a/n: I bet you didn't think this was going to happen anymore, right? Well, I'm sorry for the long delay but life has its way to keep you from doing fun things. Not even sure if you are still interested in this story but I'll be happy to finish it for you anyways… A huge thanks, as always, to my wonderful betas: canadianscanget who always tries to work hard to make this story work despite the fact that she has really enough going on in her own life; and of course mam711 who has probably the best eyes for mistakes in English texts I've ever seen; there are only so many people who get the English comma rules…

Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And let me hear from you if you're still with me on this ride. And just to make it a little easier for you:

What happened before: Peter and Neal were part of an international task force to find six stolen manuscripts, all connected to the Nibelungen manuscripts who contained the famous German epic. Neal found out the hard way that an a-little-more-than-that associate of his, Anna von der Hagen – a professor and specialist for medieval manuscripts – is somehow a key part of what is going on. When she was kidnapped, Neal went undercover to meet their main suspect, Thomas Bishop, who took him hostage as well and left Peter and Interpol with nothing but empty hands. Now, four months later, Neal is still Bishop's prisoner. He is forced to forge a manuscript that should be able to pass as the original Nibelungen manuscript that was lost in time. Anna von der Hagen is compiling the text, using the original manuscripts as her source, while Neal writes down word after word to satisfy Bishop or rather the man behind him – Oberon, the unknown mastermind who seemed to be the mastermind behind the heists and the real reason why Neal was held like an animal in a cage… If you have further questions, don't hesitate to ask.

Opening his eyes burned like fire and made a torture out of every morning. Neal hated opening his eyes, hated that another day without sunlight had begun, hated that he would once again stare at ink and paper for countless hours until his eyes ached and seemed as dry as the parchment beneath his hands.

When Bishop's rough voice startled him awake this morning, Neal moaned and instantly started to rub and blink to ease his pain, but his vision stayed blurry long enough to irritate Bishop. Bishop's voice again grated into Neal's exhausted consciousness. It was the excuse Neal needed to be pissed. He shouldn't have allowed himself to hiss at Bishop but before he could think it through, Neal had told the other man to go to hell.

Neal opened his eyes just for a moment to see Bishop squint and stroll over to him.

"What did you just say?"

Although Bishop seemed calm, Neal expected a beating. Big Sam outside seemed to be waiting for this opportunity anyway. The way the muscle looked at Neal made him uneasy; apparently Sammy was still upset over the wine bottle Neal had corked him with at June's. To Neal's surprise Bishop didn't call for his watchdog, nor did he hit Neal himself. He just stood there, right in front of him, and waited for an answer. Neal sat up, the stinging in his eyes still an annoyance that seemingly "blinded" him to rational decision-making and he made his second mistake within minutes and repeated his words.

"I said …" Neal scowled up at Bishop. "… that you can go to hell and write your stupid manuscript yourself."

Neal couldn't help but to liken Bishop's face to cold white marble. It was more than just his face freezing for a moment; it was as if there was no soul in the man whatsoever. Neal shuddered when Bishop turned around. He was at Anna's bed faster than Neal would have thought possible and hauled her up by the arm. She yelped and struggled against Bishop, who was taller than Neal, maybe even taller than Peter, muscular, well trained, and who had his bodyguard no more than a few steps away. All things Neal chose to completely ignore as he moved to rescue Anna from Bishop's grasp.

The effort was in vain; Sammy had him pushed back on the bed before he could blink. Neal's second doomed rescue attempt found him pinned to the floor with Sammy's right knee driven between his shoulder blades. His stomach churned with the mix of Anna's curses, the pain in his eyes and the unyielding pressure on his back. He watched through a haze as Bishop hustled Anna out of the room, leaving Neal alone with Sam. He cringed, waiting for a blow that never came. Sammy just continued to press agonizingly into his back until Bishop returned. Alone.

Neal was dragged to his feet by one arm, which Sam kept in a tight grip behind Neal's back. For now he chose to keep calm, mostly because any struggle would inflict pain on his tightly wrenched shoulder within seconds. Instead of struggling, he glared at Bishop, who stood only a few feet away with his irritating smile plastered on his face once again.

"Caffrey, listen… I've told you once not to pull such crap on me and I know for a fact that you're a smart guy. Why is it so incredibly hard for you to understand how this works? I don't need to hurt you to cause you damage. You should consider this day a fair warning."

The blinding pain returned but this time his eyes teared with the pain as he pulled against Sammy's grip. It was almost a strange release from the grinding boredom of his captured existence over the last four months. His pain only served to broaden Bishop's smile, a smile that now looked more like the bared teeth of a rabid dog. Neal hated himself for throwing Anna to this dog, hated that he had run out of options, hated that Bishop held all the cards. All the cards, except maybe one.

"You know I can't continue without her. No way. I can't do a compilation of the texts myself," he half screamed through gritted teeth.

It wasn't even a lie. Neal's German skills had improved over the last months but he was still far from the point where he could have written an epic on his own.

"Oh, but you're not gonna to work on the book today."

Neal frowned. He hadn't expected that answer. "What? But…"

Bishop walked over to the work table and ran his hands over the tools and supplies Neal had grown so familiar with: the parchment so delicate that he touched it as little as necessary; iron gall ink with the strange smell – barely noticeably metallic; the quills with curved sides and flat tips. He could only write in downward strokes because not until the fifteenth century had monks learned to split the tip of the nib in a way that made upwards strokes possible. The more he wrote, the more his shoulder ached – he had to hold the quill with only three fingers, his arm suspended above the parchment, to get the pressure right and keep the ink from smearing. Five letters by five letters because it was the exact number of letters he could write without dipping his quill. Always five letters. Ten thousand lines. In a language he didn't know.

