A/N: Second up this week! I'll give you guys a few more days to read this one, then post the updated first chapter and prologue. After that, I hope it won't be but around a month before you get another chapter.

Chapter 10: Home, Part 2

The reason behind Graham being here clicks into place; the tribe revered wolves and nature, and worshipped the corresponding gods. Vali Lokison, the first werewolf, must be somewhere near the head of their pantheon, and Vali would trust the biggest and most devoted group of his followers to look after Graham.

Any ounce of anger I have about finding the boy in this situation- this kind of danger- explodes to the surface.

"I told you! I told you that this was no place for a kid, but did you fucking listen?! Of course not!"

Graham stirs; the spell I placed on him lulls one to sleep, but from there, it's a natural slumber, and the boy is still capable of being woken. I force myself under control, shifting my hold on the child to free up one hand so I can gesture around. "Look at this mess! Do you have any idea what this could do to him?! He's a bloody seven year old! There might not be any reversing whatever comes from what he saw tonight!"

A flash of guilt and hurt makes it's way across the Asgardians face, immediately replaced by anger.

"You're going to blame this on me? Did you ever stop to think why that lot of bounty hunters was here in the first place?!"

Now he's shouting at me, something that doesn't help my mood in the least.

"Why the hell would I know why they're here? And yes, for the record, I'm blaming you!" I'm shouting again by the last phrase, and Graham makes a sound in his sleep, though at this point I almost don't notice it. Rumple's hand clamps onto the wrist of my free hand, firm but not rough.

"You're waking the boy, little wolf." he says, soft and almost warningly. Though I glare at him, in the back of my mind, I'm grateful for the interference, because it reminds me to behave.

When I look back at Vali, his eyes have zeroed in on the contact, a muscle standing out in his jaw. Oh, he is pissed, very pissed, and is just barely keeping himself from saying something he'll regret later.

It's a look I know well; I'm usually the cause of it.

"So you don't know about the bounty, then?" Vali asks tightly, eyes glancing to our hands again. Gold slides across his irises for just a fraction of a second. Before I can answer, he continues, "Let me enlighten you, then. King Mihrage is paying out twenty gold pieces for every dead werewolf."

Recognition sparks somewhere in the back of my mind. "Mihrage?" I ask, shooting a sideways glance to Rumple. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Oh, I don't know." Vali says sarcastically. "Maybe because you killed his three sons in front of him."

Now it's realization that sparks in my mind. Ah, the greedy triplet princes who made me chase them to three different castles.

It's then that the two things actually connect in my mind- that deal and what Vali said about the mercenaries- and thoughts and emotions racing through my head. Guilt at what I have partially caused Graham to live through, logical denial that I'm not the one who gave the order or swung the sword, anger at Vali for putting him here instead of with a family.

"Oohh. That guy." I say lamely, unable to think of a better response with my brain in a whirlwind.

"That guy? That guy?" He's shouting by the time he finishes. My hand curls into a fist as anger once again starts to consume my thoughts; Rumple's hand shifts on my arm, tracing small circles into my wrist with his thumb in an attempt to keep me calm. It's very distracting, which I guess is the point.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ellyn? Did you leave your common sense in Niflheim, or just your morals?! Because it's not that you didn't know your actions would have consequences for someone, it's that you just didn't care! I can only hope that some of this is the company you're keeping-" he swings his hand out to indicate the Dark One, whose lips curl back in a snarl. "Because otherwise-"

Rumplestilskin drops my arm and steps forward, but I grab his hand; it's not his fight. "Don't, Rum." I say, voice as gentle as I can make it at the moment. Vali's hands clench themselves into fists.

"So it's Rum now." The Asgardian snarls venomously.

"So it's none of your bloody business, now." I growl back.

He grinds his teeth together, but changes tactic, gesturing to the sleeping Graham. "And what's your grand plan for the lad, Ellyn? You and Rum are going to raise him? What can a pair of black-hearted wretches like you two do for a kid!?"

I flinch back, surprised more than hurt. In the three years we were together, he would never admit that my soul was anything less than salvageable. Surprisingly, my first reaction isn't to be wounded or offended; it's something between satisfaction and relief. He's finally seeing me for what I am. And it only took the half a decade since we met each other.

My second reaction is to reply, "What we can do for this kid is give him to a loving family, instead of a bunch of psychotic animal worshippers."

Vali had seemed as shocked as me that he said black-hearted wretches, looking the most horrified and guilty I've ever seen him, but the minute I reiterate my displeasure with his idea of a foster family, he's back on the defensive.

