Disclaimer: I own nothing. Incredibly thankful beyond words for the world that Toby Whithouse has created and for the character of Hal that Damien Molony has brought to life. All mistakes are my own.

Thanks as always to TJ4EV and Saemay. Sae in particular, for a little collaboration a few months ago (has it really been that long since we chatted about it) that helped me visualize the location towards the end.

Title and atmospheric inspiration came from Exile by Enya. Normally I put my music inspiration at then end, but this time I feel so strongly that it influenced the entire atmosphere of the chapter that I want to share first.

Feedback = Love. Thanks for everyone that has given me encouragement and for continuing to read this. xx

Ch 16: Exile

Pain. Cold. Doors.

And she can't breathe.

With laboured gasps Sylvie runs down an interminable dark corridor, past door after door after door. The only light seeps out from the cracks at the edges of the doors, yet it offers no comfort or warmth, and she doesn't move to open them. There is memory of naught else: only pain and cold; dark and doors. And an instinctive fear that keeps her from opening the doors, that keeps her running, keeps her fleeing.

Bang!

Sylvie screams at the sound and stops, jumping away from the door she had been about to pass. She can see it trembling, the light surrounding it warping as it rocks in its frame, as if something, or someone, had rammed into it.

Bang!

She whips her head around to look at the next door on her other side as it too shakes under some pressure. A new horror settles into the pit of her stomach - something is trying to get out, to get her. With renewed impetus she continues her run.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

The doors tremble as she passes them, causing her to stumble in her running. Hysteria threatens to set in when she begins hearing whispered words and animal howls behind the doors. And human screams. The noise gets progressively louder, the ramming more persistent, the more doors she passes. Choking terror bubbles up to her throat, her breath barely a wheeze through her teeth. For an eternity she runs through the dark corridor, the whispers, screams and howls and the sound of bodies crashing into doors reverberating through the air in a cacophony that threatens her sanity...

Until finally, there are no more doors to pass.

Only one remains.

At the end of the corridor.

She staggers to a stop, desperately trying to breathe. The glow around this door is more than a mere crack. The door is opening. In the grip of terror, she tries to turn away, but finds that she is powerless to do so. She gropes desperately in her skirts but the vial of werewolf blood is not there. For so long she had abhorred even carrying it; now she laments its loss. As she looks for anything she can use as a weapon, a thought dawns on her. She has the sense that, if she could just breathe properly past the fright lodged in her throat, she could shout... something. Something that can save her.

She struggles to find her voice as the door makes its final arc and she sees a silhouette framed by bright torchlight. The darkness of the figure is complete, and yet... As if they bring their own light, eyes look out at her, eyes that she sees as clear as day in the gloom. Wolf eyes. Vampire eyes. Monster eyes. They glow yellow, burn pure black, brighten to blue, then soften to hazel. Shape and colour change, wolf and vampire - they transpose; regardless who those eyes belong to, she knows that teeth accompany. Teeth that want to bite and rent and hurt. Her blood runs cold.

Yellow-black-blue-hazel-yellow-black-blue-hazel-yellow-black-... Arms reach out to grab her. Unable to look away, unable to flee, she gathers all her determination and harnesses her fear. With hands balled into tight fists, she concentrates on calm, concentrates on inhaling.

She finds her voice just as fingers close over her arms and she is pulled towards... him.

Blue-hazel-yellow-black-blue-hazel...

With one gut-wrenching note, Sylvie screams...

... and opens her eyes as the sound of her own voice cuts off.

She blinks in the grey gloom and she gasps in a fruitless attempt to pull in the cold, cleansing air. But for her there is never enough air - she feels as though the breath has been taken from her.

She tries to relax the muscles of her throat, to slow her panting, to control her racing heart. She concentrates on watching the small plumes escaping her lips as they fade away into the ether. After several minutes, a numbing calm finally settles over her as the last vestiges of the nightmare retreats. It never truly leaves her, but it fades into a part of her consciousness that she can lock away, at least until the next time it visits her when she closes her eyes in an ineffectual attempt to rest.

The woolen lap rug that she'd been using for extra warmth had slipped from her shoulders; she pulls it up again tight around her as she straightens up from where she had lain across the seat of the coach. She spares a glance upwards, thinking of the werewolf who has served as coachman and guard for her. He no longer stops when she wakes from her fitful slumbers brought about by the lull of the movement and tedium of the long voyage. He's grown accustomed to her screams.

