Evermore - The Story Not Yet Told in Nevermore

This will be where the story begins and then diverges from the main tale in RK.

After a thoroughly enjoyable camp dinner with her brother and sister, Shellara takes the first watch, leaving a boisterous platoon to guard the gate while she walks the base of the walls to assess. It is her favorite time of day, that golden hour just before sunset, where everything is cast in a warm, rich light. As she slips quietly around the outer walls of Penrith, she can hear the swallows calling to each other as they dive for their dinner over the waters of the River Eamont. A smile curves her lips and she stops to study an early spring flower, its white petals catching the warmth and depth of the evening light. Her occasion for visiting may be less than ideal, but it is truly beautiful up here. She can see why the false king chose this place to stake his claim.

As she rounds the corner, she spots a figure a short ways down the wall, a woman it looks like, dressed in leather armor, trying to use the drainage grate to get into the wall. Suddenly wary, Shellara picks up her pace and calls out sharply.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

The woman looks up at her and panics, drawing her sword and starting to run down the length of the wall. Shellara mutters to herself and chases after, ignoring the slight pain from her hip.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with swords?"

Despite her slightly uneven gait, she gains rapidly on the woman, who rounds to face her snarling. Drawing her own sword, Shellara approaches her cautiously, but the woman is in no mood to have a discussion. She leaps at Shellara fiercely screaming something partially unintelligible along the lines of "Die, false Queen." The woman's sword whizzes past Shellara's cheek and catches the chain around her neck, sending her mother's amulet and her engagement ring flying, which annoys her deeply. With a growl, Shellara parries the rapid succession of blows and thrusts forward a series of powerful attacks, driving the girl back towards the wall until she is cornered. With a firm rap of the flat of her blade to the girl's wrist, she disarms the woman, bringing her sword swiftly to the girl's throat.

"That's quite enough. Now, what..."

Shellara is suddenly struck by the woman's appearance. She is no older than Shellara herself, dark brown hair, dark eyes, a worn face... a chill races up Shellara's spine. This woman could have been her, if she had chosen a slightly different path. Probably a mother, fighting for her home, for what she believes in. Shellara stands transfixed by this notion, her mind racing down all the pathways that could have been, should have been, would have been. What if she had never chosen to run for Countess all those years ago and ended up in the midst of the CA invasion? If she hadn't been Field Commander for the Derby Campaign? If she had never put her name forward for the role of Queen? What if she had chosen her family over her career? Would Harkaa still be alive? Would they be living as a happy family on a ship someplace? Or would she be here, like this woman, fighting anyway? The thoughts swirl in deep confusion, touching on years of pain and unhealed trauma.

But the woman doesn't waste any time in using Shellara's moment of hesitation to shove her back, duck under her sword arm, and take off along the wall again. Mentally kicking herself for the lapse, Shellara launches into pursuit again, the pain in her hip gnawing at her. She is almost on top of the woman again when she stumbles slightly...

Then the world bursts into flames. They leap along her arms and into her hair, covering her body... and they don't go out, clinging, staying. Jah's teeth, they have Greek Fire. Someone is screaming... is it her? She can smell her own flesh burning and cries out in agony and disgust... but there is no sound... she feels suffocated, trapped, just like in the monastery all those years ago... the same mistakes... the same choice... and now the circle is complete... and she is helpless to stop it, just as she was then... the wrong choice... fool me once... Freyja... Odin... Jah... I've made the wrong choice again.

The pain is so intense that she nearly loses consciousness, the black threatening at the edges of her vision, choking on the smoke from her own flesh and armor. Her instincts take over and she runs, away from the fire, away from the pain, towards the river. Upon reaching its banks she trips and stumbles in, crashing with a terrible splash into the slow-moving current. The water is frigid with muddy spring water, but the flames are quickly doused. Almost losing consciousness again, Shellara fights her way to the bank and struggles to pull herself out of the water, the small trees and shrubs tearing at burned skin. After a few long, painful moments, she claws her way up the bank using a willow tree and sprawls beneath its sheltered branches, burned, wet, muddy, and covered in leaves and sticks.

Her mind flashes between battles... decisions... Harkaa's face full of anger at her choice to ride into battle... the faces of her children... the faces of her comrades... Amelia... Allaric... P... Harkaa...  fallen, fallen, fallen, murdered, blood everywhere, blood on her hands, the blood of her sister, the blood of Harkaa, the blood of her children... the crown looming over it all, dark and omnipresent, sucking the life out of everyone around her as one by one they fall and she is left holding a crown the size of an ox cart, with only Pilgrim facing her, holding up the other side... then the life drains from his face and his eyes and he too falls and she is left alone.

