Not Yet by Lightning Chapter 8, a neverwinter nights fanfic

Title: Not Yet by Lightning

Chapter: Eight

Author: Jade Sabre

Notes: I owe thanks fo AceOfDaimonds and her fic "The Sweetest Downfall" for inspiring one of the scenes in this chapter.

Also, I'm still experimenting with the breaks between sections, because honestly I hate everything that isn't just a double-space between paragraphs, but is not-so-friendly towards that. Alas.

This's a longer chapter, the first of what I kind of consider the Hoar trilogy, if I were inclined to name my chapters (and I would be so inclined, if I didn't have a penchant for liking literary references that require a lot of time to look up—ask my poor beta how long it took me to come up with a title for my fic, and you might see why I've avoided naming the chapters). Thanks especially for the comments on the last chapter; they really helped me see what other people thought was going on there, when I couldn't really see it anymore myself.

Disclaimer: I don't own Neverwinter Nights, or any of its sequels or expansions, or any of the characters contained herein, aside from my PC, who was created on a Bioware engine and thus probably therefore partially belongs to them too.

She woke in the pre-dawn darkness and lay in bed, thinking, until the darkness turned to grey. She rose and dressed, slipping on her old chain shirt and buckling her mace to her belt and her shield to her back. Not even Sal was awake as she made her way through the common room and out the front door, then up the little hill to her ruined keep.

She left a note for Veedle, instructing him to start rebuilding the library as soon as possible, and found Kana eating breakfast and told her to recruit more men. The commander saluted and returned to her meal; Laura wondered if she had even gone to bed the previous night, or if she had spent all that time poring over the strategic and military reports scattered around her.

By the time she made her way to the stables, the sun was half-over the horizon, gathering its strength for the final leap into daylight. She thought of Brother Merring as she saddled up, commandeering the pretty grey she had received in Neverwinter, and smiled. She went out the ruined front gates and told the nervous Greycloak standing guard that she had to go contact a few more recruits. He didn't have time to ask where she rode, and by midmorning she was well on her way down the High Road.

The area around Crossroad Keep was a wreck, she discovered, as her horse cantered past countless abandoned farms and fallow fields. Nasher had given her a hell of a task—one she found surprising, given her utter lack of experience. While she was confident she would eventually have a system, she dreaded the upcoming days of trial-and-error, and resented the fact that Nasher had, in one stroke, tripled her obligations and quartered her freedom. She was out for revenge, not for the greater glory of Neverwinter, and she was afraid the drudgery of getting her bearings would take too much of her time away from her ultimate goal.

She took a fairly brisk pace, as much for time's sake as anything else, but around noon she became aware that she was being followed. She rode for a few more minutes, considering her options, until she reined in her horse and dismounted, leading it onto the road's shoulder and digging around in her pack for something to eat.

She wore, as she usually did, the Harvest Cloak over her armor, and the combined padding meant she barely felt the tip of the dagger held against her back. She froze, however, when a voice behind her said, "Hands in the air, turn around nice and slow, girlie, and we won't have any troubles."

Kana had mentioned bandits, but she had failed to mention that they were brazen enough to ambush an armed, armored traveler. Granted, she was a woman traveling alone, but she didn't think she looked that incompetent. It was a point of pride to look professional.

She complied, stepping away from the horse. Three bandits immediately took to her packs, while two more poked their swords into her side (tangling them in her cloak, carelessly) to make up for the dagger's disappearance from her back. The apparent leader still held it and sized her up unfavorably. Six against one, assuming they were too cocky to have backup in the brush. There were enough trees to provide cover, and—

She chided herself for thinking too far ahead and not paying attention to the fact that any moment now one of them could behead her without much trouble. "Now," the leader was saying, "what brings a pretty little thing like you down the High Road all alone, hm?"

"Riding," she said. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?" he asked. "Because I really, really think I do."

He was looking a bit hungry now, which made her sigh. "It'll be better for you if you don't."

"Why? What're you going to do, use that?" He waved the tip of his dagger towards her mace.

"Exactly," she said, ignoring both his jeers and the more forceful jabs coming from the short swords. "You'll force me to draw it and bash all your skulls in, which will result in blood all over my mail, and I'd rather not be covered in blood when I reach my destination."

"Aw, the wittle wadie's—"

She came up to his nose, for Hoar's sake

"—worried about mussing her outfit. Find anything or not?" he called irritably to the men searching her saddlebags.

One of them had found her potions bag and was waving it around. "Looks like—"

And then he dropped down to the ground, dead, an arrow in his blood-gushing throat. The remaining five bandits turned to gawk in the direction the arrow had flown from, giving Laura time to twist her hands, muttering an incantation. Lightning flashed down from the cloudless sky to strike all of them, lifting their feet from the ground while their bodies shook before mercilessly dropping them, leaving them motionless.