"Like you know anyone who's even close to a loving family."

"You're one to talk about loving families, Lokison." I snarl. The jab hits home; he knows what I refer to, and it isn't his sociopath of a father or hellish half-siblings, though words would suggest that. The vaguer, more personal meaning is of Narfi. It's a bit over the line, but I don't care.

Fire alights in his eyes; there's the monster, the beast, the stain on his otherwise pristine soul. "This is ridiculous. Give me the boy." He steps forwards, hands reaching for Graham.

A pulse of magic slams into his chest, throwing him to the ground, where he goes skidding backward. Rumplestiltskin, it seems, is at the end of his limited patience, and the air shifts, suddenly filled with tension. Vali looks up from the ground several feet away, stunned, and perhaps alittle afraid; the Jotuns and Asgardians and other AEsir might style themselves gods, but through one way or another, they can die. The Dark One is immortal in every sense, both longevity and inability to be fatally harmed. The werewolf is outmatched, and he knows it.

"We're done here, dearie." Rumple says flatly, reptilian eyes like ice. "Come, little wolf." he adds, offering his arm. I hook my free one through it without hesitation, and the Dark One teleports us away.

We stand in my study, the fire having burned itself to coals. I free my arm from Rumple's and bring it to Graham's back, keeping a good hold on him as I exit the room and weave my way down the hall, through the dining room, and down another hall to the guest bedroom. It's seen little use these past years; I used to sleep in it every now and then, when this was Zoso's house and a lesson or new spell had me on the verge of collapse, unable to return to the merchant ship and my brother. That was decades ago, and a fine layer of dust coats the room's furniture now. A wave of the hand and a surge of magic removes it, and I cross the room and set Graham on the bed. He curls onto his side, shivering slightly, and I hunt through the closet for a blanket. Rumple watches as I unfurl it and tuck it around the boy.

"What are you going to do, dearie? Raise him yourself?" He asks in an almost-whisper.

I pull a chair out of midair and sit down, sighing and running a hand through my hair. "No. Vali's right. I'm no mother, even if I wanted to be. At most, he'll be my ward-" I try not to curl my lips at the word; it's too much like something my birth father might say. "-for a few weeks."

Rumple gazes at the boy, leaning on the doorway, face unreadable. After a minute, he says, "You mentioned a brother, little wolf, when we first met. Ian."

"Do not, Rumplestiltskin." I say, to tired to conjure up real anger, but putting a warning edge into my tone nonetheless. "Do not ask about my brother if you require an answer. You aren't getting one. Especially not now, and perhaps not ever." There's a heartbeat of silence, before I drop my gaze back to a now-fidgeting Graham and add, "Unless you're willing to give some information in return."

Tension, thick and awkward, fills the air. I do not look at the Dark One, smoothing the hair back from Graham's eyes, putting the barest whisper of magic in the touch to quiet him. Rumple's mind could be any number of places now, but if I had to guess where it first went, it would be the Kris Dagger.

"What do I know that you desire?" he asks slowly.

More silence. "I know vaguely of your quest, and your son's current location. I don't know why or how you were seperated." If the tension was awkward before, it's dangerous now. I don't have the motivation to care; my energy has all but left me, a combination of Seeing and being wounded then healed. (Not to mention the mental repercussions from the fight with Vali.)

"That is a steep price, little wolf."

"It's a fair trade, whatever you may think. He was my baby brother."

"Oh, I would not call it a fair trade, little wolf. We would be on even ground only if I knew where your brother is."

"I said no, Rum. I've had enough pushing from Vali. I'm not putting up with it from you."

The Dark One grins, predatoryily amused, barely visible in the dimness of the room. "This is nowhere near pushing." He says; his version of the word probably involves alot more blood. "It's the cost of your deal."

"I didn't exactly mean for it to be a deal." I actually only said it because I thought, if I set his history with his son as the price, he would back down. Apparently, I was wrong to some degree.

Despite my words, I consider it for a moment. As it is, there might come a day when I have to tell him something of Ian to keep his trust, which becomes more likely the longer I deny him the details of my plan. If that happens, I might as well get some information in return.

I sigh. leaning back in the chair, contemplating how to put this.

"Neverland." Comes my reply. "Peter Pan-" I snarl the name- "Holds him prisoner in Neverland."

Killian only went to Neverland because you wouldn't help him kill Rum. Something in the back of my mind says. I silence it instantly, something I have become quite adept at over these last months.

