AN:

Dear Readers,

Yes… I know it's been a very long time and you have no idea how grateful I am to you for returning to this story. Please, once again believe me that if I had the time to update sooner I would have done so. I will try (try being the key word) to not allow such a long time go between updates.

A special thanks to all my reviewers: Chrissiemusa,HBrules,PrincessSammi ,chocomoon, AleksandraHardbroom, melissaIvory, dartsagel, DissectingPomegranates, pesi.

My dear sister, NCD, I could no longer bear to see you in withdrawal

I know that this chapter is shorter that what I usually upload (it only has 8k, *gasp*) but I had to move parts of it in chapter 14. It I didn't do that, you would have looked at a chapter that easily had about 20k and although I am a firm believer in long chapters, that would have been slightly too long for my taste.

On the bright side, this means that chapter 14 will be updated really soon (I will try to update it before the end of next week)

Also, I know this chapter is mostly about my OC's but please bear with me. Next chapter you will see a lot of our beloved characters return but this chapter is necessary to explain some things regarding the characters I created. I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.

Warning: There are some scenes which, while not overly sexual, are somewhat intimate. Reader discretion is advised.

FIRE AND ICE

BOOK I: THE WIELDER, THE GIVER AND THE HEIR

Chapter 13: Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat (Ralph Ellison)

"Who are you?" Fear echoed in the child's voice, making the ruins vibrate with a brief instance of life. The woman stood unmoving, facing him, a gentle smile on her face, hand extended slightly as if to touch him. After what seemed like a moment of deep thought she placed her unnaturally cold hand on his cheek. He felt his pain dull, his eyes fall heavily, the beats of his heart slow down. Knowing instinctively that he was going to die, the boy appreciated the contractions of his heart for one last moment.

"Hope." The woman ultimately answered his question softly, but the sound of her voice fell on unhearing ears for the child's soul was no longer bound to this earth.

(Fire and Ice: the Wielder the Giver and the Heir, Chapter 1)

There was a very good reason for which the Mistress of Fire rarely personally attended to the souls of humans. Apart from obvious constraints like her inability to be in two or more places at the same time, there was another one of a more subjective nature: interacting with humans that were irrevocably condemned to leave this earth. As they say, ignorance is bliss and previous masters and mistresses of Fire had chosen to stay ignorant to this less than pleasant aspect of their duties. What they did not know could not hurt them. What they did not see could not remain etched in their memories forever. Yet, Hope had long ago chosen to forgo this age old dictum and had made it her mission to personally attend as many deaths as possible. Why? Some might say that the young Mistress of Fire was a noble creature that wished to glorify and respect the ending of life by treating it in a more personal fashion. Others might say that she was sadistic and wished to see people suffer. They would all be wrong.

As it has been previously mentioned in the course of this story, the first person Hope had seen die had been her own father. Beforehand what her duty implied had been an extraneous thing for her. After all, why would a fifteen year old girl whose life had already been plagued by enough dissonance as it was be interested in observing the macabre machinations of death? Yet so, after her father drew his last breath in that shameful way seeped in fear, an interest in the matter was sparked within her. She wanted to know. She needed to know if the fear of death her father displayed was normal and rational. Thus, it was not a desire to glorify humanity or plain cruelty that made the young girl of fifteen wish to witness the process of dying, but it was unadorned curiosity laced with a selfish desire to redeem her parent in her eyes that stood behind her actions.

Sometimes, while absorbed in one of her often bouts of what-ifs, Hope wondered how different her life would have been had she not willingly chosen to physically perform her duties as a make-shift angel of death? How much of her character was shaped by one single life-altering decision? Maybe she would have been less sardonic, more empathetic, less inclined towards cruelty had she not seen the ugliness of human nature depicted in all its glory at such an early age. Or maybe all those undesirable qualities of her character were naturally deep-seated in her persona so that they would have remained unchanged regardless of her choice. No one knew. No one could know. And that is the great failing of decisions made in haste following impulse rather than reason: they leave room for what-ifs and, consequently, regrets.

It does little good to dwell on what-could-have- beens and the crux of the matter was that one day a fifteen year old girl, already jilted by the unfairness of fate, chose to witness the death of a human being and this involuntarily changed her. It would be far too easy to blame her for taking a course of action that might have ended up designing her entire persona. It would also be thoroughly unfair. After all, Hope's cognitive capacities did not extend to accurately predicting the future and like the rationality of all humans, hers was also bounded. That is to say that she took the decision to witness the deaths of those she was supposed to take within the limitations of the knowledge she had of the horrors of dying, which in truth was not much. No, it would not be fair to judge Hope on her initial venial transgression. What can be seen as odd is that after witnessing a death she went on to see more. One after another, every day as seasons changed and years passed, the Mistress of Fire stood at the bedside of unfortunate men, women and children, waiting patiently to fulfil her role. Why? To that question not even Hope herself could answer. She did not know why she needed to see the suffering of those miserable creatures; she only knew that she needed to see it.

