Raised from Perdition Part 9

Dani has been captured by Crowley

“I’d tell you to go to hell, but apparently we’re already here.”

            “Oh, you are daddy’s little girl,” Crowley said, his amusement only making her madder.  “Such fire.  I see now why he’s in a tizzy about getting you back.”

            Dani set her jaw.  “What deal are you going to ask for?”

            “I’m not,” Crowley answered.  “I could, and he’d decline rather rudely, run around for a few days trying to rescue you his way and once he fails at that he’ll do whatever I want.  Fun the first few times certainly, but it really is taking on a whole, been there done that sort of feel, you know what I mean?”

            “Then what are you going to do with me that’s so much more entertaining?”

            “I’m going to let you go.”

            Dani blinked, unprepared for that answer. “What?”

            “You heard me darling.”

            “You’re just going to let me go?”

            “Mmhm.”  Crowley nodded.

            Dani narrowed her eyes.  She’d heard enough about the demon king to know that was way too easy.  “What’s the catch?”

            “No catch,” Crowley answered, moving to place his hands on the chair behind her.  “You see, if this game is going to be any fun, I’m going to need to shake up the pieces.  So,” Dani stiffened as he put his hands on her shoulders.  “I’m going to send you back, free of charge.”  He moved his mouth close to her ear.  “As long as you promise to do something.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Sometime, ask Dean about Adam Milligan.”

                                                                        . . .

            Sam jumped up at the sound of knocking.  Reaching one hand behind him so that the gun in his waistband was in easy reach, he partially opened the door. 

            “Dani,” he said surprised.  He opened the door wider, letting her in.  “How did you get away?

            “I didn’t,” she said “He just let me go.”

            “What do you mean he just let you go?”  Dean asked, standing.

            “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.  “He said this game just wasn’t any fun anymore and let me go.”

            “Why would he do that?”

            “Dean, I don’t know,” Dani insisted, frustrated.  “I don’t get it either.”

            “Turn around.”  Dean motioned for her to do so, and Sam stepped over to the bed, reaching into his backpack.

            Dani turned her back on Dean and he pulled down the neck of her shirt until he could see the tattoo on her shoulder blade.  “It’s still there.”

            Dani looked warily over her shoulder at him.  “Of course it is.  Why wouldn’t it—“

            She was cut off as Sam splashed holy water in her face.  She let out a breath.  “Ok, it’s really me, see.”

            The others relaxed a little and Dean moved to stand in front of her. 

            “I told you, he just let me go.  I don’t know why.”

            “Well, it can’t be good,” Dean said.  His expression darkened.  “What did he do to you while you were there?”

            “I’m fine,” she said with a dismissive gesture. 

            “That’s not what I asked.”

            “Nothing,” she said.  “He’d heard I’d been turned into a werewolf and wanted to see if it was true.”  She held out her arm revealing a thin cut halfway up her forearm.  “Silver.  But that’s it, no big deal.” 

            Dean studied her for a second, then nodded.  

            “So, if we’re good, I’m going to take a shower and wash the creep off of me.  If that’s ok.”  She looked at them questioningly.

            “Yeah.”  Dean nodded and waved her toward the bathroom.

            “Ok.” Dani grabbed her bag and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. 

            Once the water started running Sam looked at Dean.  “Why do you think he let her go?”

            “I don’t know,” Dean said, shaking his head.  “But it wasn’t because he was bored.  He’s got some kind of plan going here.”

            “Do you think he did something to her?”

            “If he hurt her she’s healed, and she passed the tests.”

            “You don’t think they made a deal do you?” Sam ventured. 

            “No, she’s smarter than that,” Dean said dismissively. “But something’s up.  We’ll have to keep an eye on her. 

                                                                        . . .

            Inside the motel bathroom, Dani pulled her laptop out of her bag and balanced it on the counter.  She pulled up the search engine and, with a glance over her shoulder, started typing letters into the search bar until they spelled out Adam Milligan.

                                                                        . . .

            A few days later, Dani sat in the back seat of the impala, in the parking lot of a coffee shop.  Sam and Dean were inside getting breakfast, and she was trying to utilize the shop’s wifi while it was available.  She had her knees pulled up near her chest, her laptop balanced on them.  Currently, she had several different windows open, all showing different results from her latest Adam Milligan search.  What’s this Carver Edlud stuff?  She wondered, moving the cursor to the provided link to info on a book called Jump the Shark. 

            “What are you looking at?” Dean asked.

            Dani started; she hadn’t heard them come out.  “Nothing,” she answered, quickly shutting the laptop, before either of them could look at it.  “I was just trying to catch a few minutes of Netflix while the wifi was good.”

                                                                        . . .

            Set up scene. 

            “Dani, are you crying?” 

            “No.”  She started, hastily brushing tears off her cheek. 

            Sam craned his neck to look at the book in her hands.  “What are you reading?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Come on, what is it?” he asked, reaching for the book.

            Dani moved it out of reach and muttered, “One of the Supernatural books.”

            “What?”  Suddenly Sam wasn’t teasing anymore.  “Where did you find that?”

            She shrugged.  “I just kind of happened across them.”

            “How many have you read?”

            “Most of them,” she admitted, embarrassed. She felt like she’d been caught snooping.

            Sam sighed.  “I wish we could burn those, and wipe the internet clean of the rest.”

            “Sam,” she started after a pause.

