The local county judge has looked over my documentation, but sadly he tells me that I don't own Hellsing.

Dawn broke over the emerald hillocks of England, bringing with it birdsong and light. The peasants were heading towards their lord's fields to do the day's work. The serfs were bustling around their homes, also preparing for the day. The servants of the manor had been up since 3:00 am, stoking fires and sweeping the home so that his Lordship wouldn't wake up to a filthy hovel.

Cows lowed in one of the lord's three barns, their udders full of milk. The hens clucked to themselves, nesting here and there in bushes and under trees among the beaten path between the barns and stables. The pigs rooted amongst the waste of their pigsty, their snouts covered in grimy dirt as they wallowed. Above all this, a crow sat in a large tree, his beady eye surveying all before calling out his hoarse song and taking flight to the forest.

The dairy maids trudged up the hill from the servants' house to the cow's barn, yawning and stretching in the morning light. They filed into the structure and began their work. A younger one of about thirteen or so banged on the side of the barn, the sound echoing into the loft above the cow's pens that held a store of hay.

"Seerus Victo'riay!" she called, the name becoming mangled through her thick accent. "Tha' aunt been callin' thee for near an hour!"

"Yes, yes, Seras Victoria!" the others crowed mockingly, their voices carrying in the empty space of the barn. "Yer aunt's been a callin' ye!" An answering grunt floated in the air before something in the loft moved and a naked young woman peered over the edge blearily, rubbing one eye.

"Has she?" she asked sleepily. "What is o'clock?" The dairy maids tittered.

"Tis dawn," said the one who had banged on the wall.

"Aye, nigh on seven now," an older one said, her head poked around the breastbone of her cow. The young woman named Seras shrieked as she heard, her eyes widening and suddenly there was a fierce scrambling on the loft.

"I'm late!" The cows looked up in alarm as hay fell between the slats in the wooden loft and floated down on their heads. The dairy maids scowled and brushed the golden stuff from their shoulders and neck, scratching at the itchy feeling left behind. A ginger tabby barn cat jumped from the loft, shaking its head and sitting amidst the women, letting them scratch its ears as it purred loudly.

"How so, Pippen?" one said to it, rubbing under its chin. Another passed by and it ran ahead to rub against her legs. She tucked a stray strand of hair back up into her kerchief and smiled down at it.

"Good morrow, Pip," she chirped before looking around to see if anyone of importance was nearby. Seeing no one, she spilled a little milk out of her pail onto the ground and the cat licked it up happily, gazing at her with content green eyes.

Then suddenly a maid cried in alarm as the hay her cow was eating was upset violently. The cow mooed in fear, backing up and nearly upsetting the pail before the maid caught it in time. She calmed the great beast before turning on the pile of hay in anger.

"Seras Victoria!" The girl, now dressed, popped out of the hay pile and onto the ground, brushing hay-dust off her clothing. She was dressed in a chemise similar to the dairy maids, although her long sleeves hung down instead of being pulled out of the way. Her bodice was dark brown and nearly too small, the laces barely holding her breasts in place. Her skirt was dark red, nipping her at the waist and flowing around her ankles.

She too wore a kerchief over her hair, which unlike all the other girls was cropped and stuck to her neck. Scandalous as it was, it was whispered amongst the servants that her hair never grew farther than her shoulders. It was no secret around the manor that a witch had brought the pestilence which had wiped out her hometown and taken her God-fearing parents to Heaven.

Seras—who at that time was a tiny, frail thing of only four-years—had been one of the few who miraculously survived the night-chills and high fever. And though they thanked the Lord each night that the witch (who'd been caught and rightly burned at the stake for her crimes) had been unable to smite the child in all her holy innocence, they knew that her wild behavior could only be an effect of a spell gone awry. Instead of killing her, the witch's curse made her do as was her want.

She ran through the fields between the manor and the township like a child instead of behaving like a proper virgin of marrying age. She wrestled with the pigs and ate more than the other female servants and her hair stayed at her shoulders and she refused to bind it up. She enjoyed sleeping in the barn and gambling with the neighborhood boys and worst of all: she spoke her mind.

Her aunt and uncle were her guardians, the only family she had left after her parents had passed. A kitchen chef and the steward of the great manor, they were mortified at their niece's thinking. They had her whipped and starved and put on the ducking stool. They took her to the church and tried to exorcise demons from her mind, they told her that bad girls went to Hell, they prayed over her.

