagons and even sometimes a young baby in arms in cheers as he passed. He spied more than a few bandages and crutches, many of the defenders among the crowd — and even more he saw much of the Abbey's own peoples here. A chance for merriment, a reason to celebrate, it was more than a chance to simply honor the Lady and him — it was a chance to celebrate being alive.

He dismounted at the edge of the chapel, a young novice in a pageboy cut eagerly taking his horse away for a snack of oats. He stood, helm beneath his arm at the end of the aisle to the altar. The wildness of the gardens had been left untamed, merely directed, and streamers of the same ribbons flowed and fluttered across the grounds as a whole, making everything seem to dance and flow with life. A carpet had been rolled out, rich and red it beckoned him up its length to the altar, where Father Logan stood in quiet readiness, his own usual casual monk's habit done away with for a long, white robe with a drooping scapula and lappets at the shoulders emblazoned with the Eye and Horn.

“My son," He greeted Bart warmly, looking him over with a smile; “Oh you look proper fitting today, His Eye upon Us." He said in soft blessing, a copy of the Word of White held in his hands, along with a small chalice and a ewer of water on the altar.

“Balgus spared no effort, I fear I may never leave this harness after he fitted it to me so closely," he laughed, getting a grin from the priest as the people seemed to flock together... they had been waiting on him. The rows of guests formed up, Bart seeing his own mother and father occupying the foremost ranks of the crowd. His mother had his kerchief already in her hands, and she waved at him with tears in her eyes.

“Scared, son?" Logan asked him as they stood in attendance at the gathering, the word of his arrival rippling back through the crowd.

“No. Yes. Excited, perhaps?" Bart said honestly, his grin infectious in its edge of mania, the old priest grinning.

“Just like your father was." he sighed as the last of the crowd began to find its place; “It is a bit unusual of a ceremony, but it is an unusual marriage. I've done away with some of the complicated bits that don't apply to you. Your best man, Dowry, and so on," he said, looking at Bart pointedly, the Paladin's sword hung at his side still. “I feel you've got any challenges to your bride's safety covered."

“I can manage," Bart agreed humbly, the priest nodded with a smile.

“Good, because here she comes."

Bart turned his head, and the crowd parted. Beyond she came, draped in a gauzy veil that hung across her body almost like a parade shawl, its edges kept off the ground by the hands of two maidens in white gowns to either side of her. Naima and Lidia both looked ravishing in the white dresses, flowers, and ribbons woven into their hair, for once seeing Naima's own locks undone from their usual tight bun, her glistening black hair flowed down her back to her knees. Lidia much the same, looked startlingly girlish in her sheer gown, her petite frame lithe and fluid as she carried her end of the veil, her chin-length red hair bouncing about her face, framed by a wreath of white flowers. Bart's smile only grew. He spied the rest of his friends as well in company behind him, Nazir and Rashid similarly attired in white and black in a long robe-like shirt with a clipped collar. Both Southerners also wore their weapons openly — it seemed they had decided to take it upon themselves to be the bridal escort. Gram appeared in the crowd, as did Balgus and Lucian after a fashion, all finding places near the edges with his family.

It was the Lady, Cithara herself who stole the breath from him. She walked the aisle towards him with impossible, alien grace. Flowing like liquid, she managed to make Lidia's impossible agility and Naima's stately poise seem rough and crude in comparison to the preternatural creature they escorted. Beyond the veil, her lithe body had been wrapped in more of the ribbons, and rather here he saw the source of the theme. They flowed out from her like a cape, woven into her mane in complex braids like the long tendrils of runes that danced upon her aspect's true self. They danced to and fro on the breeze, softly caressing her iridescent white coat as the sun blazed off her like a sheathe of mother-of-pearl painted wet upon her. Her mane flowed with the trailing streamers, a supernatural sheet of silk that rode the air around her with a life all its own, dancing now to the winds as did its tiny mate about his throat. Her tail and its elegant brush wound through the air behind her, as if it were painting the sunlit horizon in its passing. Bart's heart seized up into his throat, and he felt his gut flutter with sudden apprehension — and desire. Thrilling was the sensation of her golden gaze upon his own as she came down the aisle. The music started again, a traditional hymn of blessing on the minstrel's lips, soon carrying to the crowd itself as she arrived before him, her handmaids each bowing to the altar and Father Logan.