Human beings often engage in various types of irrational behaviour. From wishing against all odds that something happened to believing in things that one cannot empirically test, humans are often plagued with limitations in their own rationality. One of these irrational behaviours is the phenomenon of addiction and the conjectures that surround it. Despite her out of the ordinary magical capacities and her ability to sense things that no other person on the face of the earth could, Hope was still very much human. Her impulses, her feelings, her thoughts were human. Her compulsion towards witnessing the cruelty of man-kind was a very human impulse that, if she had the wish or the patience to consult a psychologist, might have been classified as self-destructive at best. Compulsive and effusive in her emotions as she was, it was only natural that she would, despite her better judgment, form an unhealthy attachment towards the occurrence of dying. Or better said, towards the raw power it made her feel.

Hope took a long hard look at the unmoving face of the young child. There was little comfort in having to take someone so young, in having to cut short a life that had barely begun. There was little sense in establishing her superiority over someone as defenceless and underdeveloped as a child. Yet, once again she kneeled before the burned body of the child and studied it with some degree of morbid curiosity. She looked at the charred fingers, the small patches of burned skin, the pale cheeks dirtied with ash and the cold, unfeeling stare of the big brown eyes that were seeing no more. The thread of life was frail and could snap at any moment. The physical containers that enveloped the spiritual essence of a human being were so resilient and yet so very feeble. While they could withstand hardships beyond belief, at the same time, when confronted with something akin to the force of an explosion, they crumbled like sand castles. If there was something she had learned during her dealings with death was that life was a gift to be cherished and not be taken lightly. Without engaging in philosophical platitudes that were not in her character she reckoned that maybe, if nothing else, the death of that child was the universes' way to make her remember her duties and true purpose.

More often than not, humans have the tendency to truly believe that life starts and ends with the individual. In their arrogance they believe that the moment they pass away the sun stops shining, the Earth stops revolving around its axis and everyone else in the world would be devastated at their disappearance. It is an irrational belief, and yet it is a normal one. Although she should have known better, Hope also had trouble imagining the world after she died. In fact, if she were honest with herself, which rarely happened, she did not wish to die. The thought of death, of non-existence, scared her. What bitter-sweet irony. The mistress of death afraid of dying. She took another hard look at the boy and with a resolute expression on her fair features and a flick of her hand she allowed herself to disappear into nothingness. She knew what she had to do and she would do it that very day.

Hope looked into the distance, her eyes fixed on the dawn's first rays of light. The beautiful colours that were splashed across the sky bathing the unsuspecting woods below held absolutely no fascination for the woman. She could not see them. Instead, her eyes could see the world only through the monochrome lens of her soul. She stole a furtive glance towards the beautiful golden ring that rested innocently on her index and for a second, maybe less than a second, she hated it. Or she hated herself for using it. She did not know… she could not tell. Choosing not to dwell on such sentimental nonsense, Hope quickly took her pack of cigarettes and with well-practiced motions that were beginning to become reflexes, she took a cigarette pressed it between her parted lips and lit it. She desperately needed the blessed nicotine to dull her senses. She needed something to take her away from the mess she had made of her own life. So lost was she in thought that the soft knock at the wooded door of her room almost escaped her.

"Enter" she commanded her voice as neutral as ever, barely wondering who would be wishing to see her at such an unholy hour.

Constance Hardbroom had desperately wanted to say that Noah's revelations regarding Miss Hawthorne meant nothing to her. In fact, she was so frantic to negate their meaning that she had tried to banish them entirely from her mind. Yet, her mind, treacherous as it was, did not allow her to forget and, after a sleepless night she decided to take it upon herself to talk to the younger woman about what the good doctor had revealed. It felt peculiar for the potions teacher to face someone who had actively been protecting her for the past month. In fact, it felt so odd that while facing her apparent benefactor she almost turned on her heels and left the room. But something kept her rooted to the spot.

"I know… smoking is not allowed within the school…" Hope's clear, mocking voice broke the pregnant silence in the room and Constance took a moment to absorb her words. In the light of what she knew from the doctor it seemed such a peculiar way to start a conversation. It seemed somewhat ill-fitting to have such casual remarks exchanged between them.

"No… In fact I don't know… I cannot honestly say that I ever saw someone smoke within Cackle's before…" Constance didn't know why she had answered. Maybe because talking about irrelevant things was a better alternative than being silent.

In fact, her first instinct had been to barge into the woman's room to demand an explanation. But then, after the reality of the fact that the younger woman had been, as laughable at it might have sounded, her guardian angel sunk in, Constance decided to take a more diplomatic approach. Instead now she was making irrelevant small-talk and something did not allow her to voice her questions and concerns. Maybe it was the novelty of the situation.