It has been four days. Four days of cold and wet, of endless rocking and bumping over uneven terrain, of infrequent stops through unfamiliar land. Four days with nothing but her painful memories and her conflicted thoughts to keep her company. She fights to keep those locked away as well.

Unconsciously her hand strays to the pocket of her heavy pelisse, to finger the folded letter contained within...

"Did you read this? Do you know its contents?" She'd stormed into the room Gemma had been occupying, which now held both her friends, waving a piece of paper wildly in front of her.

Federico hastily pulled away from embracing his wife, "No Señorita, I have not read the letter. But, I understand the nature of what is written there." he conceded with a nod.

Her volume raised with incredulity. "He thinks I am safe with a pack of werewolves?"

Federico smiled a bit at her. "Those were not his exact words to me, but -"

Sylvie interrupted him, holding up the letter to read from it, quoting in clipped tones, "'I have decided it is in your best interest to remain hidden. Your friends will care for you. A generous allowance will be provided for the remainder of your natural life...'" she cut off her reading, pursing her lips as a fresh wave of rage bubble up. "He decided? Without any consultation into my wishes?"

Federico blinked in surprised. "Señorita, I thought you would not want to go back to him. Not after what befell you at the hands of those monsters. Not now that you know what vampires are truly like."

"Did I say I want to go back to him? No, I did not. I am merely cheesed off that he has made a decision without my consultation. Regardless of what happened, he has no right to make this decision for me!"

Federico raised his eyebrows. "But he is your husband. He has every right. And for once I must agree with him."

Sylvie huffed. "Of course you would agree with him. You bloody..." she stuttered for an appropriate expletive in her rage, "insufferable... cocksure... men! I have been here weeks - eight weeks, three days to be exact - waiting for my husband, and you finally arrive, with only a letter. A letter that explains nothing, merely informs me that my life has been decided for me. I am to be a prisoner here? Never again to see him? Never to see my family? Never to go home?"

Federico came up to her and took the letter away gently, placing it on a close nightstand. Looking at her with sympathy, he tried to gather her hands in his large beaten ones, but she snatched them out of his grasp, flinching. He frowned at her in worry, dropping his hands back down. "Sylvie, this is for your own safety. You have seen how dangerous Hal's world is, how dangerous vampires are. We could not identify any of the remains after that night, but one thing is clear - no clothing matching Jacob's garb was found. He must have escaped somehow - those Old Ones are crafty. He will have reported what happened and no doubt will be looking for Hal, and for you. The safest place for you is with us."

"His world? And yours? Is it not just as dangerous? Are werewolves any less?"

Federico frowned again, this time with hurt in his eyes. She instantly regretted her slip. Contrite, she forced herself to reach up and touch his cheek briefly before pulling her trembling hand away. But she kept her voice steady, apologizing quietly, "I am sorry, that was unfair of me to say. I am beyond grateful for you and the other werewolves coming to our rescue. Will you forgive my thoughtless words?"

Federico managed a small sad smile. "Of course. I know this has been an ordeal for you. But you are safe, Señorita. No one here will harm you, we all take great care when the time of the full moon nears. This group, it exists; this location, amongst a few others, exists, for this very reason - sanctuary from vampires. As for your parents, I sent a messenger with a warning to them. Not the true details, but enough of a story for them to understand that this is a serious threat. I told them you and Hal had to leave and instructed them to do the same."

"And Hal?"

"After sending you and Gemma here, I went back to the vampires' warehouse and took him to our house just outside of London. We kept him locked and strapped down for over a month to be certain he was no longer a threat. Now, he is... north. A remote place. Between his contacts and ours, we arranged for a house away from towns and people. I sent one of my compadres with him to keep him in check, to keep him safe."

"Was that truly necessary? He had not drunk any blood, he had resisted for so long."

"Sylvie, what he did, it was remarkable. I would never have thought a vampire could resist something so strong for so long. But, it did not come without cost. Once you were secure he stopped resisting. There was no blood and eventually he calmed down, but for a while he was uncontrollable, what is the word..." Federico frowned in concentration. "Salvaje. Wild. Feral. It took three men to hold him down long enough to render him unconscious in order to move him. It took two weeks just to get him to eat. I think... I think it was something he needed, a release. Just like the wolf needs to be released." Federico paused, but he needed to tell her the whole story, "Sylvie, the worst were the times he remained still as stone, staring with solid black eyes into nothingness, his fangs clearly extended. Hours of it. Sometimes his stillness would be interrupted by a hiss and I swear to la Virgen that once I heard your name pass through his lips."