But nothing seemed to work. She stayed the same cheerful child, and even as she grew into a young lady of fourteen she never seemed to take their actions to heart. She told them outright in her usual way that she understood that they were trying to make her into a good person, but she felt as though she would rather enjoy carrying on the way she'd been more. So they threw up their hands and let it be. Every time someone complained, they'd give them a weary look and simply said "The Lord will handle her as he sees fit someday."

Eventually word got to his Lordship about the wild young woman running barefoot through his fields. The servants told him about the witch and how the girl couldn't help it, but he sent for her anyway, intending to whip the child himself and force the badness out of her. She went boldly alone into the Lord's solar, even as her aunt wept for her and the pain she was sure to feel.

Everyone said that her tears fell into the dough gave the servants a case of melancholy, but in truth everyone was worried about Seras. Even as uncultured and addled as she was, she was a likeable young thing and everyone couldn't help but see the good in her behind the frank words and strange behavior.

Seras stayed a long time with the Lord in the solar, but she came out unscathed, to everyone's shock. She'd come to the kitchens and stood before her aunt, curtsying slightly (no one could say that she never showed respect towards her aunt and uncle, who could have thrown her out at any time).

"His Lordship'd like to see you in the solar," she said using her "town voice", and not the colloquial dialect everyone in the countryside manor seemed to share. The aunt had tidied her blonde and gray bun under the kerchief, dusted the flour from her aprons, and met her husband in the Great Hall to see about heading to the solar.

Inside there, the lord had been resting on his bed. He was an elderly man, but he was still noble enough to strike fear into the peasant's hearts. He looked at them a long moment before speaking.

"I can see why that woman isn't married yet," he said at length. "No one alive would agree to such a match. She's an especially… forthright sort of thing, isn't she?" The couple had bowed and apologized profusely for a number of minutes before he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

"I have had a long talk with her, and she has made it very clear to me that I could whip her until she was unable to walk, and when she healed it would have done nothing but wasted my time." He sighed, looking rather impressed. "So I told her that if she wanted to stay and run in the fields, she might as well earn her keep doing it." Her aunt and uncle glanced up at his weathered face, scarcely believing their own ears.

"So there it is. Let her sleep in the barn with the animals. Let her run in the fields barefoot, and keep brigands away from my flocks. Let her wrestle with the wolves that threaten my sheep." He nodded as looks of horror passed over their faces. "Oh, don't fret. If any a human can wrestle a wolf and then talk him out of eating his keep, it'd be that woman."

So it had been for the past five years. Now she was a strapping woman of nineteen. Each day she took her breakfast in the kitchens with her aunt, and then traipsed off to the fields with the cows and sheep. The local shepherds knew her by her Christian name, and she had fought off wolves and even a wild boar— although with a wooden stick and smooth stones, not her bare hands and blunt words.

Today was no different than the other days, other than the fact that the usually early-riser had slept in, bundled up beneath a coverlet and surrounded on all sides by the hay that served as firstly her bed, and then later the cows' meals. She gathered her chemise and skirts in her hands and took off in a mad sprint for the great house, dashing around servants in her hurry and only shouting a "how d'ye do?" over her shoulder.

Bypassing the main door, she circled the manor to the servants' entrance and ducked through the buttery to the kitchen. The warmth hit her like a brick wall after the chill of the morning air and she hummed in delight, soaking up the heat from the fires and cooking ovens already churning at full speed in preparation for his Lordship and the Lady's breakfast.

"There tha' ist!" Her aunt called over the din of scullery maids cleaning and kitchen maids running every which way, basting and turning and chopping and cooking and kneading, all with the many chefs shouting orders above their commotion. It was chaos; Seras loved it. If she didn't have such a yearning for the outdoors, she might have liked to follow in her aunt's footsteps as a cook. "Come, tha' breakfast is nearly gone!"

Seras obediently came, for although she respected the other chefs and housemaid and lady's maids on principle only, she truly loved her aunt and uncle and tried very hard to be honorable to them. Her aunt disappeared into the buttery and came back with a mug of ale and a chunk of white bread before sending her in the direction of the hearths with a gentle push.

