A/N: Sometimes chapters just flow and writing them is easy and fun. This was not one of those chapters.

The Daemon's Shrine

As Alfred stepped down into the shrine, lamps burst into light around him. They were every couple of feet, giving off a clear golden glow that was too even to be firelight.

Curious, Alfred stepped closer. The lamp was a smooth sphere, made of glass or crystal. He touched it and found it to be cool. Alfred was clever, and he was good at figuring out and understanding how things worked. Most things, once you learned about them, made sense. But in all his time with gods and daemons, he'd never seen anything this fantastic. Or, now that he thought about it, the only thing that came close was Arthur's display of power in quenching the fire.

Alfred was starting to figure that the world was a lot more magical than he'd thought.

The lamps lit a small bubble that travelled with him down into the depths of the shrine. It was well preserved, Alfred noticed. As if someone had been keeping it free of debris.

As Alfred took all this in, his echoing steps finally led him to a large, underground chamber. As he entered, there was a flurry of motion and thousands of magical lamps sprang to light.

The chamber was enormous, bigger than some of the gods' temples Alfred had been in. He stood at the top of a great amphitheater, with a long path of shallow steps leading down a large pool of water. Along the sloping sides were more statues like the ones Alfred had seen outside, but these had been protected from the elements.

Alfred had been right, this was some sort of shrine to daemons. He saw statues of figures he recognized—Ivan, Katerina, Arthur, Elizabeta. There was something odd about them though, and it took Alfred a long moment of staring to realize what it was. While easily recognizable, these statues showed the daemons looking much younger. Their faces were those of children.

There were many more statues than daemons he knew. Dozens more. Alfred wondered where they were from—or what had happened to them. Was the world really big enough for so many?

With these thoughts, Alfred made his way towards the middle of the chamber. Rising out of the water was a stone figure. Like the one that loomed above the entrance, this one was larger than the rest of the statues. This statue was a woman. Or a being that looked like a woman. She had a broad, flat face with a wide nose. Her lips were full, and even made of stone they looked soft. Her hair was concealed under a hood or a scarf, and the material flowed down, wrapping the rest of her body in a whirl of fabric. Later, Alfred swore he'd seen some of it drift about from the corner of his eyes. But it was her eyes that made Alfred stare. They were open, carved in loving detail, and staring straight at him.

The weight of her gaze made Alfred feel very small. There was only one person this could be.

She Who Sleeps Below.

Alfred felt the same heavy sense of being watched, and once again, the stench of decay engulfed him. It all seemed to be emanating from her.

Why had the gods never spoken of her?

Why did bringing her up send Arthur into an angry silence?

Was she still here?

Alfred sighed as he thought all these questions. He looked around the cavern, hoping something here would give him any sort of context. The walls, which Alfred had not noticed before, were painted. Enormous scenes ringed him, illuminated by the gentle light of the lamps. Alfred walked around to each, staring and trying to follow the story. He recognized a few characters—some of the daemons he knew, a figure he assumed was the Sleeper. But try as he might, he could not puzzle out the story for himself.

He sighed, resigned. He needed someone who could make sense of this. He needed a scholar. He needed Feliciano.

Alfred left the temple without incident. Outside, the shrine was still shrouded in mist. Alfred made to hike his way back up when a familiar figure appeared. He didn't walk out of the mist so much as appear out of thin air not four feet from Alfred.

Alfred jumped in surprise, which jostled his wrist and made him groan in pain. Once the worst had passed, he looked up at the person.

"Kiku?"

Kiku, his oldest friend and fellow ward of the gods stood before him. His expression was as impossible as ever for Alfred to decipher.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Alfred asked, gesturing to the misty basin.

"I come on behalf of your mother," Kiku said.

Alfred stiffened. "What does Arlya want?"

"She is worried about you," Kiku said, nodding towards Alfred's splinted wrist.

"How did she know—?"

Kiku shook his head. "Pakram forbade her to aid you. So she sent me to you."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "You're going against Pakram's wishes?" he said, impressed that Kiku would do such a thing. He never struck Alfred as the brave or rebellious type. "Isn't that, I don't know, dangerous?"

"Perhaps," Kiku said with a shrug. Then he turned his face away and said, "Arlya is not the only one who worries for you."

The words hung in the air between them. Kiku slid the pack from his back and pulled out the sweetest sight Alfred had ever seen.

"My boots!" he shouted. "Oh, Kiku, I could kiss you!"

Alfred didn't look up to see Kiku freeze and turn as red as Antonio's tomato stew. He was too busy pulling off his mud caked boots and sliding back into the soft leather of his winged boots. With a little skip, he took to the air, hovering just above the ground.

Kiku frowned and tugged Alfred back down. "Alfred, I need to tell you something," he said.

But Alfred was too elated with being able to fly to pay attention to Kiku's words.

"I'll be able to get back to Albion in a flash now!" he said.

"Alfred—"

"And then bring Feliciano here."

"Alfred, please—"

"And maybe he can make sense of those stupid paintings."