            “What?”

            “Did all that really happen?”

            “Yeah,” he nodded, “all that really happened.”

            Dani’s face darkened. 

            “Come on, give me that.”  Sam reached for the book.  “You don’t need to read that crap.”

            “No.” Dani shook her head.  “I want to.  I mean, yeah, the writing is bad but…”

            “But what?”

            “This is your story.  It’s who you guys are.  I mean, it’s not like you’re going to tell me most of this stuff.”

            “Well, you don’t need to know everything.”  Sam’s expression clouded too, as he thought back to some of the things she would have read about. 

            “I know,” she said.  “I’m sorry, I won’t do it anymore. And I’m so sorry about all of this. I can’t imagine.”  She stood up and gave him a tight hug.  When she pulled away she gave him half a smile.  “I just hope I don’t end up in any of them.”

                                                                        . . .

Hunting Hell Hounds “Go!” Dani yelled, pushing Sam toward the door. 

“What?”

“Let the dog handle the dogs.  You guys circle back around.  I’ll keep them busy.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but she turned around before either of them could say anything.  The hounds were closing in.  She rolled her shoulders and snarled, baring her fangs and sprinted towards them.

“You heard her,” she heard Sam say.

Then her body slammed into something big and hairy.  She dug her claws into the mass, hoping she was hitting something important, as they both rolled to the ground.  The hound was on top, and Dani ripped her claws out of the body, trying to scramble to her feet.  She could feel its breath, hot on the back of her neck.  Saliva dripped onto her back and something collided into her shin, knocking her back down.  Dani slashed at the air in front of her, connecting with something wet, maybe a nose.  The hound yelped, then snarled.  She had a pretty good idea of where it was, and where its neck should be.  She tightened her muscles, ready to spring forward, but before she could a rumbling bark came from her left, right by her ear and she felt teeth dig into her arm. 

“Ah!”  Dani gritted her teeth as blood began to leak out from between teeth she couldn’t see.   She snarled and clawed at its head, but the first hound barreled into her, sending her sprawling. 

They both had a hold of her know.  They were dragging her off down the alley.  Dani dug her nails into the pavement, into the invisible bodies, trying to snap at them with her teeth, but nothing slowed them.  Where were Sam and Dean? 

It’s all right. 

Dani started at the voice in her mind.  “Mandriel?”

It’s all right, he said again.  Don’t worry, Dani.  You’re going to be all right. 

                                                                . . .

Sam and Dean sprinted back into the alley, guns at the ready.  

“Where are they?” Dean demanded, glancing around.  “I don’t hear anything, do you?”

“Dean I don’t think they’re here.”

“Well then where’d they go?  Dani!”  He knelt, sweeping his gaze across the ground, only finding patches of blood glistened on the pavement.  “Dani!”  Where was she?  “They got her.”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “No, there’s not enough blood. And Dean,” he took a step closer to his brother, making him look at him.  “There’s no body.  They didn’t kill her.”

“Then where is she?” Dean demanded.

“I don’t know.  But she’s not dead.  We’ll find her.”

                                                                   . . .

            Sam fell into the passenger seat of the impala and sighed, running a hand through his hair.  He looked over at Dean, who was staring ahead of them with his hands on the wheel but hadn’t even started the engine yet.

            “We’ll find her,” Sam said.

            “Yeah, that’s what you said two hours ago.  We’ve been all over this area, we should have found them. I mean, something that big should have left some sort of trail, invisible or not.”

            “Well it’s not like we’ve ever really tried to track a hell hound before,” Sam said.  “But I’m sure there’s a way to do it.  We’ll figure this out, we’ll get her back.”  Honestly, Sam wasn’t so sure.  They’d never seen hell hounds behave like this before, they’d never taken someone alive.  At least he hoped she was still alive. 

            “I know where she is.”

            Both Sam and Dean jumped.  Samandriel stood beside the driver’s window, looking in at them.  He looked upset, almost like he’d been crying.

 “How long have you been here?”  Dean asked, recovering himself.

            “A few hours,” Samandriel answered.

            “So you saw what happened?”  Sam leaned over so he could see the angel better.

            Samandriel nodded.  “Yes.  There were three of them, too many for her to handle by herself.  They didn’t kill her, just dragged her off.”

            “Where?”  Sam asked, afraid he knew the answer.

            “To their master.”  He answered softly.

            “And you just let them.” Dean set his jaw, shaking his head and threw open the car door.  “Why didn’t you help her?”

            “I-“ Samandriel started.

            Dean grabbed him by his jacket and slammed him against the nearest wall.  “You just stood there and watched while those mutts attacked her.  You didn’t think a little smiting might help?  What’s the point of having that angel mojo if you won’t use it?”

            “Dean I-“

            “You are one sorry excuse for an angel, you know that?”  Sam felt like he should say something, calm Dean down, but he decided not too.  Honestly, Dean was right, Alfie should have done something if he was close enough to see everything.  Might as well just let Dean do his thing.  “You were supposed to be her protector weren’t you?  Is this what you call protecting her?  You let her die.  Just like you let that kid who’s meat suit you’re wearing die.”

            Samandriel looked like Dean had hit him.  “I wanted to help her.  I was going to.”

            “Then why didn’t you?”  Dean snapped.  “Huh?  You just chickened out; those demon mutts bigger than you thought or something?”