She sat on the stones before the hearth, out of the way of the maids but still able to feel the warmth from the flames and smell the golden-brown skin of the goose on the spit as the fat crackled. She ate her breakfast, reminding herself—as she did every day—that she was a very lucky girl to have white bread with her ale for breakfast, instead of the coarse brown bread serfs and peasants had to eat. She barely remembered eating that sort of bread when she lived with her parents, but that wasn't the problem. Her uncle had told her to always be grateful for the privileges that she had, even if she was less than a servant.

She quickly finished her food and drink, and wiping her mouth discreetly handed it to a young page running by, hoping for a snippet of his own to eat before his master called him away again. She instructed him to take it to her aunt; the woman named Alicia, and bid her to fill it for him. Then she made her way out the door and down the path again, this time more slowly and bidding good morning to all she saw.

Once the dairy maids were through, the hens' eggs were collected, the pigs were given the slops, and the sheep were inspected then all grazing animals were released unto her care. She led them out like a hardened shepherd and they turned out in the fields. Waiting on the top of the hillock where the manor rested, she watched the flocks from afar until her uncle came with her pack for lunch.

The steward was a busy man, but informing her of her tasks for the day was one of his duties, and he made extra time for it in order to see his niece. His younger brother's child, she was the only blood and bone family he had left, and while he hadn't time to raise her properly and often scolded her for the mess she was in he did love her in his own absentminded way.

He thrust the pack into her hands, counting down on his fingers her list for the day. She tucked the pack around her waist, the strap slung over her shoulder and across her breast as she listened as attentively as she could muster to his monotone.

"Ye must use the two spare fields today; the others are fenced off for hay-making," he began, and she nodded dutifully. "Ye also keep an eye on that cow with the bad leg; nothin' should be startin' her. And remember, don't go near the forest."

"Aye, Uncle," she agreed with a brisk nod. He patted her cheek fondly before hurrying off again, shouting at the farmhands to stop before they drove the mule into one the barns before ducking back inside as his Lordship called for him. Seras stared after him a long moment, wondering. It was by the grace of God, she decided grimly, that the two babes he'd borne with her aunt had died in infancy. Otherwise, who would have raised them, with mother and father both so busy? It was a horrid thought, but there it sat in her mind and it took all her willpower and love for her family to keep from voicing it.

Turning, she hopped and skipped down the hillocks and over the glens until she ran among her own animals. She led them out to the farthest pastures, away from the temptation of the longs stalks of grass that were scheduled to be hay soon. There she sat with them, singing to herself and watching the sun travel across the sky.

She ate her lunch in the noonday sun, looking forlornly at the shadows that danced under the trees at the edge of the forest. If only she could go there and sit in the shade, out of the burning glare of the sun! But from the time she was young, she had promised over and over to her aunt and uncle that she'd never step foot in the shadows that skirted the edge of the enormous wood. Her uncle reminded her every day to not go there.

There were stories about the forest, of the creatures that live in the darkness beyond the trees. She'd heard it whispered in the chapel that the Devil lived there, stalking the leaf-strewn ground and enticing foolhardy people into signing his black book. In the kitchens, the women spoke of how Death walked there, waiting for young maidens to ferry back to his cold, lonely palace in the Otherworld. Her aunt had scoffed at these when Seras asked as a youngster.

"Nonsense," she had said, her strong arms pounding dough into bread. "Tis silly to be think'n such things. There's highwaymen n' scoundrels n' murderers that live in tha' forest. It'd be best to put it out o' yer mind, Seras." And put it out of her mind she had, forgoing all temptation and reminding herself of her promises whenever curiosity plucked at her heart.

But, she thought to herself as she stared out over the valley at the forest that lay beyond and stretched as far as the eye could see, just once I'd like to go'n see it. Maybe when I'm old n' gray, I'll walk there and just keep'n walking until I lay down underneath a tree n' die. It was a highly romantic thought for her: lying underneath a tree, her last sight of the Earth the leaves fluttering in the breeze, sunlight turning them into emeralds that cast a beautiful colour on her dying form.

She entertained the fantasy for a while, her head in her hands and lunch forgotten. It was only when she heard the bleating that she looked up and saw a sheep heading into the forest, away from the rest of the flock. Standing up, her food tumbled from her lap and she gasped as she watched the sheep disappear from sight between two large oaks.