Something flickers across Rumple's face, something close to understanding. Comprehension, perhaps, but other emotions- more sensed than seen- make me unsure of that evaluation. I know what he's assumed: that Ian is still a child, taken to Pan's realm like the others. I don't correct him or clarify on my brother's situation. His assumptions are safer for me than the truth.

"You want to kill the Boy King." Rumple finally says.

"What gave me away? My usual sunny disposition, or my lovely tone?"

"I'm just perceptive, dearie." he quips.

"Oh, I can tell." I say, returning his humoring smile. "And not kill. Trap. I've heard rumors that Pan and the island are closely connected. I don't know what it would do to it if I kill him, and I don't know if I'll meet him or my brother first. So yes, I want to kill him. But I need to be prepared to postpone it."

That should sate his curiosity for now, I think.

I can see the wheels turning in his head. "Ah, the ring of your Horseman."

"Yeah. The ring. It can contain and control souls, and I plan to see Pan's trapped in it." I say. Then I yawn; sleep calls at me, and I blink it away. There's no way Graham is going to make it till tomorrow without a nightmare, not after what he's just seen, and I don't want to be far away when it happens. He doesn't need to face that alone.

Rumple chuckles. "Go to sleep, little wolf."

"With a strange man in the house?" I jest, gesturing at him.

He smiles. "No more strange than you."

"Perhaps not." I yawn again, and he arches an eyebrow pointedly. "Fine. If anything happens, get me up."

"You'll be the first to know."

"As opposed to who?"

"Oh, just go to bed, you stubborn dog!"

I grin, pushing myself to my feet and crossing to the doorway. Rumple leans in it even as I try to pass, and I pause and mimic his posture against the opposite side of the doorframe, letting my smile fade slightly as I become serious.

"Thank you, Rum." I say softly. "You didn't have to come with me tonight."

That gives him pause; he wasn't expecting a genuine thanks- or a thanks at all. "And you could have left me in Avonlea. I was repaying a debt." The Dark One says dismissively, though not coldly.

"Was that all it was?"

"This time."

Now it's my turn to raise and eyebrow. "And next time?"

The wolfish smile returns. "That depends on what I can get out of it, little wolf."

"We'll see." I say, pushing from the doorway and sliding around the Dark One, who makes no move to make my passage easier. "If I'm not up at sunrise, wake me."

I end up getting about four hours of sleep before Graham starts screaming bloody murder in his sleep; compared to what I have been getting, it's plenty. The boy's cries wake me before Rum even has the chance to, and the Dark One rises from the chair at the boy's bedside as I enter, letting me sit down in his place. I shake Graham gently, and he snaps awake, still screaming and trying to scramble away, but only succeeding in getting his limbs tangled in the blanket.

It takes several minutes of sobbing on his part, and talking on mine, but he finally settles down enough to try to go back to sleep. I don't know any lullabies that would help the transition to sleep, so I hum the almost-forgotten tune of a song; my mother said she would sing it to us when we were babies, during the year and some months before I was taken to the Enchanted Forest.

Once the boy's asleep, I leave Rumple watching over him and set about dismantling my lethal wards (the ones on my artifact shelves), along with some of the others around the house. There's too high a chance that the child would wander too close to one of them and set them off. In the end, I take the barrier off of my study entrance, change the killing charms on my artifact shelves to immobilization, and do the same to a few locked drawers in my bedroom and bathroom. The only barrier that survives intact is the one across the doorway to the shop; people don't need to be able to get into the house from there, even if the kid can't pass through it from either side. I take the fatal blood magic spell off the back door so Graham can use it instead, resolving to go to the locksmith later and settle for the mundane man's method of security.

By the time dawn comes, I've finished with all the wards' altercations, changed into fresh clothes, and started breakfast. With how seldom I bother to eat, I haven't gone out for groceries in a while, and the pantry is looking sparse; it seems today is going to be a market day.

It's the beginning of fall, something I note because of the slight frost on the dining room window and how the sun rises at what I would guess to be seven. Rumple and a awkward-looking Graham join me about half an hour later for breakfast. It's been awhile since I've actually eaten at the table, even longer since it's been with company, and it gives of an air of domesticity that makes me vaguely uncomfortable; I haven't been a domestic person since Pops was still around.

After breakfast, Graham is given a tour of the house and told what he is and is not allowed to touch. (The latter group of things are contained almost exclusively to my study/library). He nods in all the appropriate places, but to say that he's shy is an understatement. The boy seems to carry a sense of mute, subdued fear, as though mercenaries are going to jump out from every shadow. He doesn't speak a word the entire morning.

