Twenty-Five:
Bogged Down

The further into the Fen they travelled, the more oppressive the atmosphere grew. They were trapped in a perpetual grey fog that kept them from being able to see more than a few feet in front of them. The ground had turned sodden and mucky after a point—the fen becoming more like a bog by the minute. The air smelled foul with rotting plants and dead things lost in the mire. Small lights flashed intermittently through the gloom. Will-o-the-wisps, yes, but also actual wisps darting through the air. More than once Victoria thought she saw the shape of a person in the grey, though it was always gone when she took a second look. Something was wrong here. A feeling that prickled just beneath her skin, tugging at her already-fragile nerves—a feeling seemingly shared by her companions, though there was no point in attempting to force their way faster along the barely accessible roads. Stopping to tend to Satyr's hooves had become an almost fruitless endeavour as it was (but they persevered if only at the desire to not be trapped in the middle of nowhere with a lame horse). Every delay, however, only set them more on edge, as if the group expected the fog to coalesce into a physical presence, intent upon destroying them.

Trapped in the fog, time became more of a distant concept than a well-documented rule, dragging on into the insubstantial. Once the pastel array of dawn had passed, everything had returned to a pale, murky gloom. At one point, Scythe elected to light their lamp as they stopped to rest Satyr and Victoria checked her pocket watch to discover seven hours had passed. Seven hours...with absolutely no trace of it in their surroundings. It was like being deep under water. As they started up again, she hoped they would find a safe place to rest for the night. It didn't seem like a good idea to camp on the side of the road. Or the closest thing they had to a road, at any rate.

Almost as soon as she had the thought, the cart lurched to a halt, completely stuck; its wheels trapped in muck and tangled weeds. Victoria and Scythe both were forced to hop down to give the cart a push as Nergüi and Theresa tried to guide it forward and Rhys attempted to get Satyr to pull just a little harder. Could really use your strength right now, Victoria internally griped to Reaver as though he could hear her. (As though the knowledge that he couldn't didn't pain her to her very core.) Slowly, the cart came free. Sweating, panting, and covered in bog water, they continued on.

The ground slowly began to harden, forming into a proper path over the next hour or so. The hills had returned to guard the sides of the road as they drove onwards, the marshes slowly slipping away. Dead trees reaching up from them towards the sky like corpses' fingers. The fog started to abate, but only just, clinging to the air in a pale haze that thickened into the distance. They passed the occasional ruins of houses—both modern and ancient, equally destroyed and empty, the scattered remnants of unknown lives quietly rotting—but they never saw any people. Victoria wanted to ask if this land had always been so desolate or if something had happened here, but she was almost afraid to talk. It was entirely irrational, but there was this lingering fear that something in the fog would hear her and attack them. She wasn't alone—everyone else seemed to be speaking far quieter than necessary, as well.

The hills faded into rock outcroppings as they travelled. We're ascending, Victoria realised, feeling the cart tilt slightly and a faint pull at her back. Far, far above them, the distance obscured in the mist, was an enormous beacon; an eerily blue flame that seemed to devour the fog as they neared. She shot a glance towards Theresa, silently attempting to ask if it was safe, but received no answer.

"It's far too soon for this to be Northward," she muttered, carefully steering Satyr around the occasional bit of broken masonry and crumbled pillar.

"Indeed, Hero," came Theresa's reply. "Perhaps this is an outpost."

But why did they need an outpost? Was something wrong with the fort? Or was something wrong with the fen?

"They may provide us shelter for the evening," Scythe supplied. Victoria wasn't so certain. There was no guarantee these people would be welcoming of them—if there even were any people. If could be a trap. Or they could be too late and the previous tenants were no longer there. Judging by Scythe's tone, she suspected he thought something similar.

The road wound gently up past boulders and thorny hedges. Dusk had settled over the Fallen Fen, dousing the world in a veil of deep blue. But the path ahead was simple, straightforward, leading through the ruins and the arches of long collapsed doors. A tower and a stone wall set with sturdy portcullis slowly unfolded from the dim light. I guess we'll see what they're like soon enough, then.

Braziers burned on either side of the portcullis, giving off just enough light to see no one was standing guard at the top of the wall. Victoria pulled their cart to a stop before it, frown settling over her face. If anyone was here, regardless of if they could be trusted or not, it seemed awfully strange not to have any guards placed. The criss-crossed iron bars on the gate were sturdy and Victoria presumed they were capable of withstanding direct assault, but what if someone came calling? What if something attacked? Concern gnawed at her gut as she exchanged looks with Scythe.

Then she became aware of the mumbling. It wasn't like the pained groans of a hollow man or a hobbe's high-pitched shrieks. Just like a human complaining about their lot in life. Another cursory glance about the area revealed no one.

