Twenty-Eight:
Beloved

The campfire had been extinguished, logs frozen over with ice so thick there was no way they could relight them. Satyr was gone—deep hoof-marks gouged into the snow suggested she had fled in a panic. But...why had she fled? And where was everyone else? At this distance, the caravan looked as cold and empty as they'd left it; the tents nowhere to be seen. Victoria turned to catch Scythe's gaze, questioning and concerned. Behind the dark fabric covering his face, his red eyes gleamed eerily in the dim moonlight, narrowing as he thought. She heard him breathe a soft note of displeasure as she rested her hands upon the hilts of her blades. Together, they stepped further away from the Prism, tension prickling at them both. They found Theresa and Nergüi hidden amongst some of the rubble to the left of the Prism's entrance. Theresa was unconscious, back against the Prism's wall. Nergüi sat, half-slumped, in front of her, a long gash across her chest. A glowing amulet sat in her hand powering a protective bubble around them that was fading by the second. Victoria felt the Crawler stretch, growing alert.

"What happened?" Scythe asked, kneeling before his apprentice.

"I trusted her!" Nergüi struggled to get out. "She used us. She intends to turn him."

She? Victoria frowned, glancing toward the caravan.

The barrier faltered; flaring into odd angles over Scythe's form before dying completely. "Who?"

"Stay here," Victoria interrupted. She could feel the Corruption here, the Crawler tugging her insistently towards it, like a stubborn cat pawing at her. Scythe turned a dark glare on her, well-restrained violence sending a shiver of alarm through her. Victoria shook her head, raising her hands from her blades placatingly. "Someone needs to protect them; you're stronger than I am."

Silence twisted, bitter and poisonous, between them. Lingered like heavy weights. Victoria had no interest in fighting him, in any sense of the term, but she was rubbish at healing and Nergüi needed to be attended to. (Besides, if this was the Temptress, and she had any intentions of harming Reaver, then this was Victoria's business to conclude and no one else's.) With an aggravated sigh, Scythe looked away. She felt the prickle of unfamiliar Will wash over the area, forming a solid, unwavering ward around the others as he began rummaging through the leather bag hanging from his waist.

"Conclude with this business quickly," he finally said, pulling a tiny bottle of potion from the bag.

"I will." Victoria turned away from them, carefully prowling towards the caravan. The Darkness was coming from there—she'd suspected as much even before the Crawler had given her any confirmation. It pulsed, thick and festering, eager to drag her down into it and nearly as oppressive as the Will raging through her veins. And yet her thoughts were strangely clear; singularly focused.

The caravan was dark inside—impossible to look into even as she drew close to it. It was eerily quiet: the absence of Henrietta's furious clucking or the soft rustling of her wings threaded a sharper note of tension through Victoria. She could smell blood, heard it dripping onto the floorboards, mingling unpleasantly with the scent of spilled potions. Victoria crept closer to the doorway. Struggled to see. Just inside the door, a serpentine tail dragged across the floor, scraping against the shattered glass of what had once been their remaining potion bottles. What it connected to, she couldn't say. But the darkness seemed thicker near the cot, a horned shadow leaning over it.

A flare of possessive rage roiled in her gut. She crept soundlessly into the caravan, coming to a stop just behind the silhouette.

"Oi, bitch," Victoria began conversationally. The creature tensed, started to move, but Victoria was faster: grabbing ahold of it's horns and wrenching it away with a shove towards the door. It caught itself on the doorway, claws scrabbling against the worn wood; red eyes glowing in the gloom. Victoria scowled. "Don't touch him."

In a single movement, she lashed out, delivering a swift kick to the creature's sternum. It tumbled out into the snow in a heap of scaly coils.

Mine, the Crawler hissed, furiously stretching beneath her skin.

Together, she countered.

Yes, together.

As she stepped back out into the snow, she could feel the Darkness growing, washing over her in a viscous, smothering wave. Her veins darkened, expanding until they overflowed and shadows overcame her, burning like the sting of menthol. Through the rippling darkness flowing from her skin, she could see her tattoos had turned a murky scarlet. Talons burst from her fingernails, scraping against her sword as she drew it—even that was not spared, corrupted by the Crawler's power. For once, she could feel the wings sprout from her back, ashen feathers dripping blackness.