Sobbing, she curls up amid the roots of the tree. Her hands are too burned and shredded to pull herself up, and her hip has given out from all the running. Cold, alone, and in pain, she lies trapped in her own mind until the darkness overtakes her and she slips into unconsciousness.

Time had lost all meaning as Bevin rode her unnamed stallion away from camp, the only sound she could hear now was his hooves thundering into the night as they galloped farther and farther from camp. She only became aware of her surroundings when the horse slowed to a trot and then a walk. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she looked around in the growing darkness and realized she could hear the sound of water nearby. She let the horse take her near to the water's edge before she stopped him long enough to dismount. Holding the reins in her right hand, she let him drink from the river as she knelt on one knee beside him and scooped the cold water to splash across her face. The gentle sound of of the river flowing by, heedless of the troubles of humankind, calmed her spirit a little. She was not entirely sure where she was in relation to the camp, but she remembered the river and figured she would find her way back to camp easily enough when she was ready. Now was not that time, though. She and Horse walked quietly along the river bank as she tried to process what had just happened. Maybe she had assumed something that had not happened. Maybe she had just dreamed it and people would wonder what had come over her to send her running away. It was not like her to run away. No matter how much she might want to, she always stood firm and faced life head on. Yet the memory of what she had just witnessed haunted her and she could not bear to go back. Not yet.

A willow tree near the river's edge seemed to beckon to her, it's long sweeping branches dancing softly in the breeze seemed to say "Come. Sit. Rest." She stood watching the gentle dance, leaves fluttering softly in the breeze until she shivered in the chill air and drew her cloak around her shoulders, finally coming back to her senses. "Come on, Horse. Let's rest a bit, shall we?" she said to the horse and led him toward the tree. As they got close he suddenly started and shied away. Instantly alert, she cast her gaze around but saw little at first. Darkness was falling quickly by now and the shadows were deep beneath the tree. She held tight to his reins, not knowing this horse well enough to know whether he would try to run or fight if attacked, yet he did not seem frightened, only startled. As she could see nothing, she stood still and listened.  It was some time before she finally heard it. The leaves near the tree rustled incongruously with the gentle dance of the willow and now that she looked more closely, there seemed to be something there that should not be. She sniffed the air, but the only animal scent she smelled was Horse. She did not think whatever it was would be a predator or the horse would have been more nervous. She took a cautious step forward and nothing happened, so she took another, and another until she could make out the shape of what might be a person. She reached up and secured the reins around the nearest branch she could reach and then crept closer. The thing felt alive to her, but she could not tell for sure until she finally heard it. Breathing. It sounded labored, but it was definitely breathing.

"Who are you?" she said in a quiet but firm voice. "Are you hurt?"

No answer, so she took a final step to reach the form and knelt beside it. Now that she was next to it, she could make out the form of a person. Female, she was fairly certain, but the person was laying in the mud amongst leaves and twigs that made it difficult to discern features in the darkness. There was a distinct odor of smoke and burnt flesh and she wondered that she had not smelled it until she had come this close. Moonlight filtered down through the branches, but the leaves kept the area mostly in shadow. Until a breeze lifted a branch and allowed a moonbeam to light the face of the person for just a moment. Bevin sucked in a surprised breath and reached out to touch the face in disbelief. It could not be, could it? Surely it was just wishful thinking.

Shellara's mind drifts in and out of the shadows, blurred by pain and realizations about how much pain her choices have caused others.

How many soldiers have died under my command? How many have I sent to their deaths? How many more will die in the coming weeks in this battle? What of the others... those in the enemy armies... I claim to be a healer, but I have murdered and maimed entire clans...

In her drifting half-dreams, demons cling to her, their eyes fire, taunting her.

Even those who still live suffer... Bevin suffers the pain of being at odds with her husband over her service to the Crown... Imshi has lost her husband to the Crown... and Pilgrim... poor Pilgrim, driven to poppy, pulled back from the brink... only to spend hundreds of sleepless nights helping to keep the country together, giving up his own family, his own life....

You kill the living, whisper the demons, even as they still walk the earth. They suffer because of you.

My children are being raised by tutors because I don't have time for them. What kind of mother am I? I can't even bear to face my own children, because they remind me of their father...

... their father whom I killed. I tried to attack him, my reflexes... and it shook him to his core and his heart... his heart gave out... all my fault... I never loved anyone but him... and I murdered him...

Yes, the demons hiss. Murdered. Murderer.