After her mother's death her father had imposed very few rules and imparted few life lessons. Little Connie had pretty much been allowed to do whatever she pleased, whenever she pleased it as long as she did not cause herself or others conscious harm. Despite his laissez faire style of parenting, her father had managed to ingrain some very important lessons within his daughter's character. One of them was on the matter of debt and dependency. Mr Hardbroom had always been a dreamer, a man whose sense of practicality was overridden by having his head in the clouds. As far as she knew, her father had never been bothered to keep accounts of money spent, to limit himself within a budget, and, in short to deny himself anything. He wasn't a smart or shrewd businessman, he was an inventor. Like herself, he had had a talent for potions, a talent which he had inherited from his own father; the great potions master Aloysius Hardbroom, together with a small yet profitable potions laboratory. Truthfully, his less than practical character was not his own fault. He came from a wealthy family and had never been taught how to live otherwise. After Constance's brilliant grandfather died, the potion factory started to dawdle under her father's patronage. More often than not, his sense of practicality would be overridden by his creative, inventive nature and this would hardly materialize itself in financial benefices for the company. While her mother had lived, she had managed to keep her husband in line and had, somewhat, managed to ingrain a certain sense of responsibility towards his family into him. After her death, like most of the things her mother had achieved, that turned into ashes and dust.

Constance had many memories of her father. Some, like sharing ice-cream after a hot day or reading fairy-tales in the library, were good. Others, not very much so. Oddly enough there were two particular memories, the worst she had of her parent, that had not only managed to sour the relationship between daughter and father, but to also shape her character. The first one took place when she was about eleven years old on a seemingly unimportant day. She could vividly remember how un-extraordinary that summer day seemed. She had woken up like every day at eight o'clock sharp. She had eaten her porridge, she had played with her dog, she had worn her favourite dress. Apart from the fact that her father was nowhere to be found, nothing was unusual. Then it happened. In one single moment her entire world, together with her perception of her father changed. She could see him stumbling as if he were a blind man towards the house. Instinctively, little Connie ran towards him but stopped half way. The man that was walking towards the house was not her father. He was merely a stranger that carried her father's features. His clothes were torn, his face was bloodied, and his lips were swollen. Small treks of blood feel freely from his half-opened mouth and for a moment Constance pondered running away. Yet she stood still, rooted to the spot and did not flinch when the stranger approached her and placed a hand with bruised knuckles on her shoulder. He did not offer an explanation. Maybe he was too tired or in too much pain for that. Yet, the few words that he did say were burned within her memory forever: "Never allow yourself to be in someone's debt".

Thinking about it with the maturity of an adult, Constance had long before realized that her father had been speaking about monetary debt. In fact, after his death when she had been settling his affairs, she learned that the state he had been in that day was the result of him borrowing a large sum of money from some less than savoury people. But at eleven, Connie had interpreted his words differently. She had truly believed that he was urging her to be independent, that he was advising her to stand on her own two legs and never accept help. Her entire life she had operated on that misconception. And then, when she stood before the young person in whose debt she was, the dour potions mistress found it hard to find an appropriate way to react. Before she allowed herself to go down the memory lane and think about the second lesson her father had unconsciously imparted, Constance turned back to the matter at hand and looked at her companion. The second memory was not worth recalling. Not now, nor ever…

"Want one?" Hope turned to half-face her and she could see the slightly derisory smile appear at the corner of her lips once more. The woman's blue eyes were mockingly challenging her and despite herself the deputy felt moved to meet her challenge.

Constance eyed the pack of cigarettes speculatively. She had never dared to even approach… with unsteady hands she took a cigarette from the pack and raised it to her lips. It seemed such a foreign idea, such a grave trespassing of every rule that had been ingrained into her being that she pondered immediately ending her irrelevant rebellious streak. The younger woman watched her, an odd sparkle in her eyes, a thin eyebrow raised mockingly, a slightly cruel smile playing on her red lips. For some reason, that particular expression encouraged the deputy in her transgression. A surge of defiance rose in her chest, and with fairly determined movements she lit the white stick of tobacco and allowed it to the smoke to fill her mouth. She could feel it travel through her air-way, her lungs protesting to the foreign feeling, her throat going dry. Despite her efforts to maintain her composure, she started to cough violently and she immediately put out the cigarette. Once again, the deputy was proven that going against the rules was not for her.

"Are you quite alright?" the younger woman asked, her eyes once again fixed on the horizon. The expression she had shown earlier had fled for her face and was replaced by blankness. For a second, Constance wanted to know what she was hiding behind that mask. What was she thinking about?

