The moment I'm sure you've all been waiting for. I hope you enjoy it!

CHAPTER 40

THE fortress where D'Arque housed his bloody insane asylum was a daunting, intimidating sight to Gaston as the structure loomed ominously out of the darkness before him and Gold. D'Arque's asylum was relatively hard to miss. Seven thick, square towers dwarfed everything below them and were all connected by fortified, solid walls made of light grey stone. Small windows were scattered thinly across the walls in an asymmetric pattern, along with holes of various sizes for archers and artillery.

A great gate with massive wooden doors, a draw bridge, and moat offered a warm haven to D'Arque, the snake in his nest that he was, but Gaston knew full bloody well it was not the only way to penetrate her walls, which, fortunately, he knew very few knew of. The men had paused at the edge of the Wolves' Woods and hidden their horses deep within the heart of the woods and had walked the rest of the way on foot to further avoid detection. The cold winds whipped at Gaston's face and short hair and chilled his blood to ice in his veins. The military captain sincerely hoped this damned bloody cold was not a dark omen of things meant to be cold, with how cold and lifeless he felt.

Though as quickly as such dire, bleak thoughts began to take root in his mind, the man forced himself to dismiss them, sending them away. He was not going to allow fear or dread of whatever might be waiting for him in the castle to hinder his steps towards the one thing he should have done months ago.

Killing the monster that was Monsieur D'Arque and putting a stop to the man's madness, thinking the bastard deserved a cell within the castle with his name all over it.

"I go in alone, just tell me what I'm looking for that it is that the man stole from you," Gaston clicked his tongue as he turned towards Gold, who was getting on his last possible nerve as the older Scottish gentleman vehemently shook his head.

Gold gnashed his teeth as his lips curled upward into a feral snarl.

"No. What D'Arque took from me, I get back on my own. It's nothing personal, Dupont. Well. It is personal. For me, anyway," he added almost as an afterthought with a nonchalant, casual shrug of his shoulders. His expression was truly something else and was Gaston any other man, he might have been intimidated by the strangeness of this bloke. But as it happened he wasn't. "I go my own way, you go yours. I'm going in through the front, Dupont. You take the back way in, sneak in undetected and sack the place and find D'Arque and cut the head off the snake." Gold's voice was a mixture of excitement and trepidation as the man tugged on Gaston's sleeve. "We have to go, we waste precious time the longer we linger out here," he barked hoarsely.

When Gaston made no move to follow the older man as Gold straightened his gait and adjusted the sleeves of his brown tattered robes and his thick cloak, the man heaved a frustrated groan and let out a snarl.

"The longer you stand there, the shorter I might make of your fingers, Monsieur Dupont," he threatened. "I saved your life and brought you here to do a job. I do mine and you do yours, Dupont." Without so much as another breath and before Gaston could angrily open his mouth to protest, the strange Scotsman and sorcerer angrily stalked off towards the front of the great stone castle. Gaston clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.

God, what he wouldn't give to strangle him. The old man was nothing but a thorn in his side.

Gaston seethed, fuming in his silent anger as he watched Gold's silhouette grow fainter and fainter as the man walked, undaunted and unafraid through the thick blizzard and surely towards his death, since the idiot did not want to take in his words. He growled as the wind whipped his bangs off his forehead and decided to go after the man wasn't worth it. Let the bloke get himself killed if that's what he wanted, but he was ending this now.

Gaston was more than well acquainted with the various tunnels, secret passageways and hiding places within and around D'Arque's insane asylum. He'd had made more than frequent use of them when making semi-regular bimonthly visits to D'Arque when dealing with Villeneuve's more 'harmful' residents, people who were a burden.

More than a few times on the trek here, Gaston had to remind himself why he was doing this, and it sure as hell was not for the old man. But he did this for Belle. For Adam.

And most importantly for Claire. Even just the thought of the young woman lightened the burden on his heart and allowed a faint ghost of a smile to flit across his face. He loved that woman with all that he was, though he may not be much at her at all. Gaston thought he would gladly give up his own life if it meant that Claire would be safe from harm's way and the likes of bastards like D'Arque, and still consider himself the luckiest man in France.

She made him want to be a better man.

For a fleeting moment, Gaston's mind conjured a phantom image of Claire Renaud, beautiful and perfect, as though the baker's daughter were standing right beside him. Her beautiful smile warmed Gaston several times over and outshone the rays of the sun itself.