After the house, we get dressed to go to town. With a kid in the house, we're going to need food, and Graham needs clothes; the Ulver-systkins seem to have done the bare minimum when it comes to quality, compared to what I know they're capable of. Rumplestilskin dons the same red, gold-seamed cloak he was wearing during our reunion in the bar all those months ago, the hood thrown up to hide his face. I slip on Zoso's cloak, but leave the hood down; the townspeople know me, and it would look more suspicious to have it up than down. I find an old traveling cloak and use magic to shrink it, giving it to Graham to offer alittle more warmth than his thin deerskin vest and pants can achieve.

For the second time in my life, I found myself in a odd little group of three, though this time we're strolling around a small fishing village instead of sailing the Jolly Roger.

We go to the market and the general goods store, where we manage to scrounge up enough food for a few weeks and several outfits for Graham. He also gets measured for a proper winter coat and pair of shoes, which he bears through in tense silence, all the while glancing at Rum and I like we'll disappear the minute we're out of his sight.

Down the street from the store, the wooden docks begin, though it's really nothing more than four piers jutting out into the water, connected by another platform that runs perpendicular across their fronts, just big enough for a medium-size merchant ship to pull up to. The town's only tavern is perhaps a hundred yards away and four buildings down from said dock, so I send Rumple and Graham there for lunch while I conduct some business with the sailors; I'd let them come with me, but some of the lot fancy themselves 'privateers', and I have a good idea of how Rumple feels about those.

They're not an overly aggressive lot, as pirates go. Every now and then, when the weather's bad and trade's slow, a group of men will assemble on a small caravel called the Vagabond and raid nearby ships. The townspeople allow it, both because it keeps the village alive in tough times, and because Vagabond is really the only weapon- and defense- they have against attackers.

Today, though, the trade's good, and the little pirate ship is anchored just off coast, her captain and owner directing dockhands in helping a few fishermen unload their morning catch. The group sings off-kilter as they work, a jaunty tune that I smile to hear; almost three decades ago, the Roger's crew was drunk and celebrating after a big victory whyt came up with it. Ian grew found of it, (mostly because he teased me with it), as did the men once they'd sobered. It's spread farther than I thought it would, but it's a good tune and simple to remember.

"Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life, the flag o' skull and bones. A merry hour, a hempen rope,"

"And hey for Davey Jones!" I shout the last line of the shantie.

Jaycen, the proud captain of the Vagabond, turns to me, a fake but nonetheless polite smile on his face. "Ah, Ms. Davina! What can I do for you?"

I pull a pile of folded papers from my cloak's pocket. "I have some letters to be delivered, by bird or by boat, I don't care. They just need to get to their destinations. Discretely."

The smile wavers. "I would love to be of service, but I'm quite busy at present. I'm sure you can hire a messenger elsewhere."

"I'm sure I could as well, but other messengers don't have a ship with rusted cannons they can't afford to replace."

Nothing resembling pleasantry remains on the captain's face after those words. "I'll be able to replace them quite easily come spring, Ms. Davina." Now he practically growls the name; he's the second richest man in town, but I'm the first, and it hits a sore spot with him. "I think you should go elsewhere."

I ignore the last part of his statement. "I'm sure you'll be able to restock your weapons by spring, of course. But why waste all that money when I have a way to fix the ones you already have?" He doesn't reply, but the offense on his face switches to temptation, so I pull a vial from my pocket. The liquid in it is clear, but doesn't move exactly as water should. "Five drops a cannon should work, but don't get it on skin. This should cover four or so. You'll get enough for the others when I have a response to my letters."

Jaycen eyes the container. Rich in this town equates to a merchant of medium success in the cities, and any chance to save this kind of money goes a long way. I don't trust Jaycen with the letters that will ask my contacts to look for a family for Graham, but I do trust his cheapness, and my suspicions are right.

He takes both the vial and the letters, tucking them into the pockets of his long black coat. "Very well." Is all he says, and I turn on my heels and go to rejoin Rum and Graham.

I would later find out that any other messenger would have been a better choice than the captain of the Vagabond.

Dinner follows that evening similar to breakfast: in relative silence.

The routine changes again, and progress on the books slows. We have breakfast in the morning, sometimes with or without Rum. Graham knows that he's allowed to play outside or go town as long as he tells me first- no one in town is going to harm their witchdoctor's ward- but he doesn't wander far from the house. When sundown comes, I call him in for dinner, which Rum is almost always there for, and afterward we kill time in my study. Graham usually reads on the floor in front of the fire, and occasionally we tell stories. Rumple, through sheer flamboyance, coaxes a few rare laughs from the boy during these times, something I'm grateful for.

