So it's been a year and I haven't got even halfway through this story... I promise to finish it in the next 12 months.

Happy birthday lickitysplit! Hope you have an amazing day!

"What the—"

The high pitched cry is drowned out by the fierce roar of rushing water, the crash of the waves so deafening it rings painfully in his ears. Tons and tons of wet force and white foam hurtle down the mountainside, gushing towards the forest, displacing rocks, bending branches and upending smaller saplings as it sweeps over the landscape. The water obeys no one's command, and the fairies buzzing around him scream as it heads directly towards them and they scatter out of the way like leaves on the breeze.

Estarossa watches with satisfaction as the river he has diverted floods the clearing, rushing through it at incredible speed. The deluge lasts for several long minutes and he waits patiently, smirking at the fairy king who is floating beside him. Gloxinia's face is thunder, his arms folded tightly over his chest and his eyes narrowed to slits. "You have destroyed the forest," the king yells as best he can over ferore.

Holding up an arm, darkness whips from his fingertips to flash over Estarossa's head and so up to the snow-capped mountain that towers above the pink and white trees. A huge boom resounds over Britannia, cracks and splinters so loud they can he heard even at this distance, the cacophony making the demon's teeth ache. But his plan has worked. The rocks he has caused to break from their place have tumbled down, forming a barrier to once more encase the bulk of the reservoir of melted ice that forms a lake on the mountain. The water still flows but less violently, the tsunami dwindling to a gentle stream; then it stops all together, the last of it pooling on the sodden ground. The land before him is wet, certainly, and a little untidy with rocks and leaves strewn about it at random, but it is, nonetheless, clean and green, the grass beginning to straighten again as they stretch towards the sunlight.

"There you are," the demon growls as he turns to Gloxinia, whose brow is quirked quizzically and his head cocked to one side. The fairy king is still floating in the air, iridescent wings barely beating as he surveys the scene. "Problem solved."

"I will admit," Gloxinia says cautiously, "that it is an improvement. The smell has abated at any rate."

"In that case I will be on my way." Eatrossa adjusts the lion skin over his shoulders, checking his knife is safely strapped to his side. "You're welcome," he says acerbically into the following silence.

When he receives no reply he barks, "Look, what more do you want?" Estarossa glowers at the fairy who is still contemplating him as if he is something not quite nice to know. "I cleared away the dung pit left by those dusk bison, and I dealt with the beasts. They will trouble you no more."

A herd of hundreds of the malodorous animals had somehow managed to establish themselves in the clearing right next to the sacred tree and, having no natural predators, they had quickly multiplied, taking over the forest in what seemed like a heartbeat. The fairies had done nothing to resolve the problem and the result had been something akin to a stable when Estarossa had seen it just two days before. Every conceivable surface has been covered in manure so loose and foul-smelling it brought tears even to his eyes. He could only imagine what it must have been like for those little creatures who lived here and who were, unlike him, in possession of the full power of their senses.

"What are you going to do with those?"

The fairy king gestures towards a towering pile of corpses, coarse, sandy hair mixed with mud amidst shining dark horns and large, cloven hooves. Flies are beginning to descend on the carcasses, their delighted buzzing filling the air. Gloxinia pulls a face. "That's disgusting."

Deal with them yourself he manages to stop himself saying, biting down hard on his lip and clenching his fists at his sides. Much as he would like to, he cannot not insult these people, still less their king. The fairies are servants of the goddesses, tending the land under the celestial beings' grace and protection and his orders to help them have come directly from Margaret herself. If Gloxinia wants the beasts cleared away, the demon has no option but to find a solution.

"Do not fairies eat meat?"

Gloxinia snorts. "Do we look as though we eat meat?"

Estarossa contemplates the cross king in silence, his mind working through the problem. "We could bury them," he finally suggests.