She tumbled her way down the large incline, jumping on broad rocks and skittering down dirt grooves made by rainfall. She hesitated at the mouth of the forest, weighing her options in her mind. She looked back at the flock still grazing peacefully on the knoll. Then she glanced at the forest before her, spread wide and empty with darkness hiding things from her eyes where the leaves were too dense for the sun to shine.

What were the chances that she'd come across a murderer in the wood in the time it took to get a wayward sheep and get out of there? She bet that the odds weren't stacked against her. But her uncle told her to never go into the forest! Wouldn't going in, and thereby dishonouring her uncle, be a sin? Yet, if she lost a sheep, it would mean a loss for the manor, and his Lordship would be furious!

She hopped on her feet, aware that as long as she stood there, that blockhead of a sheep would be going further and further into the wood. She bit her thumb, tasting blood as she made her decision. She had to get the sheep. No one would ever know that she'd been into the forest, and if they found out, she had a very good reason. It wasn't like she was going in to sate her curiosity. She had a mission—find the lost sheep, and get out.

She gulped, lifted her skirts, and stepped into the shadows.

Seras padded nearly silently across the leafy carpet, her eyes adjusting to the dark as she scanned the brown and green for a hint of curly white wool or a black face munching the leaves. She had no idea why the sheep had decided to leave its grass for something as silly as a bush to eat. Her senses were on high alert—she stopped at every crack of a twig or stir of an animal in the brush.

Finally she saw the sheep in a clearing just ahead, eating some green grass growing in the spots where leaves hadn't covered the ground. She sighed in relief, bending down with the intention of wrapping her arms around the animal's wooly bulk and carrying back in the direction she'd come. She'd lost sight of the knoll and the exit, but she was certain that if she just walked the way she'd came, the wood between the hillocks and her was narrow enough that she'd reach the end at some point before sundown.

"Well, well, well," a voice rang out in the air and she froze, her hands still in the process of reaching for the animal. The shadows changed shape and she realized that someone was standing behind her. Her pupils dilated and she choked on a scream, her body refusing to cooperate as her mind screamed at her to forget the sheep and just run for her life. "A little lamb who's lost its way… and dinner, too."

Someone else chuckled at the words, the sound slicing the air like a knife, and Seras felt her heart thump wildly in her chest as she slowly stood up. She couldn't breathe right; the air had thickened and she could only take small gasps in at a time. The sheep bleated and took off running, only to have wolf leap from the shade and grab its throat in giant jaws. The wolf—no, it was a dog, an enormous dog—shook the limp body and it crunched on the ground, the life leaving the animal.

"No…" she whispered and then her anger took over, making her forget that she was terrified for her life. "Why did you let him do that!" she shouted, turning on her aggressor. Her eyes flashed and her hands bunched into fists. She had lost a sheep! Now she'd be let go from her position, disgraced and bringing her aunt and uncle down with her!

The man standing before her was actually not as big and bad as she thought he'd be. He was clean-shaven, his bald head glinting in the dim light. A scar cut jaggedly across his temple and down over his right eye, which seemed to have a hard time opening and closing. He wore brown clothes and was very dirty—Seras supposed in a rational part of her mind that this was good camouflage if your lot in life was to live in a forest.

"Why!?" she shrieked again, and the man began to laugh raucously, slapping the side of his hip. "Tell me!" she demanded, which only made him laugh harder.

"Ye hear that, Baskerville?" he crowed. " The whore wan'sa know why we let the hound get'm!" he shouted, nearly doubled over with laughter. Seras paused, looking at him for a fraction of a second before taking off in a dead run around him and into the trees. She heard him yell behind her, and then the baying of a hound that was answered in the forest all around her. The hunt was on.

Gasping, she tore through the trees with the sole thought that if she could somehow get back to the manor and the light, they would stop pursuing her. The wood seemed to do everything it could to hinder her; thorns pricked her bare feet, she slipped and slid on the leaves, and many times she could have sworn that the shadows themselves were tripping her and trying to ensnare her ankles in their murky tendrils.

Suddenly, she felt the air twitch and heard the snap of jaws where her hand had been only a second before. Unable to waste needed breaths with screaming, she swung out blindly with her fist and made contact with a large, furry something. Her blow didn't even hinder the behemoth, and she wracked her mind for another plan.