My choices... or is it one choice... the same choice... always made the same way. Service over family. Over everything. And service to what? A country of ungrateful bastards who wanted to dicker over the number of inches in a foot while the world burns down outside their windows. I have given up everything, my family, my husband, my innocence, my privacy, my life... for this. For fire. For death. The smell of blood, the cries of dying men and women, the smoke and fire and...

The demons are screaming in her ears and the darkness swirls over her and she drifts out of consciousness again, the trauma burning through her brain like fever.

At the touch to her cheek, her eyes snap open and she snarls, shoving herself backward toward the tree, ready for a fight. Then the pressure on her burned and blistered skin makes her howl in pain and she cradles her hands. She growls in pain and fear, her eyes wild with an animalistic drive towards survival, fight or flight. She crouches, arms raised defensively despite the blistering, torn skin. Then her hip gives out again and she collapses in pain to the ground, where the darkness swallows her up once more.

Instinctively Bevin jumped back to her feet, prepared to defend herself, yet even the way the woman moved reminded her of Shell. A cloud must have cleared the moon’s face as she could see the woman’s face more clearly now. If it was not Shellara, she was the spitting image of her. The hair had been badly singed, the strands twisted and curled such that she looked like a mad woman. She was filthy, caked in mud, but her eyes gave Bevin pause.

The woman’s eyes were wild and manic in a way Bevin had never seen in Shellara, the pure animalistic fury in them chilling Bevin to the bone. Almost as soon as Shellara was on her feet, for Bevin was certain this was her sister now, she howled in pain cradled her hands. The next instant she went into full defense mode, her eyes even wilder now with fear and pain. The movement, the stance, was classic Shellara. Bevin felt the temptation to relax but held her stance. Those eyes were a testament that something was not quite right, and it would do Shellara no good if Bevin allowed herself to be overpowered so quickly.

For a moment the two women faced each other, Shellara growling in fear and pain, Bevin crouched defensively as she watched the other woman’s eyes for a clue that would tell of her next move. The standoff was over almost before it began as Shellara’s bad hip gave out on her.

Instantly Bevin rushed to her sister’s side, catching her as she fell, lowering her awkwardly to the ground. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored as Bevin smoothed the hair away from her face. In the moonlight she could now see the burns on Shellara’s hands and the way her sleeves were blackened and torn, she was sure her arms must have also been burned. Shellara was the healer, not Bevin, but she had learned much of the art over the years from helping patch up soldiers in the field during the many wars she had been involved in back in Scotland. Shellara had taught her some things, too, during their long sojourn at Peveril Castle with Pilgrim and she knew she needed to get those wounds clean and keep her warm. When she tried to move one sleeve away from the skin, she found it stuck and the gentle tug sent a grimace to Shellara’s face, but she did not wake. Bevin knew if she tried to force it, she would tear the skin and cause even more damage, so she left it for the moment.

The more immediate need, then, was to keep Shellara warm until she could figure out how to tend to her wounds. She considered riding back to camp to fetch a physician, but she dared not leave her sister alone. She felt a spark of desperation blossom in her gut as she contemplated what to do. She was strong for a woman, but not strong enough to carry a full-grown woman in armor anywhere, so they would have to stay here under the willow tree. ”Alright then,” she said aloud. ”Let’s get you covered and see about a fire.”

She pulled the cloak from around her shoulders and spread it over Shellara, tucking it in around the edges to keep out the chill as much as possible. It was her Templar cloak, white, and would be ruined now, but she cared little. It was easily enough replaced. Shell was not.

Once she had done what she could with the cloak, she began clearing a space nearby to set a campfire. This close to the trunk the branches were high so if she kept the flame small the tree should be safe from harm which meant they would be, too. She left Shellara long enough to gather a small stack of firewood and added dead leaves and twigs on top of the pile before retrieving a flint from her saddle bag. She had almost forgotten about the horse who had been agitated during the standoff but had quieted once Shellara went down. He tossed his head gently at her approach and she stroked his nose in acknowledgement. ”I’m OK, boy. We’re OK,” she assured him before returning to the small pile of wood.

She struck the flint and nursed the small flame until the larger pieces of wood caught. Once she was assured that the fire would last for awhile, she turned her attention back to her sister.

”What happened back there, Shell?” she asked softly, not expecting an answer but needing to ask the question regardless. Now that she had done what she could to keep her sister warm, she turned her attention back to the burns. The left sleeve was the one she had tried before, so she moved her right arm from beneath the cloak to check and found that the cloth moved more freely. She withdrew her sgian dubh from its sheath in her boot and began gently cutting through the cloth, keeping the sharp edge away from Shellara’s skin as she worked. It was painstaking work, but she managed to open the sleeve to mid bicep and laid it open to examine the burns. They were not as bad on this arm as she had feared, but they would require careful tending. She quickly cut the freed sleeve from Shellara’s blouse and took the cloth down to the river. It was not clean, but it was all she had to work with. Plunging the cloth into the river, she washed the cloth, scrubbing away what dirt and blood she could before bringing it back, still heavy with water. Gently she moved the arm away from Shellara’s side and carefully squeezed the water out of the cloth onto her arm, letting the water and gravity clear away the surface dirt. Once she had wrung every drop she could out of the cloth, she carefully dabbed at the burns, gently brushing away dead tissue and exposing clean flesh.

