A/N: Super happy with how this turned out. It was fun to write, so enjoy in its un-beta'd glory.

Shapes in the Mist

It took Feliciano several days to return to his normal self, but when he did, it was like nothing had happened. Alfred was slower to forget Feliciano's complete breakdown, but eventually his overbearing friendliness won. Alfred found himself chatting with Feliciano about gods and daemons again. Though now Ludwig joined in their conversations. This turn of events thrilled Feliciano to no end.

Alfred and Ludwig were not exactly friends, but they had a healthy respect for each other. In fact, most of Albion seemed to have grown used to Ludwig's presence. The inn returned to its normal activity, encouraged not a little by Ludwig buying everyone a round every so often.

Things were so ordinary in fact, that Alfred was caught off guard when Ludwig abruptly pulled him aside one morning. His face was drawn with some inner conflict that even Alfred noticed. He stood for a long moment with his hand crushing Alfred's shoulder. With a deep breath, he leaned in close to Alfred's ear and whispered.

"My fellows are coming," he said.

Alfred looked at him blankly. Ludwig grumbled and shook him slightly.

"The rest of the Inquisition. If they find you here, they'll drag you back to Aenea—willingly or not. You need to leave."

Antonio had gathered what Ludwig whispered to Alfred, as he turned and started gathering food together. He took down strips of dried meat, some dried apples, and wrapped a block of cheese in a cloth.

"I don't have much I can send with you," Antonio said.

Alfred looked between Ludwig and Antonio. "How long do I need to be gone for?"

Ludwig shook his head. "It's never the same. It depends on how much 'correction' the dedicates decide Albion needs. I will try to move them on as quickly as I can. If they find a trace of you, it will be longer."

"I'll send Feli to see you off," Antonio said. "He can teach you some of what plants you can eat." He turned back towards the kitchen. "Feli!" he shouted.

Feliciano came running out. He grinned at Alfred and Ludwig, who grinned back.

Antonio grabbed Feliciano by the shoulder and stared him in the eye, trying to impress the seriousness of the situation upon him.

"Alfred needs to leave Albion for a while. Ludwig says the Inquisition will be here soon, and if they find him they'll take him away."

"And I really don't want that," Alfred put in.

Antonio nodded. "I've given Alfred some food but he needs to know what he can eat out on the moors. Can you show him?"

"Of course!" Feliciano said. "When do we leave?"

"Now," said Ludwig and Antonio together.

Alfred stuffed the food into his sack, plucked another dried apple, and turned to head out. As he was about to leave, he looked at Ludwig.

"Will you be in trouble for helping me?" he asked.

Ludwig frowned. "Only if they find out. Now leave."

Alfred nodded his thanks, and he and Feliciano left.

Then they were off. The city of Albion fell behind them slowly. Houses grew farther apart, and eventually stopped all together. Alfred and Feliciano chatted about food as they walked. Always a good topic of conversation in Alfred's opinion. Occasionally, Feliciano would stop and point out some plant to Alfred, saying what was edible on it-the roots, the leaves, or the stems-and what they were good with. This last part was less useful to Alfred, who doubted that he would be having lamb with gravy anytime soon, but he figured it would help him remember what to look for.

As the town almost faded completely behind them, Feliciano grew nervous. Eventually he stopped, and looked at Alfred with a pained expression.

"What's wrong?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano nibbled at his lip and looked over his shoulder. "Nothing important," he said. "I just don't like being so far from home."

"Albion is just over the hill," Alfred said.

"Yes... I suppose it is."

Alfred gave a put upon sigh. Feliciano was scared. Again. The incident with the fire seemed to have made him more timid than before.

"Fine," Alfred said, a little more harshly than he intended. "Just go back. Wouldn't want you to get frightened. Then I might have to carry you."

Tears welled in Feliciano's eyes and Alfred felt guilt surge in him.

"Just. Head back before you get lost," Alfred said. Then he turned and started walking down the hill. He felt eyes on him. Since he hadn't heard anything, he figured Feliciano was still there, staring at his back. Alfred turned, but there was no one there.

With a shrug, Alfred made his way into the wilderness.

By noon, a light rain began to fall, and Alfred was cold and miserable soon after. He didn't like being cold. The grey light had an odd quality to it on the moorland, and it made keeping a direction difficult. By the late afternoon, Alfred had no idea which direction Albion lay. He figured he hadn't wandered too far, but the uncertainty laid a blanket of unease over him.

