A/N: Hello wonderful people! Long time no see! I haven't actually uploaded fanfiction for a really long time, and this is my first time delving into Sanctuary fic (though I've been an avid part of the fandom for quite some time now). So please be gentle with me. I just have a lot of feelings regarding The Five, and I thought I should start writing them down! So yes, here's to a whole new beginning in my fic writing life! Please enjoy! And feel free to fav/follow/review!
Her mother smelled like lilies. Helen always remembered that. It was where she developed her love of gardening, why she was insistent on keeping Sanctuary grounds so pristine, and why James always insisted on giving her lilies on her birthday. That's why, on a warm night in March that was just a bit too humid for comfort, Helen was sitting in her mother's garden, thinking.
Her father let them run wild. Patricia, ever the put together matriarch despite her claims of progressiveness (which horrified the snotty, uptight Bancrofts who acted like they still belonged to the nobility), always kept them cut and polished, carefully placed but obviously tended to with love. Gregory didn't spend much time in the garden, so the contents had succumbed to the natural elements of time. Helen always wondered if the prevalence of the lilies was a sign, but no matter its significance in the grand design, it made her feel close to the mother she'd never really known, so she always found herself there when she needed to think. She took comfort in the familiarity. After all, not only were they symbols of her mother, but the lilies were like Helen as well. They'd grown wild and sometimes looked slightly out of place, but were beautiful and brilliant nonetheless.
Brilliant…Helen was trying to remind herself of that. That was why she was here, in a field of overgrown flowers an ordinary passerby might assume to be weeds. Oxford was frustrating. No, it was beyond frustrating, it was impossible. She was disrespected, mocked, and laughed at every moment of every day. The men of Oxford University resisted her being there like a cog jammed in machinery. Had it always been this way, Helen wondered, were men always this stubborn? Well the answer to that should have been plain in her friends, she reminded herself. As much affection as she might bear towards them, John, James, Nigel, and Nikola were still very much men of their time. Still, Helen wondered if men resisted the invention of the wheel as easily.
When the door slammed open and the stomp of large feet in the grass disturbed her machinations, Helen sat up. Her father was away on business (an increasingly regular occurrence), and she wasn't expecting company. However, her posture relaxed immediately when she saw the handsome and familiar face of one Montague John Druitt. For someone of such a large stature, John had a gentleness to him that drew Helen in like a moth to the flame. The fact that metaphor was always the one to pop into her head sometimes made her wonder if she'd one day get burned, but she had more pressing business at the moment, more immediate futures to worry about.
When John helped her to her feet, he was in a hurry. That much was clear from the way he let his legs carry them both across the garden. John was typically one to take his time, always willing to stop and admire a flower or call back to a bird or read a stanza of poetry, but his pace was now urgent, which lead Helen to the only logical conclusion: something was wrong. "John?" Her voice was breathy when she spoke, though whether that was their pace or the warmth of his palm on the small of her back, she wasn't sure.
"The Traders are here." Helen's posture immediately went rigid. At the news, her gait began to match John's, a rather considerable feat considering her attire and slightly smaller stature.
"What? You're sure? They weren't supposed to be here until next week!"
"They're in your sitting room, Helen, so yes, I'm quite sure." When they reached the door and pushed their way inside, Helen immediately made out the face of one James Watson. He was normally solemn and stoic, and that was no different now, but his face seemed to hang lower, his frown etched ever so slightly more into the frame of his face, that Helen knew he'd been waiting for her longer than he'd have liked to. She'd expected as much, James never was all that patient, but what she wasn't expecting were the men he'd currently engaged in conversation.
They'd apparently been waiting long enough that when Helen entered, James immediately passed her, not unlike a rag-doll, from the safety of John's guidance into the fray of a business meeting where the only outcomes were life or death. James and The Traders were already engaged in a heated argument, one which Helen quickly grew tired of.
"Gentlemen…" Helen had learned at a very young age how to survive in a world men believed was theirs, so her cool, clipped tone was perfectly mastered, a razor blade whose edge was sharpened just enough to cut off the pointless conversation. "I trust you have a reason for showing up at a lady's home uninvited like this? I'd imagine such a breach of decorum would indicate something quite urgent." Always maintain control, she reminded herself, men are creatures who smell fear.
"There's been a problem with the shipment," one of them informed her. Helen smiled softly, a hint of amusement pulling the corners of her mouth upwards, not because of what he'd said, but because despite all their claims to the contrary, the men in her life were always so eager to make her their leader in everything but name and title.
"And I was trying to explain to these gentlemen here," James growled, "we're paying them to get the shipment to us. If they can't do it, they don't get paid."
"Look…" The second Trader's tone was much calmer, more sophisticated. It was clear he was the brains to his partner's brawn. Helen was pretty sure she could take them both. "As you know, our organization has been around for centuries. We specialize in shipments life this. However, because of the details you neglected to mention, delivery has been delayed."
"Delayed? You lost the bloody cargo! That's not a delay, that's a failure."
"Easy old boy." John laid a hand on James's shoulder. "I'm sure The Traders have a plan to get our cargo back, don't you gentlemen?"
"The Traders aren't a bunch of freelancers, there's a chain of command to be followed." Helen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew that story by now. With institutions as old as The Traders, bureaucracy was the chokehold of the century. It was why she urged her father to be careful with his Sanctuary. After all, there was no telling when you'd cross the line from service into servitude, and servitude came with strings.
Helen raised her hand, and had to stifle yet another smirk when the men fell silent. "Gentlemen, I appreciate your stopping by to inform us of this rather…unfortunate development. Given the circumstances, I believe our contract with The Traders is considered null and void, and we will no longer be in need of your services. Good evening." And with that, she turned on her heel and made her way up the stairs. There were brief sounds of a scuffle, but Helen wasn't too concerned. She knew John and James could handle it, and she needed to let those men and The Traders know that she wasn't to be trifled with.
When her comrades finally joined her, barely scratched (as James would complain over his whisky), she could feel their gazes on her, waiting, lingering. They'd debated calling the others, but Helen's actions demanded explanation, and there was no sense in alarming Nigel or Nikola if there was no need.
"Helen…" John's voice was slightly alarming at this volume, but Helen Magnus had never been a flincher, she wasn't about to start now. "Are you mad? No one ever goes back on a contract with The Traders! They'll skin you alive!"
"I didn't go back on our contract. They failed, thus rendering it useless."
"Helen, you can't just…go around firing one of the oldest, most dangerous abnormal hunting groups of all time." James was trying and failing to stay calm. "They've subjected people to far worse than death for far lesser crimes…"
"Gentlemen, you may find it acceptable to lower ourselves to working with hunters and criminals to achieve our desires, but I have principles, principles I am not willing to sacrifice simply because it is safer to do so. Let The Traders come after me. They'll have a hell of a fight on their hands." James and John were silent. Helen suspected that even they still weren't quite used to a woman sticking up for herself or the greater good. "The way I see it, we have two options. One, we let The Traders track down the cargo, keep it for themselves, and kill me, or, we go after it ourselves. Now I don't know about you, but I'm rather partial to the second. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's late, and you really shouldn't be here."
After the door closed behind her, it took a few moments for the men inside to move again. They both turned to the window and gazed out upon that wild and beautiful garden. "Principles," James murmured, "she wants to do something like this and she's lecturing us about principles?" John hummed in reply, sipping his scotch before turning to disappear into the night.
"And she's right. God save us all."
A/N: Thank you again for reading! This is definitely going to be a multi-chapter fic, so by all means. Stay tuned for the next installment, and let me know what you think!