She is dragged by the shadows through fire, drowned in a dark and silent lake, screaming into nothingness. Yet always watched, always confined, unable to escape... she runs from the horror, something is chasing her, many somethings, laughing and screaming. A fox horn sounds, and she is now the fox, fleeing in terror as the pack of dogs bays behind her. Screaming she falls into a pit trap and lands flat on her back... but it isn't a pit trap, it's a clearing in the woods... everything is quiet... and he is here. She can feel him, sense him near. She sits up slowly, and there he is, his outline stark against the pale sky.

"Harkaa?"

The name falls from her lips like a small stone into a still, calm pool. Everything around her shimmers and ripples outward, the trees, the grass, the sky. He turns toward her, and she breaks into tears at the sight of his face.

"Oh Harkaa. I've missed you so much... "

She runs to him and wraps her arms around him burying her face against his chest and inhaling his scent. It has been so long. But... he is dead. So this must mean... she is also dead. Dead and with him. Her heart swells and emotion chokes her throat.

"I'm dead. I'm finally dead. Thank JAH."

She breaks down crying and sinks to her knees at his feet. Tears of frighteningly strong joy stream down her cheeks, washing away the blood and soot and mud. She sobs with relief and rocks herself.

"I am MINE again. My own. I... I..."

She lifts her eyes toward Harkaa's tall figure again.

"What about the children? The children... oh Jah, they'll be alone now. But... at least they'll be safe. They never deserved this. I never should have put them in danger by becoming Queen. You were right. I chose my work over my family, and they suffer for it. You suffered for it. And now they could die... there have been threats... I've been terrified. And I can't even be there to protect them... I must send others."

She takes a deep shaking breath.

"Now it will be up to others to keep them safe forever. Oh, but they are so much better off. Thank Jah. Thank Odin."

She curls forward and rests her forehead against the ground.

"Everyone is so much better off. I'm dead... I'm really dead..."

She laughs, a sort of exuberant, breathless laugh, that turns into a bit of a cackle.

"I'd like to see Frankie try to hurt me now. He can suck his own dick. And Argo can crawl back under whatever rock he came from. And all those lords and ladies and the bickering and the anger..."

She grins maniacally.

"They can all go to hell. Or I will. Don't much care as long as it's not the same place."

She giggles softly to herself.

"Oh I'm so happy. I'm here, with you. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead."

Arms still wrapped around the base of the tree trunk, she drifts back into unconsciousness.

Shellara’s reaction was unexpected, to say the least and Bevin watched her in growing alarm as she seemed to be reacting to something other than the cleansing Bevin was attempting. When she spoke, Bevin’s heart sank. Harkaa had been gone for a long time, but clearly her sister had not dealt with his death quite as completely as she had thought. She rose with Shellara, reaching out a hand to steady the other woman, but she seemed not to notice her at all. The tree held her full attention and were Bevin not so deeply concerned about Shellara’s mental state and health, she might have found the hugging of the willow to be humorous.

Shellara seemed to be completely lost in whatever world her mind had placed her, seemingly unaware of her actual surroundings and Bevin’s concern and confusion grew as Shell began to speak of dying as though it were a relief, a gift even. She dared not try to wake her, but remained close, hearing every fevered word that was spoken and sifting through them in her own mind, wondering what to do in response, if anything at all.

She spoke in tones of serious concern about her children, vowing to keep them safe from harm, which made Bevin wonder how she and Pilgrim would end up seeing to their safety. They would want to be with their mother and when she recovered, she would want to be with them, surely.

But as Shellara slumped back into unconsciousness, arms still wrapped around the Harkaa tree, Bevin began to question whether her sister was fit to rule. It was not her decision, she reminded herself, but the scene she had just witnessed troubled her deeply.

She reached out to touch Shellara’s shoulder hesitantly, unsure whether she would awaken again and if so, whether her mind would be in this world or that other where she believed herself to be dead and rejoined with the husband she still so obviously loved.

Shellara wakes again with a choked scream and pulls away from the touch, cowering against the base of the tree. The shadows spring to life around her, taking on the faces of dead friends and comrades, and she starts mumbling in terror. They claw at her, and she screams again.