Laura sniffed and regretted it, as the smell of burnt hair made her nauseous, and bent to pick up her potions bag. She straightened to find Bishop leaning against her horse.

"You followed me."

"We did." He cocked his head, a look of scornful dislike on his face as he said, "The others will be here in a moment." She shrugged and went back to settling her saddlebags. "Any particular reason you left alone?"

"I didn't think anyone would want to come."

"Given your ability to attract trouble—"

"This is unrelated to that."

She met his gaze, seeing curiosity and the hint of malice that was always there. Hoof beats sounded on the road, which he must have heard earlier. After a moment of staring, he said, "Doesn't mean you won't get attacked," gesturing at the bodies.

"I can handle bandits."

"Didn't say you couldn't."

"Just implied it."

"Never," but he grinned in as good-natured a way as he ever managed, a rather unreassuring, predatory look. She snorted in return—I do not like the way he looks at you—and turned to watch the others coming up the road. He laughed shortly, and she ignored him.

It appeared as though half her companions had ridden after her—there was Shandra (of course), and Casavir, holding the reins of an unsaddled horse, and hells, Neeshka—but unaccompanied by Khelgar, rare since the dwarf's conversion. The tiefling guessed the reason behind the faint surprise on her face, because she laughed and said, "We tossed for who would come. He hates horses worse than I do, and when we saw you'd taken one—"

"You are not hurt, my lady?" Casavir asked, seeing the bodies on the ground, but before she (or Bishop, who always had something to say) could answer, Shandra jumped in.

"What in the Nine Hells were you thinking, running off like that? You could've been killed! Or someone could've come after me! Or—"

Laura waited patiently for her rant to die down, at which point she simply said, "I am unharmed. I did not think any of you would wish to come, but as you're here…" She looked at them, the three sitting on their horses with varying levels of concern and amusement on their faces, and not at the person behind her, his mocking gaze boring into the back of her head, and she felt a small part of her burden lift. She sighed, in passing gratitude, and said, "You might as well come."

"Like we'd let you go alone," Shandra snorted as her leader mounted up. "Where're we going?"

Laura didn't answer, simply whipped her horse into a gallop, leaving them to catch up.

o-o-o

She knew Bishop was suspicious as soon as they started into the Mere on their second day of traveling, but she was still silent. Shandra and Neeshka chattered enough for six people, and Bishop apparently didn't care enough to confirm his suspicious. Poor Casavir was clearly out of place in the swamp—apparently he'd never heard of an anti-rust charm. She'd heard rumors that in places like Neverwinter, it was a point of pride to keep your armor rust-free yourself, but such lofty ideals simply weren't practical in the Mere. Tarmas had enchanted her very first armor and weapons, when she'd been old enough to buy them at the Harvest Fair, and his charms still held, though the armor was back at the Keep. She now prodded Sand into taking care of her newer purchases, though he would never cease complaining about his great arcane talents being put to such a use, his charms were just as good as, if not better than, the old ones.

There were bugs (apparently everyone except Bishop and Laura didn't know anything about anti-bug charms, either), little swamp gnats constantly buzzing in people's ears, and the swamp made strange glugging noises, and of course every now and then if anyone looked too closely at the water on either side of the path they'd see dead people. But she continued, and where she went, they all followed (complaining merrily all the way).

Finally, when they were in a part of the Mere she not only recognized, but knew more than one path through, she stopped and dismounted. The others stared around, then at her, and Shandra gave voice to their thoughts: "We came all this way for a swamp?"

Laura shrugged, handing the reins of her horse to Casavir. Pointing the way they'd come, she said, "The inn back there is called the Weeping Willow, and it's good, and," as she pointed the way they were riding, "there's probably something at the end of the road."

Shandra gaped at her. "You're—what're you—"

She shrugged again and said, "Feel free to explore a bit. It's up to you. I'll find you when I've finished."

"Finished what?" Shandra demanded, but Laura just smiled—feeling its bitter weight—turned, and plunged into the undergrowth.

"Where's she—" Neeshka started, then stopped, at a complete loss for words. Sure, she'd spent time in the countryside, but this environment was far removed from anything the city-bred tiefling was prepared for.

"Can you follow her?" Casavir asked Bishop, with great misgiving in his voice.

Bishop raised his eyebrows. "Sure, if you think she wants us to. Which I don't think she does. Far be it from me to give the order to disobey—"

"Oh, shut up," Shandra snapped, while Neeshka said, "What now?"

"Well, we can go back to the inn, or we can keep going," Bishop said, in a tone of great irony. "Or we could ignore her ditching us like we did yesterday, and go after her."