What if I can't get back? he thought. But he put the thought out of his mind. He was Alfred, messenger of the gods, and friend of daemons. They wouldn't let him die out here.

Arthur has been avoiding you, a nasty little voice said. It was barely a whisper. Maybe he'll just leave you to die.

If was useless to wonder about such things, though. He wasn't going to be like Feliciano, who froze when things started to get hairy. He would keep a clear mind, and in a few days, he'd return to Albion and the life he was starting to consider his.

The first thing he needed to do now was find some shelter. The rain was light but cold, and occasional gusts of wind cut through his damp layers. The heather of the moorlands was slick, and the ground was turning boggy. It was unlikely that any of Ludwig's fellow inquisitors would be searching for him out here in this weather. So he could turn his attention from making his way a safe distance from Albion to finding somewhere to camp.

The moors were hilly, with patches of old growth trees, and the occasional stretch of proper woods. Nothing like the great forests ruled over by Natalia or Katerina, but open woods with tall trees and springy dirt underfoot. Alfred tried to find one of these to make camp in, but they didn't actually provide much shelter from the rain or wind. So he wandered, looking for the little dense groves of trees that dotted the rolling hills.

It was after he had just departed from one tangled mess of trees and brambles that he first felt like he was being watched. It wasn't the same as before, when he felt Feliciano looking after him. There was something…heavy…in the feeling.

Alfred looked around, but all he could see was the unremarkable grey of rain-soaked hills. He laughed to himself, trying to make light of his own unease, and pressed on.

The afternoon started to melt into evening and Alfred still hadn't found anywhere to make camp. The rain had mostly stopped, and a thick mist had settled in its place. It was quiet, and Alfred listened for any sort of sound. He had begun to hope that Arthur would find him. But the sight of any other living thing would be welcome.

As the last light slunk away, Alfred gave up trying to find shelter. He threw his small bag of supplies down and huddled in the lee of a hill. It was wet and muddy, but out of the wind, and Alfred decided to be grateful for small victories.

He munched on some of the food Antonio had given him. Despite the damp and mist, having a full belly warmed Alfred, and his spirits soon lifted. He figured that going out to continue his search for a better campsite was a bad idea. It would probably leave him soaked and muddy from slipping in the wet heather—and that was if slipping didn't injure him outright. And besides, the little dip in the hill protected him from the wind, and his cloak kept him mostly dry. It wasn't even that muddy. Nothing like some of the bogs he'd walked through earlier that had almost stolen his boots.

Just as he was settling in to try and sleep, Alfred felt the heavy gaze on him again.

"Hello?" he asked. His voice was soft and sticky. He cleared his throat then called, "Hello?" louder this time.

Though he didn't want to admit it, Alfred hoped it was Arthur watching him. Not just because Arthur could get him somewhere more comfortable and safe, but because Alfred missed him. Their meeting days had come and gone, come and gone, then come and gone again and Arthur had made no sign of showing himself. Not to Alfred anyway. Arthur had appeared at the fire, but he hadn't known Alfred was there.

Arthur had been mad with Alfred before. Actually, Alfred reflected, he seemed to be grumpy with Alfred more than he wasn't. But that had never stopped Arthur from spending time with him. Something about "She Who Sleeps Below"—or Sleeper as Alfred was starting to think of her—was different.

"Arthur?" he called. There was no response.

Try as he might, Alfred could not settle down. The mist devoured all light and Alfred was left with nothing but darkness. He tried wiggling his fingers in front of his eyes. Nothing.

He wanted his winged boots.

The moon and the stars were up there somewhere, surely, and Alfred wanted to free himself from the damp hold of the fog. Fly up, find the Laurel the rabbit, and Elaine's doomed tower. If he could just get his bearings, then maybe he wouldn't feel so jumpy.

He wanted his boots.

What was that? He whipped around, convinced he saw motion out of the corner of his eyes. But he started into the blackness and wasn't sure.

He was being watched—by now he was convinced of it. The feeling soaked into him, starting with his skin, then settling into his lungs and stomach. Something was out there. Something was staring at him, unblinking.

"Arthur?" Alfred's voice was desperate now, just on this side of panic.