There is a woman... a shadowy woman... is she dead? Alive? Does it matter here? Is this Hell? Harkaa is gone... She continues to shrink against the base of the tree.

"Please..."

Her voice is full of fear and terror.

"Please... let me go back to him..."

What she was witnessing disturbed Bevin deeply and she found her mind embroiled in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. On the one hand, she was relieved and elated to find that the burnt body back at the wall had not been Shellara and her sister was alive. On the other hand, her sister did not seem well, despite being very much alive. There was more going on with her than her physical wounds could explain. Whilst that in itself was concerning, the larger concern was whether she was fit to continue to hold the throne. England was at war and needed a strong leader on the throne and if that was not important enough, she feared that in her present condition, the pressure of the monarchy might permanently damage Shellara. It might even kill her in truth and not just in her fevered hallucinations.

”It’s OK, Shellara. It’s me, Bevin,” she tried to soothe, but the frightened look in her sister’s eyes made her wonder whether she even knew her. ”Do you know who I am, Shell?” she asked, slowly and carefully approaching her where she cowered against the base of the tree.

One thing was certain, she could not remain here in the open for long. Shellara needed medical attention and treatment she was not equipped to give. As she watched Shellara, she contemplated what to do even whilst she attempted to approach the terrified woman. She should find a safe place to get her out of the elements and then go back to camp for help. But where would she be safe? She would need to scout the area to see if there might be a farmhouse or cave nearby. She worried as much about leaving Shellara alone as she did about getting her someplace safe.

”Come, sit. I won’t hurt you. I will never do anything that would bring harm to you. Surely you know that?” She pitched her voice soft and soothing as if trying to calm a frightened pup. In a way, that’s what she felt she was doing now. Only Shellara was no pup. She was a strong warrior woman who had gained the throne and ruled all of England. The woman cowering before her now bore little resemblance to that woman now.

The words find their way through a fog of dead faces, and Shellara blurrily recognizes Bevin's striking hair.

"Bevin? Oh Jah, not you too..."

She covers her face with her hands and weeps.

"I kill everything I touch... everything... my parents, my twin, my husband... now my sister... next my children... my brother... Odin, make it stop... make it stop... please..."

She collapses in a heap, sobbing.

Bevin was taken aback by Shellara’s reaction. There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes just before she succumbed once more to the nightmare. On impulse, Bevin rushed to her side to wrap her arms around her sister, intending to comfort her and try to bring her back to the moment, but the act backfired on her. As soon as Bevin touched her, Shellara cried out and pulled away in terror before passing out into a very troubled state of unconsciousness. Bevin gently laid her out onto the earth again as her practical side took over. The left arm still needed to be tended to and she was beginning to realize the only way she could do that was whilst Shellara was unconscious.

The moon was high in the night sky by the time she had tended Shellara’s physical wounds to the extent she could using the field kit she always kept in her saddlebags.  Her kit was limited but she did have a general healing salve that she had gently smoothed over the burnt skin and then used the bandages she had to wrap the arms to protect them against the elements. Shellara seemed now to be in a deep sleep, so Bevin decided it was as good a time as any to scout out the area. She left the horse tethered to the tree, trusting that he would alert her if there was any danger. The moon cast enough light that she was able to see clearly enough to see where she was going except for where the shadows were thickest. Scouting failed to produce anything of use in the form of shelter. Disappointed and deeply troubled, she returned to the willow to find the horse standing at attention, ears pricked and facing the river.

Instantly on alert, she drew her sword and studied the area that held the horse’s attention, listening for sounds as she searched for movement. Was it a predator? A person? Friend or foe? At last she heard it. The soft thud of a hoofbeat, a soft creak of leather just beyond sight near the river’s edge. She crept silently toward the sound, avoiding fallen leaves by carefully placing her feet one in front of the other with great care until she found the source of the sound.

A soldier stood at the river’s edge letting his horse drink from the water as he studied the earth. Silently she cursed herself for being so careless as to leave signs of her presence from her trips to the river and back. There was something familiar about the soldier, but he was too far away to determine whether he was a Queen’s man or the enemy. She considered her options as the horse finished its drink. Whatever decision she was going to make was made for her as the soldier led his horse away from the river and directly toward where she stood hidden in shadow. As he drew closer, she was able to see his face. She did not know the soldier’s name but recognized him as one of the many from the Queen’s encampment.

Just before he was in range of her blade, she stepped out of the shadows to challenge him. ”Halt,” she ordered and was relieved that he did just that, looking directly at her now that she had revealed herself. ”What is your business here, soldier?” she queried.