            “No.”  Samandriel looked at the ground, hesitating, then back at Dean.  “I was stopped.”

            “By who?”

            He took a breath.  “By my Father.”

            Dean scoffed, taking a step away from the angel.  “Are you telling me, that you let my girl get mauled by hell hounds because God told you to?”  He laughed again, humorlessly, then grabbed Samandriel again.  “Listen to me you-“

            “Dean.”  Sam and never heard Samandriel’s voice sound that assertive.  His expression darkened and he straightened, no longer cowering under Dean’s abuse.  “I know that you have long lost your faith, and that my reasoning can mean nothing to you.  But do not make the mistake of believing that you and Sam are the only ones who care about Dani.  I would have died before I let them take her if I wasn’t absolutely certain that there was a purpose for this.”

            “Purpose.”  Dean shook his head, but he let Alfie go.  “What purpose?”

            “I don’t know,” Samandriel admitted.  “But there is something she’s supposed to do down there.”

            “Whatever Alfie.” Dean turned, refusing to look at the angel.  “Get out of here before I change my mind about killing you.” 

                                                                        . . .

            “Cas you’ve got to get her out of there,” Dean insisted.  They were back in their motel room and Dean had not manage to stand still since they’d arrived.  He’d only gotten more animated when Castiel had answered their call.

            “Dean,” Cas said gently.  “If I could, I would, but…It took a battalion of angels to rescue you from hell.  With the way things are now, I don’t think I will be able to get anyone except Samandriel to help me.”

            “Samandriel,” Dean said the name like a curse word, “is the reason she’s down there.”

            “He had his reasons for what he did.”

            “Yeah,” Dean scoffed.  “The voice of God.”

            “He is young for an angel,” Castiel explained.  “He still believes in the old system, he might have been confused.  Or,” Castiel sighed.  “Perhaps God really does still speak to the ones who are listening.”

                                                                        . .  .

            Castiel found Samandriel sitting on a park bench not far from the Winchester’s motel.  It was still early in the morning, so the park was empty.  As he approached, Samandriel glanced up at him, but didn’t acknowledge him; just looked back down at his hands.  Castiel sat down on the bench beside him and neither said anything for a while. 

            “He’s angry with me,” Samandriel broke the silence.  It wasn’t a question.

            “Yes.”  Castiel nodded.

            “Are you angry with me?”

            “No.  Do you think I should be?”

            “I am a sorry excuse for an angel.  I couldn’t protect Dani, or Matt, or Kevin Tran and the demon tablet.  I’ve failed every mission I’ve had since coming to earth.”

            “You didn’t fail Dani,” Castiel insisted.  “You were there for her but you were told to refrain.”

            “What if Dean’s right?”  Samandriel ran both hands through his hair, making it stick up at odd angels.  “What if I really didn’t hear anything?  What if I was just scared?  I—“

            “No.” Castiel said it like it really was impossible.  “You love her, in every way we can.  Believe me, I know what that kind of bond is, and I know that fear would not have stopped you from helping her.”

            Samandriel nodded, but seemed only very slightly comforted. 

            Castiel took a breath and asked what he’d really found the younger angel to find out.  “You really think it was the voice of our Father?”

            An almost euphoric light sparked up in Samandriel’s eyes.  “Yes.  Dean had me beginning to doubt but, I did know better.  It was Him.  Castiel…”  He couldn’t seem to put whatever came next into words, but the sheer wonder on his face conveyed it well enough. 

            “Strange,” muttered Castiel. 

            “You do believe me, don’t you?”

            Castiel studied Samandriel for a minute.  He’d given up years ago, but could he have been wrong?  Almost against his will, he nodded.  “Yes.”  He paused, then, “What exactly did the voice say?”

            Samandriel didn’t even have to think about it.  “He said, ‘No.  This has to happen. You can’t save her, not yet.  It will be all right, trust me.’”

            “Yet?  You’re sure He said that.”

            Samandriel nodded fervently.  “Yes.  He said I couldn’t save her yet.”

            “But not that you couldn’t save her at all?  That’s good.  That may just mean we have a chance.”

            “You think we can get her back?”

            “Maybe,” Castiel answered.  “It will be almost impossible.  But there may be a chance.  You and I, we’ll try to find a way, but…”  He hesitated.  “Don’t tell Sam or Dean.  There’s a good chance we won’t succeed.  There’s not need to give them false hope.”

                                                                        . . .

Dani opened her eyes.  It was lurid, dim, she hadn’t been so unable to see since she’d been turned.  A scream jumped from her throat.  Pain, searing through her wrists and ankles, her shoulders.  She bit it back and sucked in a panting breath.  It smelled like sulfur and fire and smoke.  And voices, yells and whimpers, echoing from she couldn’t tell where. 

            “Hello darling.”

            “Crowley,” she spat through clenched teeth. 

            “Ah, you remember me.  That’s good.”  He gently ran a finger down the side of her face.  She forced out a breath through her nose, resisting the urge to bite it. “You never have liked me, have you?  Well no matter.  We are going to have so much fun now that we’re in my world.”

            “Don’t count on it,” she spat, flexing her muscles against her bindings: shackles on her wrists and ankles. “You can’t keep me down here.”

            “Oh, you’re very right,” Crowley said nodding.  “As soon as you die your soul is bound elsewhere.  So we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”  He smiled smugly.  “You’d be surprised how well we can walk that line.  And I think you’ll find that it takes quite a lot to kill someone here.”