Sylvie absorbed his tale. She felt the prick of tears in her eyes and a now familiar terror constricted her throat. She forced her words out in a whisper, "But you let him go." It was not a question.

Federico sighed, glancing briefly at his wife. "Yes. I was... reluctant... to kill him outright, I had to see if he would come back to himself. And he did. He asked after you; he wanted assurances that you were safe. So I felt hopeful. I waited another week to make my final decision. His idea was to remain strapped longer, but I felt we could not afford more time. We burned the vampire warehouse. We removed traces of ourselves within the city proper. We needed to go into hiding as well. I made arrangements for a complete change in all our interests and secured our other sites before traveling here, where I plan to settle permanently."

She started pacing. "You say he is safe now? That means I can go. We have some words to exchange, he and I. I deserve better than a letter!"

Federico raised his voice, "No Sylvie, vos no comprende. I said what he did was remarkable, and he was safe enough to move somewhere remote. Restrained. With supervision. I have already had word that he arrived there without incident. But... Sylvie, stop. Look at me." She complied and he stepped close, looking down at her with a deep frown, "This does not mean you would be safe with him. Ever. He is a vampiro. There is always the chance he will give into the bloodlust. Siempre. Always."

Sylvie looked away, involuntarily touching her neck, feeling the marks from that first bite. She was quiet for a while, thoughtful. Finally she said softly, "I need to see him face to face. This cannot end with a mere letter. I need to confront him. Only then will I know peace."

"You owe him nothing. You know that, sí?"

She looked back at Federico with a heavy heart. "He owes me."

Sylvie is jolted out of her memory by a change in the rhythm of the carriage. They are climbing again.

She looks out the window, at the wall of mist that writhes and wreaths the landscape with pure white. What secrets the the landscape holds, it refuses to divulge to her. They'd come into the small town closest to her destination the night before, where she'd been told that the entire area was an expanse of multitudes of high hills surrounding isolated valleys, all dotted with stones as if a giant had pounded his hammer into some great quarry, scattering shards for miles.

Distractedly she scratches at one of the scars on her wrist, then looks down at it. Her memory of her captivity is incomplete - impressions tinged with fear from the time she woke to find Hal locked inside with her - but she remembers clearly every single visit from Jacob while she had been chained, every single bite he had taken. She could still feel fangs sinking in sharp double stabs, the alien feel of another man's lips on her skin, hurting rather than pleasuring, the revulsion of his tongue lapping; what had been left behind was fiery pinpricks all over her body and a coldness that seeped into her very marrow. She smothers the memories, pulling the numbness tight around her like a blanket.

Her voyage from sea to peaks is almost to an end. So close. And then...

She very carefully does not let herself finish that thought.

Federico had tried to persuade her off her course.

First he continued to make the case for her safety, to which she retorted that were Hal not safe, the wolves would not have let him go. Then he reminded her that Hal, her husband, in control of her property and her person, had given her instruction to remain with them. To that she simply gave him a look that had him backtracking. Finally he resorted to guilt - how he and Gemma would be worried sick, how she would never see her parents again, how she deserved a better, long life... Sylvie grabbed the letter and stormed out as frustrated as when she'd stormed in. Insufferable men! Unable to endure remaining in the house, she had run out to keep company with the sea.

She'd never seen the ocean before and it fascinated her. Through the feverish haze of the first few days after she'd been rescued, she remembered Gemma bathing her wounds with the water from the sea. As soon as she'd been well enough to leave her sickbed, she'd gone out and run into the surf, plunging into the frigid waters. Salty, cold, cleansing - her tears had mingled with the sea as she'd cursed and raged and wept. She'd been hauled out, numb through to her core. She hadn't gone back into the ocean after that first time, but walked along the shoreline daily, steeling herself, nurturing the numbness against the ache inside her.

This time she made it just down the long path from the werewolf house before she stopped to read the last sentence of the letter once again. 'Rest assured, I will not come find you.' No explanations, no entreaties... not even an expression of sentiment. Signed simply 'Hal Yorke'. He is so bloody infuriatingly laconic! If only... no. There were no 'ifs'.

Hearing a sound behind her Sylvie turned to find Gemma approaching with her pelisse. Sylvie hadn't spared a thought to the cold as she'd run away. There were times she hardly noticed - it had to compete with the cold inside her that refused to dispel. As Gemma neared Sylvie asked sharply, "Have you come to try to dissuade me as well?"