She stopped, sliding on the ground, and they overtook her. By the time the dark shapes had managed to turn around, she had changed course and was zigzagging as fast as she could through the trees. Now it had become a game of tactile thinking. The three black wolfhounds were trying to decide what her next move would be, crowding around her with the intention of blocking her in. She was faster than them at turning, though, and was nearly scot-free when something fell on her from above.

"Baskerville, ye dog! Ye caught the wench!" Struggling, she was turned and came face to face with a grungy man beaming back at her. He was dressed in the same manner as his comrade, who had come panting up behind them both. The man called Baskerville pushed his stringy black bangs out of his face, tucking the hair back behind his ears while the rest hung in a loose ponytail. She gazed at the four gold hoops in each ear before he grabbed her cheeks, forcing her to look back at his chocolaty eyes.

"Tha's quite enough," he murmured, and she recognized his voice as the chuckler. "Yer a rather audacious little lass, aren't ye? Didn't yer mum and dad tell ye not to go into the forest?" Seras didn't answer, still struggling as she fought to gain enough of a foothold to push herself out from under the reedy man and to her freedom. The man watched her in amusement, motioning to his friend, who was laughing at her again.

"Don'cha think the King might like to see this'n?" he asked. The bald one paused, thinking for a moment. "Us bringin' back some meat, too… he might see fit to let us have 'er as our own."

"Well, if you think it's best," the man answered with a shrug. Baskerville nodded, leering down at her for a moment before raising back his arm, hand curled into a fist. Seras saw what was coming and flinched, her eyes shut so that when the blow landed to the side of her head, she didn't see the shadows behind the two men shrink and wriggle in anger before she lost consciousness.

"So she outsmarted ye, Viz?"

"Like tha's hard to do, eh?!"

"Pass me some 'ore of tha' lamb. Tis good, Viz. I didn' know ye cooked."

"Well, we hardly have meat to cook, is why, eh?"

Firelight danced, and she saw it even behind her closed lids. It was warm, but she wasn't in the kitchens. She wasn't tied up, either, but she couldn't escape. Someone sat directly behind her; she knew because every so often he'd accidentally knee her in the back. She was pretty sure it was the man who kept saying "eh?" at the end of everything, because his voice was loudest.

Without letting them know that she was awake, she listened to their conversation. She heard that Baskerville man and the bald one, which they kept calling Viz. There was the "eh?" guy, and at least five other voices filling the night air with laughter and chatter about the lamb they were eating and which one was the smartest and so on. She sensed that there was another, maybe two, that didn't speak at all, but instead sat silently and listened to the others.

Her dread and panic were growing with each passing second, and although she wasn't bound she still felt trapped. It was night, and there was no way she was making it back to the manor. Perhaps they'd sent a search party after her once they'd found the untended flocks, the spilled lunch, and the missing sheep? But she didn't know how far in the woods she was—how would they find her?

Finally her stomach growled with hunger and she opened her eyes, unable to keep up the charade any longer. She was lying beside a roaring campfire, the remains of her sheep lying close by, freshly cooked. Around the fire, the men milled about and sat in groups of two or three, eating their share of roast sheep. There were more than she thought there were—instead of five, there were at least ten, maybe twelve! Most of them were too busy eating to pay much attention to the conversation or the girl, but Baskerville saw her eyes glinting in the firelight and pounded the dust with a fist.

"Oi, she's awake!" The men all looked up and answered with jeering calls and sinister grins. She sat up, tenderly touching the knot on her aching skull where the man had so crudely knocked her unconscious. She felt something nudge her spine again and turned to see a very portly man behind her, gnawing on a leg bone, meat and ale mixed in his thick beard. He was hitting her with the toe of his massive cloth shoes, but he seemed to be doing it on accident instead of on purpose. Beside him, a teenage boy reclined against him. The boy smiled at her almost kindly, tearing off a scrap of meat and handing it to her.

"Good evenin'. I bet yer 'ungry, eh?" he said, grinning a gap-toothed smile at her, the remaining teeth well on their way to rotting. The portly man eyed the boy, but said nothing. Viz, in a "corner" beside Baskerville, laughed. Seras was on her way to realizing that this was a thing of his—this uncalled-for laughing.

"Oi Giant! Teach yer boy better! Don't hand whores scraps!" The boy frowned and retracted his hand, but only after tossing the meat in Seras' direction defiantly. The "giant" growled.