"You were just as eager to come," Neeshka said, tail in the air, thrashing. "Let's just go back to the inn and get out of this place. It gives me the creeps."

"It is a place of great darkness," Casavir said, in what was probably supposed to be a comforting tone. Shandra and Bishop both snorted, for once in agreement.

"Maybe we should go back to the inn," Shandra said. "That's probably where she wants to find us."

"I think she'll be able to find us wherever we go, and I want to know what's at the end of this road," Bishop said, and with that nudged his horse into a trot.

"Wait—" Neeshka said, but Shandra immediately turned and followed Bishop.

"He's the only one who can get us out," the farmer-turned-fighter tossed back.

"She's right," Casavir said, and also followed, for Shandra's safety's sake, if nothing else.

Neeshka deliberated a moment more, tail twitching in agitation, before she too nudged her horse. "Wait up!"

o-o-o

Even though it had been months since she'd been there, her holy glade looked curiously untouched by the normal natural cycles of growth. A cool mist hung in the air, and the deep pool was as still as ever as she knelt beside it. A breeze rustled in the trees, as if acknowledging her presence; the weak sunshine filtering through the canopy was a twinkling green, settling the entire glade in a peaceful, muted glow.

She withdrew from her pack the articles of evidence she had used in her trial for Ember. She sprinkled them in water from the pool, and then reached under the roots of the largest tree and withdrew a crude wooden altar, about the size of her potions bag. She carefully arranged her offerings upon it—there a vial of poison, a Luskan insignia, clothing, arrowheads—and then, finally, took Lorne's assassin ring and set it at the altar's foot.

Bowing her head, she murmured, "For Ember." Her hand crept up and drew out from under her shirt a coin, clutching it as she kept her vigil. It was impossible to tell how much time passed as she knelt in the still glade, until the coin in her hand suddenly burned with cold, startling her out of her meditation.

She opened her eyes and saw her altar glowing, even as a frost grew over the ring, hardening and crackling until the ring itself broke in two. She felt the freedom, the release—and then the brush of fingertips across her forehead. "For Ember," came the light tenor of her god's voice, and then the glade was quiet and dark again.

Letting out a long, deep breath, she carefully placed everything as it was before, dusted off her knees, and pointed her boots in the direction she had to go to finish her task.

o-o-o

It was almost worth the news she brought to see Retta Starling's face light up when she opened the door and saw her fifth "daughter" standing outside, looking a little haggard but otherwise fine.

"Laura!" she exclaimed, and hugged her; Laura hugged back, feeling the strangest urge to cry. She drew her inside, saying, "Does Daeghun know you're back?"

She tried a smile—it didn't break her face, and so she said, "No—it's not a long visit, so—"

"I understand," Retta said, though her disappointment was palatable. "I'd go get Bevil, but—oh! You don't know!"

"Don't know what?" she asked, feeling a tightening around her chest. She couldn't—not if Bevil—

"He was attacked, not long after you left." Laura felt the sudden weight of time on her shoulders; Retta wouldn't be so calm if it had happened recently. "Something out in the swamp. Came back—thank Lathander," though her voice was grudging as she said it, to Laura's amusement, "Brother Merring found him before he collapsed. Won't say a word about what it was or what happened, but he doesn't come out except for militia training. Works himself to death, needs his rest, but I'll—"

"Tell him I said hello." Laura drew a breath (of what? Strength? Relief?) and said, "Also—Retta—I'm here for—"

She stopped. She had rehearsed her speech over and over in her head—simple, direct honesty, presentation of the deceased's belongings—that was how these things were handled. That was how members of the clergy—no matter whose clergy; all that mattered was the slant one put on it—were supposed to handle these things.

But she hadn't counted on actually caring how Retta took the news. It had been so long since she'd encountered the kind of relationship she now felt—the kind that only develops over years of knowing someone, of watching them and coming to understand them and caring for them—she felt the urge to cry again, selfishly, and it was harder to suppress. She was friends with most of her companions, and she cared about them, but they tended to be as tight-lipped as she was—she wouldn't claim to know what went through their heads any more than they could claim the same about her. It just wasn't the same, and she suddenly felt lonely, lonelier than she'd ever felt before.

Retta must have seen this, for she hugged her again and said gently, "Sit down, dear—the children are in the garden, I've got time—what's wrong?"

Laura took a deep breath, schooling herself into something professional, and said, "Retta—I asked about Lorne."

Retta's eyes lit up, but she sobered at the look on Laura's face. "And?" she asked, clearly fearing the worst.