"Why did you do it?" uncharacteristically, the words fled her lips before she could stop them. Everything about this woman was so confusing; everything about the entire scenario was so surreal that she felt unnerved. She was once again met with Miss Hawthorne's eyes, now widened slightly in confusion and Constance felt compelled to explain "Noah… Doctor Elwood told me that you came here to protect… well… to protect me…Why?" admitting it aloud was harder than thinking about it and the words seemed to get stuck in her throat.

"Two days ago I asked you for your trust and you offered it. I will hold you to your word and ask you to merely trust me without asking for a reason…" Hope answered calmly, with deliberation after a moment's thought, her eyes leaving the deputy's face and once again fixating themselves on the horizon "There are forces at play that you would not understand… but I promise that one day, maybe sooner than you imagine, you will comprehend my words. Until then please don't ask for a reason…"

Every fibre in Constance's body wanted to protest and demand more answers. Yet, somehow she instinctively knew that it would be futile. Trust was a powerful word that could not really be associated with the woman in front of her. The way in which Miss Hawthorne did things, that underhand, secretive way, did not demand trust. And yet she felt compelled to give it. Maybe it was because she was in the woman's debt, or maybe because thus far, Hope had stood between the school and tragedy. She couldn't pinpoint why, but she knew that, to some extent, as long as it did not mean hurting those she held dear, she would follow her blindly.

"Very well, Miss Hawthorne" she answered softly and turned on her heels to leave the room.

"You would do well to remember that I am not a hero…" Constance was stopped in her tracks by the low, monotone voice. Something in that voice made her shiver "Noah… he doesn't know…he doesn't understand… He has a gentle heart, Miss Hardbroom…" Hope said with a degree of finality, her blue eyes desperately seeking the beautiful colours of the sunrise.

If there was one thing that Evan Mallard hated, it was being ordered about. If there was one thing that Evan hated more than being ordered about was feeling weak and useless. Thus, after four days of having more than enough of both he had decided to discharge himself, against any medical advice, and go home. Of course, before being able to do just that he had had to suffer from a long and fairly tedious lecture that the sanctimonious Doctor Elwood saw fit to give. He seriously could not understand why the doctor cared about his fate. In his only interaction with the man he had been less than polite to him and went as far as to try to turn him against his best friend. Yet, the doctor had been more than concerned with his health, gave him about a dozen bottles of pills and reiterated the perils of discharging himself against medical advice over and over again. By the time he had managed to escape the Doctor's clutches, Evan had been thoroughly frustrated and had been feeling the beginning of a migraine. Not that he would tell Noah Elwood that, though.

As he walked, albeit slower than usual and making almost imperceptible pauses to regain his breath every few steps or so, he could not help but feel satisfied at |finally being in his own house. At least there he had the power to control what was happening to him. Furthermore, he also wanted to research the cause behind his recent brush with death before it happened again, and he could not really do that from a hospital bed. His satisfaction, however, died down when he entered the hall-way of the manor. Something was not right. Not right at all. He felt a powerful, familiar magical energy invading his senses and for a moment he stopped dead in his tracks looking at the flickering light coming from his living room.

"Good afternoon, Mr Mallard, do dare to come in… " her voice resounded through the empty rooms and Evan felt his knees weaken slightly. Was she truly there or was she simply a figment of his imagination? Feeling a surge of courage wash over him, he slowly stepped into the living room and was compelled to take a deep breath.

She was there, truly there, sitting nonchalantly on the armchair in front of the fireplace, her long legs crossed in front of her, her thin hand gripping a glass of what looked like scotch. Or maybe it was bourbon. He remembered that she preferred bourbon to scotch. For a moment he forgot to breathe. Save their impromptu meeting in the village next to the blasted academy, he hadn't seen her for ten years and even then he hadn't allowed himself to look at her too closely. But at that moment, there she stood, as beautiful, as perfect as he remembered her to be and for a split second he forgot who she was and how dangerous she could be. He just looked at her, avidly trying to find traces of the girl he had so long ago fallen in love with. Hope had always had a flair for the dramatic and it was obvious that she had aimed to make an impression. She was dressed in a short, simple black dress that exposed most of her long legs, her pale arms and a fair amount of cleavage. It was with a certain sense of fascination that he noted that her skin was much paler than he remembered it to be. In fact, it seemed so pale that, but for the fire colouring her features, it would have been almost translucent. Her eyes were as deep and as blue as he could recall but they seemed much calmer, more sedate, as if the past ten years had extinguished their flame. Or maybe, he wondered with a pang of guilt, it was the past ten days and the experience he himself had inflicted upon her. Her lips, those full, red lips he could remember so well had remained the same but they seemed to be set in a thinner line, in a colder, crueller smile. Her entire face was thinner, more drawn, slightly more elongated yet still beautiful. Still so very beautiful.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, his voice slightly strangled, trying to feign the same nonchalance that she was displaying. He walked towards the fire and sat in the armchair opposite her. She was still using the same perfume.