Still, though, despite laughing and nodding and making various other sounds when he's in the mood for a conversation, he doesn't speak a word, which worries me for the two months it lasts. His night-terrors persist as well, often calling me away from the contents of the Hel priest's library to try and calm him.

I check on him periodically during the day, and most of the time he's sitting under an oak near the house. The town is visible from this spot, just far enough away to be unable to hear anything from there, but close enough to walk to within minutes. I'd expect Graham to be more curious about that, about friends or adventure, but his eyes are always elsewhere. He's either gazing into the forest that begins just behind his oak, or down a steep slope- the house is on a hill, therefore higher in elevation than the nearby town- to where the sea has carved out a narrow beach. I know that look- how often would Ian stand on the deck of the ship after Pops left, gazing into the sea, mind far away?- but it's constantness worries me.

Slowly, though, as he becomes more comfortable around Rum and I, he inches back to normalcy. Once he actually starts talking, I realize just how perceptive he is, which makes me raise my initial estimate of his age to eight. It takes him only four months to put together the timing of the full moon in relation to my occasional "midnight strolls", and when I come back one time, transforming back to having two legs at the edge of the woods, Graham is watching from a window. That leads to 'the werewolf talk', a rehashing of the one Tor had with me- though I don't yet tell him that he probably carries the blood as well. He should have as much time as possible not knowing that world will think him a monster. He seems to take the new information as well as can be expected; his only question is 'is that why Rumple calls you little wolf all the time'.

By that time, winter has settled on the land, and I sometimes call off working on the books to play in the snow with Graham, childish as it might be, as well as taking him and Rum to see a frozen waterfall in the forest. Winter rolls into spring; I've yet to receive a response from any of my contacts about a family that would take Graham, even though I know a werewolf out of Nottingham with connections to a pack that could support a few more member. Jaycen assures me that the letters reach their destinations, though, so I file my concerns away.

Despite his improvement, Graham continues to worry me. His nightmares persist, though they've lessened in their intensity. He also has a general fear of strangers, something that becomes known to me the more often we go into town. One night, he broaches something I take to relate to that subject as I'm putting him to bed.

"Ellyn." he says, voice already holding sleep, "Are people good?"

To say that it gives me pause would be an understatement. After a long moment, I cautiously say, "What do you mean, lad?"

"In general, are people good of heart?"

The question bounces around my head. I think of Pops and my brothers and Vali, of my birth father and Frederick and that crazy old bitch that cursed me, Baba Yaga. I think of Rum and Zoso and Ezra.

And I honestly don't know how to answer. Do I tell him what I think? Do I lie and say what I'm expected to- that everyone has goodness in them?

What can a pair of black-hearted wretches like you do for a kid?

I'm no mother, I told Rumple, and it seems I was right. A mother would know how to answer.

He's not my son, but he is my ward, and my responsibility, so I don't lie to him. I haven't blatantly done so up to this point; I won't start with such a pivotal question.

"I don't know, Graham. Do I think most people are pure-hearted? No, I don't. I haven't seen it enough to believe that. Everyone has darkness in their hearts. It's how much, and what they do with it that makes them who they are."

"What they do with it?"

"How can I put this better?" I cast my mind back to Pops rare moments of philosophy, disregarding good form, because I don't think it's the same as what I'm trying to convey; you can have good form in bad actions. "Honor." I finally go with. "Some people are honorable, and alot aren't, and I think that usually reflects what's in their heart."

"Oh." The boy is silent for a moment, thinking. "Are you and Rumple honorable?"

I smile, though he probably can't see it in the dark. "Rum and me are almost as far from honorable as a person can get."

"So you aren't good people?" Now he sounds concerned, like the world's made a mistake somewhere.

"I can honestly say that we aren't, lad." I think my amusement is showing in my voice by now.

"Then why are you two so nice to me? Rumple gave me chocolate yesterday. Bad people don't do that."

"We're just keeping you around until you're big enough to eat." I tease in a conspiratorial whisper.

He giggles, snuggling further into the blankets; it took awhile before I felt sure he wouldn't take things like I just said to heart, and it's still a relief when he laughs at it instead of getting sad.

Graham goes still after a minute, and I think he's fallen asleep until he says, "Can a person be both?"

"Be good and bad?" Zoso and Ezra and Rum. "Yeah. Yeah, I think they can be."

Winter gives way to spring, and it's on those first days of the season when something out of the ordinary happens again. Rum and I have just gotten back from a deal with a prince (I'm starting to hate the breed), teleporting into my study as per usual, only to find a trio of soldiers there as well.