"Not here you won't. I'm sure that will hurt the trees. And besides, I want them out of my forest. They've done enough damage." Gloxnia tuts. "You're as bad as those giants. If they'd done their jobs these beasts wouldn't have been here in the first place. You baser creatures are always taking shortcuts."

Rage boils inside him and Estarossa has to clench his teeth together to stop several retorts about poncy twits being in no position to hurl insults on others from spilling out like venom. Satisfying as it would be to give this king what for, it will only come back to bite him threefold.

"This is a disproportionate punishment," he mutters to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Estarossa replies. "There are giants nearby you say? I have an idea. Stay here. I will return."

"Hey! Where are you going! You can't just—"

Gloxinia's words are swallowed by the wind as Estarossa launches himself into the air, wings of darkness spreading out from his shoulders as he takes to the sky, the wind biting his ears and chilling his bones. For one blissful moment he feels free, suspended in time and space, the fire of the cold invigorating his lungs. But he cannot stay there. Eyes narrowed against the glare, Estarossa soars towards the mountain, scanning the rocky sides for any signs of life.

A twist of lavender smoke catches his attention. Peering down at the ground, Estarossa can just about make out several small dots darting about as if at random on the rubble below. They look small from this height, but this is giant country; the figures he can barely see are in all likelihood many, many dozens of feet tall. Even from this distance he can tell that one is larger than the others, a flash of blue catching in the dappled light of the sun as it moves. The giant king Drole is a well-known figure among the immortal beings, even some of the Gods being in awe of his size and majesty.

It is towards Drole that he heads, retracting his wings inwards to swoop down in circles through the air, his stomach dropping with the rush of the fall. The browns and greys of the landscape grow sharper and he can discern the dappled surfaces of large boulders, their rough surfaces covered with blotches of green and white lichen. The ground is steep, uneven and rocky; nothing grows except for the odd bunch of stringy grass and the occasional hardy thistle topped with purple fuzz. Estarossa squints. How anyone can live in a place like this is beyond his understanding: the giants must be made of very stern stuff.

Their king turns his face to the sky as Estarossa approaches, the demon's shadow falling over the cold face. Drole stands, unmoving, his face set to stone as he glowers, a pair of arms folded over his chest while the other set of hands is planted firmly on his hips, muscles rippling as he tenses. Estarossa can feel the hostility of the king and his people, who are all staring at him with hard eyes, their faces an exact mirror of their leader's.

"What do you want with us, demon?" demands Drole in a growl. "State your business before I swat you from the sky."

Estarossa hovers in the air before the giant, stretching his arms out wide to show his weapon is securely strapped to his side. "I mean you no harm," he says, forcing himself not to snap in return. "In fact, I have what I hope will be a welcome gift."

"I never trust demons, especially those who claim they bear gifts," the king huffs.

Estarossa sucks in a deep breath, doing his best to quell the flash of temper that fires his insides. "How does around two hundred dusk oxen sound to you? All of them dead and ready for eating."

There are murmurs at this. Estarossa can feel the tension in the air break into pieces to scatter on the wind. The king still glares at him, his expression unchanged, but below them his people are making their feelings known. He can hear the hope in their whispers and in the excited squeals of the young ones who have not yet learned to control the volume of their voices. "I'm so hungry!" he hears one cry before the little boy is hushed by his mother, who pulls him into a hug. Estarossa is careful not to show it on his face, but he knows he is in the clear; there is no way the king can refuse to keep food from the mouths of his people. They will take the dusk bison. Problem solved.

His stomach falls a little in a way which has nothing to do with the sudden rush of wind he has to adjust his wings to accommodate when Drole asks, "And why the sudden generosity? You immortals have cast us aside for centuries now."