"If'n you want to live to see tomorrow, Vizzini," he snarled, his voice a deep rumble like thunder, "you would do well to remember me name." Vizzini, or Viz, or whoever he was, waved his hand dismissively.

"What do Gypsy names mean to me?" he replied scathingly. Slam! Slam! The man's hands hit the ground and he stood. The men sitting beside Viz leaned out of the way as Seras realized why they called him Giant. He. Was. Huge. Eight, no, nine feet tall! She felt her jaw drop and he stared at her before stepping clear over her upright form and standing before his tormentor, who wasn't laughing now.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't crush your head between me hands," he hissed. A cool voice rang out in the night and Seras felt herself tremble at the silkiness of it. It was a voice she hadn't heard before, but it gave her chills. These men scared her—if they would kill her, or rape her, or disembowel her and yet somehow keep her alive for some magicked rites, she didn't know. This voice, and its unidentified owner, terrified her. The unknown was three times as horrific with him!

"Sit down." Two words, but they had a profound impact. Every man flinched, staring off into the shadows. Viz gulped and the giant obediently stepped back and sat down in his previous seat. His son placed a hand on his arm and he shook his head silently in answer to some unasked question. "Baskerville," the voice continued thoughtfully, "you aren't a good host. Offer our guest some meat." Baskerville immediately motioned to her with his arm.

"Would you like something to eat? Meat, or we have berries and ale as well." Seras balked, wondering at the power of such a man that owned such a voice, that the strong men who had attacked and subdued her immediately obeyed his every whim! The only one she knew with power like that was… his Lordship! Or a king!

She turned her head, searching vainly in the darkness for the source of the voice before turning back with an obstinate frown.

"I don't want a single piece of your ill-begotten meat!" she hissed, trying to sound angry and commanding—in control. "I bet you didn't even pray over it, did ye?" Loud laughter answered her question. Baskerville even choked on his mouthful of food and Viz had to pound him on the back to get him to stop coughing. The ruling voice also laughed, the sound high and cold. She gulped, biting her thumb so that she wouldn't start crying. She would not show her fear in front of these men!

She winced as she tasted blood again and suddenly the air around the camp changed, somehow. The men noticed it too, sitting up straight and looking at the same spot with gooseflesh visible on their hair arms. She watched them, twisting around in her spot to see the giant man and his son both paralyzed.

"Let the girl come to me," the ruling voice commanded, this time calculating and sly. The men obediently backed away from the fire and the giant reached out and pulled her to her feet. She wobbled on her legs and looked around at the men, whose shapes had been turned into shadows with blinking eyes as they kept backing away from the fire. She paused, uncertain of what to do. "Come here, little one," the voice implored, and she could nearly feel the words brushing smoothly past her in the night. Or was that the shadows of the camp?

"I can't bloody well come when I can't see ye, can I?" she protested boldly, peering around the fire at the darkness. "I ent moving unless you tell me where ye are!" The men let out a collective gasp and she spun around, glaring at them as if daring them to tell her what the matter was. No one moved, although the Gypsy's son gave an imperceptible shake of his head that could have easily been a trick of the firelight.

The voice laughed, the sound sending chills up and down her spine, and then she edged closer to the fire as she sensed something out there, close to her body. She scowled at the night, hoping that she was looking in the right direction, and hoping that her bravado wouldn't give out and leave her a shuddering, weeping mess like the maids at the big house would have been by now.

"I'm right here," the voice said, close to her ear, and she gasped despite herself. Then, all at once, she could see two eyes glowing in the darkness. Her blood froze in her veins as she realized that it wasn't the fire that made them glow; the irises were crimson as the setting sun! Oh, Aunt, yer wrong, she thought helplessly. The Devil does live in the woods. As if he could read her thoughts, the shadowy figure grinned, teeth glinting wetly in the dim, flickering glow. She held her hand to her throat as she saw his canines, longer and sharper than the average man's. At the movement, a drop of blood from her hand fell and hit the earth, staining the dust.

"Oh my," the voice purred. "You've hurt yourself, my dear." A polished riding boot came out of the shadows, followed by a long, thin body that was tall enough to make her look up to see his eyes as he stepped dangerously close to her. It was easy to see now why she couldn't find him at first; although his skin was pale, the rest of him was clad in black and it seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows. Even his hair was black, and while it was cut just above his shoulders it hung all in his face and around his ears, making his eyes seem that much redder.