Their backs are to us as they survey my shelves of artifacts, and a combination of shock and hunting instincts means that I don't move or make a sound. Rumplestiltskin quickly goes from surprised to looking at me curiously, interested in how I'm going to handle this. His eyes go back to the soldiers- a king's officers, not just guards, as I notice now the intricate armor, high-quality capes, and plumed helmets- and I touch his hand to get his attention.

Graham, I mouth. The imp nods and disappears.

I look back to the soldiers.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask, a warning edge to my tone. The men jump nearly out of their skins, whirling to face me. One's hand goes immediately to his sword, and it's this man I take to be the leader; it's a instinct confirmed when I see his face, as he's at least a decade older than his young companions.

"Are you the one named Faolan?" this lead man asks, voice gruff and deep, made gruffer by a accent.

"Depends on who you ask. How did you get in here? The back door was locked, and the shop door was warded."

My question is ignored. "Were you the apprentice of Zoso de Cobain?"

"Which king do you serve? Those aren't Marcus's colors, and I know he wouldn't like you wondering around his kingdom unsupervised."

"Answer the question, witch."

"That's an interesting accent, boy. From Narke, am I right? That makes you one of Nidhad's. Cruel old dog. Zoso's old blacksmith friend Wayland was out of there."

"Wayland?" One of the younger men asks, suspicious at the name and annoyed at the delay.

"Wayland, Velent, Volund, different places call him different things." I watch them closely, suspecting that the only way for them to have found Zoso's shop is through one of his contacts. Only Velent receives a reaction- a twitch of an eye, the spark of recognition. "Dialects, and all that."

Rumplestiltskin appears back by my side then, cocking his head at the presences of the three men.

"They're still alive, little wolf?"

"Dead men don't talk."

"Oh? And what have they told you so far?"

"They're some of King Nidhad's from a kingdom south of Camelot. They called me Faolan, so they've been talking to someone from my father's kingdom." I can't keep the disdain out of my voice at the mention of my place of birth. "And as far as I can tell, they're after something of Zoso's that I've inherited." I direct my words back to the strangers. "Gentlemen, meet my business partner."

"Rumplestiltskin." Rum introduces himself, rolling his r's and bowing mockingly.

"The Dark One of Mysthaven." I add, because those from across the seas that way know the title better.

The leader regards us with newfound respect, tinged by fear.

"The Dark Heir and Dark One in league. The rumors are true." The one yet to speak says.

"I haven't heard Dark Heir in a while. You really did stop in Listenoise, didn't you? Probably talked to my half-brother, the disloyal spoiled brat. Why is it that the legitimate sons never learn any manners?"

"It matters not where we got our information." The leader says, confirming my suspicions. He draws his sword, dragging up false bravado betrayed by the fear in his eyes. Now that he sees the Dark One and the Wolf instead of just Faolan, his bravery has fled him. He lifts the blade so the point is aimed at my chest. "Give us the sword Durendal."

I smile, amused that we're down to the fun part. "Do you see a gold-handled sword around here somewhere?" I say, ghosting a finger along the hilt of the sword on my hip. The man's eyes flicker to it.

"Durendal no longer bears that appearance. It was reforged by Velent to remain hidden."

"And let me guess as to its new appearance. Half-moon crossguard, a pommel that appears round but is actually three rounded rectangles of decreasing size. The guard and pommel still bear the golden color, while the grip is dark brown." Now all of their eyes flicker to my sword, which I have just described to them. "Yes, I have Durendal. And you have Wayland, because I know he wouldn't give that information up unless put under torture."

My magic rises as my anger does, ready to be called, and I do nothing to reign it in, letting it charge the air around me, crackling and humming to the point that even those insensitive to magic can feel it's power.

I lift my hands from the weapon's handle and summon a pair of thin gloves, pulling them on methodically. Rum chuckles, a high-pitched almost-giggle that he doesn't open his mouth to emit, the kind of sound he makes when he's amused but keeping himself from laughing outright. The Dark One strolls around to stand behind me, slight to my left as he peers past me, so close that I can feel the heat from his shoulder on the back of mine and that our hips almost touch. Whether he does this because he prefers this angle or to avoid the splash zone, I don't know, but his amusement has sparked renewed fear in the three men. None of them make a move, though, rooted to the spot.

"Let me recap." I say, tugging the brown gloves on tighter. "You break into my house, endanger my ward, demand one of my most valued possessions, and reveal that your king has captured an old friend of mine." I hold out my hand, and the men flinch back, but they aren't my target. The leader's sword wrenches from his grasp and zips into my hand. I hold it to the light, examining the thin line of purple-black liquid that coats the blade's fine edge.