"Please, Evan. I thought that by now you were aware of how pathetic your warding skills were… Bypassing your wards was child's play" she answered calmly, taking a small sip of her drink, a derisory smile playing on her lips.

"And my servants?" He followed, watching her closely. Now that the novelty of the moment had somewhat worn off, and his cognitive capacities had recovered from the shock, he was well aware of how dangerous the situation was.

The woman that stood in front of him was no longer the fifteen year old child whose powers had yet to develop fully. She was as powerful as he was, if maybe not more so. Regardless of what she said, his warding skills were not pathetic and she should not have been able to break the wards around Mallard Manor. There was also an air of confidence around her that he did not recognize and made him somewhat uneasy and made him stay as focused as he could on her words and actions. Firstly, she had the strategic advantage and she seemed to know it. For one he had no idea how she had managed to escape the trap he had designed for her. Whatever she had done to free herself from her prison was either insanely powerful or insanely dangerous. Or maybe both. Secondly, he had no idea why she was in his house. He was fairly certain that she had nothing to do with his recent illness. Despite her underhand methods of luring her enemies, Hope preferred confrontation. Unlike him, she wanted to see the faces of the people she dealt a final blow to. Even if she had nothing to do with his health debacle, now that she was in front of him and could attack him at any point. Lastly, as loath he was to admit it, if she were to attack him, he would be in no position to sustain a powerful magical effort. His powers were still the same, his command of his two elements was still firmly in place, but he was well aware that his body was not ready to fight her. Even if he somehow managed to survive her magic, he was fairly certain his heart would give out under the strain of defending himself.

"They felt an inexplicable urge to go to bed early…" she answered in the same calm voice and took a long hard look at the man in front of her.

Hope had to admit that she had not been fully prepared to see him as he was at that moment. For her, Evan had always been the powerful one. When she had truly believed him to be the man with whom she would spend her entire life, he had seemed like a powerful protector. For the past ten years, he had been a powerful force whose existence disturbed her. For the past ten days, while locked in the trice-damned potions lab, he had been a powerful enemy who needed to be crushed. But at that very moment, as he stood in front of her, she suddenly realized that she was the powerful one. Of course, intellectually she had known, from the moment Noah had told her Evan was sick, that she would have the advantage. Yet, she had been unable to fully comprehend it. As she stood in front of him, the realization that she could kill him at that very moment hit her full force. Hope looked at the man intensely, wishing to find any sign of a hidden power, any sign of dangerous strength. His chest was broad and well-toned but his muscles seemed lax, sad reminiscences of a certain physical strength upon which he could not draw. His face was drawn, pale and his features seemed tired. His brown eyes, with dark bags under them, held weariness and sadness beyond belief. For a second, Hope fought the urge to scream. She had come to confront Evan Mallard, not his shadow. This man was not him. This man was not the man she had hated for so many years. This man could be destroyed in an instant and she only had to make him defend himself in order to kill him. She could not feel hate for this man. He was too… too frail to hate. Even worse, as she looked at him she could feel her contempt die and concern for his safety rise in its stead. She quickly crushed that sentiment. It would not do to feel concern for one's arch-enemy, would it?

"Why are you here, Hope?" after thoroughly analysing the situation Evan figured that his best chance was a straight-forward approach. He would prefer not waste his energy on her mental games, after all. He was also intrigued by a slight flicker of emotion that had appeared on her face for less than an instant and, as gently as possible, he tried to probe into her mind in order to discern her feelings.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your little trick and to inform you that it failed spectacularly" she answered coldly. For a second Hope had wanted to say something to the effect of: 'I came here to kill you and then found out that you are unworthy of killing' but then she felt his attempt to invade her mind and blocked it with facility. He was the Master of Water. His element naturally allowed him to discern and control feelings. Just how weak was he if she was able to block his attempts that easily? Her twisted sense of justice would not allow her to rob him of his dignity.

"You needn't have bothered… I am certain that I would have found out sooner or later. As you well know, I have my sources." he replied dismissingly, feeling her crude attempt to block him from her thoughts succeeding effortlessly.

"Yes, I know of your… liaison with Imogen Drill. A non-magical person and a gym teacher… how… quaint…" she replied mockingly, a strange light flickering in her eyes.

"Does it disturb you?" Evan asked in a low, serious voice, his eyes fixed on her pretty features. He hoped against hope that she would say yes. In fact, if she did say yes he would fall on his knees and once again, like ten years before, he would beg for her forgiveness and put himself at her mercy.

"Don't be ridiculous, the time when you having paramours would have disturbed me is long past…" she answered coldly, her eyes refusing to meet his, were staring at the dancing flames of the fire place.