Or rather, that he was dead. Laura almost laughed, knowing that the worst was far worse than anyone could have imagined. And knowing that—and looking, for the first time in months, into the eyes of someone who knew and loved her despite knowing her for years—she suddenly couldn't bring herself to recite her speech. It wasn't Retta's fault her son had defected, that he had caused so much suffering—the revenge she had won in blood would only be weakened by making an old woman cry.

"He's dead," she said, reaching out and grasping the other woman's hand. "He—he died in battle, against a powerful foe. But—he was brave enough to face—them—and—it was a good death."

She drew out Lorne's old leather bag, full of crumbling swamp moss and too-tough jerky—the kind of bag Retta lovingly made for everyone in the militia, the only trace of West Harbor she'd found among his possessions. Retta took it, her eyes filling with tears.

"Thank you, my dear, dear girl—" she started, and Laura couldn't bear it, so she drew her into another hug, and held her while she cried for her son, saying a prayer for the boy Lorne once was.

o-o-o

She entered the Farlong residence through the back door, hanging her shield and mace in their usual place, leaving her chain shirt on the box that held extra arrows. It amused her to note that he hadn't erased any sign of her presence, and that indeed things were still laid out as though they were waiting for her to come and take them.

She had stoked the fire and put the water to boil and was just selecting her tea leaves when he entered the kitchen and said, in a tone wry in its flatness, "Ah, foster daughter. I see you have returned."

"Briefly," she said, and that was all that was said for the next several minutes, while he unloaded from hunting and she finished making tea. They met by unspoken agreement in the sitting room, him in his small but finely crafted wooden chair before the fireplace, she in the plush little chaise next to the fireplace and the spinning wheel (also not moved from its original position, despite the fact that it could go any number of places, she was sure he wasn't using it)—the only comfortable piece of furniture in the house. It was only there because she'd gone to Tarmas's house with Amie when she was eight and seen what real chairs were supposed to be like. She had tried every trick in the book, to no avail, before she thought of just asking for one politely; and he had given it to her, and that was the first lesson she really remembered figuring out on her own.

Her smile at the memory faded as she looked at her tea and said, quietly, "I've been to see Retta Starling. Lorne is dead."

He accepted this with a nod and said, "How?"

"He was working as a Luskan assassin and fighting champion, and I had to challenge him, and I fought against him." She shut her eyes. "And won."

Daeghun said nothing, which was a relief, as she finished, "I didn't tell Retta that."

"That was wise," he said. "Humans make a bigger spectacle of grief than is necessary, and adding to her pain would only have increased that."

It was a relief to have him support her decision, to tell her she had done the right thing, to hear someone saying something she fully agreed with (what was the point of grief? What's gone is gone. It's a mere matter of discipline, mourning). She missed his calm, sound judgment. Except…the degree of its soundness…

She looked down at her tea again, curled her fingers around her mug, and said, "I fought the githyanki. I know there's a shard in my chest." She looked up and met his gaze, reading twinges of regret, concern, patience, all fluttering through, and said, "Tell me about my mother."

And he did.

He spoke at length about the shards, and the battle, and of better days, traveling with her mother. She was silent, listening, watching, so alert that she saw him wince as his voice cracked on his dead wife's name, and he stopped talking.

She waited, and he whispered, "I—I cannot speak of it anymore. I—please."

And in that one word of pleading she heard a lifetime—her lifetime—of grief threatening to overwhelm its prison (so much for grief being pointless—or perhaps it was, but so powerful a force that it was hard to resist), so she said, "Thank you, Father."

He couldn't look at her, and that hurt almost as much as glimpsing his pain, so she stood and collected his teacup from his limp grasp, and returned it and hers to the kitchen. She came back and stood for a moment, looking into the empty hearth, before saying, "I have to go—there's work to be done…this is a lot bigger than I think you or I thought it would be," she said, with a bit of a smile in her voice. "But—I'm at Crossroad Keep, up the main road, if you ever need me." She hesitated.

He looked up and met her gaze. "The wind at your back, foster daughter," he said, sounding more like himself.

"Thank you," she said again, and left.

o-o-o

"Father," said Laura, an eleven-year-old girl preparing to compete in her first Harvest Cup challenge, "what's the purpose of the Harvest Fair?"

Daeghun, busy checking to make sure he had everything he wanted to trade, answered, "It's a time of remembrance for the villagers."

"Remembering what?" she asked. She knew, sort of, that something had happened when she was a baby, and that it had taken most of her younger childhood to rebuild, but no one ever really talked about what had actually taken place.

"There was a battle," he said shortly. "And the village was destroyed, and the villagers rebuilt it, and now they insist on holding a fair to celebrate how strong they are."

"A battle? Were we attacked?" A sudden thought struck her. "We won, right? I mean, what if they come back?"

"No. A battle was fought, and West Harbor happened to be the battleground. It was long ago, and matters little to the events of today."