Part of Gaston almost wished that Claire was here by his side for this, his strength by his side that gave him courage. But as quickly as the wistful fantasy flitted through his longing mind, he shook his head to clear it, thinking that his love for her hath made him fickle, at least in this instant. He could not allow Claire anywhere near this monster.

Gaston lifted his gaze to the grey sky above his head and shot a silent prayer to God or whoever was up there listening to him that he was thankful that Claire and the others were safe within the fortified castle walls of Prince Adam's home.

He would not have given up that comfort and assurance for anything, not even to have the young woman by his side right now. Gaston knew he would have to be content with settling for dreaming of the moment he'd see her again.

There was only one obstacle left in Gaston's way, and this thorn in his side and everybody else's would soon be removed. Gaston narrowed his eyes as he stalked the edge of the perimeter of the woods that surrounded the fortress, heading for the back, just as Monsieur Gold suggested he do.

He furrowed his brows as he swiftly and quietly like the phantom he knew he could still be, approached the entrance to the caverns that rested beneath the castle's foundations.

How many times had he passed through these passageways' unseen and under the cover of pitch-black night? Now, there were only but two burly looking guards stationed at the mouth of the catacomb, easily able to be dispatched if he was quick and quiet about this.

Gaston halted in his tracks and pressed himself against the rough wall of the crag that formed at the base of the castle.

He fought against the urge to roll his eyes. He supposed he ought to have suspected as much from that snake, D'Arque.

It appeared the monsieur knew he would be coming for him and was more than ready for him. He wondered if the guards were there to protect him or to make sure that he was quickly escorted to the man's private solar upon his arrival.

Keeping his hand curled over the hilt of his sword in its sheath, as quietly as he was able to, Gaston drew his sword, bracing himself for battle. Whatever their purpose for lingering out here, he knew he needed to dispose of them, quickly. He could only hope that Gold, the sorcerer that he was, had recovered enough of his strength and whatever magic was left within him to sneak inside undetected, take back possession of whatever it was that D'Arque stole from him, and get out without anyone noticing the man's presence.

He could not allow anything, not even if Gold were to allow himself to get captured, to impede his progress and stand in the way of his mission. Gaston could not recall a time in his life when he had ever been more covert, more vigilant as he was now, as he crept carefully and stealthily behind the two guards posted on either side of the cavern's entrance.

Thankfully the snow was surprisingly smooth and gave out no crunching sounds from underfoot, silencing his every advancing step. The wind had changed direction and was now blowing away from him. The shadows of the storm were his allies and provided cover that he needed to hide himself.

It was almost as if he really were a phantom of the night, and not there at all.

As quietly as he could, Gaston slunk within inches of the shorter guard that was closest to his position. Knowing full well that his next actions would give him away to this guard and his comrade, the soldier steeled himself and readied his nerves to be prepared for the other's guard's attempted attack.

It wasn't exactly anything he had not done a hundred times before already. There was a reason he was a decorated war hero of high caliber. He was made and built for this life.

Though this was the first time killing another man harbored a sense of urgency, one that almost made him panic.

Raising his sword, Gaston inhaled a breath and held it, and proceeded to run his blade deep through the younger, shorter man's shoulders. He grimaced through clenched teeth as he felt the release of the pressure as his sword punctured the guard's heart and burst out the front of his armor's breastplate. In one swift motion, Gaston wrenched his sword free of the man's body, and turned on his heels, bounding towards the other sentry who was but a few paces away, like a panther stalking its prey. There was no time for the hulking, brutish watchman to fumble for his own weapon in its sheath before Gaston drew his sword through the older man's neck.

The massive guard that was a good head or two taller than Gaston collapsed into the snow alongside that of his comrade, the snow quickly staining garish red with their precious blood. Gaston stepped back away from the bodies and inhaled the biting cold air around him, his lungs burning as he allowed himself a minute or two to catch his breath.

He frowned. This had almost been too easy, he thought. He was positive that D'Arque knew that he was coming for him.

However, D'Arque either did not want Gaston hurt (unlikely), or the man had planned other, more difficult challenges once he'd managed to impregnate the asylum's walls (more likely.) He kept his sword at the ready and his other hand near his bow and arrows slung on his back, just in case, as he crept into the caverns underneath the castle's foundations and began to make his way to the man's solar.