"Indeed" he replied with equal coldness. Had she actually plunged a knife into his breast, it would have probably hurt less than hearing her say those words in such a detached, uncaring manner "Now that you have given me the good news of your survival, why are you still lingering?"

"Do you actually want me to leave?" she took another sip of her drink and this time looked at his tired features. Feeling the onslaught of pity, compassion, empathy and other utterly disgusting feelings invading her soul, she turned her eyes away.

Evan's first instinct was to reply with a resounding 'yes'. His mind screamed at the top of its non-existing lungs that he should say 'yes' and have her out of his house as soon as possible. But his heart, that stupid, weak, sickly, treacherous thing, reminded him that this was the first time in ten years he had properly laid eyes on the woman he loved so passionately. At that moment he hated her like he had never hated her before. Of course, there had always been a small part of him that had hated Hope. He had hated her powers, he had hated her purpose, so very different from his own, and he had hated her stubbornness and inability to forgive. But at that very moment, he hated her for posing that question. That question which once again reminded him of the powerful effect she had on him. He could not say 'yes' and risk never seeing her again. Against all logic, against all rationale, against all instincts, he could not send her away. He chose to stay quiet, the defeat of his conscience clearly displayed on his aristocratic features.

On her part, Hope could not fully understand why she did not just leave. Not wanting to kill the man while he was a wreck was one thing, but enjoying a drink while in his presence was on an altogether different level. Quite frankly, although she hardly dared to admit it, she enjoyed the momentary peace that the moment afforded her. She did not have to lie to Evan. She did not have to answer incessant questions about her powers, her plans or her future. She did not have to bear scrutinizing stares or accusing glares. Moreover, although this was something she truly did not dare to admit, that moment reminded her of a time she had lost. It brought back memories of innocence, happiness and love. It brought back the cottage they had shared and the dreams she had had. Lost in her thoughts, her eyes looking at the dancing of the flames, she did not notice him rise from his armchair and go towards the drink cabinet where he prepared two glasses of bourbon.

"I took the liberty of bringing you a refill" he said in a smooth tone, breaking her musings and offering one of the two glasses.

"Are you supposed to be drinking?" she answered in the same mocking voice she always seemed to address him with, while she took the glass form his extended hand, their fingers touching ever so slightly.

"Well, I don't have the slightest idea. But don't worry, love, I won't give you the satisfaction to keel over and die at your feet… " Evan replied in kind, and inclined his head in a mock salute before taking a sip of his drink.

"I gather your departure from the hospital was an impromptu one…" he answered with a small smirk

"Quite… but you already knew that or you wouldn't have been here… How did you know I would be leaving the hospital today? If your blasted friend had his way I would still be strapped to that ghastly bed" he inquired, his voice lighter and his countenance slightly more relaxed.

"How do you think I knew?" Hope raised a perfect dark eyebrow and he smiled slightly in return.

"Oh, so the meddling doctor is not only your friend but also your spy… I gather that you enquired after me often? " Evan countered with a certain playfulness, his hand twirling the liquid in the clear glass.

"You know what they say…keep your friends close and your enemies closer" she replied lightly falling into the easy pattern of their banter

"Indeed…" he answered much more quietly. For the second time that evening he had felt the searing pain inflicted by her words. He intellectually knew that their relationship at the present time could hardly be described as anything but animosity. But hearing her describe him as an enemy hurt more than he wanted to admit. In fact, had he not known it were useless to do so, he would have once again knelt in front of her and beg her not to consider him as her enemy. For a second he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to stifle that particular impulse.

"Are you quite alright?" she inquired calmly, noticing the fleeting look of pain that had passed over his features.

"Careful, Hope. I might start getting the wrong idea and believe that you care about me" he had intended it to sound detached and derisory, in the fashion of their banter, but instead it came out as bitter.

She didn't know why, she strongly suspected the alcohol was to blame, but she couldn't respond to that. Not in the way that he had said it. Had he said it lightly, as if it were a joke, she would have probably been able to find something to say in retaliation. But his bitter tone gave her pause. Of course, a lot of his actions during the evening had indicated that he still bore some sort of feeling towards her. A feeling that was different from hate and distaste. And the entire evening she had decided to disregard it. But she couldn't ignore that. She couldn't ignore that bitter, hurt tone he had used for it screeched in her ears like a thousand fingernails scratching a blackboard.

"Do you?" he asked quietly, his voice shaking slightly, his eyes searching for her gaze. He once again found himself praying that she would not say "no". In fact, if she did say "no" he was fairly certain he would not be able to bear a third knife plunged into his heart in the time-span of a single evening. If she did say "no" he would attack her only so she would have reason to kill him on the spot.