Victoria was not the only one who had changed. Whatever trace of Rhys had remained on the Temptress's form faded, horns and bony thorns bursting from her scaly skin. A skeletal mask took the place of her face, red eyes glowing within vacuous sockets. She hissed, drawing back, the coils of her tail sliding sinuously over each other as she shifted. "You are not so pure as you would have us believe."

Victoria felt her lips draw back to what could have easily been either a smile or a snarl. "I'm full of surprises."

She lunged forward. A quick, barely-planned slash. Her sword cleaved through the air where the Temptress had been only a split second earlier.

"No use," the Temptress purred from Victoria's left. "You are but a child—" corruption oozed from the ground beneath her like blood from a slow wound— "naive and foolish."

A tiny prickle of Will was the only warning Victoria got before the first meteor slammed into the ground where she had been standing. She leapt aside, boots skidding on the snow. Wings instinctively tucked in close as she rolled out of the way of the subsequent meteor strikes. A toxic-looking red smoke wafted from the impact burns, melting the snow around them. Victoria tasted ash on the back of her throat. Adjusted her grip on her sword.

She lunged towards the Temptress, blade once more meeting empty air. Pivoted, raising her sword to deflect another burst of Will in the same movement, and pushed her own Will into the artefacts. Through the gloom of the Crawler's influence the runes flared. Shards formed into a spear in her free hand, exploding into a rain of lethally sharp needles just before it reached its target.

The Temptress brushed it off with a laugh. "Good, Hero. It is tiresome when a victim submits too soon. Allow me to break you in."

Corruption flowed over the ground around her, bubbling like a boiling cauldron. Clawed hands dragged shadowy bodies from the depths. Dozens upon dozens of shadows. Victoria nearly cursed, fighting the urge to step back. Her light magic and fire spells would only serve to hurt herself with the Crawler's power flowing through her. But she couldn't possibly fight so many on her own without her Will.

"NO."

The word echoed through everything, carried on a wave of pure Will. It was the Crawler, carrying an authority Victoria had never heard him use before. The shadows froze in place. Through the flickering gloom of the shadows, she felt an equally sharp tug of Will from the far side of the Prism—Scythe's response to the possibility of danger. The Crawler directed her hands in an unfamiliar gesture. The shadows obeyed, dissipating back into nothingness. She barely had enough time to appreciate it before she was grabbed by the throat and lifted off her feet.

"What have you done to my son?!" the Temptress hissed, clawed fingers biting into Victoria's flesh.

It was the Crawler that spoke, saccharine sweet: "We killed the Devourer."

The Temptress recoiled. Struggling for breath and a better grip on her sword, Victoria slashed at the Temptress's gut; corruption spilled forth in place of blood. With a snarl, the Temptress threw her against the nearest tree. She bounced off the trunk; hit the icy ground hard, her back and arm throbbing on impact.

Victoria scrabbled to her feet. Need to weaken her. The Temptress avoided the next slash but was taken unaware as Victoria drove her fist into the creature's face. Felt it land wrong: a sharp pain spearing through her bones. No time to worry about that. She pushed her Will into Temptress, activating the light spell after she'd already pulled her hand back. The Temptress shrieked, the sound shaking the trees. Victoria's hand throbbed as she stumbled back. Broken or bruised? It didn't matter; she could still hold her blade in the other hand.

The Temptress dragged herself backwards, serpentine tail carving gashes into the snow. Victoria started after her. A ball of energy formed in the Temptress's hands, swirling crimson and shards of obsidian. Victoria threw herself out of the way, landing inelegantly as she stifled a curse. Her hand throbbed, sharper now. She tried to get back to her feet, but the Temptress's tail whipped out, knocking her back down. Victoria rolled to avoid the next attack, struggling to her knees. Even with the Crawler's assistance, this was too close for comfort. She raised her head to find another ball of energy in her face. There was no way to avoid this one. Her breath caught—

A gunshot rang out.

Just one.