I tilt it to Rum, running my thumb just below the line to demonstrate it's presence.

"Squid ink." I say, tossing the blade aside and showing the Dark One my palms, the thin brown leather turned dark where it contacted more of the liquid on the sword's handle. I flick my gaze back up to the soldiers; the oldest of them has gone paler than his friends. "And, one top of everything else, you consult Pelagios on my weaknesses and come here with the idea to immobilize me. Word of advice: the next time you try to use squid ink on a wolf, do something to cover the smell."

The two younger soldiers exchange a look, desperate and panicked, evaluating their options. There's really only one.

Their swords are halfway from their sheaths when I bring my hands up to eye level, clenching them into fists. The three are jerked to hover a foot or so off the ground, gasping for breath as magic constricts their chests, wraps around their throats, causes pressure on their skulls. I feed my power off the anger that simmers in my chest, anger at their intrusion and the involvement of my hated half-brother and the apparent imprisonment of my favorite blacksmith. I let the pressure mount, and though they can't scream, their faces twist into expressions of pain.

I open my hands, and their heads explode.

Blood and tissue sprays everywhere within a six-foot radius. I myself get a proverbial shower, and I tug my gloves off and discard them before wiping the sanguine liquid from my face. I look around, surveying the mess, thinking about how I need to send a message to Velent's brother to go get him.

Rum laughs, loud and genuine and long. "Oh, I love watching you work, little wolf! So-" He makes a motion with his hand- "Dramatic."

"Glad to be of entertainment." I say, smiling alittle to show that I'm more amused with the statement then my tone would tell. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rumple's head move, expression changing as his eyes lock on something. I follow the gaze to my shelves of artifacts.

Once I see what he does, I don't know how I didn't notice it first. Blood has splattered onto the little locked chest Zoso left me. Some of the substance as landed in the engraving of the triangle, making it and the three wavy lines around it glow a bright red with magic. After a second, pinkish steam rises as the engraving heats up, evaporating the blood as the box's magic rejects it.

Rumple and I exchange a glance; there's one logical deduction to make from this.

I'd long suspected that blood-magic played a part in the item's unwillingness to open. I didn't know that the right blood would literally unlock it.

"I always wondered why there was no keyhole." I say at length.

"Are you going to try and open it, dearie?"

"I don't have any of Zoso's blood, and I don't think he had any relatives, so I don't see how I can."

Rum stares at it a minute, considering. "Why leave you a chest you can't open?" He steps forward, tracing a thumb along the triangular engravement. The symbol holds his attention for a long moment, before he again looks to me. "Something else is at play here."

"Something we'll figure out later." I dismiss. "Where'd you take Graham?"

He lets the subject drop, and we go to get my ward, who is waiting in the local tavern under the owner's supervision. I clean up the mess and burn the bodies, and upgrade the back door's lock, as I find that the intruders picked it open. The routine resumes as usual, though over the next few days I find my mind wandering back to the sight of the glowing-red symbol.

Spring wears one, rain and mud slowly giving way to heat. I teach Graham to ride on Shadow and the basics of archery, the latter of which he takes to like Ian took to the sea. The priest's unopened books dwindle to the hardest to crack, and Rum starts to teach the boy negotiation in the guise of a game. It's entertaining, watching them go back and forth at dinner, each trying to use words to gain the upper hand in an imaginary situation. in the afternoons after dinner, we take to walking on the beach near my house, something Rumple sometimes joins us for. One day, after a particularly violent spring storm, Graham is running ahead of us when he finds something.

Rum, happening to be here for the afternoon ritual, is discussing with me what we think would happen if a magician somehow got a tattoo in squid ink. Rumple thinks that anything one can add to the ink to make it compatible with skin art would dilute it to much to be harmful; I maintain that it would still carry some effect.

"Ellyn! Come look!" Graham shouts from ahead of us, tugging seaweed and twigs off something hidden from view by a pile of driftwood. I jog forward to stand behind him, backing up a step when I look over his shoulder and see what it is.

"Giant squid." I tell Rumple as he reaches us.

"Not particularly." The imp quips, looking at down at the two-foot-long creature.

"It's just a baby." Graham scoffs, to excited to get the joke. He looks over his shoulder at me. "Can we keep him?"

"A squid?" I say. "Most kids bring home a dog."

"But look at him! He needs our help."

He's not wrong there; it's tentacles move occasionally, curling and uncurling as it seeks sanctuary, but that motion is weak.