Intrigued, she carefully crept to her feet. The cart wobbled in protest, lamp swaying despondently. Looking up at the solitary tower, she spotted a single person in a familiar-looking red jacket.

"—course they get to have a party. No one asks if I want to join the party. 'The tower's the best seat in the house'. Bollocks, it is! Can't even get a dance up—"

"Excuse me?" Victoria called up, cutting through his soliloquy. He didn't seem dangerous, but she also didn't feel like sitting here, listening to him complain all night.

He jolted to attention, pulling up his rifle to peer through the scope. All trace of whinging gone from his voice, he called out sharply, "Who goes there?"

She knew perfectly well that they didn't need unwelcome attention brought to them and that she should be wary. Still, Victoria couldn't help but dryly reply, "The Queen of Albion."

The man barked a laugh. "You cheeky—" he froze as if he'd finally gotten a better look her face— "Oh. Oh." He fumbled to set his rifle down, open the gate, and salute at the same time. "On your orders, Ma'am."

"Thank you," she replied, quirking her brow as she sat back down.

Theresa smiled faintly as Satyr was prompted into motion once more. "As I said, it appears to be an outpost."

"We did not doubt you," Scythe lied. At Victoria's amused snort, he settled a bit more into his seat and stared stonily ahead.

The outpost seemed to have been built upon the ruins of an ancient fort, only semi-repaired. The walls of the original building had fallen mostly to worn stones around them as they ascended the hill, occasional torches and lamps providing small islands of light in the gloom. The fog that had consumed so much of the Fen didn't seem to touch anything here. It would have made things much less eerie if not for the hangman's tree that greeted them half-way up, tattered remnants of old rope blowing gently in the faint breeze.

At the top of the hill laid a walled-in courtyard, the walls cracked but sturdy, speckled with moss and lichen. Grass rose, trampled, between the shattered stones that made up the ancient floor. Two sets of stairs led in opposite directions out of the area, stopping at doors that looked far too new to be the original. The stonework and statues suggested this place dated back to the Old Kingdom, though Victoria didn't really think now was a good time to stop and study the statues. A dozen or so soldiers milled about the area, clearly curious about their new visitors, but unwilling to actually question them. A bonfire and what looked like cooking equipment had been set up in one corner of the courtyard, a small graveyard in another. They've been here for some time.

Victoria pulled Satyr to a stop and leaned out to speak with the nearest soldiers. Trying to sound like she knew what she was doing and was meant to be there, she said, "Your commanding officer: who are they and where may I find them?"

"Captain Flower's at Stonehaven Fort, Your La—mi—erm..." Unable to decide what title to use for her when she provided none, the soldier simply shook his head and pointed to the other end of the courtyard, where another portcullis lied. "Through there."

Victoria offered him a nod of gratitude and prompted Satyr into motion once more. The slow clip-clop of her hooves echoed throughout the otherwise silent area.

"Do you believe the Captain will assist us?" Scythe enquired quietly.

She gave a half-shrug. "I don't know. But he might let us spend the night here. And he might be able to tell me why Northward has an outpost here that I was never informed of."

That last bit worried her the most. Last she'd heard from Northward, everything was going well. Could things have deteriorated so quickly?

Their road led out, following the edge of a cliff. To the right was an incredible, if very dim, view of the Fen, spreading out like ink on linen. They seemed to be nearing Echo Hills and the base of the Whitespire Mountains for the terrain ahead of them was growing steeper and rockier—the mountains were only visible as a darker, more impenetrable shade of black along the horizon. The clatter of a waterfall reached her as they passed, thin threads of silver in the lacking moonlight. Several small groups of soldiers had camps along the roadside, all bundled around fires and weather-worn tents, casting suspicious glances at the cart as they passed. No one moved to stop them. Neither Victoria nor her companions made an effort to address them.

Discomfort prickled at Victoria's consciousness, unsettling her. Somehow it felt like the night before a battle: everyone waiting but uncertain what, exactly, they were waiting for. Stranger, though, for there seemed to be no sign of a threat or anything to be concerned about.

An ancient bridge stood sentinel over the road as it sloped to the left. Ancient banners and the vibrant red and yellow of Albion's flag flapped side-by-side in the wind. The road seemed incredibly long for a single outpost. Desolate and barren, as well, despite the occasional pockets of soldiers they saw. They passed over the next rise and a fort the size of a castle slowly came into view, silhouetted against the clouds. Even from afar it looked unsafe to enter, barely capable of keeping itself upright, but the enormous blue-flamed brazier they'd previously seen was lit atop it and Victoria wondered if it was sturdier than it looked.

A camp of maybe two dozen soldiers stood between them and the fort, going about their business. Though a few glanced in their direction, no one seemed too concerned. Well, we didn't attack their comrades, she thought; they must assume we're safe. The air remained solemn and still.