The Temptress wobbled, more surprised than injured by the hole that had appeared in her head. The ball of energy flickered out. In a desperate lunge, Victoria surged to her feet and swung her sword. The Temptress's head fell to the floor before fading to dust. Body crumbling into dark ashes, gone in the wind.

A surge of victorious glee swept through her, emanating from the Crawler. Victoria paid it no mind as she turned toward the caravan. Reaver stood slumped against the door, breathing heavily, his Dragonstomper clutched too tightly in a slightly shaking hand. She felt the darkness slip away from her at the very sight of him, retreating to the very back of her mind.

Before she could stop herself, she dropped her sword and ran to him, stumbling up the caravan's steps. She flung her arms around his neck with enough fervour to make him almost topple over. Pressed a kiss to his cheek. She could hear the Crawler scoff in disgust, but ignored it, eyes burning through the overwhelming surge of relief. You're okay; oh, Avo, you're okay.

He tried to stifle a pained hiss, free hand reaching automatically for his side.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, remembering their current situation and pulling back. "I'm sorry! Are you—"

"Been having fun without me, have you, my sweet?" Reaver enquired, trying and failing to sound light-hearted through uneven breaths. He shifted and a grimace passed over his features before she could refute him. He shook his head. "Go. I expect they need you."

What about you? But Reaver hated being thought of as weak or in need of help. She hesitated before she stepped back. "Alright. I'll be right back. Just...sit down. I'll be back."

The ground was frozen too solid for a grave. Between the Corruption's poison and the amount of blood she'd lost before Victoria and Scythe's return, Nergüi had passed before the Temptress had met her own end. Neither Theresa—battered and bruised, but fine enough after a brief rest—nor Scythe had been able to do very much for her. But they could build a pyre and, it seemed, that would have to be enough to bid farewell by.

Hand throbbing as it slowly, slowly healed, Victoria helped Scythe gather wood and arrange it suitably behind the Prism. Stood silently to the side as Scythe laid Nergüi's body atop the pyre. He paused momentarily before setting the wood alight with a burst of Will.

Silence lingered between them, stagnant and uncomfortable. There was nothing to say. Nothing that would make this better; nothing ever did. Victoria hadn't known Nergui well enough to say anything in her memory; didn't know Scythe well enough to guess at what might have given him comfort. But she stayed, unable to ignore an uncomfortable sting of guilt that this could have been avoided. Perhaps if they'd still had access to healing potions, perhaps if they'd been more careful or less trusting of Rhys...but they couldn't do anything to change things now. And she kept her thoughts to herself. Listened to the steady crackling of the flames.

"Her people would have given her a sky burial," Scythe said quietly, tonelessly, as if he were speaking to the fire. He paused...and failed to finish his thought. Nor did he move from the statuesque stillness he had settled into.

"Does she—did she have any family?" Victoria asked gently. Maybe something could be done for them, in Nergui's honour.

"...by blood, no longer."

They fell into silence once more.

She stayed with him until the fire began to die at its edges and the chill of the wind became too harsh to ignore. She briefly laid a hand atop his shoulder, uncertain if it offered even a fraction of the support she hoped it did, before turning away and returning to their camp.

From the looks of things, Theresa had built up a new campfire and erected the now-spare tent while she and Scythe had been preoccupied; judging by the lack of rustling from within, she'd also elected to lie down for the night. Victoria had heard Scythe offer it to her before they'd gone to look for firewood, but she hadn't really expected Theresa to accept the offer. Victoria supposed it was for the best that she had. Theresa's side was no better, and she had refused to take one of their last two potions—surely she needed more rest. Victoria frowned. It was likely to be a long rest. Satyr was still missing and there was no way to get the caravan out of this clearing without a horse. They'd have to decide what their next course of action would be when the morning came. She was far too exhausted to deal with it right now.

A lamp had been lit inside the caravan by the time she reached it—glass shards and most of the various fluids curiously absent from the floorboards. Victoria made her way inside with heavy feet and arms. She put her weapons up without really paying attention to them. A few drops of dried blood still splattered the floor near her boots. She forced herself to look away; to find Reaver's gaze, if nothing else. He had sat down on the edge of the cot, staring blankly at something in the corner next to the door. Impassively, as if his thoughts had started there and turned in some other direction entirely. Victoria turned to see Henrietta's limp body on the floor of her cage. No. She exhaled unsteadily; carefully took down the cage and stepped back outside.