Gaston met no other souls wandering about as he trudged his way through the lowest levels of the large ancient fortress.

He hoped Gold had taken back what was his and had gotten out of there. The last thing he wanted was to rescue the man when he felt sure the old sorcerer could handle himself.

Gaston easily found the steps that would take him to the main level of the man's asylum. Walking unhindered into another back hallway, he could hear the footsteps of the guards patrolling their way through the main corridors that cut across his path. Furrowing his brows in suspicion and distrust, Gaston found it more than a little bit strange that he was encountering no other guards that tried to stand in his way. It was almost as if the route had been…cleared for him.

A part of him wondered if Gold had something to do with it, if the man was creating some sort of illusion or distraction, but the other, more rational part of his brain was of the mind that D'Arque had ordered this. To let the soldier come to him.

Gaston ground his teeth together so hard that he felt his molars give an audible clack as he ascended the hidden stairwell that led directly towards Monsieur D'Arque's solar.

It was obvious to him D'Arque knew that he was here now.

His heart pounded wildly against its cage of bone and cartilage as he envisioned whatever was to come next of this. He fought his body to remain still. He couldn't afford to announce his presence, lest he give himself away prematurely. Gaston knew he wanted D'Arque caught off guard and unsettled. Gaston paused at the heavy oak door of the man's private chambers, reaching out and twisting the large brass golden doorknob as quietly as he could manage.

Gaston crept quietly into the large solar, drawing his dagger. He wasn't sure what he would find within, but he would be ready, whatever it was. D'Arque's first mistake was assuming that Gaston posed no threat to him whatsoever, and therefore, had made the egregious mistake of not posting guards outside of his solar. Not that they would have stopped Gaston anyway. His blood was boiling so hot, Gaston was sure that nothing was going to stop this happening. Nothing.

For a split second, Gaston felt nothing but intense rage and pain at the treatment he'd received from his former colleague.

The idea that D'Arque had killed him so violently without so much as a second thought given as to their history, was unfathomable, even to a bastard like him. The cold, calculating glowers that the older Frenchman would shoot him sent deep shuddering shards of pain up Gaston's spine.

Gaston's mouth curved into a bitter smile, thinking how fitting it would be to give the man an undignified death, for a dignified man. He heard movement coming from somewhere within the dark room that he could not at first ascertain from whence it came. Gaston squinted, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the dark light of the man's solar.

Sheathing his dagger and instead opting for his bow and arrow, he notched an arrow, took the bow in his arms to aim, and crept towards the silhouette that was seemingly slumped in an ungainly heap against the wall, but a few paces from him.

He blinked as he crept closer, sure that what he was seeing was his mind playing a sport of his vision, tricking him somehow, some way.

To find Monsieur D'Arque already collapsed against the wall, blood seeping out of his robes and down his legs was not at all what Gaston had been expecting. Gaston stared in shock and welling anger as the man, half conscious, attempted to right himself with a pained grunt through gritted teeth and straighten his gait, though D'Arque was not at all making the progress for which he had been hoping for.

"Gaston," the older Frenchman grunted in an almost nonchalant greeting, speaking to the younger man in a voice that could only be described as a low growl. "Put down the bow and arrow. Point that thing away from me," he snarled.

Were this any other circumstances, say, out on a hunt, Gaston might have thrown back his head and laughed. It would have been hilarious to him, D'Arque telling him to put down a weapon when it was evident that he himself was already wounded from a weapon anyways. Instead of laughing, or lowering the bow and arrow in his hands, Gaston quirked a suspicious eyebrow in D'Arque's general direction.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Gaston barked in his rough, coarse voice, making no move to approach the man.

He frowned as he noticed a gaping wound protruding from his shoulder. Someone had stabbed D'Arque, Gaston realized with a great shock. Had it been Gold, then, after all?

As if D'Arque possessed a sixth sense for sensing what Gaston was thinking, the man's gruff voice rent the air, angrily.