He grabbed her hand with a lightning-fast move and held it up, turning it this way and that as he watched the blood from her bite trail down her palm. Then, before she could jerk her hand away or take his focus off it, his tongue swiped out and ran up her thumb, catching every last drop. A disgusted feeling worked its way through her and she shuddered in revulsion at the feeling of the slimy, warm appendage.

"Delicious," he growled, licking his lips. She wrinkled her nose and frowned at him, wondering at his actions. Who thought blood was good? Was he really the Devil? He was terrifying, yes, but not in the way she thought a Prince of Darkness would be. Perhaps he was only one of the lesser demons. "Now," he continued, his lips pulling back in a sneer, "what to do with you? It's been such a long time since we've had a ripe young woman in our midst." He reached for her chest and she smacked his hand away briskly, her arm coming to cover her stays.

"Lay a hand on me if ye dare," she threatened. "I'll throw you into the fire!" The man's smile widened in mirth and he began to laugh cruelly, motioning to the blinking shadows.

"Do you hear that?" he said to the men loudly. "She'll throw me into the fire!" The men chuckled nervously, all eyes on their leader and the girl who'd dared stand up to him. She glowered and tried to yank her hand out of his iron grip.

"You don't scare me!" she grunted, her bare feet clambering on the ground as she kicked at him. "Let me go!" she finally shouted and he released her abruptly, making her stumble. She caught herself before she fell and brushed off her bodice, standing up straight and glaring defiantly at him. When no one made a sound, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood her ground. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought; at this point being polite probably would neither hurt nor help her chances of surviving the night.

"Aren't you the little firebrand," he muttered, rubbing the black stubble on his chin. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it, boys," he called to the men, who made agreeing sounds. "She is attacked, abducted, mocked and tossed around and taken from her family… yet she doesn't seem to be afraid. She stands here and stares death in the face, and what does she say? She thanks me for obeying her!" he hooted, and the others around them laughed as well.

He reached out and caught her arm again, bringing her close enough to see her face. He bent down and she swore she smelled her blood on his breath. "I like you. I think I'll keep you." Something in his words didn't register to her, except that he planned on letting her live. She didn't fuss about how tightly he held her arm in his grip, but instead looked up into his eyes with a shrewd frown.

"I ent letting ye rape me," she said bluntly. He grinned at her, and again she was startled at the way his teeth were long enough to reach his lower gums.

"I've never had to rape a woman yet," he assured her. "And I wouldn't waste my first time on a cheeky little whore like you. But don't worry," he said, bending even closer to speak into her ear. "When it comes, you'll be begging me for it."

"I doubt it," she answered back into his ear, not putting any emotion into it other than pure stubbornness. He caught her up in an embrace and she felt the wind get knocked out of her, her face pushed against his torso. He smelled like soil and sweat.

"This girl is mine!" he called out to the band of men. "If any of you dare to touch her, you'll deal with me!" The men were silent, and the threat loomed in the air like a tangible thing. "Baskerville!" The man stepped forward, bowing slightly as he stood next to the fireplace. "Take her and let her rest. The night is old and dawn will soon break." She watched him as he gave his orders to the man. He spoke so articulately, like he was a noble and not a simple brigand. However, something inside her mind told her that he was more than he appeared to be.

"Come along then," Baskerville said matter-of-factly, grabbing her arm and dragging her along. The leader cleared his throat the rough treatment stopped somewhat, although his grip didn't lessen on her arm. That was a good thing, since Seras was certain if he had let go she'd have ran off into the dark without a second thought.

He led her away into the trees, and then stopped suddenly before a springy young tree and a broad, branching willow. She nearly ran into him in the dark and he stared at her before motioning ahead, acting as if he'd only now thought of something.

"Ye need the lav'try?" he asked brusquely, and it took her a moment to realize he was trying to ask if she needed to relieve herself. Thinking hard, she nodded hesitantly and he squished her arm in his burly hand. "Don' ye try anything—the King knows where ye are n' if ye run, he'll be rightly settin' the hounds on ye." She nodded fearfully and hurried away a pace before choosing a tree to hide behind and do her business, making sure that she didn't see any prying eyes peering at her in the dark.

