It had started out so well. Her relationship with Reddington as of late had been so up and down, so fraught with tension, misunderstandings and deeply hurt feelings. Perhaps even on both sides, she'd been fair enough to acknowledge, if only to herself.
So she'd been more than glad when he'd arrived at the post office that morning, beaming from ear to ear, a new blacklister's name tripping off of his tongue. She hadn't seen a smile on his face for some time. She had found herself responding to his smile with a small one of her own.
She frowned now, her back against a wall, her gun held close to her as she craned her neck to get a look out the corner of her eye for any movement to her right.
There, in the next room. Movement. She was sure she'd seen the reflection of a body crawling across the room in the mirror that hung above the blackened marble fireplace. She cautiously moved towards the door, catching Ressler's eye as he entered the room she was in from the other door. She jerked her head to the larger room occupied by their target, putting a finger to her lips to indicate they'd need stealth.
She had meant to really try with this blacklister, to get a hold on her hostility, or at least channel it into more productive feelings. It wasn't Red's fault she was alone and miserable, with a failed marriage under her belt. She just couldn't help but associate him sometimes with everything that had changed for the worse the day she'd started this job.
He'd brought so much pain with his introduction into her life. She had nothing left now but the job. Her friends had deserted her, some of them paid actors courtesy of Berlin, others too confused and uneasy to continue their friendship with one half of the couple that had exploded so spectacularly into their nice suburban existences. He'd brought all this with him and taken so much away.
Still, he was the only one left who could make her laugh.
So she'd tried. She'd chosen to trust him when he'd said that he had another case for them. A case that would take them to London.
"Only Agent Keen on this one," Red had demanded arrogantly.
Cooper had vetoed that immediately. Not a chance in hell. Ressler was coming along. If he wouldn't take Ressler in his jet, both agents would be flying coach.
Red had huffed and thrown his hands about, pacing the war room, arguing his point, giving little ground and gaining some concessions for the mission, offering only basic details. He'd ensured his continued involvement with the case by withholding the bulk of the pertinent information on The Executive. He hadn't even bothered with a reason for his reticence, just claiming he wanted to keep a close watch on the proceedings. He'd even taken a sly dig at both agent's capabilities. Her lips had tightened at that.
She'd noticed the gleam in his eyes as he'd left the post office and had felt strangely uneasy. Why did he look so satisfied? There had been a number of restrictions placed on him by Cooper in order to get the green light for this one. He should be annoyed, instead he looked like a cat with a bowl of milk.
She knew now. Originally a VIP for a large weapons manufacturing corporation, The Executive had been dealing under the table to certain unsavory rebel governments. He was impossible to catch, obfuscating and double tracking as he made his millions, perhaps even billions.
Red loathed this particular type of duplicity. The devil masquerading as an angel. She should have known this would get personal when she'd learned about this blacklister. She should have remembered Floriana Campo. But she'd trusted him and he'd gone ahead without the backup of the FBI, to the grand old mansion in the English countryside. To capture him, to settle scores.
This man had been the reason a number of villages in Nairobi had been massacred. Villages where Red's associates dwelled with their families. Some, quite important to his operations.
It was his job to protect the people that worked for him. An attack on them was an attack on him. And he was using the FBI to settle this particular score, it seemed.
So where was he?
She signalled to Ressler. They'd go in together, capture their target and look for Red. He had to be somewhere in the massive mansion. It was practically a castle. She hoped he was in one of the main rooms. If he'd decided to go into one of the tunnels they'd documented as existing under this place, they may never find him.
On the count of three.
One.
Where was he? Her chest felt tight with worry.
Two.
He'd better be okay, dammit. It wasn't like him to go ahead into danger without backup from Dembe at the very least.
Three.
They burst in, screaming: "FBI!"
She stopped short. Shock swelling up in her.
Red. It was Red on the ground crawling across the floor. He had looked up at their sudden and aggressive entrance. He was looking worse for wear, but still reaching for something in the corner of the room. A hammered gold wine glass, tipped over onto its side.
She flew to him, unthinking. His hand closed around the object on the carpet just as she reached him, her own hand circling the bare skin of his wrist.
She was surrounded by blinding light.
Her whole body felt as though she'd been sucked through a vacuum, her head pounded as though it were being squeezed in a vice. She moaned in pain, desperately trying to quell the nausea that had bubbled up in her. She felt herself tipping, a helpless ragdoll on a ferris wheel rolling over and over, unable to seize on a foot or handhold.