Hope met his eyes fully for the first time that evening and was yet again assaulted with an onslaught of feelings, only this time there weren't only her feelings but his as well. His eyes, those expressive hazel pools, held so much emotion that for a moment she wished to turn her stare away from his. But instead she held it and managed to understand the despair, the love and the momentary hope he felt. It scared her. This man she had educated herself to hate for such a long time held such powerful feelings for her. She was scared to examine her own emotions. What if she felt the same? What would her purpose be then?

"What do you want?" she asked softly, cowering under the intensity of his eyes

Encouraged by her question he approached and knelt in front of her. He could not formulate a cohesive thought. She had not completely denied him and that seemed to give him strength and confound him at the same time. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage but, quite frankly, he could not have cared less. He took her delicate hands into his and felt her flinch slightly under his touch, but she did not retract her hands. He looked in fascination at the long red nails, at the pale blue veins, and at the fair skin. Like a thirsty man finding an oasis in the dessert, he pressed his lips to her hands as if they were a sacred object. Those fair hands that could kill him with a mere touch seemed so inoffensive, so gentle. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a second and drink in her familiar perfume. For an instant he was transported back to a time when life was much easier, to a time when he had known pure happiness. Then something extraordinary happened. As if forgetting he was her proclaimed enemy, Hope placed one of those wonderful, hands upon his cheek and caressed it with infinite gentleness. He leaned into that touch much in the same way a dog leans into the touch of his master. He opened his eyes and looked into her blue ones trying to read what she was feeling and thinking. He could not. Those deep blue pools were unreadable to him but he did not care. Instead, emboldened by her apparent acceptance, he sought her lips.

Hope felt his lips crash onto hers and did nothing to stop it. The rational part of her brain told her, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Noah, that allowing Evan to kiss her would not lead to anything remotely good. She quickly quieted that annoying voice when she felt his kiss, gentle and caring at first but growing deeper and more passionate with every single second. She placed her arms round his neck and felt him trembling under her touch. This man she had vowed to kill, on whom she had sworn to take revenge was trembling like a mistreated cur under her hands. She felt a strange surge of power over him coupled with pity and with another feeling she dared not identify.

Once again emboldened by the absence of a rejection, Evan moved his lips from her own lips to her neck. His hands caressed her back and arms, hungry to every single inch of her body. His mouth travelled to her ears and he bit her softly eliciting a soft moan from her. He knew that she would react like that and the fact that she seemed to have not changed her preferences gave him confidence. She returned the favour by allowing her fingers to tangle themselves in his unruly blond hair and he became painfully aware of how well they knew each other. It seemed that Hope had the same revelation and for a moment stopped in order to search his eyes. Her blue ones were no longer a confused mass of feelings but instead held a question. He did not know what the question was but he knew that whatever she demanded, if it was in his power to give, would be hers.

Hope looked at his hungry stare, filled with desire and genuine care and decided to throw caution to the wind. What could happen anyway? It wasn't as if he would be able to kill her. Plus she had subconsciously waited for ten years for that very moment. She had been patient and she was determined to wait no longer. With steady movements, she unzipped her dress and allowed it to fall onto the floor. The following day everything would be back to normal but for that moment she wanted to pretend that her version of normality did not exist.

As he looked at her half-nude form Evan wanted to say so much but found that he could not. All the words that he knew were failing him. They were not enough. Instead he proceeded to painstakingly kiss every inch on her body, focusing on the spots he could remember she liked best. He knew that this would be his undoing. He knew instinctively that he was playing a very dangerous game and that he had all the chances to be the looser in this gamble. But, like with most things concerning Hope, he disregarded rationality and acted upon emotion alone. He could feel her soft lips upon his skin and believed there was no better feeling in the world. He could hear her quiet purr in response to his ministrations and he believed there was no sound that was more beautiful in the world. He could smell her amazing perfume and believed that there was no fragrance that was more alluring in the world. His heart, poor, wretched thing, was beating wildly and was protesting at the combined attack of emotion and physical activity. He could feel pain radiating through his chest with viciousness but, once again he didn't care. Why would he care if he died or not, if she was there with him? Through sheer obstinacy, he increased the speed of their tantalizing dance and she effortlessly complied seeming unaware of his discomfort. Their screams of pure joy pierced the quietness of the house and Evan fell back onto the floor as if hamstrung.

Hope took a moment to compose herself, not allowing her mind to process what had happened just yet. She would have time to berate herself for her weakness later on, but at that moment she refused to indulge in self-pity. She turned to face her lover and could see him trying to control his breathing. His face was seemingly unbothered save for his brow that was slightly furrowed. He also seemed paler than a moment before and when he raised his hand and placed it on his chest she knew that something was wrong. For a second she had to suppress the mad giggle that was building up in her throat. Knowing that she could kill the man through sex would have spared her a lot of headaches. A certain triumphal viciousness seemed to be bubbling in her chest for an instant but it almost immediately gave way to a more powerful, and thoroughly uncalled for, feeling of panic.