Gemma held the coat open and responded guilelessly, "No, I have not. I've come simply because I am your friend."

The ice inside her thawed a bit at her friend's thoughtfulness. She smoothed her features and softened her voice. "Thank you," she said as she took and donned the proffered warmth.

Gemma held out her arm and Sylvie hesitated a long moment before taking it, letting her friend lead her down to the beach, where they walked companionably, each woman in her own thoughts. Waves crashed, white-grey against the dull sand, the ocean only a shade darker than the pale winter sky that remained uncharacteristically dry this late in the year. Beyond the waves there was little sound. A seagull's cry pierced the monotone of the surf, but Sylvie did not glance away from the waves to track it's course.

Gemma finally broke their silence. "I am troubled for you, my dear. You have rebuffed my attempts to speak to you, but the time has come to put this conversation off no longer. The people here think you a mild-mannered Lady who prefers quiet contemplation, no more. But that is not the Sylvie I have come to know. The carefree girl I know would by this point lead maid and cook in merry dancing or have me engaged in some riotous recital. She would have charmed the groom and had the young boys we rescued picking her the few stunted flowers left in this village. Not once have you touched the piano-forte in the parlour; your birdsong has yet to fill the air with its loveliness. Instead, you spend hours out here alone in the cold, sometimes so still I fear you've frozen into stone. You have grown into a pale specter of your former self."

Sylvie continued her contemplation of the turbulent waves. They seemed to at once always mirror her own unsettled state, yet mesmerize her into vapidness. Finally she conceded softly, "This place holds no joy for me. I feel lost. I feel trapped. Something suffocates me; I have forgotten how to breathe."

Gemma proceeded carefully, "What you endured - it was a painful ordeal and if it were anyone else I could understand this... lifelessness. But I know you - you have the strength in you to transcend that pain. I have the sense that... there is something more, something hidden under this mask of calm you have donned."

Sylvie slitted her eyes at her friend warily, wrapping her arms protectively around her middle. "I was held captive for three days, chained, starved, fed upon till I was at the point of death, then locked in with the one person who could hurt me worse. I would make myself ice to bury the pain of what happened."

"Sylvie, you are fire, not ice. Your outburst over Hal's letter demonstrates this. For the first time since we came here you were finally yourself. This would be cause for rejoicing if it weren't for the fact that your words to me conflict with your words to Federico. If you were still hurting over what was done to you, if you would be ice and want to forget that pain, your reaction would be gratitude that Hal has not come. Instead you seek him out. There is something more to your outburst."

Sylvie huffed indignantly before exploding. "The fact that he sent me a bloody letter to inform me my future has been decided without my consent is not enough reason for my outburst? The fact that he essentially expressed the wish to never see me again, when it is my right to tell him to bugger off, is not enough explanation for you? As my friend, I would expect you to understand this."

Gemma pursed her lips. "These are all things you might say in a written reply back. Why confront him at all?"

"I told Federico why. He owes me. Explanations. Apologies... He did not have the courage to face me. Instead, he will disappear forever, quite literally, while I spend the rest of my short life under the shadow of a decision that was made for me. I cannot leave this to a simple letter. I need a conclusion. Only then will I be set free of him."

"But Sylvie, surely he has given you that freedom in his letter. If you do not wish to remain here, then you can go somewhere else, to your family, or escape somewhere distant -"

"I thought your intention was not to dissuade me."

Gemma took a deep breath. "No, it is not. I am simply trying to understand your motivations. You say you chafe at the decision that has been made, and yet by your words it is the decision you wished for. You have never struck me as shallow or prideful. I believe you have something else pulling you towards him. I do not know your heart; but I am unsure you know it either. I would have happiness for you, not more pain. I wish to be certain you will not do something ill-considered."

Sylvie muttered under her breath, "Now I understand Hal's comments about bedeviling chatter." She pulled in air sharply, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. "Please. I do not wish to discuss this further."

She expected Gemma to prod her for more, and made to leave but Gemma's next words were unexpected. "I have not told you how I met my husband."

Sylvie turned to look at her, puzzled.