Kneeling in the snow yet again, she laid the hen down near one of the trees. Found a few stones to cover her as if making a burial mound. (Something would come along eventually, she knew, and uncover Henrietta for its own means. But tonight was rife with mourning, and it seemed somehow appropriate.) Victoria sucked down a deep breath. She forced down a wave of hopelessness that claimed there was no possible way they could survive this quest, and returned to the caravan.

"You buried the chicken," Reaver observed. When she didn't respond, he broke into a peal of laughter that didn't sound quite lucid. As it faded, he buried his head in his hands; fingers scraping roughly against his scalp. She realised then that he wasn't amused at all.

She didn't respond immediately, hanging the empty cage back up. She wiped the blood and half-melted snow from her hands with a torn tea towel; tried to clean up the remaining blood atop the drawers as best as possible. As if that would reverse all the bad that had happened tonight. Once it was mostly cleaned up and the caravan's door was closed, she dropped the towel into an empty bucket near the door and sat beside Reaver on the cot. There were so many things she wanted to say...so many things, and yet she didn't know how to say them. She pulled off her boots in a daze.

Victoria felt him carefully take hold of her shoulder and pull her closer. Fumbling, they both fell backwards onto the cot with a muffled fwhump. Her boots clattered to the floor. She curled around him, resting her head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat. She was almost ashamed by how relieved she felt just listening to the sound.

"I should be dead, shouldn't I?" he finally murmured, staring up at the ceiling.

Her breath hissed in sharply. "Yes."

She waited for him to ask—to have to tell him about calling forth the shadows and bargaining with Death. About what she thought Jack might have done. While she suspected he wouldn't mind it, having to admit it was the worst part.

But he didn't ask. They laid there in silence for a while. The lamp flickering, growing dimmer as its fuel got low.

She tried to pull together her courage and nuzzled closer to his chest. Hiding her face to keep from seeing his expression. "I love you."

She waited for him to reject her, heart pounding in her throat. She'd overheard more than one story of one of his lovers confessing to him and him brushing them off...or worse. She dreaded it more than the Corruption. And yet...it was better to know now than to let it fester inside, unspoken forever. He stroked her hair, fingers gentle against her scalp.

"I know."

She propped herself up on an elbow, staring down at him in bemusement. Her hand throbbed in protest, utterly ignored. "You...do?"

"I heard you say it while I...slept."

But she didn't recall saying it aloud. The words had burned and choked her throat, stifled so they might stop hurting so much. Almost as if on command, a memory resurfaced. Death saying "I will create a link". Had that been a by-product? Had he been able to feel as she had in that moment?

She didn't want to think of it.

Victoria lowered her head to press her lips to his. A gentle brush of skin against skin. Deepening as he took her face into his hands. She nearly fell, attempting to hold herself over him and only succeeded once she'd straddled one of his thighs. His fingers kneaded gently against her scalp, sending tingles of sensation to erupt over her skin. His hands slowly trailed down to her shoulders and he pulled back just enough for their foreheads to rest against each other.

"Victoria," he began. She could see his throat working when he paused. He took a deep breath and concluded, "Have I been in these clothes since the Henge?"

"I—" her train of thought seemed to completely derail— "yes?"

He immediately rolled her off of him and got up. She stared blankly at him. He's not— But he was already rummaging through the chest in search of a change of clothes. She fell backwards, hands over her eyes, with a disbelieving laugh. Well. At least he's not saying he loathes me, but....

"Your timing leaves much to be desired," she said aloud. She resisted the urge to sigh. That was that, then. At least it was out there.

"Victoria?"

She pulled her arm from her eyes to shoot him an enquiring look. He'd stripped off his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers, but the expression he'd fixed her with was undoubtedly soft and fond.

"I love you, as well."