She woke up on the side of a hill, shivering and as sore and weak as if she'd run a marathon. Her eyes were blurry and took a moment to come into focus again. When they did focus, she saw Red lying on his back only a few feet from her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his face turned towards her.
"Lizzie?" Red croaked uncertainly.
She rarely heard him at a loss and it chilled her like the wind blowing around her could never hope to do.
"I'm here, I'm right here," she reached out to touch him, to assure herself that he was really there. Where were they? There was nothing but grass and wildflowers blowing in the harsh wind.
"Ressler, he was with me." She looked around, pulling herself painfully up into a sitting position. Nothing. There was just nothing. No mansion, no cars, no roads, and no Ressler.
Red sat up, crawling his way towards her slowly. "It would seem we are on our own."
"Not where we were. Where is everything? Have we been drugged? What happened?" The questions tumbled over each other, her voice thick with burgeoning fear.
He didn't answer her, instead casting a glance at the surrounding countryside, a darker set than usual to his expression, but still a steady calm about him that soothed her just a fraction.
He looked at her, lines of concern around his eyes. "How do you feel? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, but I want to know where we are and who bought us here. We need to get back and find Ressler."
"I don't know that that will be an option for the moment, Lizzie. Look around you. We aren't anywhere near a town."
He stood up slowly, his joints creaking audibly. She rose to help him but he shook her off, a slight grimace of irritation marring his features for a moment. "Let's take a look around."
They both trudged around the hilltop they had been lying on moments ago, looking over the countryside for any sign for civilization. There were just fields as far as the eye could see.
They were completely alone.
"Let's walk," he said, an unfamiliar tone in his voice. Was that...a thread of fear she'd heard?
She steeled herself and walked with him.
And walked.
It took them over an hour to come across something other than blue sky and green hills.
A shepherd's cottage. It wasn't locked, didn't even have a lock. They knocked furtively, not really expecting a response, opening the door when they received answering silence.
It wasn't just a shepherd's cottage. It was some sort of primitive shack, almost a museum of olden day artifacts. A strange wooden half barrel with a washboard sat in the corner. There was a roughly hewn table and two chairs in the middle of the room. Earthenware pottery lay neatly on the table. Against the far wall lay a straw pallet and a mountain of woollen blankets.
A loom sat next to the window, yarn still threaded through it.
She looked at Red and saw some sort of knowledge in his face as he surveyed the room and then raised his eyes to look back at her.
Her own face was pinched and white. "What the hell is going on?"
He frowned. "I'm not entirely sure yet." He gave the room one last look and moved to leave. "Come, there's nothing here of use. We'll need to keep walking."
"Red! What did you do? Where are we?"
He stood motionless at the door of the cottage, his eyes fixed on a distant hill. She ducked under his arm to get a look at whatever it was that had captured his attention.
She saw them. Five or so men on horseback, clad in chainmail and tunics of sky blue and golden yellow.
"Red, I swear to god," she whispered hoarsely. "If you've slipped me something. If I'm on something, you are going to regret it."
He shook his head wordlessly. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The horseback riders had clearly seen them and were cantering quickly toward them now.
"Alright, Lizzie, listen to me," he said urgently. "I need you to not overthink this, just trust me for the time being. There is a possibility that we have gone back in time."
She snorted despite the fear churning in her belly. He could always make her laugh.
"Now is not the time for laughter..." he slanted a look at her, "...or attitude. I need you to follow my lead here."
"Stop treating me like an idiot," she hissed. "You've obviously gotten what you wanted here today by drugging me and probably Ressler too. How far are you going to push this? Just take me back to the hotel. I'm sore and hungry, and I'd like to wrap this mission up."
He sighed. "Lizzie, the CIA and successive governments have hidden extra-terrestrials from us successfully. Why not time travel? It's something I've heard rumors of only, but the rumors came from sources I trust."
The men were close now. Too close to continue the conversation.
Red waved a hand at them.
"Hail, friend!" The leader of the bunch sang out.
"Good morning," rang Red's rich baritone.
"It is indeed a good morning," the man acting as their leader smiled easily. He was blonde with a neat, thick beard, and full lips with rosy cheeks which gave him the look of a cherub, rather than a knight.
"My name is Sir Lancelot du Lac. May I have the honor of knowing to whom it is I speak?"
"Raymond Reddington," he responded smoothly as if some joker out of a fairy tale hadn't just ridden a horse straight up to him and introduced himself as Sir Lancelot.