She absorbed this, accepting the load of furs she was going to carry, half of her wanting to go find Bevil and the other half hoping for more information. Daeghun had never spoken this much on the subject before, and she thought she might be able to get more from him. "Who was it between, then?"

"Other forces," he answered. "Forces from beyond—forces beyond what the militia would have been able to handle."

"Everyone made it out okay, though, right?"

"Everyone who is in West Harbor today, yes. Hurry, it's time to go."

She trotted to keep up with him (having not hit her growth spurt, and having no way of knowing that in a year she'd be as tall as him, and in a half year after that she'd be taller). Daeghun seemed to think the conversation was over, but another thought had occurred to her; she hesitated, and finally asked, "What about Mo—"

"Not everyone lived," he said, his tone suddenly so sharp that she was almost afraid to look at him. But she did, and beyond the tightness of his features she suddenly saw a fear—and a sadness, no, a grief that she had never seen before, and it scared her. "Young Bevil's waiting for you by the bridge. Go."

He'd never sent her away from him before, which only served to scare her further, but she obeyed, her arms overflowing with furs that nearly hid her face from her friend's as she started across the bridge.

"Hey!" Bevil said. "What's—come on, it's the Harvest Cup! We're finally old enough to compete! We have to talk to Georg—"

"I don't want to," she said. "You can compete in your own stupid Harvest Cup."

"But—"

"I said I don't want to!" She suddenly shoved her load into his longer arms and took off down the path.

Amie found Bevil struggling to hold onto his newfound burden. "The challenges are about to start!" she said, jealousy flowing off her in waves—she was a year too young to compete. "What're you—"

"I don't know," he said. "C'mon, let's take these to Galen and see if we can find her."

o-o-o

Laura didn't stop running until she reached the Starling house, banging on the door as hard as she could, out of breath but determined to find answers. The door opened to reveal four-year-old Lisbet, sucking on her thumb and staring wide-eyed at the disheveled girl in the doorway. "Ma!" she yelled. "Ma-aa!"

"I'm coming, who on earth—oh, Laura!" said Retta Starling, covered in flour. Laura remembered with a guilty start that her de facto mother figure—Retta mothered all the children in the village, really—would be baking pies for the feast later that night, and started backing away, not wanting to be a nuisance. "Why aren't you with Bevil, signing up for the challenges?"

"I—I was just wondering some things," she muttered, shrugging, looking down at the front stoop. "About—things."

Retta was Daeghun's opposite in so many ways, such as how she now dropped everything to deal with the elf's foster daughter. "Lisbet, run back to the nursery. Come on, Laura, you can help me make the crusts."

Laura followed her through the maze of rooms—the Starling household had one hallway with four rooms off it, and had gradually expanded, one room at a time, until it was faster to cut from the parlor to the playroom and then through Bevil's room to reach the kitchen than to try to find it the normal way—and emerged in a fairly flour-covered room itself, with a big fire blazing in the hearth and another one in the oven, pie pans clustered on one counter and the largest pile of dough Laura had ever seen on the other. Retta handed her a rolling pin and pushed her towards the dough, while she herself went to inspect the pots hanging over the fire.

"Now, what is it, dear?" she asked.

Laura found the footstool and stood on it, trying to figure out the best way to attack a mound almost as tall as she was. "I was just wondering…about the Harvest Festival. I was talking to Father, and—" she finally reached out with both hands and pushed down on it "—he said it was a time for remembering how West Harbor was rebuilt."

"Mm-hm."

"And—and he said—" this clearly wasn't working; she had two elbow-deep holes in the mound, now, and was starting to tip forward "—he said there was a battle."

Retta was silent, which either meant she had something in her mouth and couldn't answer, or that Laura was coming closer to a forbidden subject than she'd ever dared to go before. "Yes," she said finally. "There was. None of us were here to see it, of course—we'd cleared out as soon as we saw them coming—but you could hear it for miles around."

"Who were they?" she asked, withdrawing her hands and pushing them down in two new spots, hoping to smush the entire mountain down. Eventually.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Retta shrug. "I don't know, dear," she said. "No one does. Anyone who was close enough to see was—well…" She paused, then said, thoughtfully, "The rumor was—demons. Demons and—and other…things. But no one—no one knows."