((Cutting back his typical accent-typing to make it easier to read ))

Aengus had gone on the road again...Time had passed since the journeys, and the talks of drinking and politics had worn on him more.  He hated much of what the kingdoms stood for with a dulled passion...because he'd faced those demons when his own family was mostly lost to war, and his brother blamed him for it, turning on him before dying himself.  Bitter pills to swallow sometimes, but things that had to be processed, and moved on from.  He'd paused to let the equine quench its thirst, and to take in peaceful scenery away from people - or so he'd hoped.  But like most things, they didn't go as planned, despite hope or intention.

And thus he turned, raising a brow to the sound of the woman's words, recognizing her image from the books he was told to studhy and ledgers of names and heroic deeds, "What business does a person watering a horse usually have, lass?  Typically involves lettin' a horse drink water.  You're the one sneaking about and callin' accusations, be it as it is, aye.  So mayhaps you tell me what you're doing here as well, since you don't appear to be  waterin' a horse at the moment...it's been a long way since the north country.  Christ on a bike, lass, ye look like you're not cut out for the lurkin'.  All the shadowy sneakin' ain' suit'ble.  So back at de top, what's hidin'?"

Something about that accent perked her memory. Was she certain she had seen this one in the Queen's camp?  She could not be sure. "Watering your horse is a good thing for the horse. My question has more to do with what a lone rider is doing out here in the middle of the night so near a potential war zone? Last I checked, asking questions was not the same as making accusations. You happen to be near my campsite and I have a right to question your presence."

She had a bad feeling about this one and whilst she would have been relieved to have someone along who could help her with Shellara, there was no way she would put her sister at risk for this stranger. Not yet, at any rate. Not until she knew she could trust him and right now, she did not.

"I'm not worried about war zones. Been through them, and they left their marks; I left mine. I dealt with those repercussions a long time ago, don't worry about 'em anymore. Besides, there's place enough to wander, watch old enemies die, and still leave without a scratch." He turned the horse upriver, "I don't want to intrude on your campsite then.
Whatever it is you're hiding, lass, I wish you the best with it. This may be a war zone, but there's a certain way to get around it. If you get to a point you're needin' more help than ya ken handle, send a pigeon and ah'll do wot ah ken your way. Ye seem like a good lass, anyway, wot ah seen an' heard o'ye." His eyes stayed with hers for a long while. "May de wind be at yer back, lass. And the sun blind yer enemies' sight," he said, mounting the horse to head upriver.

The man’s tone changed as he spoke. She could not see his face as clearly in the moonlight as she would have liked, but there seemed a touch of sadness about him. From his words, he had seen much and lost more than anyone should. Like she had. She almost regretted her tone, but then reminded herself that it was not just her life she was protecting. With new resolve, she nodded at him and watched him go, calling after him, ”Long may your chimney smoke,” His accent held enough Scottish in it to make her think he might be familiar with the saying. If not, then no harm done.

Once he had disappeared upriver, she listened to the night sounds, wishing that he had been a friend instead of a stranger. With renewed determination she returned to the willow tree to find Shellara deep in troubled sleep. She dared not touch her again. The reactions to touch had been troubling enough. Bevin thought it best to let her sleep whilst she could. But how to make her safe? She could not lift her to help her onto the horse, and she did not seem able to carry herself on her own feet. Add to that the hallucinations and Bevin knew there was no way to safely get her back to camp. If the armies, and gods forbid the enemy, saw her like this, it could spell trouble all around. It was better to let Pilgrim act as Regent for now until such time as Shellara recovered. If only there was someplace nearby that would shelter her from the elements and secure her from predators, animal and human alike.

Her horse stamped his hoof and shook his head. She smiled and patted his neck, stroking the velvety softness of his nose as she tried to reassure him. She was tired, but there were no Royal Guards here and that meant she alone would be responsible for Shellara until she could get help. There was nothing for it but to secure the campsite as she feared to stray too far from Shellara in her search for a safer place.

She sat down beneath the willow, resting her back against the trunk as she surveyed the area. Pilgrim would miss her eventually and be worried, she was certain. Perhaps he would send riders out to look for her and they would find her. As much as that prospect brought hope, it also troubled her. How would someone who didn’t love Shellara as she and Pilgrim loved her react to their Queen’s current state? Would they charge her with treason for protecting her sister and keeping her away from the world that right now seemed to frighten Shellara more than she had ever seen anyone frightened? The impact of hiding Shellara from the world began to reveal itself to Bevin as she sat thinking through every possibility, her eyes watching the horizon and her surroundings as much as they checked Shellara for signs of alertness. Maybe she would wake and be herself again. Maybe her mind was already beyond help. She had heard of people who had gone mad but had never known anyone personally. If this was madness, what could she do, really, to protect her sister?