"Evan, are you feeling alright?" she asked as neutrally as possible, trying to keep her annoyingly conflicting feelings out of her voice.

"Yes… I just… need… a moment…" he replied, trying to sound as normal as possible, but his voice was strangled and his breathing laboured.

Hope looked at him thoroughly unconvinced and pondered what to do next. She could leave him on the floor to possibly die. That would certainly solve a lot of her problems, but it would also leave her thoroughly unsatisfied. If she were to confront Evan, and she had to analyse the veracity of that particular statement later on, she wanted to do it when they were both evenly matched. That left her with only one alternative which she knew she would end up regretting, in one form or another. She would have to help him.

"Evan, I am going to call Noah, ok? He will tell me what to do…" she said as gently as possible, placing a hand on the one that he had put on his chest.

"Don't… there's no need… I will be fine…" he said in a less strained voice than before and opened his hazel eyes to look at her.

Evan looked at her, his eyes showing more than the physical pain he was feeling. He knew Hope and he was acutely aware that if he allowed the outside world to intervene at that particular moment, she would dismiss the entire night as an accident and would allow things between to return to the previous state of, albeit fairly one-sided, animosity. He could not permit that. He could not permit that night to become yet another dream of her that would torment him in his moments of loneliness. He weakly grabbed her hand and offered a reassuring smile. From a physical point of view he would be fine. At least he hoped he would. But if he allowed her to vanish again, he knew that his soul would break into a million pieces.

"But I don't know what to do, or how to help you" she replied thoroughly frustrated at his stubbornness.

"I have… some pills in my pocket… you could start… by giving me those" breathing felt easier but the pain was still persisting and he felt a surge of annoyance. He could see her scrambling on the floor and looking for his jeans. In a matter of second she had returned with the bottles of pills that the meddling doctor had shoved into his hands before leaving the hospital. For a moment he wished he had paid more attention at what Doctor Elwood had told him before he left. He was certain that one of the bottles was for pain but he couldn't quite remember which. Giving a mental shrug, he randomly took a pill from one of the bottles and hoped it was the right one. If nothing, the action seemed to somewhat calm Hope and he allowed himself to tiredly close his eyes for a second.

"Evan… you should really go upstairs to bed… you can't stay here the entire night…" she said softly, her hand- treacherous limb!- tangling itself in his hair.

"Nonsense… I'm fine…" he replied, not really wanting to tell her that he was as likely to make it to his bed on his own as he was to have a torrid love affair with cackle's ghastly chanting teacher.

"Don't be an idiot! I'm going to help you get to your bed…"she rolled her eyes at his answer knowing exactly why he had claimed to be fine on the floor "I'm going to use my flames, alright? So don't panic… we wouldn't want you to have a heart attack, would we?" she mocked lightly and, with a flick of her wrist she conjured a makeshift stretcher of fire.

"Yeah… we wouldn't want that…" Evan offered a feeble laugh as he felt the air around him heat up considerably.

Being flown on a bed of flames was one of the most peculiar experiences he had had in his entire life. For one, he had always supposed that being the Master of Water would make any form of Fire react negatively against him. Yet, the flames that were encircling him were perfectly harmless. Maybe his assumption was wrong. Or maybe Hope had managed to control her Element to such an extent that she forced it to negate all its noxious characteristics when she so chose. Secondly, as strange as it might sound, he could feel Hope in the flames that were carrying him. Not only could he feel her powerful magical signature, but he could feel something else… he couldn't explain it, but it was as if he could feel her essence in those flames. As he was gently lowered onto his own soft bed, covered with decadent Egyptian cotton sheets, he filed away both pieces of information for further analysis.

"Hope…" he whispered softly, quite frankly feeling too ill to raise his voice higher "Please don't leave… stay… at least… for tonight…"

He could see her ponder his request for a moment, her eyes looking at him as if searching for something. For a moment he felt like he couldn't breathe, truly believing that she would refuse him and leave. But then she agreed with an almost imperceptible nod. At his feeble motioning she joined him in the bed and he wrapped his arms around her, perhaps too scared that if he let go she would disappear. With her in his arms, he allowed himself to be lulled to sleep.

AN: THANK YOU TO ALL THAT READ THIS CHAPTER!

So… I hope you enjoyed this chapter even if the only cannon character that makes an appearance is our darling deputy.

Please send me your comments through your PM's and reviews. I love hearing from you… I know we all say we don't write for reviews and that is certainly true, but that doesn't mean that we don't appreciate criticism of any kind *grin*. I will reply to them ASAP.

PS: Is Mr Mallard still universally hated? *grin*