"Your companion, Gold, he calls himself, is what happened to me, Dupont, how's that for an answer to your, 'What happened?'" the older Frenchman before him spat out, spitting a slaver of blood and spit off to the side as he coughed. Blood was still trickling through his dark robes. "I ordered the man to flee my chambers, made the man an offer that he could not refuse, to work for me here. I would spare him if so, we spoke rather heatedly about it, some of which concerning the confusion that he believes I stole something precious to him, and the man point-blank refused my gracious offer," he grunted again, shaking fingers reaching up to cover the wound, blood slipping through his slimed, shaking digits.

"Gold," Gaston echoed the strange Scottish man's name, wondering how in the seven hells he hadn't seen this coming.

Whatever D'Arque had stolen from him, Gold wanted it back and had vowed to Gaston more than once that he was not to interfere in the taking back of his said property, but he would happily let Gaston finish the man, vengeance for killing him so brutally. It seems he was true to his word.

"How did the man even manage to…?" he started to ask, though D'Arque let out another guttural grunt and cut him off.

"Man was here mere minutes before you arrived, Dupont," D'Arque answered for Gaston, his fingers still clutching at his shoulder. "He used an intricate looking dagger, the likes of which I've only seen on one other person before, except your man wasn't here to have a friendly chat, just as I'm sure you aren't either." As if to emphasize his point, D'Arque lifted his dark eyes to Gaston and pursed his thin lips into a feral snarl. "I knew you would be back," the man managed to rasp out in a pained sounding gasp as he shakily used his free hand not clutching onto his shoulder currently to brace himself against the wall to stand on his own two feet. His dark eyes danced with a disgusted sort of glee. "What is this nonsense, boy? Have you come to kill me with one of your arrows?" he scoffed. D'Arque almost looked to be enjoying himself of Gaston's efforts to liberate himself from his power over him. "There are now men stationed just outside my door. If I call for them, they'll be upon you in minutes. I'll have them bash your head against the stones until I tell them to stop. If I tell them to stop. That thick skull of yours could use a good bashing, Gaston," D'Arque remarked in a mean, grating tone.

Evil mirth shimmered in the older Frenchman's glower as the man raised his chin and narrowed his eyes defiantly at Gaston, as though silently challenging him to take in his words.

"No, I don't think they will, D'Arque," Gaston barked. "You raise your voice beyond a whisper to me, and it will be the last word that you ever say," Gaston warned the man coldly, emphasizing his threat with the point of his dagger as he tossed aside his bow and arrow, thinking the weapon too impersonal and quick for what he wanted D'Arque to suffer through. He stalked towards where the man rested against the wall, seizing fistfuls of Monsieur D'Arque's dark robes and shook him, slamming him roughly against the stone wall.

D'Arque could only sneer at the younger man's hostility.

"Why are you doing this, boy?" he growled, with scorn in his murmured tone. "For what reason, revenge against me?" he taunted. "You do this for that girl, Dupont, don't you? The young lass, the baker's girl, Renaud, right? Lovely Claire," he ridiculed, sighing at Gaston as if he thought the soldier to be an immense disappointment, though he spoke ridiculingly. "You would so willingly throw away a promising future, destroy the good life you could have had, and all for her?

"You and I were never partners, D'Arque," Gaston sneered, thrusting his face inward so the tip of his nose almost touched the edge of D'Arque's slender and hooked nose. "Our 'relationship' if you can call it that, was very one-sided. It was power, power over me, and the rest of Villeneuve, and my submission in letting you perform your disgusting experiments on the old and far too simpleminded folks," he realized, remorsefully. "My entire life up to this point was always about you, your control. I was nothing but your puppet. I was a fool," he reviled, contempt and hate in his tone.

D'Arque managed a small laugh that was more of a bark before spitting a tooth and another slaver of blood at Gaston. It was enough to finally break Gaston Dupont as he slammed D'Arque against the wall, relinquishing one hand on a fistful of his robes to run his hand painfully on his face and dark hair, sweat and tears and blood painting his cheeks.

"I did EVERYTHING that you've ever asked of me! Everything! Even after taking my life, that's not enough! WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH, D'ARQUE?" Gaston screamed at the top of his lungs until his throat hallowed and was raw. He could taste the blood welling on top of his tongue, and it took the soldier a moment to realize he'd clamped his teeth down on top of his tongue to stifle the scream that threatened to escape, not wanting to draw the attention of the guards, if there were any outside the door.

Gaston went on a repeat of the why's before he kicked the stone wall, its thundering clashes echoing out into the open space of the man's vast solar before crushing D'Arque's face with his fist.