Laura shivered, not really paying attention to what she was smushing anymore, her mind years back, imagining West Harbor overrun with demons and things. People running, fleeing, loved ones torn from each other. She could practically see them, a wave setting fire to everything in their path, clawing at—at the well, at the communal cow pasture, screams and smoke and ash filling the air…

She shivered harder and tried to concentrate on the dough under her hands, which was starting to become flatter to the point where she could rub flour on the rolling pin and start rolling with it instead. Retta hummed tunelessly to herself, stirring things in pots, chopping vegetables and fruits; sunshine shone brightly through the open window, the breeze blowing and bringing some relief from the heat. The scene was so entirely normal that it become easier to forget what her imagination had conjured up for her to see, but she couldn't quite shake her curiosity. So she rolled the dough, flatter and flatter, and finally said, "Retta?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Why…why was Father…" She struggled, trying to put into words what she had seen, because it was unlike anything she had ever seen Daeghun do before. She'd asked Retta about him often, everything from "Why are his ears pointed and mine not?" to, recently, "Why doesn't he want me to join the militia?" which was what she and Bevil both wanted to do now (Amie thought they were silly, and sniffed from behind the pages of the latest tome Tarmas had given her). Questions she wanted to ask him, or had asked him, but she either couldn't ask, or couldn't understand what the answer was. Retta was as good as translator as anyone else for Daeghun's often inexplicable actions, and she at least knew how to deal with children.

But she didn't have to finish her question, because Retta stopped stirring and folded her arms, clearly thinking. So she kept rolling, waiting, until Retta finally said, "Daeghun…your father…he…oh, Laura." She went over and stroked her hair, watching her roll for another quiet moment before saying, "Not…not everyone was able to get out of the village in time. And…his wife was one of them. And he…he took it hard, I think. It hurt him—"

Laura stopped rolling. Daeghun did not get hurt. Not when he accidentally walked into a briar patch (oh, all right, she accidentally walked into it and he had to follow to get her out), not when they were walking in the Mere and a snake bit him as he shoved her out of the way and he was bleeding and explaining to an hysterical nine-year-old where the antidotes were in his pack, not when people saw her following him and yelled mocking things about his parenting methods (things Laura didn't understand—he was her father, and she loved him; it was remarkably simple). Not ever. Anything that could hurt Daeghun was—was—well, it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It was wrong wrong wrong and she was suddenly so mad that she wiggled out from under Retta's arms, ignoring her concerned calls, and left the house through the back door.

She didn't know where she was going. She didn't really care. She was spitting mad (speaking of snakes) and didn't know what to do with herself. It seemed ridiculous for people to be spending time celebrating rebuilding when clearly Daeghun wasn't—wasn't fully—it wasn't fair that something had to hurt him and then have people mock him about it. She knew he loved her, because he never said it, because he said that when people did care about each other it made it harder for—but she was friends with Bevil, didn't that count? And she loved Retta even though Retta was Bevil's mother and not hers, and she loved Daeghun, but it was better not to show it because it just made things harder, and he had cared about his wife and now she was dead and he was paying the price and it wasn't fair for people to yell at him about the way he treated his foster daughter, and how dare anything hurt him? How dare they?

She had hopped the fence of West Harbor's boundaries and was headed into the swamp before she knew what she was doing. She shook with anger and fear, anger at the world and fear at how deeply the anger ran. Then she realized that her mother must've died during the battle—she hadn't even thought about that elusive figure yet, but as she came to the realization she grew even angrier, because who was this—this—whoever they were—who were these demons and things to pick West Harbor as a battle place? Why couldn't they fight somewhere else? And they had killed her mother and other people's family and they had hurt Daeghun with their carelessness and she just couldn't stand it.

The shaking grew worse as she crashed through the swamp, not caring that she was wearing her best boots and that they were getting muck all over them, or that she had forgotten the little knife Daeghun had given her for their travels into the swamp, because thinking about Daeghun simply fueled her rage. She had a good sense of direction, and anything that attempted to accost her at this point would simply end up pounded into a bloody pulp. Her hands clenched just thinking about it.

She heard a rustling behind her, but ignored it, and she heard the tell-tale hissing and clicking but ignored it too. She felt something hit her back, driving her to her knees, and then something piercing her neck, and before she could land a single punch the world went black.

o-o-o

She woke, feeling surprised and unable to figure out why until she opened her eyes and realized she was still in the swamp, and that one of the swamp beetles had jumped her and she should, by all rights, be dead. Then she thought about what her death (especially from such a stupid, stupid mistake) would do to Daeghun, and she started shaking again.

She sat up, slowly, drawing her knees to her chest and looping her arms around them before looking around. She seemed to be in some kind of glade, the ground thoroughly solid within it, though she didn't recognize it at all. She rested against the roots of a large swamp tree, the kind that seemed to stand above the ground, and trees similar to it bounded the circular clearing. The one break in this was a large boulder, weathered and covered with moss, but still vaguely recognizable as something carved—one of those ruins people spoke of being in the swamp. At its base was a large, deep pool which, unlike all the other ponds and puddles in the swamp, was completely clear, devoid of the murkiness generally found in swamps.