"Wait—"

But Alfred was already shooting away. Kiku looked after him, not noticing the pained expression that contorted his own face. He hadn't been able to warn Alfred. But he'd been gone too long, and Heracles would have already noticed his absence. He'd just have to trust Alfred. Which Kiku found unreasonably difficult.

Once he was airborne, Alfred managed to get his bearings back. He was surprised in how far he'd managed to walk from Albion in just two days. The hollow where the Sleeper's shrine lay was deep in the moors. Alfred must have walked there in almost a straight line to arrive in less than three days. This struck Alfred as strange, but he was too busy thinking about the shrine to dwell on it.

The flight back to Albion took him nearly the whole day. When he reached the town, night had truly fallen and Alfred was exhausted. Though the brace kept it mostly steady, balancing while flying was tricky and involved a lot of arm movement. Thus Alfred's wrist hurt something awful. It was this pain that saved him.

At the edge of Albion, the pain had become too much, and Alfred stopped to let it die down. As he lay on the cool ground, letting the pain wash over him in waves, Alfred hear raised voices.

"I don't care who you are," a woman shouted. "We don't have any more food! Go to Antonio."

"The gods are going to hear about this!" another woman shouted. "We have the divine right to be fed and sheltered by anyone under their protection."

The first woman gave a creative suggestion of where the gods could shove their protection. The second woman roared in rage and the sound of fighting broke out. Alfred started to lift himself up. He would defend the Albians who had accepted him into their town! But before as he got so much as sitting, he heard Ludwig's familiar voice.

"Come Octavia. She doesn't even have food to give you. This isn't worth fighting over."

"You can't let them get away with this, Ludwig," she said. "It's the principle."

"Principle won't put food in your belly. Plus, Antonio's food is going to be better than anything these peasants could give you."

This seemed to mollify the second woman—Octavia—and the fighting stopped.

"Damn it," Alfred mumble to himself. Ludwig's inquisition was here. In all of the excitement, it had slipped his mind. He'd have to find a way to get Feliciano out without alerting people to his presence.

Once Alfred wasn't drowning the waves of pain from his wrist, he stood, wobbling a little. He crept towards the inn, staying in the shadows and avoiding anyone on the streets. He wasn't worried about any Albians giving him away, at least not intentionally, but wasn't going to risk it.

The Sign of the Ripe Tomato was packed and loud. Alfred studied the entrance from behind a rain barrel on the other side of the street. People wearing dark purple cloaks with different insignias drifted in and out. These must be the inquisitors. There were more of them than Alfred had expected. This was less a group of inspectors and more of a small occupying force. And it seemed like most of them were being put up by Antonio at the inn.

Unlike Ludwig, most of these men and women were rowdy, and if the Albion women's scuffle earlier was any sign, they were eating the town out of house and home.

It made him angry at how his town—yes, it was his town now—was being treated. He wanted to storm into the inn and kick them all out on their asses. But a voice in the back of his head (which spoke in Arthur's voice of all things) cautioned against it. If they found him here, it would make everything worse for everyone else. Especially Antonio, Feliciano, and Ludwig. And Alfred had a feeling that Feliciano would not hold up well to interrogation.

So that made the idea of heroically ridding the town of the inquisition just a fantasy. He needed to be careful, crafty. He needed to find a way to get Feliciano out without him being missed. Alfred sighed in frustration. He wished Arthur were with him. Subtlety and care were not his greatest strengths.

Slowly the bones of a plan came together in his head. He doubted Arthur would approve of it. Or Ludwig. Or Antonio. Or anyone for that matter. But he couldn't think of anything else. Well, besides 'wait until the inquisition leaves,' which would be sensible, but Alfred wanted to show Feliciano the shrine now. And who knew how long they'd be there.

From behind the rain barrel, he began the first step of his plan. He waited and watched the comings and goings from the inn. Most of the inquisitors wandered in groups, but finally, one stumbled out alone.

They wobbled down the street, supposedly towards whoever was housing them. Alfred took a careful look around to make sure no one was around to see him, then flew up into the night sky. He followed the meandering inquisitor as he stumbled down the street. Finally the man turned down a small side street towards a small group of houses. Once he was out of sight from the main road, Alfred dropped onto him.

The man was too drunk to shout, and mostly made a surprised gurgling sound. Alfred soon found out how hard it was to fight a drunken man. Especially when you have a tender, broken wrist. He was too confused and too floppy for any of Alfred's attempts at fighting to really do much. Alfred was about to give up when the man toppled over on his own accord. Unsure of what else to do, Alfred walked over and sat on him to make sure he couldn't go for help. The man struggled a little, but seemed to accept his fate when Alfred didn't move.

Already the plan was going to hell, and Alfred's panicky mind whirled. His thoughts were broken by a loud snort. He looked down at the man he'd pinned. He had fallen asleep.

While it wasn't exactly what he'd planned, the end goal was accomplished. Alfred struggled to get the man out of his purple cloak. This also turned out to be more difficult than Alfred anticipated, as the man lay heavy and bonelessly on the earth. Finally, with a grunt, he managed to roll the man over enough to get the cloak out from under him.

Alfred looked up triumphantly at the cloak. Part one of his plan, complete. Now it was time to for part two. Which was more likely than not to get him sent to Aenea with a company of fanatical dedicates.