She wished she knew this part of the world, but she had only passed through Westmorland a few times. She did not know the lay of the land aside from what she had studied on maps of the area. She was not entirely sure where the river ran or whether it emptied into the Irish Sea or into a loch surrounded by land. If she could find a way to float her down the river, assuming it did empty into the sea, or at least got her close to a port town, perhaps she could find a way to smuggle her on board the Meshuda and sail her to Devon with the rest of her soldiers and sailors once this war was over. But that just raised more questions. What to do with her in the meantime and how to hide her from the soldiers and sailors on a ship that would be full of people. Every time she thought of a possible solution, she countered it with every possible problem and ended right back where she was now. What to do with the Queen whose mind was too broken to reign and rule the country.

Seven days. Seven days he'd traveled, his prayers following him like the old german stories of breadcrumbs and cannibals. He had no idea where he was going, or what he was doing, or why...but he knew he needed to run. Everything had just become too much...too much. He was drowning. Escaping to the country. To the quiet. He needed to glimpse Jah. To know if He loved him. If He approved of the unholy union. Aristotle and Onan preached of love. Of love and of giving...and deep inside, he knew he did not love. He knew it was the sin of the flesh, and it would destroy his soul.

Here, though. Here. Cold stone beneath him, bathed in the ethereal light of candles, nothing between him and Jah. Here he was comforted. He had lain here for hours. Arms out, his cheek cradled by stone, bare but for his braes in the shadow of the altar. Here, Jah would surely come to him. Jah would give him the promise of His love. Softly, he chanted as he had done hours on end.

"St. Origene, bless us,
May you watch over our seminarians,
The faithful more studious  "

His own voice carried his mind. Opened himself. He craved the calmness of Jah.

Tap!

He lost is place...with a huff, he continued from the beginning.

"St. Origene, release us from our troubles,
Whenever you can
Teach us the good values of our faith "

Tap! Taptap! Tap!

The man grumbled, looking up. He was alone in the church, and the tapping felt far more invasive than anything Jah would send.

"St. Origene, free Tap! us from our hatredsTap!Tap!,
Whereby love, Tap!sharing and charity
preTap!Tap!domiTap!
nate over sin Tap!Tap!Tap!

With a huff he stood, pushing his hair from his face. There was *no one* there. No one! He peeked out the windows, behind the curtain...nothing. No one. He moved again to his knees, closing his eyes to center himself again for his ablutions.

Tap!Tap!

"Sir...Or madam!" he called out as he strode down the aisle "I am trying to pray when you came knocking...tapping at the chapel's door. Pray forgive...I almost didn't hear you." He pulls open the door, the cold night air blasting his near naked body...to no one. He looked left to right, up and down, to see if there was any evidence of anyone once being there. Nothing.

He closed the door again, leaning against it and staring up at the altar. A knot of fear rolling in his stomach. Who...or what...was that?

Suddenly, from above, he heard a low and long "Crooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaakkk-kk-k"

There, cast in the rose window, was the shadow of a raven. Quickly, the man pulled on his pants and shirt, and shoved his feet in his boots. Ravens roost at sundown, and it was far into night now...Could it be the shade of his brother?

He ran out the door, looking up at the massive beast. It was far greater than the normal rooks that flew wild. Fear struck him...was his brother coming to exact his revenge? Was this to be what Jah was sending him? Fear boiled inside him, threatening to overtake him when suddenly he heard a scream from the river, that suddenly went silent. With that, the raven flew off. That...that could not be a shade. That was real. That true. Ainvar ran toward his horse, leaping on him bare backed, and kicked him into stride. The great beast forded the river easily as he scanned the darkness. He kept riding toward the field, sure it had come from there. Then, suddenly, the raven showed again, spooking his horse to running back to the bank. With no reigns, he struggled to maintain the animal. It's eyes rolled white, just as afraid as he was. Then, suddenly, the boughs of a willow sprang into their path, as if it was a ghost itself. To that, his horse had had enough. He reared back, flinging him into the dust and ran back toward the field.

The air completely empty from his lungs, he wordlessly gasped. It took him a moment to regain himself, to whisper a soft "Christos..."

