Clutching his wand tight in his fist, Marcus pushed the door open slowly, tentatively, peering inside. The simple kitchen of the cottage looked as though it was waiting for the resident family to come down for breakfast. A lonely kettle sat on the stove, a tea caddy open on the counter next to it. A faded newspaper sat open on the farmhouse table that took up the middle of the room; two coffee cups and the remains of half eaten toast on a plate half on one page.

His breathing ragged from exertion, he glanced warily about the room as he stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. Casting lumos, he waved his wand slowly around the room as he took in his surroundings. The faint hum of magic told him that witches and wizards had occupied this cottage; how long ago he couldn't be certain.

Moving through the cottage, he found further evidence of habitation but also the expected tell tale signs of panicked departure became more apparent. Icy winds blew the first flakes of the coming blizzard through the frame where the front door should be; the splintered remnants of the wooden door lying haphazardly where it had once stood. Waving his wand, he cast rapero, his magic tingling through his numb fingers; the effects of two spells in less than ten minutes coursing through his veins like a drug for an addict. It had been more days than he could recall since he had last cast a spell, abstaining from his magic seemingly the sensible option while he was on the run.

Shivering from the cold, he brought his arms around his body, rubbing his hands against the goosebumped flesh of his biceps as he moved cautiously through the cottage. He was almost certain he was alone, but he knew it never paid to be less than absolutely certain about such matters during a war.

His thighs complained painfully as he made his way up the stairs, tired and weary from so long on the run. Checking each room, he finally satisfied himself he was alone. He crossed the threshold of the last bedroom along the hall, careful to avoid the window as he made his way over to the dresser, it's draws half pulled out the single clue of haste. Fingering the fabrics with his dirty hands, he carefully rummaged around looking for something warmer.

Pushing the middle draw in, he crouched down to inspect the garments in the bottom draw, his fingers dragging across a woollen turtleneck jumper. Eyebrows knitting together, he pulled it out, bring it to his nose. He wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, teasing him torturously with the images that haunted his broken hours of fitful sleep, as he breathed in the familiar scent that was uniquely Oliver.

Happy to indulge in what may yet prove to be a trick of his broken mind, he pulled the jumper on, relishing in the warmth that it provided, his heart aching at the absence of his lover and best friend; the other half of his soul. He tried to recall the last time he had seen him but he couldn't remember. So much he could not remember: when he ate last; when he slept; how far he had travelled; where in the hell of this god forsaken war he was.

Pulling back the covers, satisfied that his wards were strong and would alert him to any danger, he allowed himself to fold into the comfort provided by the feeble warmth, the softness of the mattress a welcome change from the harshness of sleeping in the undergrowth. As his eyelids fluttered closed, his fatigued form begging for the release of sleep, his thoughts drifted once more to Oliver. Lacrimosa almost overwhelming him, he struggled to breathe, dehydration the only reason for his lack of tears. Sleep pulled a heavy blanket over him, enveloping his whole being as he lay curled in the foetal position.

oOoOoOoOo

Eyelids heavy from deep sleep, he groaned, shifting his weight from the uncomfortable position he now found himself in. Pulling back the covers, he glanced around the room, trying to establish some frame of reference for how long he had been unconscious. Dim light filled the room from the small window causing him to presume it was at least the afternoon. How close to evening, he could not say. Dragging his body from where he was cocooned in the blankets, he brought his feet to the floor, pulling himself into an upright position. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, he took a few moments before standing and making his way over to the small bathroom.

Staring blankly at the reflection in the glass, he tried to process that the image staring back was himself. Raking a hand through his dark locks, he sighed heavily. Poking and prodding at his eyes and cheeks, he inspected the lines and dark circles under his eyes. Dragging his fingers across his chin, he felt the stubble bristle his palm, vaguely wondering if Oliver would appreciate his rugged look.

He reached out, grasping the cold metal of the tap, twisting it hard until the frigid water rushed forth like water behind a dam breaking free. Cupping his hands, he allowed the water to fill up before splashing it against his face, grimacing at the action which made him gasp. Glancing around, he spotted a lone hand towel on the rail, bringing it to his face, patting his skin dry. Briefly he decided he would shower later, his stomach reminding him audibly that he needed sustenance.

Once downstairs, he made his way into the kitchen, opening cupboards, inspecting the sparse contents. Bringing the tea caddy to his nose, he sniffed, inhaling the strong earthy scent and decided it was still good. His fingers curled around the handle of the kettle as he lifted it from the stove, filling it at the sink before returning it, pulling his wand from his waistband to cast an incendio.

Frowning, he stepped out into the porch, gathering several dried logs into his arms, taking them through to the lounge. Kneeling on the flagstone hearth, he opened the door to the wood stove, piling the wood inside. Finding an old newspaper in a basket on the hearth, he screwed up several pages into loose balls, shoving them under the logs. Quickly locating the matches from the mantle, he scraped one across the sandpaper, the hiss and roar of the flame coming to life, almost startling him. He touched the flame to the paper, watching it curl as it spread, catching the logs instantly.

Returning to the kitchen, he pulled the kettle from the stove as it started to whistle, pouring it into the cup he had earlier spooned tea into. Bringing the cup to his lips, he grimaced as the scalding liquid burnt his tongue, before placing the cup on the sideboard, resuming his earlier search, pulling out the lone packet of biscuits. Opening the cupboard under the sink, he was just about to close it when something caught his eye.

Crouching down, he reached into the cupboard and moved the pots and pans, leaning in while bracing himself on the sink, his fingers curling around the edge of something hard yet smooth, pulling it forward until it was out from it's hiding place.

Eyes growing wide, he stared in wonder, uncertain as to whether what he had uncovered was a blessing or curse. There, in his hands, sat a radio.