Curiosity overwhelmed her, and so she carefully crawled over to it. Her back hurt a little, and her neck throbbed a lot, but when she touched it the skin felt smooth. Her reflection in the pool, however, was a mess; her face was streaked with muck, her hair clumping wildly, full of muck and flour. But there was no blood, no bruises, not even a scratch on her skin. She touched it again, in wonder.

"You're awake," said a light voice, and she started and barely avoided falling into the pool. She turned to see a man entering the glade, stepping lightly over the roots. He wore simple, black armor, sort of leathery maybe, and his hair was sort of a dark-light brown color. There was something cold about him, something not-quite-right, and she didn't recognize him from West Harbor or, frankly, as belonging anywhere near the Mere. But he smiled when he saw her, and it was a handsome smile, and he reached into a pocket and withdrew a cup.

"Here," he said, dipping the cup in the pool. "Drink. But slowly; you've had a rough day."

"Thank you," she said, wiping her muddy hands on the few non-muddy spots she found on her shirt. She took the cup, sniffing at it, but it looked like water, and so she drank a little. It was clear and cool, and good. "Are you a druid?" she asked.

He smiled again. "Why do you ask?"

"Because," she said. "The water's clean. And only druids can make water clear, and know the Mere well enough to find somewhere like this where the water might be clean anyway."

"A good guess," he said, "but no."

He was watching her, and so she took another drink, not wanting to appear rude. "Tell me about yourself," he said.

She paused, the cup resting against her lips, and said, "Are you going to rape me?"

"What?"

"You're not a druid," she said, "by your own admission. But you're a stranger, and even if you saved my life…I have to be careful."

"No," he said, and there was something hard in his face and voice. "No, I'm not going to rape you. I…I abhor such behavior."

She nodded, sensing, somehow, that he told the truth, and so she said, "My name is Laura Farthing. I'm the foster daughter of Daeghun Farlong, of West Harbor." She paused, and thought, and couldn't think of anything else to say about herself, so she simply added, "And, if you were lying, he's the best scout in the Mere, and he'd find out and kill you."

"You think so."

"I know so."

"You're a very confident child."

She shrugged, and he smiled and reached out a hand, resting it on her head. She resisted the urge to flinch away, and as soon as he touched her she felt a—a warmth through her. His eyes—an icy sort of blue color—stared at her, through her, into her, thoughtful. "An interesting, confident child." He withdrew his hand, and she couldn't resist peeking into the pool—as she'd suspected, her appearance was now completely clean. The situation immediately sprung out of hand. "Tell me," he said, apparently choosing to ignore the sudden fear in her eyes, "why did you come into the Mere today?"

"I—" she stopped, remembering, and the shaking began again. This time he reached and took her hand, and she noted that his skin was kind of cold, too. "I had just found out—something, and I was angry, and I wasn't paying attention, and I'm sorry. Thank you," she added belatedly, "for saving my life."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

"I…something happened," she said, "to Father, and to my village, and I—I—"

"You wanted revenge," he said.

She hadn't thought of it like that, and yet as he said it, it made a certain kind of sense to her. "Yes," she said. "Except I don't know who or what or how to get it. But I—I—they hurt my village. They hurt us, and I want them to pay."

He nodded, as though he understood completely, and then his free hand reached up to lightly rest his fingers upon her breastbone. Instinctively she knew it wasn't for any deep or dangerous purpose, simply—as if he knew about the scar that ran down her chest right there—she blushed, but his cold fingers stayed there. A measured look came across his face, then almost a frown.

"You will," he said, withdrawing his hand. She couldn't help a quiet sigh of relief, and a wry smile came to his face. "You will have it, Laura Farthing, and I can help you achieve it."

"You can?" she said, unsure of what she was dealing with—demon or angel?—but instinctively believing him.

"Yes," he said. "Not now, perhaps, for you are young yet, and your foe is—not. But I can help you, and I will. It will take time—you have much to learn, and few to learn from, and I cannot always come to teach you. But, if you were willing…"

She stared at him, and he stared back as he trailed off, both thinking. Finally she said, "Who are you?"

"It depends," he said. "In my homeland, which is eons and miles hence, I was once known as many things, cursed and unwanted among them, but I fought and won my place, and they banished me for it. So I wandered until I came here, and I slew another challenger, and now I am simply called Hoar."

After a moment she asked, "An avatar?"

"A god," he said. "A lesser god, rarely invoked except in times of need. And you have need, Laura Farthing, and I will provide for you, in return for your service."

Her eyes wide, she immediately stood in order to sink into the best curtsy she could manage, which made him laugh. "Service?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "It's fairly simple, for now. I ask only that you think of me, and remember me, and call on me when you have need. In time…but for today, that is all I ask."