Bevin was sitting peacefully beside the inert body of her sister...well, as peacefully as one can be when contemplating the future of England and the health, or more accurately the sanity, of a friend and sister who seemed to be confused and, some might even say, deranged. Her horse's ears pricked just before she heard the sound of hoofbeats racing toward their location. Alarmed, she stood swiftly to her feet, pulling her sword free of its sheath on instinct, and faced the swiftly approaching intruder. Her horse, the name Tarranis popped into her mind and with a brief smile she decided that it fit, pranced in place, obviously uneasy about the approaching horseman. She assumed the horse had a rider as no horse would be out galloping alone at this time of night unless truly spooked. The hoofbeats seemed to pass them by and she was about to go take a look to see if she could determine who or what had spooked the horse when she became aware of a shadow passing overhead. She glanced up to see the silhouette of a bird, but in the darkness she could not tell what it was. That seemed odd, as it was definitely not an owl and she could not think of another great bird that would be out this late at night. Before she had processed that thought, the bird disappeared from view in the direction the horse had taken. Soon the hoofbeats turned back toward them and she came to full alert again, ready to fight and die if she must to protect her helpless sister. In a heartbeat the horse was nearly upon them, Tarranis snorting a warning and pawing the ground aggressively. The next instant the shadowy figure of a horse reared up and dislodged its rider onto the ground and then fled back in the direction from which it had come, its hoofbeats fading into the night. Bevin had jumped aside to avoid being knocked over by the body that landed a mere few feet from where she stood. She wasn't even sure it was alive until a male voice whispered "Christos..."

She stepped forward to stand over the fallen man, the point of her sword at his throat and an eyebrow arched as she tried to decide whether she knew him or not. "When you catch your breath, pray tell me your name, sir," she said calmly.

Gasping audibly, Ain stared up at the woman over him. His mouth opened and closed like a beached trout, searching for the air and ability to speak "La-la....Laurence...." he gasped. "Holifard." He stared wildly up at the woman, looking for any way out. He was defenseless...he didn't even have his shirt closed...He was in trouble,

"Holiford?" she asked, a quizzical look on her face. She moved the point of her sword back an inch, but no more. She did not know this man, but she did know the name. "Any relation to King Cullan or Queen Aggnes?"

His eyes darted manically, searching for the bird "Y-yes. Cullan was...my older brother. His...son is in my care." Ain's chest rose and fell heavily, frightened by the ghost, and the woman who held his life in her hands. His brother had pissed off many people. Here might be where he drew his last breath, all in the name of his hated older sibling.

She looked at him for a long moment, her face a mask. At last she removed the sword but did not yet sheath it. "I met your brother once or twice, but I worked with Aggnes after his death." As the willow branches swayed softly in a gentle breeze, moonlight filtered through and she caught a full glimpse of his face. She had seen him before, she was sure of it, but always at a distance, across the room, or in passing in one of the audience chambers of the Tower, but she had never met him. "What are you doing out here at this hour?" She glanced down at his bare chest, but immediately returned her eyes to his face. One could tell a lot by looking into a man's eyes and studying his facial expressions. "Dalliance go wrong?" she smirked and took a step back to give the man space to rise to his feet. She was still wary, but she did not think he would be a real threat, yet she did not let her guard down completely.

Eyes wide with fear, he listened to her speak. It seemed she didn't know all he'd done to his sister in law. "I..." Ain slowly rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothes. "I was at prayer, My Lady. At St. Wilfrids...Down stream." He began tying his shirt up. "Forgive my nakedness...I dressed quickly. There was a large raven knocking at the window of the chapel. I..." He eyed her, wondering if she'd laugh at him. Considering she worked for his heathen sister in law, he figured she would be safe. "I thought it might have been sent by my brother."

"Raven?" she asked, fighting the urge to look skyward. So that was what she had seen fly overhead. Ravens did not normally fly at night, but she remembered that Shellara had a raven. Hugi, she thought his name was, and wondered whether it might be the same bird. As if in answer, there was a flutter of wings in the tree above them. She looked up and saw the large bird settling on a branch just above where Shellara lay, his black shape barely visible within the shadows of the night. "I think it is not a message from your brother, My Lord, but it may have indeed been a messenger." Her gaze fell on Shellara, still deep in troubled sleep but quiet for the moment. Once the man...Laurence he had called himself, yet she knew of him by another name...had calmed he would not help but notice the woman lying not ten feet from where they stood. She eyed him warily, noting with pleasure that Tarranis was still at full alert but no longer fidgeting. "Where do your allegiances lie, sir? With Queen Shellara or the Pretender King?" she asked him directly, watching his face closely to see whether he spoke truthfully or not.

Ainvar ducked instinctively from the shade, staring at it. He was sure the thing was otherworldly, but it seemed the woman saw it too. "I...have no opinion, though my nephew is fond of the woman. She recognized his title, though she didn't need to, so...I would certainly side first with the Jah ordained Monarch of England..." Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Do you see the animal too?"