            Dani felt panic rising up in her chest, setting her heart off at a crazy pace and closing off her airways as her brain filled with images of what all he might do to her.  She tried to force it down, to keep on a brave face.  That’s what Dean would do.  She shifted her focus to coming up with some kind of comeback.

            “Well, I guess we’ll see if you’re as good at that as you think you are,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as small to him as it did to her.  “When do we start?”

            “Oh we won’t start for a while.  You see, there is a whole boat load of people down here who have a beef with your family.  The Winchesters.  And they’re standing in line to get a crack at you.  I’ve got you booked up with play dates for the next couple decades.”  He held her gaze for a minute then turned around.  “Are you ready?  Here she is as promised.  A blue blooded Winchester.”

            “Winchester?” came a hoarse, wild sounding voice. Then it turned menacing.  “Winchester.”

            A dark formed loomed over her, brandishing some piece of glinting metal.  Dani gasped and contorted her body, desperately fighting against the chains.  Then she felt a hand, surprisingly cold and strong, grip her forearm and the metal bit into it.

Raised From Perdition Part 8

 Kind of random scene that never went anywhere and then some of Alfie/Samandriel's back story. 

he man leaned over Sam, knife in hand.  Then from out of nowhere Dani came barreling into the man, knocking him to the floor.  Sam turned in time to see Dani jerk her head up from the man’s throat, a spray of red following her.  She turned to look at Sam, her wolf eyes shining at him, and smiled, blood seeping over her teeth and down her chin.  Sam just stared at her, wide eyed and panting for a moment until she bounded off toward the sound of shouting.

 

            Sam came up to Dani once it was over and sat down next to her.  She smiled and scooted a little closer to him.  “You ok?” she asked.

            “Yeah,” he nodded.  “How about you?”

            “I’m fine,” she answered.  “Not a scratch.”

            “That’s not what I meant.”  She gave him a confused look, but he was pretty sure she knew what he was talking about.  “That guy.  You uh, you ripped his throat out.”

            Dani nodded, looking him full in the face. “Yes, with my fangs.  And I don’t regret it.  He betrayed us, and tried to kill you.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm.  “I’m still a wolf, Sam.  I’m a violent, vicious creature, and I will not stand for anyone threatening my family.”

            Something from Sam. He’s a little uncomfortable with this.

            “I told you, I’m fine.  But thanks for checking.”

                                                                        . . .      

            Matt leaned against the counter, forcing himself not to look at the clock.  It had been a slow day at the Wiener Hut and he was very ready to go home.  But his shift wouldn’t be over for almost another hour.  He snuck a glance at the clock in spite of himself.  Yes, fifty six minutes. 

            He straightened all of a sudden, feeling like he was being watched, but not in the usual way; this presence didn’t feel threatening. 

            Matthew Pike, came a voice. 

            Matt started.  The only other people here right now were in the kitchen, too far for anything less than a shout to reach him.  And none of them knew his real name. This wasn’t even an audible voice he realized, eyes widening.  It was in his mind. 

            I’m loosing it, was his first thought.  He’d had a great aunt or something that had been put in an asylum with either multiple personality disorder or schizophrenia, he couldn’t remember which.  Either way, crazy might run in the family.  Running away probably could have been a psychological break.  Maybe…

            It’s all right, the voice broke into his thoughts.  Don’t be afraid.  You’re not going crazy.  A pause then, I need your help.

            “All right,” Matt whispered.  “If you’re not a hallucination then who are you?”

            My name is Samandriel.  I’m an angel of the Lord. 

            Matt’s eyes widened again.  An angel?  What would an angel want with him?

            There is an article, a holy relic if you will, that has recently been uncovered.  Something that holds very important information and we need to get to it before the agents of the enemy do.  It’s at a secret auction house not far from here and will go up for sale tomorrow.  We need to make sure we get it.  My brethren will be able to keep it safe once we have it, but if it falls into the wrong hands tomorrow it could have devastating consequences for us and for all of humanity. 

            Matt thought for a minute, processing, then asked, “What do you need me for?”

            I am a spiritual being, the voice explained.  In order to carry out my task, I need a physical form.  Yours. 

            “You want to body snatch me?”  Matt glanced around.  He hadn’t meant to say it that loud, or out loud at all. 

            In a manner of speaking, yes.  But I can’t do it without your permission.  The voice started to sound just a little less calm.  Please, this is very important.

            Matt felt his pulse speed up and he took a breath, trying to sort through all of the thoughts suddenly crowding his mind.  If this really was and angel, sent by God, it had to be important.  Who was he to say no, if God wanted this to happen.  The idea that he, of all people, might have actually been chosen to help… But what if it wasn’t.  What if he really was developing a mental disorder?  Or, if the voice was really there, what if it wasn’t an angel? 

            He shuddered.  “Ok,” he whispered to himself.  Come on, get a grip. 

            God, he prayed, is this thing really from you?  If you do want me to do this, I will.  I want you to use me for your purpose, but I want to be sure that’s what this is.  Please, what do I do?

            Almost instantly, Matt felt his rising panic replaced by a calmness.  There was no audible answer, but he felt it in his spirit, that yes, this was ok.

            You see, the voice said encouragingly. 

            Matt felt simultaneously embarrassed and annoyed that the voice was eavesdropping.  “Can you hear me when I pray?”