"He needs a nice saute and some light seasoning." Rumple mumbles. I elbow him in the ribs, though not as hard as I could.

"Please?" Graham says, nailing the puppy-dog eyes.

I don't even try to resist, giving in with a sigh. "Fine. We'll see how it goes. But you're responsible for it, and don't get to attached. The thing looks like it's half dead already."

I summon a bucket and levitate the creature and some seawater into it, and we haul it through the forest to the waterfall I showed them over the winter. The fall itself is fresh-water, or close to it, but the twenty-foot-diameter pool below it sometimes gets tributaries of seasonal streams from the sea, making the water brackish. We dump the squid in there, and it shoots away from the shore as fast as it can manage, disappearing to hunt.

"The fish that are in there should hold it over for a few weeks. After that, you're going to have to feed it." I say. In the middle of the pool, there's a disturbance in the water; the creature has already found its prey.

"What shall you name it, Graham?" Rum says.

"I dunno. Do you have any ideas, Ellyn?"

I stare out at the water a minute. "There's a word Pops used to use. Kraken."

"What's it mean?"

"Sick beastie." Rumple answers him.

Graham considers this for a moment, then grins mischievously. "I like it. That way, when it gets better you two will look silly for saying it wouldn't."

I laugh. "Aren't you such a deviously clever lad! He's picking that up from you, Rum, I swear."

Rum grins. "I've no idea what you're talking about, little wolf." he says, winking at Graham. The boy looks positively proud of himself.

And so the fourth member of our odd little group joins us, filling in the place of family pet and giving Graham something to do. Over the next days, he often goes to the little pond to check on his pet, or to the sea to fish for it's food, and with him out of the house it frees up more time (really, just less distractions) for Rum and I to work on the books. A mere week after we find Kraken, we're down to the very last item in the priest's personal library.

By this time, I'm silently panicking, pouring over the log we kept of any interesting spells we came across. None of them are quite right for what I need, and desperation is setting in; if there's nothing in this last book, all this work was for nothing, and I'm at a dead end.

Across the table from me, Rum is working on said last book, an ancient piece of work containing what must be close to a thousand pages. No latch or lock adorns it, but it's nonetheless impossible to open by physical means. Suddenly, the Dark One makes a sound in the back of his throat, a high-pitched hmph of interest.

"What?" I ask, looking up.

"See for yourself."

I stand and circle to his side of the table, leaning over his shoulder. His hand hovers above the cover, his magic causing otherwise undetectable words etched into the black surface to glow.

"I don't recognize the language." He admits.

"I do." I say, earning a curious glance. "It's Norse. I picked up a few phrases from Vali."

"Can you read it?"

I skim my eyes over the text.

"He who'-I think this is literally feel, but I'm going to take it to mean touch- 'he who has touched Death-" I note the notation of Death as a name, but plow on, "'-shall something something blood'." Rumple raises an eyebrow as I use my fill-in for the two words I don't know, and I add, "I did say that I only know phrases."

I look down at the words, reaffirming my translation and connecting the dots. I hold my left hand over the cover and draw my hunting knife with the right.

"What are you doing, dearie?" Rum asks, eyeing the blade challengingly.

"You know anyone who's touched death more than me?"

Rumple glances down at the book after a moment, making a 'get-on-with-it' rolling motion with his hand. I press the knife to my palm and slice down, ignoring the stinging pain that immediately rises and reminds me all too much of Frederick's dungeon.

Blood wells immediately, and I turn my hand and clench my fist to get it flowing better. It drips from my skin and falls on the book; the first few cause the surface to glow a dark shade of blue as the liquid hits it, and the next few cause it to break down, dissipating outward from the points of contact.

I open my hand, passing the other over it to heal the wound. Rum glances up, a flicker of a glance to assure that I am bothering to close the cut, before he flips the cover open, leaning forward as he turns through the pages, skimming over them. I lean forward, right hand balancing me on the table and the other on Rum's shoulder as I look down at the tome's content. My heartbeat speeds up, excitement and accomplishment and hope flashing through me as the Dark One comes to the center page.

His eyes flicker across the page as he reads the details of the ritual, takes in the gruesome diagram.

"This magic isn't just dark, little wolf. It's black."

"Not a fan of human sacrifice?" I ask, eyeing the diagram with mild distaste.

The Dark One's lips curl back as he reads more of the page. It's not a dealbreaker, but it's not exactly either of our areas of expertise. "Just who are we sacrificing, dearie?"

I smile wryly. "Me."