Time to get this over with.

Alfred slung the cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood up over his face. He found a dark, out-of-the-way place to stash his winged boots, which were far too distinctive. Clad in the inquisitor's cloak and boots, he made towards the inn.

He pressed his hand against the door and took a deep breath. He figured a group of people this large probably wouldn't all know each other, but Alfred knew he could be wrong. If someone tried to talk to him and recognized that he wasn't actually an inquisitor, he'd have to make a break for it. And with his boots stashed away and his wrist broken, he doubted his chances of a clean getaway.

So he'd just have to make sure to not attract attention.

Pushing the door open, he made his way inside. It was packed with people wearing purple robes. Not a single Albion resident was there, except for the three who ran the inn. Antonio was flushed and sweating. Feliciano tried to squeeze between the crowd to deliver drinks and food with varied results. Lovino was nowhere to be seen, and Alfred figured he was probably being intentionally kept away from the inquisitors.

Alfred began to inch towards Feliciano, but was caught by the crowd. He was pressed between two burly inquisitors and his wrist twisted against his side. He let out an involuntary shout of pain. Instantly, the two inquisitors had their attention turned to him. One of them, a tall woman who looked like she had southern ancestry, caught him as the pain threatened to overwhelm him.

"Woah there, brother," she said. "Are you alright?"

The other one, a sturdy northern fellow, took Alfred's elbow and drew out his wrist.

"Gods above," the man said with concern. "Why haven't you gotten this treated?"

So much for going unnoticed.

"Oh, that?" Alfred said with a forced laugh. "It's nothing to worry about." This was proven untrue when a gentle touch by the man sent his knees trembling.

"Stop it, Elias!" the woman chided, then turned back to Alfred. She studied his face, gnawing on his lip. "If you tell me where your group is, I can get you back."

Shit.

"It's really not necessary," said Alfred, starting to panic. "I don't want to bother anyone. Just here for some soup."

The two looked at each other. The man shrugged and cleared a path towards the counter. The woman helped Alfred through the crowd.

"Hey, innkeeper!" the woman shouted once they were there. "This boy needs some soup!"

Antonio grumbled to himself and bustled over.

"Anything in—" he stopped short when he looked at Alfred. Alfred silently begged for him to go along with it.

"Is there a problem," Elias asked, a threat in his tone. "If there is, have you met Mariam?"

The woman next to Alfred cracked her knuckles.

Antonio jumped a little. "No trouble," he said.

Mariam looked smug as a bemused Antonio delivered Alfred a bowl of soup.

"Can't say much else for the inn, but the food is damn good. Reminds me of home," she said.

Elias made a face. "Your damn southern food makes my shit burn. I don't know how you manage it."

Mariam stuck her tongue out at Elias. "That's just 'cause you Northies got weak-ass belly's from boiling everything. I swear you know no other way of cooking."

They bantered between themselves while Alfred tried to think of a way to excuse himself. He needed to get to Feliciano discreetly. And thus far he had failed utterly at discretion.

It was Elias' complaints about the food that inspired his new plan. Alfred had long since grown accustomed to the spicy food, but no one here knew that. With a groan, he held his stomach.

"I think the food…" he trailed off and groaned again.

"Gods-damn Northies," Miriam said. She stood, pulling Alfred up after her. They made their way towards the back, where the back door was. Outside, the cool air was startling after the warmth of the inn. Alfred made more groaning sounds.

"I think I'm going to be a while," he said.

"I can stay."

"No, no," said Alfred. "I, uh, could you maybe just send the serving boy out here with some water?"

Miriam stared at him oddly, but in the end went back inside.

Alfred waited. He chewed on the fingernails of his good hand. If this worked, they could be out of Albion in just a few minutes.

Finally, the door opened. Alfred turned and smiled at Feliciano as he walked out.

"Alfred?" Feliciano said. Alfred made frantic shushing signs with his good hand.

"Quiet! I can't let the inquisition know I'm here."

Feliciano nodded. "But why are you here? I thought—"

"I found something," said Alfred. "Something out in the moors. And I need you to look at it."

Feliciano tilted his head. "How far?"

"Two days walk. Maybe longer if we get lost."

"That's very far," Feliciano said softly. He fidgeted, not meeting Alfred's eyes. "I'm not sure."

"Feli," Alfred said, taking him by the shoulder. "You won't believe what I found. A whole shrine. To her."

Feliciano looked at Alfred without understanding.

"She who Sleeps Below," Alfred whispered. "There's statues, paintings, but I can't make sense of it. You can."

"She who Sleeps Below," Feliciano murmured. "Are you sure?"

"I don't know who else it could be," said Alfred.

"Barely anything is known about her," Feliciano said. Despite himself, he was excited. "I know there are some texts in the library of Aenea, but they're all restricted. If this is a shrine to her, it'll be the biggest scholarly discovery of our time!"

"Then you're in?" Alfred asked.

Feliciano looked back at the inn, which was glowing with a warm light. Then he turned towards the dark moors.

"Let's go."

A/N: This story finally hit 100 reviews! I can't tell you all how grateful I am for those who read and enjoy my writing :33

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