Estarossa does his best to smile. "Fine. You don't like demons. It matters not. These are a gift not from me, but from the fairy clan…"

"That's even worse!" Drole yells, his face like thunder, his shout ringing over the rocks. "The fairies took our land and what did you gods do? Nothing! And why? Because the fairies are pretty and they make the flowers bloom, and they give the goddesses berries for ale. Where is the justice in that? And did any of you help us? No! Even though we are the ones who tend to the earth. Without us this world would be overrun with any number of beasts and monsters, and what do we get in return? No!" booms the king as Estarossa opens his mouth. "I will hear nothing more from you. Get out of my sight or I will throw you over the mountain."

"But I'm so hungry!" the giant boy cries, his sobs audible even from Estarossa's position in the sky and Drole hesitates, his mask falling for a fraction of a second to show acute worry before the stern anger slides back into place. Seizing his opportunity, Estarossa presses on, "I know nothing about any of these disagreements, but it seems like madness to me to turn down free food…"

"Why are you so keen we take these things anyway?" Drole asks, his brow slightly furrowed. "What— Oh! I have it!" cries the king, his face twisting. "Those fairies got you to cull the beasts for them did they? What a joke. They can't even manage a few dusk bison on their own. I told you, this world would be chaos without us to keep things in order." Drole laughs and a few stones skitter down the mountainside. "The lazy little shits had better get used to it. We've stopped culling all the animals in their part of Britannia. It won't be long before their precious forest is raided again."

Estarossa lets forth a long sigh and wishes, not for the first time, that he had never set eyes on Elizabeth, or Gelda, or Merlin for that matter, and that he was back home in the Underworld giving sinners the fates they deserved. It was bad enough having to be the errand boy of all the gods, but this stupid feud between mortals was literally nothing to do with him. Except, annoyingly, it was . If the fairies were blighted by more smelly invaders thanks to the giants' self-imposed strike, he would be the one cleaning up manure for the rest of his days.

But diplomacy is well beyond his abilities. Estarossa stares at Drole who glowers back in return and tries to decide what he should do. He is still searching for an answer when he feels the breeze stirring around him, a vortex of power swirling in the pewter sky. He gives a yell as he is yanked into its depths, the giant king giving a huge grunt that shakes the demon's bones as he is sucked away, strands of his hair whipping painfully at his face. He absorbs his darkness back into his form, wrapping his arms around him as the whirlwind whistles in his ears and his eyes start to water. The drab greys of the land fade to an impenetrable black and he strains as he tries and fails to make out anything in the dark. Then, gradually, the pitch lightens, a warm glow like fire spreading out before him, gently illuminating a series of jagged rock spikes.

He starts when he suddenly realises he is no longer flying but is standing with his feet planted firmly on the floor. Catching his breath and stretching the muscles in his arms, Estarossa looks around, seeing nothing but stalactites which are illuminated by some orange light that must come from somewhere. It is warm too - very - and he feels a little trickle of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades. It is dark and unpleasant and he is about to yell when a voice murmurs, "Thank you very much for coming," the noise reverberating through the rocket cave.

"I didn't have any choice," Estarossa snaps as he turns round to search for whoever is speaking.

A laugh follows. "That is so," the speaker admits. "Nonetheless I am glad you are here." The voice is more clear now, less echoey and Estarossa whips round as its location becomes more apparent, his jaw tensing as he recognises his captor who wheels towards him, his long thin hands skillfully guiding the chair he sits in so that he is directly in front of the demon. "What do you want?" snaps Estarossa. "Haven't you done enough?"

"If you are referring to the doll I fashioned which has temporarily taken your place in the Underworld, then I dare say I can see why you are a little aggrieved. I would, however, submit to you that the substitution did not take place at my suggestion. I am as much a tool of the Gods as you. I must do as I am instructed."

"What are you talking about?" Estarossa huffs. "You are Gowther! One of the most powerful of the Gods! Why…"

"I too have been outcast," Gowther replies a little sadly. "We need not go into the reasons why. They are irrelevant. What is important is your current dilemma," he adds more firmly. "I can help you, and you can do something for me."