A bridge marked the end of the road and they found themselves swallowed by the fort's high walls. Thorned vines clung so tightly to several of the arches along their path that Victoria was convinced they were the only things holding the stone up. Torches lent a flickering light over everything, casting foreboding shadows. A chill had swept into the fort with an adamant refusal to leave. They pulled to a stop in the middle of what had once probably been an entrance hall. The roof of it was gone, however, leaving the hall open to the night.

No one was in sight.

Scythe slowly stepped down from the cart and Victoria heard the backdoor open as Nergüi joined him. Rhys, in familiar custom, simply stayed curled up where no one could see her. But Victoria hesitated before hopping down to soothe Satyr. The mare looked almost as tired as the rest of the party did; Victoria couldn't imagine pulling a cart and six people around all day was easy work. We'll get you home for a nice rest, I promise. She was considering the merits of looking for Captain Flower now or letting everyone have a short break when Theresa tried to get up. Rose almost halfway from her seat before her face crumpled with pain. Her hand shot to her side and she dropped back down, panting heavily.

"It's not healing, is it?" Victoria asked, fighting an internal twitch to go to her side.

For a brief second, Theresa looked as though she might try to evade the question. Then her expression shifted and she leaned back against the worn wall of the cart. "No, Hero; it is not."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Focus on defeating the Corruption," she replied with only the slightest hesitation. "With it destroyed, its poison will be gone from this world."

It didn't sound entirely like the truth, but Victoria wasn't ready to start a fight. With a nod, she turned and headed for the back of the cart. Edging around Rhys, she filled a bowl from their water stores and handed it to the younger girl with the request to take it to Satyr. Waited for Rhys to leave.

Once alone, her legs gave out, barely affording her enough time to sit. From her cage above the nearby dresser, Henrietta gave a petulant cluck, ruffling her feathers. Victoria paid the hen no mind. Slumped on the edge of the cot, she could confess she didn't know what to do. Theresa was dying, Reaver still hadn't woken up, and their quest was beginning to look more and more fruitless by the hour. She didn't see what good the Willstones would do at this rate or how this could ever end in success. Her faith was crumbling inside, as hollow as an old log.

(And yet tears would not come. She couldn't find the voice to scream at the frustration of it all.)

I wish you were here, she thought, taking Reaver's hand and pressing it to her lips. She missed his smirk and the casual way he declared things as though they were an unchanging truth. She missed his confidence in situations that seemed like they would never work out. Please come back to me.

"Victoria!" Scythe called, urgency leeching into his tone.

She pressed one last kiss to Reaver's brow before she ducked out of the cart.

Voices were drawing nearer, bickering fervently with each other. She stopped beside Scythe, awkwardly smoothing her hair back as she did so. A pair of soldiers rounded the corner—one older and cross-looking, the other young and harried.

"—cannot believe you would think to plan a surprise party without consulting your superior officer!" the older one—Captain Flower, Victoria presumed—complained. "And with such poor skill at setting the buffe—" he paused, noticing the group for the first time— "ah, who are you?"

She fought the urge to smile. "Victoria. I'm the—"

"The Queen; yes, yes. Jolly good of you to come here yourself, Your Majesty," he replied quickly, giving Victoria the impression that he was a man who needed to speak quickly for he was never in short supply of things to say.

"I was...expected, Captain?"

"Ah...no," Captain Flower admitted. "But the hollow men threat has been growing and we were hopeful for assistance."

"So certain of it that you would abandon your posts to plan a party?" Scythe input snidely.

The Captain flushed. "And may I ask who you are to walk so brazenly into my watch?"

Nergüi, Theresa, and Rhys were introduced—Scythe refused to state who he was beyond "a friend". They learned the man with Captain Flower went by Mugsworth. The party, it turned out, was for one of the younger Privates by the name of Watkins: a minor affair aiming to improve morale more so than in the name Watkins's own merit. In turn, Victoria explained that they needed shelter for the night and that they would be leaving in the morning for Northward Fort. Much to her surprise, neither Flower nor Mugsworth indicated anything was wrong with the other fort. Those in command had sent out a chunk of their soldiers to this outpost after they'd learned that hollow men and other beasts were making life difficult for those who called the Fen and the Moors their home. (Victoria resisted the urge to point out that the gesture didn't seem to have worked. It wouldn't have fixed anything.) The beacon atop the hill had been enchanted with runes to repel evil creatures and so, other than the occasional hollow men attack, the fort was usually quiet.