“Blessings upon us, all in attendance this day," Father Logan began as the hymn faded, the robust man's voice full and rich, reaching easily across the gardens and down to the field. “It is only by your earnest efforts that such a bounty can be presented to our Lady in White on this, her most blessed of days. For that, I personally thank you, my children, you have made an old priest proud."

The crowd murmured in appreciation, and Bart realized that much of the town must have worked through the night here. Let alone what Cithara contributed herself while he was being strapped into his armor and buffed like new silverware. The Priest continued:

“Heavenly Father, Our Lord in Ivory — blessed be thy works and thy aspects, may they forever guard our hearts and souls until the Pale Dawn Calls us," he read, the final line read back as a mantra by the soldiers of the crowd, the Priest's smile widening... as he seemed rather a bit to go off script.

“Gathered here are two of those agents and their full, passionate hearts. At long last, our Lady's lonely heart has another to sing to in the solitude of the night and companionship of His Golden Light. It is a blessed day, a Holy Day," he raised his arms, simply speaking from his heart — for whom had a wedding sermon for a divine being?

“It is my great, humble honor to weave thy laws into being around these two hearts. To bind them forever in the holy embrace of matrimony under your Golden Light," he said and gestured to the two to step forward, taking from Bart his helmet and laying it down on the altar in a position of ceremony — the Crown standing perfectly between the pair.

“Bartholomus Mueller, son of Adelbart, son of Eleni, Paladin of the Radiant Order of Our Lady in White, are ye here whole in heart and sound in mind, of thy own will and power?" he challenged the Paladin, who stood at attention reflexively — the tone of voice eliciting the soldier in him respond.

“Aye sir, I am — so I swear it on mine heart," Bart responded, his voice... different. The crowd noticed, nothing supernatural but simply... changed. He spoke not with the voice of a boy, novice, or simple knight-brother on pilgrimage. He spoke with the voice of a veteran, the voice of a king. Briefly cowed by his own fervor, Bart squared his shoulders and nodded. Father Logan's face beamed as he nodded back, turning his challenging hand to Cithara.

“Our Lady in White, the Unicorn of Love, Servant of Our Lord in Ivory, Mother of Mothers, Daughter of God, dearest of our hearts and fiercest of our passions — Do ye come here whole in heart, sound in mind, of thy own will and power?" he boomed his rich preacher's voice throbbing with fanatical devotion for the tiny creature before him.

Cithara wore her joy as a gown, rich and dignified — she smiled through the thin veil with a barely-contained glee, “Aye my love — so I swear it on mine heart," she purred, the Priest's face somehow growing more joyous as he nodded in confirmation, reaching up to the ewer and gesturing to the aisle.

“Are thy prepared to gird one's hearts and souls in bonds of matrimony, forevermore?"

“I am," Bart and Cithara rang out in unison, drawing a thrill up from Bart's belly as she met his eyes again for a moment.

“My children, present to us your Vows," Father Logan prompted them, and Bart felt his mouth go dry... he had not prepared anything... had he been supposed to? Everyone looked at him, and he knew it was his turn first. Cithara gazed up through her lashes at him demurely, her smile gentle. Patient.

“I, Bartholomus Mueller, Take thee Lady as mine, to cherish and protect, to serve as thy shield and sword hither and yon, at hearth and home and far afield. In sickness, health, and those lonely times of quiet nights I will love only you, first and only in mine heart — God, Clergy, and Common folk as my witness." Bart managed in a voice that only tremored twice in the improvisation, Cithara's eyes were wide and liquid, and the sound of sobs came from many places in the crowd. Cithara drew in a shaky breath.

“I, Lady in White, Take thee, Bart," she said, and Bart was keen to notice her using his name as only she did, the inflection and tone intimate and warm, “As mine, in defiance of all others, in defiance of all claims. To cherish, to love, to care for in all ways a wife can and should. To be a salve to your wounds, and a soft sigh in your nights. A warmth to drive away all chills of body and spirit, a place to go when no others will take you. I take thee, Bart. Thou art mine, and I art thine." she said, and the crowd rippled with a shudder as there was power in those words. A claim had been made not just in love, but in the fabric of all things, the trappings of ritual in her tone — and a throbbing, anxious tone of fervent love. Father Logan seemed stunned by it as well for a moment before he addressed them both,

“The rings?" he asked, and Bart's eyes widened. He had not even thought about that! His mind went a mile a minute before a glint of gold caught his gaze: Cithara's glimmering eyes smiled at him as she mouthed the word 'Relax' at him with a deliberate wink. Realization hit him like a stone as Lidia came forward with a small wooden box in her hands, Naima at her side. The bit of string about his finger this morning couldn't have been a more obvious hint that if she'd told him, truly he was dense at times.