He wanted his boots.

Part of him saw the situation with a cold grin. He's not coming, it said, No one is.

"He found me before."

Before you made him angry. Before you made him hate you.

"Arthur doesn't hate me," Alfred said, but he was convincing no one. Especially not the icy voice in the back of his mind.

Well, the part of Alfred said, Perhaps one thing will come for you…

Alfred wanted his boots.

There was a sound, enormous in the sticky silence. A crack of stick. With a jolt, Alfred was on his feet. A soft wind touched his face. It smelled sickly sweet, like leaves rotting in water. It was the smell of death, and Alfred had never experienced it so clearly.

He drew the pair of daggers Gilbert had given him and stood, awaiting whatever it was to appear. He wasn't going to die without a fight.

The wind puffed around him, stirring his hair like moist fingers. Aside from the earlier crack, there were no more sounds. Alfred strained his eyes out into the pitch night, trying to see any motion. But there was nothing. It was as if the world just ended around him.

Alfred woke with a start when light stabbed through his eyelids. The morning was clear; the fog had lifted. Low clouds rolled through the sky, but every once in a while, the sun managed to break through.

Alfred struggled to his feet. The past night had left him sore and stiff. As he stood up, he stopped. What could only be described as a blanket slid off him. It was mostly heather but it was coated in tufts of fur and sludge that looking like it was from the bottom of a marsh. Alfred could see little bones inlaid in it. He put his hand to his mouth, choking back a gag. Glancing around, he noticed that the ground was disturbed. In a ring around where he must have collapses the night before, the heather was gone, as if something enormous had torn it all out.

At least we know where the heather in the blanket came from, Alfred thought.

He stared for a long time, unsure of what to make of it. Why did whatever it was ravage the area around Alfred, but leave him untouched. No, not untouched-it had covered him. Was it marking him somehow? Declaring that Alfred was its to devour? Or was it something entirely different?

Shaking himself, Alfred decided he could think while he walked, and that getting away from here was his number one priority.

He set off at as fast a pace as he dared. The ground was treacherous from the rain last night. As he walked, he sang. It was mostly to keep himself company in this lonely place. He started with his favorites—songs of heroes and lovers and brave deeds. When he ran out of those, he switched to songs he'd learned in Antonio's tavern. Eventually he found himself making up his own songs.

As Alfred approached the next clump of trees to see if he could make a suitable camp there, he paused. There was a trembling in the undergrowth, and Alfred's hands flew to his daggers. The bushes erupted, and a milk-white rabbit sprung forth, bounding across the moor.

Alfred broke into a laugh, and on a whim, chased after it.

"Come back, Laurel!" he shouted, using the name of the rabbit from Arthur's story. The creature paused a short distance away from Alfred and sniffed at the ground. As Alfred approached, it froze and stared at him with enormous dark eyes. When he was a few feet away, it sprang away again. It stopped not too far away, and Alfred was able to pick its snowy white coat out from the dull ground. Alfred continued to chase after it like a little boy, and didn't realize that the mist had returned. The rabbit, which Alfred continued to call Laurel, lead him down into a valley, deep into swirling mists. After a while, Alfred lost Laurel in the white mist. He looked up, startled. The feeling of being watched returned, even heavier than before.

Alfred decided it was best to keep moving, and so he moved down the gully Laurel had disappeared into. Visibility was bad and getting worse, but it didn't occur to him to try and climb out of the mist.

All it took was one misstep to send him sprawling down the gully. He shouted in pain as his ankle twisted on some wet grass. On his way down, he struck something hard with his arm, and finally stopped with a crack against a tree trunk. He took a deep breath and a moment to survey the pain. He'd hit the tree trunk with his side, and while it throbbed, he didn't think anything was broken. The ankle he twisted would be sore for a while, and he'd have to be careful to keep from twisting it again.

His arm was another matter. More specifically his wrist, which had snapped in the wrong direction when it collided with something on his way down the gully. He tried to wiggle his fingers and almost threw up from the pain and nausea that shot up through his arm and landed in his stomach.

"Definitely broken," he said.

Careful to keep his wrist still, Alfred sat up and took in his surroundings. It was hard to see, due to the swirling fog, but he was definitely in some sort of little forest. Though the trees were unlike any he'd ever seen. They were pale white with flakey bark that seemed to meld into the mist. Some of them had thick scars of black knots and their leaves rustled even though Alfred couldn't feel any wind.