Even albeit a crushed and now-bleeding nose, D'Arque managed to pull himself up so his back rested against the wall. His lined and tired face revealed no remorse of any kind as it broke in a bloody grin that sent a shiver down Gaston's spine. "Oh, Gaston, you blind, bloody fool, you. They say that the apple does not fall so far from the tree. You may or may not have killed all those men during the wars, but you know how it feels when you torture a man, don't you, boy?" he said.

Gaston's lips trembled and his breaths began to quicken.

"Yes," D'Arque drolled on in a listless voice as he continued, seeming to relish in the soldier's growing discomfort. "It is never about settling scores or bringing justice. It's about the fun of it, your own…personal entertainment. The pleasure and exhilaration one derives from causing pain, hearing their screams ringing in your ears, no matter how guilty or innocent your victims could be. To all of France, Gaston Dupont, you may be the most terrifying of them all. But in my world, you're a broken, battered coward."

Monsieur D'Arque enjoyed emphasis on his last three words. The pressure pounding in Gaston's head finally exploded along with a blood curdling scream and a gash on D'Arque's neck. He dove at D'Arque, throwing himself forward and using his entire body weight as he tackled him to the floor. Clenching his dagger, with one forceful, almost unseen thrust, Gaston stabbed the razor point blade of the sharpened Roman weapon upward through D'Arque's flesh, past his ribs, and straight into the man's lungs. "This is for Belle, and how you tried to take everything away from her."

He shook with hatred as he spat the words more than spoke them. He withdrew the dagger and aimed it this time at the man's chest. D'Arque's dark, blood-filled eyes were wild with a ravenous, feral anger, pain, and with shock too as thick redness began to seep from the wound at D'Arque's left side.

The older Frenchman's pain-filled scream caught in his throat and could not find the means to leave his lips as D'Arque proceeded to stare up at Gaston Dupont in shock, his mind reeling and struggling to make sense of what was happening. "Gaston…please…" he begged the much younger man in a gurgling, low moan as blood filled up in his throat.

But Gaston had long since passed the point of no return, no longer able to be reasoned with. With a strong and steady arm, he forced the weapon through the man's chest and pierced his heart, only to take the dagger out and stab him repeatedly in the same spot, repeatedly with such a raging passion and intensity that made Gaston's pupils shrink.

"This is for me, and how you had those wolves rip my throat out and tear my body limb from limb," snarled Gaston as he felt the beginnings of a bloodthirsty, vicious smile tugging his lips upward, enjoying freeing himself from him.

Almost instantly, D'Arque's chest filled with blood and began seeping from the corners of his thin, wormy lips. Gaston let go of D'Arque and drew back his sword arm, finally pulling his sword from its sheath, itching for the need. D'Arque, by some miracle of God, or perhaps this was Satan's work, the work of the Devil, was still bloody alive. But not for long.

D'Arque shook his head, trying to stop him. A croaking, agonized note echoed from his muted, blood-filled throat as D'Arque struggled to speak his former associate's name.

"Ga…" was all the older Frenchman could manage to say.

A series of memories rolled through his mind and within it, equaled a rather hard rip through the man's flesh and bone.

The children that would gang up on him when he was little, his sweet, kind lovely mother, sunsets spent on top of pine branches as he would learn to climb trees, when he was older, learning how to sword-fight as his father taught him. Meeting LeFou when he was but twelve. The wars, the exploits with the widows seeking comfort, Belle.

And hazel-eyed Claire Renaud, baker's daughter or not, she was easily the most beautiful thing that could have ever dared to happen to him. Claire in her simple chemises and overdress, a smudge of flour on her hands or on her boots from helping her father in the shop, Claire in that luscious red and gold velvet and embroidered gown she'd worn the day he departed from the Prince's castle and left to come here, Claire crying, Claire glowering at him as they had horribly fought, Claire blushing, Claire taking the flowers he'd handed over, how she smiled at him, her dark brown hair rich like sweet chocolate, how her skin was secretly ticklish at the nape of her neck.

Now, as death beat on D'Arque's chest into a mush that sounded like the dagger itself was screaming Claire's name.

Claire…Claire…Claire… her name whispered to him in a ghostly timorous, rendering Gaston feeling haunted. Alone.