She finished and went back to where he stood, and he led her forward again, away from the fire to a moonlit grove, where the leaves were sparse and the light shone down. There were trees gathered closely around, and what looked like bed sheets strung between them. She blinked at them before turning back to Baskerville questioningly.

"Wha'? Ent ye seen hammocks a'fore?" She shook her head and he sighed. "I guess yer used to a bed of yer own, ent ye?" She shook her head again and he stared at her. "Where'd ye sleep?"

"In a barn loft," she answered as if it were a grand thing. He laughed, throwing his head back. It was a real laugh—instead of sounding cruel and sinister, it sounded rather nice.

"Sure ye did!" he said, and she wasn't sure if that meant he believed her or not. "Alright, c'mere. I'll hoist ye into the thing. You can use mine to-night." She backed away and he scoffed. "Didn't ye hear him? I ent touching ye; my life depends on it." He seemed serious enough, and she was still trying to stay strong, so she bravely walked back and put her foot into his laced fingers. He let her steady herself on his shoulder and then with a swift motion she tumbled into the sheet, which was broader than she thought and she realized that it was cloth folded over rope like fisherman's nets.

There were growls from below and she looked down to see the three wolfhounds gathering underneath the hammock, their dark eyes blinking up at her. She looked at Baskerville, who waved.

"If ye need to use the lav'try again, call me. otherwise, if ye get down they have leave to bite yer legs clear off, and they will. Ye saw the sheep." She nodded, hunkered down in the hammock, and saw his face in the moonlight. It highlighted his features and she noted that if he would smile, and maybe bathe, he'd be a very handsome man. "Alright then, go to sleep. I'll come get ye for breakfast tomorrow." And he left her alone.

She curled up in the hammock, hearing the snuffles of the hounds beneath her and laid her head in her hands. Her stomach growled again and she realized that for the first time since she could remember, she was truly hungry. She heard the muffled calls of the men at the fire, and every so often the muted sound of their leader answering them. The forest was awake, even at night, with the owls and crickets and other nightlife. She couldn't hear a road, or other people besides the men.

She began to cry silently, her shoulders shaking as she realized that she had no idea what was to become of her. That was the worst part; if she knew, it might not be so bad. But her imagination ran rampant, coming up with the worst possible scenarios for her. She wondered if it would be easier to throw herself from the hammock and let the dogs devour her; however, at the thought of their white teeth and snapping jaws she lost her courage.

She laid there, tears running down her face, staring at the moon, and praying that somehow, she'd wake up and it would all be a dream. Exhaustion finally gave way to sleep and the girl was quiet, dreaming of her hay loft and happier times.

The two figures stared at the young woman in the hammock, the moonlight accentuating her tear-stained cheeks as she lay oblivious to the world. The taller of the two reached out and smoothed her hair before wiping the wet trails gently, leaving dryness behind. The hand then lay on her forehead and she sighed, a smile forming despite her circumstances.

"Wha' did ye do?" Baskerville asked softly, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake her as he watched his leader touch the girl's face.

"I only made sure that her dreams were pleasant, nothing more." Crimson eyes watched the man as he stared at the girl, looking befuddled. "I want you to watch her with your life, dog. Or you'll find yourself back with your brothers, walking on all fours." The man bowed his head, murmuring his assent. "She should want for nothing. If it's within your power, get it for her. If not, come to me and I will get it for her."

"Aye, milord. But—" He paused, trying to puzzle it out for himself. "Why show so much of yer leniency to a whore? Ye'd never let a common harlot speak to ye in front of the others the way she did. I was surprised, sire." The man smiled, tilting his head.

"Is a dog truly trying to discern my actions?" Baskerville lowered his head.

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

"A common harlot would have been thrown into the fire the minute she threatened me with it. But this girl isn't common, wouldn't you say? She's got such a passion within her. Such an interesting little thing!" Baskerville nodded.

"She's certainly no' like the others." His owner laid a hand on her again, brushing the stray hair from her neck and tucking it under the edge of her kerchief, which was sitting askew from where it had slid on her head as she slept. "The others will talk."

"Let them talk, if they dare. I have my reasons behind my actions. No one need know what they are, especially not those idiots."

"Sire." The man dipped his head again.

"I will speak to her more tomorrow, and decide what I'll do with her at that time. For now, let her sleep. And when she wakes, tend to her wishes."

"Yes, milord."

Afterword: Vizzini. Princess Bride. FTW.