Estarossa scoffs. Of course, yet more errands. "What can I possibly do for someone like you?" he says gruffly. "You have the power to manipulate minds. What greater magic is there? If you wanted, you could have convinced the Gods to do whatever you want, and you have chosen not to. Why should I help you?"

"You haven't even asked what it is I want," Gowther says softly. "Hear me out and see what you think."

There is a bit of a pause. "Well go on then," Estarossa finally gripes.

Gowther nods. "I want you to keep an eye on Merlin. She is… dear to me," he murmurs as Estarossa stares, unbelieving. The idea of anyone caring for Merlin of all people is hard to process. "I trained her when she was a young girl," he explains, evidently reading Estarossa's astonishment. "It saddens me to see how much pain she is in. She is a remarkable woman, with unparalleled ability, but she is troubled. Her family life has been… let us say unfortunate. It concerns me that she is taking out her frustration on the Gods, and indeed the mortals. What she did to the young princess of Edinburgh even I find hard to forgive. But forgive her I have. Merlin needs some care, some affection. She has not had much in her long existence. I believe you are the one who can help her."

Estarossa smiles, his grin cruel. "You are looking at the wrong person," he growls. "I feel nothing for no one and I never will."

Gowther shrugs, his hands resting in his lap. "Very well, I will not insist. Just… think on it," he declares. "She could really use your help. And I will give you what you need in return. To heal a breach, the cycle of wrath must end. Anger breeds anger, hurt breeds hurt. If things are to change one side has to back down. I can help with that," he says with a smile.

"I will… encourage King Gloxinia to make the first move, and for Drole to be receptive to these overtures for peace. Deep down, they both want their rancor to end. Gloxinia feels guilt for his part in usurping the giants' land and Drole is lonely and regrets his choices, but he is too stubborn to back down. Once they have both started to talk I am confident it will not take long for a friendship to blossom. They actually have a lot in common. You should thus see an end to the pestilence that has of late plagued the fairy king's forest and be free to proceed to your next task."

So saying, Gowther closes his eyes, magenta sparks flashing out from the tips of his fingers. His power surges, electricity crackling through the cave as his magic grows, the little streaks of lightning blooming until they are huge arrows, majestic and with sharp points. The air is pregnant with power, every hair on the back of the demon's neck standing on end. He watches with awe, in spite of himself, as the arrows speed towards the roof above them, and Estarossa lets out a low whistle as the missiles run straight up into the rock, disappearing into the dark like a knife cutting through butter.

Then the magic fades, the atmosphere returning to normal. "That will do," Gowther intones as the heavy aura dissipates to leave the cave feeling empty and still. "I will send you back to Britannia," Gowther continues with a sad smile as he looks up at the demon. "And think about what I said with regards Merlin. I am confident you are not so hardened as you believe, for all the curse you endure. One day, someone will break through to your soul."

Before Estarossa can reply, the wind whips around him once more, tugging at his clothing and his long, silver hair. He is ready for it this time though and manages to brace himself, holding himself together as he rushes through space, the darkness bleeding to a brilliant green. He is not surprised, when the whirling stops, to find himself in the fairy king's forest, but he is taken a little aback to see giants talking and laughing among the flitting fairies. The revellers pass around large flagons of ale for their guests along with what looks to be a sweet sap in acorn shells which the fairies drink with gusto. Perhaps most surprising of all is that Gloxinia and Drole are sharing easy conversation, their faces wreathed in smiles. It is as if they have been friends all their lives.

Estarossa shakes his head and walks quickly away, glad that Gowther's plan has worked. For the first time, as the sounds of merriment behind him fades to soft hum, he feels a doubt creep into his stomach. Elizabeth's face appears before him: he had wronged her and yet she had reached out to him, attempting to heal the breach he had created. His jaw works as he stalks away from the trees, the balm of the forest retreating to a biting cold that makes him shiver, and he pulls his lion skin more tightly around him as he heads out into the bleak, rocky moors.