She looked up at him, at a lesser god whom no one remembered, and suddenly felt a little sorry for him, and a great rush of affection that nearly overwhelmed her. And his face seemed to brighten, just a little, and she said, "I—I'll do it."

He smiled. "Good girl." A black-gloved hand reached into the depths of his armor and withdrew a single coin, which he handed to her. It was cool to the touch as she turned it over: on one side, three lightning bolts, on the other, a two-faced head. "Hold this when you think of me or call on me, and I promise I will listen."

"I—thank you," she said, curtsying again.

"We will speak again," he said, "and you may find this glade whenever you need respite, or to speak with me. For now, though, I think you need to return home."

"How?" she asked, and he laughed.

"Let me take you," he said, and he reached out and she took his hand and for a moment there was a dizzying sense of being everywhere and nowhere at once, of exploding out of her very self to encompass everything and nothing at once, and she felt the painful cries of a million people at once, and she felt him containing her and then her very solid feet were very solidly standing on the very solid ground in front of Daeghun's house. Judging by the sky, it was late afternoon; the feast would be starting soon.

She looked around, but Hoar was nowhere to be seen; yet she felt his cool fingertips brush her forehead and his voice in her ear, saying, "Remember me," and then she knew he was gone.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of being wholly material, before clutching his coin in her fist, firmly, and setting out for dinner.

o-o-o

Outside the sun was setting. Laura went to the fence at the north edge of the property, the one that followed the village's boundary, and leaned against the tall corner post, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"Are we having fun yet?" came the low, rough drawl of her second favorite scout.

She sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides, and said, "Are you?"

"Well, there's really not much to do here," he said, leaning against the post next to her; she didn't open her eyes to look, because she could feel his arm touching the length of hers, casual, but insistently present. "Plenty of land to scout, sure, but without a good reason, and with someone else knowing all the ins and outs anyway…"

"Where're the others?" she asked, unable to suppress a nervous twitch of her fingers.

"The paladin's found some clergy man to talk to, the farmgirl's found herself a big farmman to talk planting with, and the tiefling is…doing whatever it is a demon does in a town with zero wealth."

She let his words wash over her without really hearing their meaning; she didn't feel like obligatorily pointing out that they all had real names and were people too, you know. She didn't feel like being laughed at.

Perhaps he could tell, because he said, "What about you? What was so dreadfully important that we had to trek out to the middle of nowhere? Or were you just fleeing your latest promotion? Not that I blame you for that—"

"Lorne," she said tiredly. "Lorne and my mother. That's why we're here."

He paused, and she thought he shifted his weight so that he really did sort of press against her. "You're saying that—"

"No," she said, annoyed. She opened her eyes to glare at him and discovered, for a half-second, a look of calculating concern on his face before he smirked. "I promised Lorne's mother I would bring news of him. And I had to ask Father about my mother."

He eyed her, turning his head to look at her, making his face a lot closer than she preferred. "You know Lorne's mother?"

"She helped raise me," she said. "Any ounce of femininity I have, I owe to her."

Now that was a stupid thing to say, she thought, of all the things to say about Retta, he's a lot closer than he should be—"Hm," he said, his gaze slowly considering her (chain-shirt-wearing, two-days-unwashed, thoroughly-dirty-feeling) body. "No, no, I think you're not giving your real mother enough credit. What'd you learn about her?"

"Nothing really important. Sentimental, I guess." She thought of Daeghun's pain, her hand itching to close around her coin, and winced.

"What, was she—"

"I'm tired," she said flatly. "Too much grief for one day."

He sniffed, in that long, considering way of his, and then said, slowly, "You know, the best way to handle grief is to celebrate life…" His free hand, the one not attached to the arm that was pressing against hers, reached up to touch the back of her head, lightly fingering her hair. He bowed his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, his nose centimeters from her skin, his breath sending shivers down her back with every word. "There are plenty of patches of wood around here to get lost, let your hair down…"

Her head whipped around—she was shivering, shaking inwardly—and his eyes flicked up to meet hers; amused, smoldering amber met wide, fearful brown framed by too-thick lashes, and his smug smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she struggled to narrow hers instead.

"I—no," she said, though her earlier lethargy was gone; he was up and away, hands in the air harmlessly, though the back of her neck still prickled. "We have to be going. G—get the others to the Weeping Willow and I—I'll meet you there."

She vaulted over the fence and started walking, but for a moment the call of his voice saying her name stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Farthing," he said, and she turned back.

"Bishop?"

"Wherever you go," he said, "I'll find you."

She paused, and shrugged, and turned away again. His laughter followed her, making her shiver in the warm, humid swamp; she shook because she knew one small part of her was waiting patiently for the day he caught her, and planned to relish it when he did.