            Not the words, but I knew that you were, and I guessed what you were asking.

            “Sorry.  I just—“

            Don’t apologize, the voice cut him off.  You were wise to ask.  A lot of harm has been done by people who were dealing with those claiming to be angels but who weren’t.

            Matt nodded and picked at the sleeve of his uniform.  So this was God’s will, or at least he was pretty sure it was.  Somehow allowing an angel to use his ‘physical form’ wasn’t something he ever thought he’d be asked to do.  Honestly, he hadn’t even know that was possible.  How did that even work?

            “Will it hurt?” he asked.

            The voice seemed to hesitate.  I don’t know, it answered.  Matt thought he sounded a little worried too.   This is my first time to attempt it.  But I don’t think it should.  There was silence for a moment then, Will you help me?

            Matt thought for a moment more, then took a breath.  “Ok.  Yes, I’ll do it.” 

Sanctuary: A Cursed (Netflix) Fan Fic

 

Sanctuary

            After escaping the Red Paladin camp, Squirrel and the Weeping Monk rode through the night and most of the morning.  The horse was weary now, it would be hurt if they pushed it much further, but the Monk feared they could not afford to stop.  There was no certainty how far behind the Red Brothers were, if they were caught it would all be for naught.  Still, they had to give the beast a few moments rest at least, if he went lame they would be found just the same.

            The Weeping Monk reined in the horse and dismounted, catching hold of the saddle horn as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.  His heartbeat throbbed incessantly in his skull and the edges of his vision began to close in.  Distantly, he heard Squirrel’s voice as he stumbled a few paces forward, trying to ignore the pain that shot through him with every movement.  He leaned over his knees, gagging, but he had not eaten since before his encounter with the Green Knight and could bring up nothing.  He forced out a few quick breaths through his nose, swallowing hard, trying to regain some amount of control of himself.

            He let himself down to his hands and knees, gritting his teeth, biting back a scream of frustration.  God, if you still hear me, I need your help, he begged silently.  I’ve done the boy no good to free him from the camp only to be caught less than a day’s ride away.  You’ve charged us to care for widows and orphans surely you meant the little fey children too.  I can protect him, if you’ll only given me the strength.  He sat back on his heels as some of the dizziness and pain subsided.  Better yet, he felt the peace he’d sought so desperately the day before settling in behind his breast bone.  God had not yet abandoned him after all. 

            The Monk glanced over his shoulder to see Squirrel standing a cautious distance away, eyes wide with fright. 

            “It’s all right,” he assured the boy, licking sweat from his upper lip.  “I’m all right now. We’ll move on again soon.”

                                                                        . . . .

            “Riders up ahead,” Squirrel said, pointing toward a group of half dozen horsemen coming onto view around a bend in the road. 

            The Monk’s hand went to his sword hilt, and he angled their horse’s head away so as to partially shield Squirrel from view. 

            “State your name and business stranger,” the lead horseman barked as they approached.  He was elderly, the Monk noted.  In fact all the mounted men seemed too old or too young to be out on a patrol. 

            “We’re merely passing through,” the Monk answered.

            “Men in robes don’t just pass through of late,” the man said.  “You’ll come with us, to await his lordship’s pleasure.”

            “As his lordship is away,” came a higher pitched voice, “and his return is uncertain, I believe I will see them now, Sagramore.”  

            The older man sighed, his grip tightening on his reins, but he moved aside, allowing a young woman to spur her mount to the front of the group. 

            “You’re the Weeping Monk,” she said, after looking him up and down.  “There have been whispers you were among the slain when Merlin and the Wolf’s Blood Witch wiped out the Red Paladins.”

            Wiped them out?  “All of them?” he asked, his tone guarded.

            “Most, so they say.” Her brow furrowed.  “You did not know?” The young woman studied him more closely.  “You are injured, my lord,” she said.  “My hold is not far from here.  Will you return with us and take some rest?”

                                                                        . . . .

            The Weeping Monk settled back in the chair before the hearth, watching Squirrel voraciously attack the meal that had been brought to them.  He hardly paused for breath until he’d finished more than half of it, when he glanced up at the Monk.  “Are you going to eat?” he asked a little sheepishly. 

            “No.” He shook his head.  He was so tired that even eating seemed like an insurmountable effort, and he was still somewhat nauseous from pain and weariness besides.  “Perhaps later.  Have what you will.”

            He was just beginning to doze off when the young woman entered the room.  “Please, don’t get up,” she said as he started to rise.  She smiled over at Squirrel.  “I trust the fare is to your satisfaction?”

            “Oh yes,” Squirrel muttered from around the chicken bone he was gnawing. 

            “We are very grateful for your hospitality,” the Monk said, “Lady…?”

            “Guinevere,” she answered, sitting in the chair across from him.  “My healer tells me you are badly hurt.  I wanted to assure you, you are both welcome to stay as long as you need to recover.”

            “Again, thank you.”

            “I had hoped to ask you what news you had from Gramaire, but if you did not know about the Red Paladins, I assume you were not there.”

            “I was not, we left shortly before.  It was a rout then?”

            “So we hear,” she said, “but it’s barely been two days, reports are so confused it’s hard to say.  I’m not even certain who emerged the victors.  Or the fate of my father and our other men who marched with Uther.”

            “Your father supports Pendragon?”

            “When the king calls, his vassals answer,” she said, carefully not committing.