She stared at him, the words taking a long time to settle in. He...loved her? He cared? There was a warmth in her heart that she didn't understand. A lightness in her body that she guessed might have been happiness. Joy. Something she didn't know the last time she'd actually felt. Not for the first time tonight, she found she couldn't find the right words.

A flush burned her cheeks. He loved her. And suddenly, even in the face of looming horror, that was all that mattered.

"Where did you find her?" Victoria gasped, eyes almost comically wide.

Scythe's reply was unreasonably cryptic: "I have my ways."

Satyr stood in the middle of the camp, bridle in Scythe's hand. She looked...angry. Annoyed. Like she was only here because she had no choice. But she soothed as Victoria carefully stroked her neck. She hadn't been able to sleep well last night, even with Reaver beside her—too many concerns buzzing through her head to let her relax. This alleviated one of those fears. Once they were certain Satyr wasn't going to bolt once more, she was given some feed and the Heroes settled in for their own breakfast.

No one else seemed to have slept well. Theresa looked a touch better, but there was a guilt to her expression that Victoria had never seen before. She accepted her bowl—filled with a porridge of mixed grains, seeds, and dried fruit—without commentary and without raising her head. Scythe seemed reserved, but not as sad as she'd expected. Then again, she reasoned, he'd lost a lot of people over his many long years. Perhaps, after a while, it stopped hurting. Or he was better at hiding his pain, waiting to mourn when he was truly in private, than they were. (If anyone other than Victoria had noticed the carefully crafted cairn behind the Prism, where Nergui's pyre had stood, no one said anything about it.) In contrast, Reaver seemed completely at ease. Almost in a good mood and entirely unconcerned about what had happened the night before, if one were to ignore the obvious discomfort of some of his movements—the pain from the Devourer's wound had no intentions of fading quickly, and whatever the Temptress had been attempting to do to him hadn't been remotely restorative. Victoria had the bad feeling that his affected nonchalance was going to come back to bite him; it didn't take long for that prediction to come true.

"Good morning, Reaver," Theresa bid evenly, taking them all by surprise. "It is good to see you awake."

Victoria didn't trust it in the slightest, but Reaver didn't appear to want to err on the side of caution. He flashed a leading smile in her direction. "Why, I do believe you missed me. I knew you couldn't resist having me around."

"Certainly," Theresa agreed. "I missed you in the way one misses a useful space when it has been wastefully squandered for a useless item."

Victoria nearly choked on her porridge, meeting Scythe's frown with a disbelieving stare. Please don't start a fight… But Reaver did little more than blatantly feign minimal distress as they finished eating.

The mood remained sour through the end of breakfast while the cart was repacked. It felt...odd leaving without Nergüi's quiet calm or Henrietta's annoyed clucking. Victoria helped Theresa up onto the driver's bench before clambering up to join her once Satyr was properly hooked to the caravan. The sun's light didn't seem as bright this morning. The breeze far too cold. And yet, despite the melancholy mood, they couldn't go more than a few minutes without another petty argument over who should do what and how. Stress, Victoria knew, and anger needing an outlet over what had happened with Rhys...the Temptress, whichever her name really was. Listening to Scythe and Reaver debate who should join Theresa and herself in driver's seat, however, was pushing the limits of her understanding.

She felt a slight nudge from Theresa and turned to see her discreetly gesture for Victoria to scoot over. Confused, she did so only to discover the bench now looked fuller than it was.

"It appears we have room for neither of you gentlemen," Theresa observed casually, using gentlemen as if it were a grave overestimation of the truth. "You will both simply have to sit in the back."

Both men stared at them, waiting for either of them to say they were joking. When Theresa's expression failed to change and Victoria occupied herself with studying the worn embroidery on the reins, both of them reluctantly did as they were told. Resisting the urge to comment, Victoria urged Satyr into motion and they were once again on the road. She supposed, if they were lucky, the worst of their problems ahead would be getting along. If they were not…. She sighed and focused her attention on the road. They'd meet whatever was waiting for them when they reached it.

AN: I hope all of you had a happy New Year! I added about 4 pages to this during the editing process, so I'm sorry if the editing's not as smooth as usual. I'll go back through it later.