But even this was not good enough. Letting go of his dagger and leaving it embedded in the man's chest a moment, he switched tactics and raised his sword, slicing through the air towards Monsieur D'Arque's neck before the man could force another choking sound from his throat. He had purposefully steered away from the man's heart, wanting D'Arque to feel this. Every. Last. Bit.

"And this is for Claire," he shouted, letting out a long and furious blood yell of rage. His sword ripped easily through the muscles, flesh, and bones at the base of Monsieur D'Arque's neck as Gaston separated the man's head from his body in one swift fluid motion without even thinking about what he was doing now.

D'Arque's severed head hit the cobblestone floor with a sickening thud, rolling a few paces, where it finally came to rest on the opposite side of the wall where Gaston stood. The older man's dark eyes were still open and stared up at the military captain. Gaston stood back, breathless, unable to believe that it was finally over. Claire, Belle, Adam, were safe.

He did not let himself have a moment to revel in his victory. As D'Arque's blood seeped and stained into the stone floor, he knelt and grabbed the man's head and carried it by the man's long black but prematurely greying hair. He rushed towards a cot in the corner and removed a blanket in which he wrapped his prize. He then tore a pillowcase from its cushion and shoved D'Arque's detached skull into the case.

Gaston hoped that the wrapping would catch the still draining blood and thereby not creating a trail for any guards or other authority figures of the sort to be able to follow him.

As he stood there, clutching D'Arque's severed head in the man's own pillowcase, he felt his strength drain away, his blood-slimed fingers shaking as he rested against the wall.

Gaston hung his head, bathed in crimson blood, and shredded skin. His shoulders began to heave in release of his life's worth of anguish and pain, his already aching throat screaming for relief and a drink of cold water and hot, rapid, disgusting weak tears marring his eyes and blurring his vision.

Up ahead, between the convulsing catching of his heaving breaths that were unrecognizable between his sobbing and maniacal yet relieved laughter, Gaston looked towards the open entrance of the man's private solar and gaped in shock.

A young woman a few years older than he was, perhaps maybe five or six years older stood by. She was dressed in a simple modest brown gown and boots, not unlike something his Belle would wear, stood by, clutching an infant babe close to her breast, and looking utterly appalled and horrified by the gory scene resting in front of her dark eyes, and alongside the brunette, who, if Gaston squinted to see, bore a strange resemblance to both Belle and Claire, but not quite, there were noticeable differences, stood Gold.

The matching gold wedding bands on their hands gave them away. Their faces were looking utterly aghast and disgusted by intense psychological disturbance, staring at the demon that Gaston has made of himself by killing D'Arque. Gaston's wide dark eyes peered between his dark bangs doused in sweat and blood, Monsieur D'Arque's own blood.

D'Arque's headless body lay on the hard cold stone floor, while the man's decapitated head and dead irises were staring numbly at the inside of the pillowcase now clutched tightly in Gaston's shaking fist. Gaston almost laughed at that as he straightened his gait and stalked towards the young woman.

Gaston silently seethed as how he noticed how the mother of the child could scarcely remove her eyes off Gold, reveling at the older man with no small note of love and affection brimming in her dark eyes, glistening with tears. He could only assume that they were his wife and child.

"This is what you were up here for?" Gaston marveled, not quite sure how to feel, if he should be feeling anything at all.

Gold shrugged his shoulders as if to say it was nothing at all. "I see you've enjoyed this even better than I did," he grunted, his questioning gaze drifting towards the pillowcase. He grimaced, as did his wife and child, whom he introduced quietly and quickly to Gaston, his infant son was Gideon, and his wife's name, shockingly enough, happened to be Belle.

Belle back at the castle was sure to be delighted there was another woman in the kingdom of France who shared her namesake, Gaston thought, almost amused by this revelation.

"Milady," Gaston murmured lowly under his breath, inclining his head, before he quickly remembered he must look a right bloody mess, and literally so. He flinched and sharply turned his head away as the fire flickered from the torches in their sconce as Monsieur Gold angrily clenched his jaws and clamped a hand over his lovely wife's shoulder.

The Scotsman made a visible show giving the appendage a firm but reassuring squeeze as he began to guide his wife and mother of his newborn son away, calling Gaston's name angrily as they marched down the hallway, trying to rouse the soldier out of his stunned stupor so that they could leave this wretched haunt of a castle before dawn.