            He paused, then asked, “Have your confused reports brought news of Father Carden?”

            Something in her eyes softened, and he knew before she answered.  “This morning I have heard from more than one refugee they’ve seen his head on a pike outside Gramaire,” she said.  “I’m sorry.”

            He nodded, feeling the blow of her words numbly.  Father Carden’s death should strike him harder he thought, but at the moment it hardly felt real.

            Guinevere stood.  “I’m sure you’re both tired, I’ll leave you be.  If you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

                                                                        . . . .

            Guinevere entered the holdfast’s small chapel, finding the Weeping Monk kneeling before the altar.  She hesitated as he glanced over his shoulder, hearing her approach.  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize anyone was here, I did not mean to disturb you.”

            “It’s no disturbance,” he said, “besides the chapel is yours.”

            He started to rise but she motioned him to stop.  “A chapel is meant for more than one.”  She knelt at the altar a respectful distance from him, folding her hands in front of her and they remained in comfortable silence for some time.

            “What do you pray for, my lady?” he asked, seeing her stir from her meditative posture.

            She sighed, sitting back on her heels.  “For my father, for protection.  Mostly, for discernment to know what is best for my people, and the strength to do it.”

            “Noble request,” he said. “God will certainly hear them.”

            “It is a comfort to hear you say that,” she said. “And you?  What do you pray for?”

            “I thank God for the kindness you have shown us,” he answered.  “I pray for guidance. For those that I’ve killed.  And for Father Carden.”

            “You miss him,” she said softly.

            He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

            “It must be difficult,” she said, “when there are many who rejoice at your loss.”

            It was, in a way. Squirrel was thrilled by the new of Carden’s death, and how could the Monk blame him?  Carden was largely the reason Squirrel’s whole family was dead and why he’d been hunted like an animal for weeks.

            “Father Carden was not entirely an evil man,” the Monk said, hesitantly.  “He was misguided, overzealous, and while he’s done things I cannot any longer condone…” He paused.  “He saved my life when I was a boy, brought me up in the church, made me what I am. He was not unkind to me.”

               Briefly, she laid a comforting hand on his arm, then crossed herself.  “I have some business that must be tended to,” she said, standing.  “Good day.”

                                                                        . . . .

            “Keep your weapon up,” the Monk instructed, tapping Squirrel’s blade with his own.  “You can never drop your guard, especially when your opponent has height on you.  Which for you should be everyone.”

            “Oi now,” the boy said, affronted, but he kept his blade up to parry the next blow.

            “Good, better,” the Monk said, rolling the stiffness out of his still mending shoulder. 

            “Well done, Master Squirrel,” Lady Guinevere called as she approached them.  “You will rival most of my knights before long.” She turned to the Monk.  “May I speak with you?”

            He nodded, sheathing his blade. 

            “Walk with me,” she said, and they started off down the yard.  “Your wounds are healing well?”

            “Well enough,” he answered.  This was not what she had come to ask him, but he would let her reach her point in her own time.

            “Then I expect you’ll be on your way soon,” she said.  “Will you return to what remains of the Red Brotherhood?”

            “Are there remains of the Red Brotherhood?” he countered.

            “There must be some, the church does not die.”

            “No,” he agreed.  But hopefully certain members of it had, God forgive him.  “I’ve not yet decided where we’ll go.”

            “There is no rush, I was merely curious,” she assured him.  “A few of the men who marched with my father have finally returned to us.”

            There, this is what she’d wanted to discuss. “The news was not good I take it.”

            “My father was slain,” she said, “along with most of our fighting men.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “It’s as if I already knew,” she said softly.  “When I did not hear from him within the first days I knew something horrible must have happened.” They continued in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “With myself the only heir, and most of our menfolk gone, every northern raider and errant lord will see us as ripe for taking.  And we’ve hardly even a king to appeal to now.” She stopped, turning to face him.  “So, if you’ve no pressing business elsewhere, I wanted to ask… would you consider remaining here, just until things settle? A warrior of your skill would be a great help to me in defending my lands and my people.  Your name alone would deter many from attacking us.”

            It had taken a lot for her to ask this of him, he could see that in the set of her jaw, but the earnestness in her eyes spoke to the need that had overcome her pride. 

            Before he could answer, she continued, “I would pay you of course.”

            “I’m not a sell sword,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. 

            “Of course not,” she hurriedly stammered.  “Forgive my offence, I did not mean to suggest-“

            He held up a hand to stop her.  “No offence taken, my Lady.” In truth, the suggestion rankled him, but even as he had denied it, he realized if the Brotherhood was truly lost to him, as he feared it was, a sell sword was all he would be good for.  “As to payment, from where I stand I seem to be in your debt.”

            “I don’t want you to consider that,” she said.  “I’ve only done what any decent person would.  You owe me nothing.”

            “Regardless,” he said. “I would be pleased to serve you, for as long as you have need.”

                                                                        . . . .

            Sagramore entered his family chambers, tossing his sword belt over a chair arm. 

            “Are you meeting with Lady Guinevere today?” his wife asked, straightening the sword belt to hang evenly. 

            “Yes,” he said, falling into the chair. “Once she returns.  She wanted to assess the potential for defenses in the outer towns and rode out early this morning.  In company of the Weeping Monk.”

            “Ah.  That’s the part that troubles you?”