Lidia uncapped the box and presented a pair of radically different-sized rings, both of simple, well-polished gold. Father Logan took the box and smiled, taking the water and the ewer on hand, he spoke a blessing in the tongue of angels. Passing his hand across it, he sprinkled the water thrice across the rings as he did. Meanwhile, Lidia and Naima took the corners of the long, gauzy veil and drew it back in a smooth motion.

Cithara turned her gaze up to him, long eyelashes fluttering over her brilliant, golden eyes. She had never looked quite so lovely to him, and not for the braided mane nor silken veils. In her gaze, she wore the bottomless love she held for him naked and open for all to see. Never had he felt so strong, so tall, so mighty and true as he did just then, before all of his family, all of Creation — with The Unicorn gazing upon him with pure, simple adoration. His heart quickened, and his breath came short. Truly, he was in love.

“Heavenly Father, Bless these rings, this Oath of Gold between these two hearts, hand to hand, soul to soul we bind them..." he trailed off as he looked to Cithara and with a wry smile improvised quietly just for them; “In a fashion, at least," he then, offered the rings to the couple. Bart, as was custom was to go first, and he gravitated towards the smaller of the two.

“Bart," She whispered, “That's your ring."

“What?"

“The larger is mine, see how it's more dainty?"

Bart gawked a bit, the larger of the two was twice the size, and he even then wondered how he thought that would fit even his large fingers. Mutely, he took it in hand and spoke clearly:

“I give thee this ring as an Oath of Gold, in the Name of God and Heaven I swear to Love thee as sure and true as it is," he said, raising the ring to... her... well, the Paladin was puzzled as he realized not where to put it now that he had it!

“Bart," Cithara whispered again, her eyes smiling as she fought to keep her face serene; “My horn." Bart quickly put two and two together once more, and gently touched her cheek with one hand, as he took the other and threaded it gently down her spiraling golden horn. His fingers brushed it on the descent, and it sent a tremble through them both as his Mantle sang its love to her through the contact. The ring fit perfectly, almost locking onto the base of her horn, standing out with its symmetry against the raw twisted shape of her preternatural golden armament. Tears sprang to her eyes a moment, and she blinked them away. Her orbit flared, and the other ring drifted up from the box limned in the glittering aura of her power, and up came his hands — both bare, his gauntlets tucked into his belt — Cithara looking at them both as she raised them with her power.

“I give thee this ring as an Oath of Gold, In the name of God and His Aspects as Kin, I swear upon my power to love thee as sure and true as it is," she echoed in her own manner, her voice afire with sincerity as she slid the smaller of the two rings onto his left hand, where she had measured him earlier that day. It fit perfectly.

“With the power vested in me by Thy Heavenly Father, O Lord in Ivory, I hereby bless and anoint this union, and now pronounce you Husband and Wife," he said, and then with a pause for effect, he finally added.

“You may kiss the bride."

Bart and Cithara's eyes met, and for a moment he couldn't find his breath. He had kissed her before, but here, now? What sort of kiss was worthy? Cithara didn't give him time to think, and she pressed up against his powerful armored form — Her sinuous neck reaching up to bring her mouth to his in an ardent display of passion. One hoof raised daintily to her chest as she shivered at the jolt of desire that ran through them both as their lips met. Bart took her in his arms then — knowing in that moment precisely how to proceed — and he kissed her back. The crowd went up in a roar of cheers as his arms went around her, his fingers sliding across her cheek. He gathered her to his chest and swept the little creature up into his powerful grasp, their lips never breaking as she pushed the kiss to the edge of decency with delight.

Above them, the bells began to ring. Singing their iron song with adamant joy, they rang out across the county along with the cheers and roars of approval. They rang out across creation, across time and space. They rippled out through the ether, to places not known by man. They rang out to all and everything — that the Unicorn loved this man, and he loved her.