"When I first laid eyes on Federico, I was a widow. Not more than six months past, my husband had died, and I was happy for it. My marriage had been arranged. He was controlling, and, not kind..." She trailed off, her turn to stare off into the fathomless sea, lost in her memories. "I was with my parents, in London, when they attacked us. Two of them. So silent. So quick. One moment my mother and I were walking ahead of my father, listening to his commentary on the evening, the next he cut off with a strangled cry. I whirled to see a man, what I thought was a man, ripping out my father's throat. With his teeth. Fingers dug into my arm and a hand ground my mouth shut as I was pulled back roughly against another man. I tilted my head and saw his pure black eyes staring down at me. It all happened so quickly, my memory indistinct. As I struggled, I remember hairpin cracks appearing in the man's face, like crackle china, then ash at my feet, and a dark stranger wielding a piece of wood as a weapon at the creature that had killed my father. I don't remember the ensuing conversation, the journey to my home. Once my mother was settled, authorities contacted... I almost didn't ask. I almost let him leave, disappear forever. But, I could not repress my curiosity, a curiosity that despite my previous happiness to remain a widow, turned into more over the course of a few months...

He made me watch him transform, before he made the proposal. He wanted me to be aware of what he considers his true self. It was... it was something so horrific I still have nightmares." She shuddered. "But... I had seen his true self. Not the monster he believed himself to be, but the man who was cursed with something beyond his control."

Gemma came back to the present, fixing Sylvie with a sharp stare. "Federico keeps no secrets from me. When I first saw you that day, you and Hal, I knew everything he'd done to my husband, to others; I knew he deserved the death that my husband had come to provide. I had no love for vampires, especially him. And yet... I saw. I saw the way you defended him; I recognized the sentiment of your fervent argument. I was drawn to your predicament, felt an immediate connection to it, and, as impossible as your words sounded, I had the inconceivable reaction of wanting to believe you, to support you. I saw how you looked at him, how you desired him, how you loved him. And, I saw him, how he looked at you, how he remained transfixed, tame-"

Sylvie had been mesmerized by her story, but now was quick to deny Gemma's words, "That was before. There are monsters in this world, and I refused to see them. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do. I thought his claims of the darkness within him were an exaggeration. I had glimpses of it, but I thought I could keep him, as you say, tame. I was naive." Sylvie paused to roughly wipe the tears that had come unbidden. "I am naive no longer."

"But, he is not the one that hurt you, he is not the one who had those people locked up. He is not the monster-"

"Why do you defend him? You yourself just said he deserved the death Federico would have given him had I not intervened."

Gemma took Sylvie's hands in hers, the look she gave Sylvie full of sympathy. "I defend him because I believe you love him. Still. I believe that is what you seek to bury, that is why you have lost your spark. You had a conviction in him that transcended all obstacles; I expected it to transcend this one. Something is broken in you-"

Sylvie could not stop the flash of pain that lanced through her, could not stop the hurt from showing in her eyes. She snatched away her hands, wound her arms around her belly, holding in the ache that threatened to have her double over. She stared at the sea, longing for the numbness it inspired. "Very well, I see you will not leave this be. You wish to know what is broken in me? Jacob didn't just take my blood when he came to feed. He took something much more important - my unconditional conviction. He told me things... everything. Federico could only have gotten glimpses of the monster Lord Harry was; Jacob shared with me the true horrors. Every time he came, he would touch me, almost lovingly, with gestures uncanningly so like Hal's. He would touch my hair, trail his fingers on my skin, kiss my shoulders, my neck. With his eyelashes brushing against my cheek, with his breath moist on my ear, he whispered all the blood-soaked details... conquests, tortures, killings, reveling. Men, women, children. He even told me of women who thought, as I did, that they could change him... Jacob told me stories of Hal until I could not endure them and I begged him to bite me to end them.

You see, Jacob is a monster, but Hal is the one who taught him to be that monster. You wish to know my heart? I would have my heart be stone. You wish to know my intention? The day I met you, I promised your husband that I would take charge of Hal, I would ensure that he would not revert to the monster he once was."

She turned back to Gemma, her eyes empty, her voice like ice. "My intention is to fulfil that promise."

As the pass through close-set hills opens up into a lonely valley, the mist that shrouds the hillsides easing, she sees the house. Cottage really, though a rather large one. It stands, just barely visible, on a swell of land overlooking a narrow river that winds through sluggishly, ice rimming its banks. Promising smoke rises from twin chimneys, and she can see the tracery of vines, naked from winter's advance, clinging to the sandstone walls. A smaller building, surely no more than a room or two, looks to serve for servants quarters, and another is clearly a small barn. There is no wall, nor pen, though she sees the indication of a garden, and a large portion of the backside of the house is stacked higher than her head with firewood, many rows deep. As the path turn to make the final approach towards the front, she sees, peeking from the opposite side, the branches of a massive oak tree. Ash trees dot the entire valley, but this tree must have been planted when the cottage was built.