            “She spends over much time with that monk I find,” he grumbled.  “This is her home, she can shelter whom she wills, but why should he be brought into her confidences?  He’s an outsider, and one of the paladins.”

            “You’re only upset because you wanted to be the only voice in her ear,” his wife chided.

            “Her father entrusted her to me,” he said, shifting his weight, her words ringing uncomfortably true.  “I want to help her.”

            “I know, and she knows that,” she said.  “Guinevere’s a clever girl, she knows good council from bad.”

            “Let us hope that she does.”

                                                                        . .  . .

            Guinevere adjusted her grip on the hilt of her sword, feinting to the left of the fence post she had chosen as her stand in opponent, before swinging her blade around to the right connecting with a satisfying thunk.

            “You’ve been taught by a blank swords master.”

            Guinevere started, not having heard the Monk’s approach.  “It shows?” she asked, hastily collecting herself.

            He nodded.  “They have very distinct style; strike hard, strike fast.”

            “My father thought it would balance my natural disadvantages.”

            “To some extent,” he agreed, “but I’ve never cared for their methods.  The flaw is if you’ve not bested your opponent in the first three blows you’ve lost.”

He laid a hand on his sword hilt, giving her a questioning look.  She nodded, and he drew his blade, delivering a low thrust.  She parried the blow, stumbling back, off balance. 

            A hint of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.  “And they’re wont to neglect their foot work.”

            She righted herself, dropping into a fighting stance and they circled each other briefly.

            “Well your masters seem to have had no appreciation for a full field of vision,” she said.  “I imagine fighting with a hood up must be similar to fighting with one’s hair down.  Does it not get in your way?”

            “No, I don’t find that it does.”

            She feinted for his knee, then pivoted to bring her attack in from the side to test this statement.  Indeed, his blade was there, and very nearly disarming her. 

            They exchanged a few more blows, and while Guinevere found she struggled to keep up, he hardly seemed to expend any effort.  She hoped she never had to face him in earnest, she wouldn’t have a prayer. Their blades crossed, and with a practiced flick of the wrist he brought his sword to the top, forcing the point of her own to the ground.  He reached forward, taking hold of her wrist and gave it a gentle twist.  In fairness, she released her sword, disarmed.  

            They paused, silent but for their rapid breathing, both suddenly becoming aware of how close they stood. 

            “Forgive me,” he said releasing her wrist. 

            “No, it’s…it’s alright,” she said, taking hold of his arm in turn as he started to move away.  “Quite alright.”

            His breath caught as they studied one another and he found he was drawing her closer.  Then her arms were around him, and their lips met.

                                                                        . .  . .

            Dawn light was just beginning to peer over the horizon as the Weeping Monk entered the room he shared with Squirrel, finding the boy sharpening an arrow head on a stone.

            “When a man makes love to a woman, is it like horses?” Squirrel asked without preamble.  “I thought it must be, but I saw a pair in the woods up on a tree the other day and it didn’t look like horses.”

            “Given I am a monk,” he answered, “I’m not really the man to ask that.”

            “But weren’t you with Lady Guinevere last night?”

He paused, startled. He thought they’d been careful not to be seen. “Why would you think that?”

            “Well, you didn’t come back here to sleep and she likes you.”

            He relaxed a little, if that was all. “Maybe I did come back and left again while you were asleep.”

            “No.” Squirrel shook his head.  “I would have heard you.  Besides, you haven’t redone your eyes yet.  They’re all smudged.” He motioned to his own cheeks.

            Damn the boy, he was perceptive. 

            “Was that the first time you’ve been with a woman?” Squirrel rambled on.  “As you said, you are a monk, and an ugly one.  I can’t imagine you’ve convinced too many girls to be that close to you.  Unless you really do do it like horses, and then they wouldn’t have to look at you.”

            The Monk gave Squirrel and smack on the back of the head. “Enough,” he said, then sighed.  “No you don’t always have to do it like horses. Now don’t ask me anymore. It’s a sin.”

            “A nice one though.”

            He gave Squirrel a sharp look, half raising his hand again.

            “All right, all right,” Squirrel relented.  “Can we go find something to eat?”

                                                                        . .  . .

            Guinevere turned from the braid she was twisting into her hair at the sound of a knock on her door.  “Enter,” she called. She smiled when the Weeping Monk slipped into the room.  “You’re astir early.”

            “I needed to speak with you,” he said.

            “You hardly need to schedule an audience,” she said, noting how he hesitated at the door.  It wasn’t as if he had never been in her chamber before.  She motioned to the window seat next to her, but he sat on the far end of the bench.  “Is something wrong?”

            “I came to tell you that I’ll be leaving today.”

            “So suddenly?”

            He nodded, offering no explanation.

            “Would it be related to the reports of a group of Red Paladins approaching?” She straightened, drawing herself up.  “The Weeping Monk has ridden with the Red Brotherhood for as long as I can recall, yet you have made no attempt to rejoin them, and now that we hear they are little more than a day’s ride away you say you must leave.”

            Still he did not answer. 

            “What happened at Gramaire?” she asked.  “That’s what all this stems from, is it not?”

            He nodded slowly.  “I killed a company of Trinity Guard.”

            “Why?”

            “Why hardly matters now,” he said.  “I should have killed Whitlow as well but he slipped away and he will have told the church elders by now.”