The decision to stay the night was accepted well enough—it was far from the worst place they'd stopped for the night at since the journey had begun and no one seemed to have any aversion to their prescence. A few of the soldiers offered them some of the spare tents, but there was no need. Though they were once again getting lower on food, their tents and the cart were in good shape. Besides, the soldiers didn't have much in the way of rations themselves. (Victoria made a mental note to have extra supplies and soldiers sent here for them when she returned to Bowerstone.) Sitting around, watching the soldiers joke and laugh, celebrating one of their fellow's birthday, only deepened Victoria's conflicting feelings. Even though the circumstances were entirely different, it reminded her of the night she'd first met one of her best friends—Ben Finn. Huddled over campfires in Mourningwood; joking with soldiers before the onslaught of hollow men had come for them. Funny how much had changed since then. How much she both wished for the old days and didn't mind that they were gone.

How much more than hollow men were waiting out there in the dark, waiting for an opportunity to strike?

The thought lingered, weighing heavily upon her thoughts, as she eventually dragged herself to bed.


Bright sunlight and a dusty road leading down to the sea. Familiar like something from a childhood memory. And yet he felt out of place here. He stood under an oak tree, simultaneously trying to remember and to forget—forgetting sounded far more appealing. Safer in a way he didn't understand. He kept getting flashes, fragments of memory that barely made sense. The same man, over and over. Arrogant, wielding a pistol. Disquieting, even if, for some unfathomable reason, something about the man made him feel safe.

From further down the road, in the direction of quaint cottages and thatched roofs, he heard someone laugh. A joyous giggle that took him by surprise; he hadn't seen anyone else nearby. Follow it, he thought, feeling it pull gently at him. He was unable to resist for long.


This morning, no one looked like they'd had a restful night's sleep. Even Scythe seemed more taciturn than usual, sharp with every word he said. Nergüi and Theresa both silent as they prepared for their departure. Victoria felt equally uncharitable. Her nightmares had gotten worse; an uninterrupted night of sleep did little to make her feel rested when her mind was plagued by visions of serpents—twisting about, biting, slithering into her mouth to smother her. She almost wished she had woken up, if only because it would have helped her realise the snakes weren't real. And, when she finally had woken, the Crawler had been seething, a silent rage that left her no doubts of why she was suddenly having such dreams.

There was only one consolation to their frustration: halfway through getting dressed, Victoria had heard Reaver mumble something and a frown had begun to form over his face. There was no change beyond that, but it was progress, or so she hoped.

As dawn began to break, they set out from Stonehaven. A small squadron of soldiers, led by a man by the name of Nodsy, travelled with them as both escort and with the intention of collecting extra supplies when they reached their destination. Yawning and grumbling, they made their way back out into the fen. Fortunately, this road was easier than the road through the fen had been: well-defined and mostly-absent of both potholes and the puddles that had frequently dissolved the previous roads into a muddy mess. Soon enough, the soldier's squelching footsteps were replaced with the usual tramping of boots as the bogland and its eternal dampness was left behind. Lush, gently rolling hills slowly replaced the dismal mire. Trees and flowers grew in abundance, filling the air with an earthy sweetness and the hills with a myriad of vibrant colours. The crystalline chatter of streams running off into the distance was a pleasant addition to the gentle humming of bees.

It felt almost strange to be driving under mostly sunny skies to the tune of birdsong. To Victoria, it felt like ages since they'd not been forced to deal with near constant rain and wind. Unfortunately, though the sunshine and greenery ought to have been enough to raise their spirits, they were a solemn group. Not even the soldiers were chattering as much as Victoria had expected them to. There seemed to be a cloud over them that no one could explain and no one could escape. (She wondered if that was the Temptress's doing as well or if it was merely a by-product of the soldiers being stationed in such a lonely, dismal location.)

By mid-afternoon, they'd begun to see signs of life: farmers in their fields, little houses in Albion's usual design occasionally sprung up amidst the trees or along the roadside. At one point a particularly brazen flock of sheep stood in the middle of the road, blocking all progress until their group and the farmer could coerce them into moving. For the next mile after that, she could hear the soldiers complaining and Victoria was forced to hide a smile. Then, just as she was considering joining in on the complaining, the fort came into view. Larger than Stonehaven and far more modern in design—though somehow less attractive to look at—it loomed over the road and the waterfall that raged from beneath it like the sprawling corpse of some ancient stone dragon, larger and more imposing than she'd ever realised through their reports alone. This time, Victoria didn't bother hiding her smile. They'd arrived. The journey was almost over.


AN: Apparently there's five chapters left after this and I'm somehow alarmed. Hmm. Need to pay more attention to the chapter number, I guess. Everything's coming to a head soon. -worries- (Quick thanks to everyone who helped me figure out some issues with this chapter. 3 I appreciate the support immensely.)

Dev. Notes: fens and bogs are very similar, but fens are less acidic and are usually fed by some other water source, wheras bogs tend to be fed via rainwater. Over many years, a fen can become a bog, but the opposite doesn't apprear to be true. Both are extremely important parts of the ecosystem, but bogs are extremely difficult to safely traverse.