She knocks her hand forcefully over her head to signal a stop. Despite the butterflies in her stomach, when the coach stops she opens the door resolutely and jumps down, indicating to her escort to remain at a distance for the time being. She does not wish to alert anyone in the house of her approach.

Her steps are careful, slow; she tries to tread as lightly as possible on the frozen path. There is a wind here that whisks away the slight puffs of her breath and stings her cheeks despite the protection her bonnet offers. Her gloved hands clench her skirts with white-knuckled tension. The sound of the wind is overpowered by the rushing sound in her ears; as if she hears the sound of her own blood rushing fast in her veins, in time to her hammering heart. She comes to the door and pauses, her determination threatening to dissipate. She rummages in her pocket. Steel your heart. How many times had she repeated those three words to herself? As she extends her hand towards the door, a sound catches her attention to the right side of the house where the massive tree stands. Willing her hand to knock on the door, to get on with the reunion she had tasked herself with, she instead finds herself turning to investigate the tree. As she rounds the side of the house, she sees what has made the sound and stops.

To one side of the sprawling oak tree, there is a substantial pile of large stones - river stones from their relative smoothness. Most in many shades of grey - some so pale to be bone white, others the colour of storm clouds, blue tinted; more still in muddy yellow hues or stained green with moss.

Meanwhile, under the tree, surrounded by stones that are laid out in a line on the cleared ground, is Hal. He holds a stone in his hands looking at the ones arranged at his feet. As she stands looking at him, holding her breath, attempting to be as still as the stones themselves, he kneels down, places the stone off to the side. He shifts the ones in the line, making several moves, then picks up the first one and settles it in the spot he had cleared. He wears a look of single-minded concentration as he sweeps the line for precision. Then, ever so slightly, she sees his cheeks round and his lips turn up in a small satisfied smile.

When she sees that smile, something cracks in her heart. For the first time in more than two months Sylvie takes a proper breath as a realization dawns on her. The shock of the flood of emotions is overwhelming; the shock of what she had truly been blanketing sending her mind reeling.

"Bloody Hell!"

Hal frowns at the expletives breaking the stillness of the morning a split second before he connects the words with the voice.

He looks up sharply. "Sylvie?"

He'd been in exile several weeks now and as prisons went, this one definitely had not been the worst of his experience. While a remote location had been the preeminent criteria, he had been very specific in indicating a certain standard was expected. Thus, this house - built no doubt to indulge the whims of some Lord wishing to experience a simpler country life - was equipped with all the modern trappings, comfortable furnishings, indoor plumbing, and even a cistern attached to the kitchen hearth for an expeditious supply of hot water. Despite the werewolf guard and the precautions taken when the human cook and housekeeper came up twice a week, it suited Hal perfectly. This was not his first attempt at isolation. Yet... it was the first time he'd felt that isolation profoundly.

Of course he'd thought about her, dreamt of her - his dreams had even included her penchant for inappropriate language. Thus he questions what his eyes see. He'd heard the carriage approaching, heard the footsteps, but had paid them no mind. He had assumed it was the carriage sent to collect the two humans, and that the wolf was coming to inform him. The wind had kept any scent from him.

But no, this is no dream.

There she stands dressed primly in a dark coat and bonnet, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other fisted tight. She looks noticeably paler that he remembers her, wraith-like pale, thinner, the skin under her eyes smudged darkly, her cheekbones prominent. In his dreams she is vibrant, wild - her hair in disarray, her eyes sparkling with mischief - usually either berating him or tempting him... he cuts off that inappropriate line of thought.

And in his dreams she does not hold a vial of poisonous blood in her hand.

He gets up, pulling off the riding gloves he'd been using while he laboured at his task, and walks to her with a careful expression. Damn werewolves, could they not be trusted to do anything properly? All they had to do was keep her away, keep her safe. Why is she here?

As he approaches she shuts her eyes tightly and a stab of pain lances through him. He must be a monster in her eyes now; of course she would not wish to look upon him. He considers turning away, cowardly, but he's drawn to her. He owes her whatever resolution she has come seeking.

When he reaches her she opens her eyes. Those doe-brown eyes that haunt his dreams: eyes he'd hoped against hope to gaze upon once more, eyes he'd never expected to see again.

And then she slaps him.