            “You must have had reason,” she said, her brow furrowed.  “The church’s justice is seldom delayed, would they not have come for you before now if that was their intent?”  As far as she was aware, the paladins were merely passing through on their way to the coast, the Monk’s presence might have nothing to do with their own. 

            He still would not looking at her, busy with his own thoughts.  Thoughts that did not seem to please him. 

“Something else is troubling you.” She reached out and touched his arm and he pulled away.  “You can tell me,” she prompted gently.

“I should have told you already,” he said.  “I should have told you of my own accord before there was threat someone else would.  What I have done is unforgivable.  I have deceived you, and defiled you horribly.”

“You frighten me,” she said, suddenly in dread of she didn’t know what.

“I’m sorry, Guinevere.  I…I should have told you before, but I’ve kept the secret so long I almost forget myself sometimes.  I’ve never told anyone, but it was unfair of me to keep it from you.” He paused, seeming to steal himself.  “I-“ His voice broke and he took a breath.  “I’m of fey kind.”

“No,” she gasped, moving back from him in spite of herself.  “No that cannot be, every inch of you is human.”

“Some of us show no outward sign.”

“But to have risen so far in the Brotherhood, the Paladins would never have allowed it.”

“Father Carden was the only one who knew.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Abbot Whitlow suspects.”  The defeat in his voice sounded so final, so unlike him. “I truly am sorry Guinevere.  I had no right to come to you as I have done.  To deceive you into…consorting with my tainted blood. It was-I never should have-”

“Stop,” she said, then more firmly.  “Stop it.” She laid a hand on the side of his face, tilting his chin to finally make him look at her.  Her heart constricted, seeing the pain behind the unshed tears glinting in his eyes.  “Lancelot, I don’t care,” she assured him.

“You don’t care that I tricked you into taking some demon spawn into your home? Into your bed?”

“You are far from a demon,” she insisted.  “How can you even say such things? Do you think so little of me, to fear that it would matter? You are who you are, no matter what you are.”  She leaned forward and kissed him gently. “This changes nothing between us.”  Feeling him tremble slightly as he took in a shuddering breath, she rested her forehead against his until his breathing steadied and some of the tension in him eased.  “But you are right,” she said, pulling away.  “You must go.  The paladins may only be passing about their own business but we cannot take the chance.”

                                                            . . . .

“I’m coming with you,” Squirrel insisted, following the Weeping Monk into the stables. 

“No,” the Monk said again, “you’ll be safer here with Lady Guinevere and she with you.”

Guinevere laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “He is right, you cannot leave me completely defenseless.”

Squirrel relented, if reluctantly.  “You’re coming back though?”

“Yes.” The Monk nodded.

“You promise?”

The Monk paused in adjusting the strap of his saddle, seeing the doubt in Squirrel’s face. “You have my word,” he assured him.

“Be careful,” Guinevere said.  She wanted so badly to go to him, to put her arms around him and kiss him once more, to prove to him that she meant it when she said his confession changed nothing, but they were in the yard and others might see.  Still, an understanding seemed to pass between them as she held his gaze a moment.  He nodded to her, ever so slightly, then mounted and was gone.

                                                            . . .  .

Guinevere sighed and settled back in her bed, her heartbeat still thrumming through her pleasantly.  She pushed the Monk’s hair back from his face, slowly letting the honey colored strands fall through her fingers. “I’ve missed you.” In truth once he’d returned earlier in the evening she could hardly wait for the holdfast to retire so that he could come to her.  

“Missed this?” he asked, his lips finding the pulse point of her throat. 

“Well, yes,” she said, “but I’ve missed you.”

He smiled almost shyly, glancing away from her in a way she always found endearing.

“I was worried about you, if the paladins really had been searching for you-”

“It would take more than a handful of paladins on the road to be a threat to me.”

“I know,” she said, though her hand strayed almost unconsciously to the scarring behind his ear, left by a Trinity Guard mace when he’d fled with Squirrel. 

“I did meet some paladins on the road,” he said.  “They were harassing a fey woman and her children.  I had to kill the brothers, it was the only way to stop them.”  He turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, the prospect of further love making dampened by the shift in conversation.  “In the end it may not have even done them any good.”

“It did that day,” she said.  “That’s something.”

He sighed.  “I don’t know what to do.  Father Carden always told me I was God’s weapon, meant to dispel the darkness brought by the fey.  The Green Knight shamed me for hunting my own, and said I should instead use what skill I have to fight for the fey. I turn my blade against my brethren no matter which side I choose.”

Guinevere propped herself up on her elbow so she could face him. “Why choose?” she asked.  “Be both.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“The Red Brotherhood is corrupt, you’ve left them behind.  They’ve been blinded by overzealous teachings, their crusade against the fey is not God’s.  You could change that now. Be the Sword of God, and Defender of the Fey.”

He nodded slowly.  He’d spent much time over the last weeks in prayer and meditation, searching for his place again.  Perhaps the reason a clear answer seemed to evade him was because he had limited the choices he considered.     

“You think you only delayed the inevitable for that woman and her children,” she continued.  “Next time bring them here.  I have been doing a lot of thinking since my father died.  I have come into possession of his holdings for a reason, and there’s a reason that you came here when you did. There is much good you and I could do.  For as long as I’m able to hold these lands, we could make them a safe place for fey kind.”

“We could,” he agreed, considering.  “Avalon, Sanctuary of the Fey.”