Taking a deep breath, he curled his wrist into his stomach and began to feel around for sticks or branches. He found a few sturdy ones after crawling around a bit. Sitting back down, he eased his sack of food off his shoulders, swearing when he bumped his broken wrist.

Once the pain dulled and his stomach settled, Alfred drew one of his daggers and sliced one of the two shoulder straps off. He looked down at his wrist and its odd angle. This was going to be the hard part. He grabbed a thick slab or jerky and put it between his teeth. Then he laid his forearm on top of one of the thick sticks. With a muffled shout of pain, he eased his wrist straight. There was a sensation of grinding bone and black flowers bloomed over Alfred's vision. A small piece of jerky fell to the ground as Alfred bit straight through it. After what felt like an eternity of pain, it dimmed to rolling waves in time with Alfred's heartbeat.

Placing the other two sticks to insure his wrist stayed immobile was easier, and though the initial pressure of wrapping his wrist in the strap made him bite through another piece of jerky. Once the pain settled, Alfred felt better.

Alfred sat back and wiped his forehead with his good hand. He was dripping with sweat, and the chilly damp of the mist didn't help. Though nausea threatened to overcome him several times, he held his stomach. He didn't have enough food to waste any throwing up.

While he caught his breath, Alfred looked around. The slope was gentler here, and part of Alfred was able to appreciate the eerie beauty of the place. After a little more searching, he found a large, fallen branch that he could use as a walking stick. With care, he slid his pack across his body and stood up.

The world spun a little, but Alfred gripped the walking stick and the feeling faded.

Picking his way down the gully, Alfred began to wonder about the place he'd stumbled upon. He'd never seen trees like this. Not on Arthur's moors, not in the south, not even in the great forests of the mountains. As he continued on, Alfred felt like walls were closing in on him, which was odd because he couldn't see more than a few paces to either side. But there were more rocks. It wasn't noticeable to start, but Alfred soon found himself navigating around boulders taller than he was. After passing many of them, Alfred began getting waves of strangeness from them. He couldn't figure out what was so strange about them until he finally saw two at the same time.

They were all roughly the same shape.

Alfred had seen a lot of rocks in his time, growing up in the sheer canyons of Caelei. Even old rocks had a somewhat organic shape to them. These enormous stones did not have that. They were all maybe half again as tall as Alfred was, and significantly taller than they were wide.

Alfred approached the one closest to him. While the stone was smooth from years in the elements, he could tell that it had once been some sort of statue. Though the carving was long gone, Alfred was sure that it once had been carved.

"What is this place?" he murmured to himself.

There was no answer.

Alfred wandered from stone to stone, trying to see if any had features he could make out. When darkness was truly about to set in, Alfred came to a stop. Before him was a tower of stone that put the other ancient statues to shame. It was so tall that the top was lost in the mist. Alfred got a sudden image of an enormous face peaking out into the clear night sky, staring up at the moon.

As Alfred drew closer, more details emerged. First, there was an opening at the base of the stone. It opened up like a mouth, and stairs nearly worn away by time descended down into the earth. Second, and this sent a chill down Alfred's spine, were two enormous bowls that rested on either side of the entrance. Alfred peered into one. It was filled with the charcoal of a fire. Alfred touched it with a finger and it crumbled into ask.

Fires had been lit here. And not long ago.

A sweet scent rose to meet his nose, and Alfred recoiled, thinking that it was the death stench from the night before. But the sweetness never turned foul and Alfred soon realized its source. Looking down, the ground in from of the fire-bowl was strewn with the last of summer's wildflowers. They were bright spots of color in the colorless mist-world.

"Some kind of shrine," Alfred said. "But to who? Or maybe to what?"

The best thing he could guess that it was to some of the daemons—maybe even Arthur. The gods didn't have anything like this. Alfred returned to the mouth the cavern.

Possibly rather stupidly, Alfred shouted down into its depths.

"Hello?" he called. Nothing. His words bounced down and away, eaten by the stone walls.

Possibly, rather stupidly, Alfred took a step inside. Then another. And another, until the ground swallowed him whole.

A/N: If you like my work, please consider leaving a review! I know this is a pretty quiet fandom, so any encouragement means a lot!