Bishop's fingers touching the things Neal had been so carefully working with for the last four months brought an unexpected anger to him. His sudden involuntary movement towards the long table brought a quick gasp of breath as Sammy pushed his arm up tighter. Bishop turned and grinned.

"You know, having you here is a risk. Keeping you alive is a risk. One we are willing to take, of course, because your talents should make us filthy rich. And sure, you have quite the reputation. But the fact is, we don't know. We were going to schedule some sort of test anyway but because of your little… tantrum… now seems as good a time as any. Besides, the professor will be otherwise occupied for a while yet."

Neal's skin prickled at Bishop's tone. He had no doubt that Anna would suffer because of his stupid mistake. Unfortunately, he'd never been good at keeping his mouth shut when he was either tired or annoyed. He was like a kid that couldn't stay seated even though he knew he was headed straight for disaster.

"Bishop, please… Anna didn't do anything, right? It was me. Just… let us continue with the manuscript. I promise you, it's flawless. Everything I do is."

Bishop shook his head with an amused expression.

"Not that flawless considering they caught you. But the damage is already done; you need to learn that you can't worm your way out of everything in your life, Mr. Caffrey."

God, he was a slow learner with some things; over and over he managed to get those closest to him hurt. Neal chided himself for his overly cocky arrogance; talented yes, but with a mind that often reacted too quickly without considering all the eventual consequences, especially those that affected others around him. Neal was helpless to change Anna's fate this day, helpless to change any course of action that Bishop chose. The other man walked over to the box that held the original manuscripts and pulled out what Neal identified as the Viennese Parcival manuscript. Bishop carefully put it down on the working table.

"You will forge this. Today. I want this finished by ten."

It was a blunt demand that Neal knew would be hard to meet, even if it was something he nonetheless had to accomplish. But the con man inside him needed to know something first.

"Why? Why this one?"

Bishop surprised him by giving him a straight answer.

"To send it back. If this passes as the original, you live, and we let you continue your work on the Nibelungen piece. And of course, as additional incentive we'll have people waiting for Ms. Ellis the day the information of a forgery surfaces. And then we'll go through our list until you perfect your talents. Are we clear?"

Neal felt like he was drowning in numbness when he tried to understand the degree of Bishop's threat. He was unable to say anything in response. Bishop nodded and Sammy released him with a forceful shove towards the table. Neal watched in silence as the two men exited the room, a room that soon reverberated with an empty hollowness save for the pounding of his own heart. He rubbed at his throbbing shoulder and wrist, the left one, as no doubt Sam was well aware of Bishop's plans. Then he set to work on the forgery that had to be his best at any cost. Maybe if it had just been Anna he would have thought, for just a moment, of running, leaving Anna to her destiny like she had left him to his so many years ago. It was something he would never do, couldn't do. Even if he could run, could escape – and he had tried, and tried again – his best chance of keeping everyone he cared about safe, everyone he was willing to give his life for safe, was by staying put and being the absolute best at forging the perfect manuscript.

Neal was barely able to keep his hands from shaking when he started to work on the newest manuscript. He missed Anna's hands. Every few hours she would sit down next to him and start to knead his arms and shoulders. At first it had felt strange, an artificial closeness that had almost made him draw back. But besides the hot showers Bishop granted them, it was the best way to relax his muscles and keep him working. And even when he had a hard time admitting it – because Anna still was cold-blooded, and Anna still had killed a man, and Anna still couldn't be trusted – he was grateful for her presence. And only now, when she wasn't there, did he realize how much she still meant to him. It wasn't a romantic feeling, not at all, but some strange feeling that only came from people sharing some shades of gray with each other. No matter how hard he tried to despise Anna, he couldn't. Maybe he should introduce her to Keller. They would make a nice couple.

After seemingly endless hours of work, Neal stopped to cut yet another quill. The "Z" that made the writer of the piece so special wore the material down, but Neal didn't dare shape the quill differently to make it easier for himself. The writer was famous, and his significant "Z" would be the first step in authenticating the piece. Neal pushed himself away from the table and stretched his arms back. The clicking and popping of his shoulders reminded him of just how still and steady he had been sitting for far too long. Break time, which really equated to figuring out how much material he was going to need, how much parchment and ink, until he would have this piece of work finished. He cut several quills at once and filled a few of the small inkwells with the dark fluid in the bigger glasses, only to keep himself from writing for a few moments longer, and to relax his shoulders and arms as long as he could. To complete the forgery was a tough job to do in only one day, but manageable. Neal remembered a story Anna had told him when they had started on the Nibelungen manuscript. He had complained about the amount of work he was supposed to get done every day and she just had laughed and told him about Gisela, the mother of Henry the Black, and Empress of Germany.

About a thousand years ago, Gisela announced her planned arrival at the Abbey of St. Gall. She was known as a collector of manuscripts, if you wanted to put it that way. You could also say she was a thief. At that time the Abbey was in possession of some expensive books, mainly Psalters and codices. With Gisela's visit impending, the librarians of St. Gall started copying everything that seemed of importance to them, which included a Psalter written by Notker Labeo. Like every other Psalter, the book was filled with psalms and other clerical texts but unlike the common volumes, this one was famous for its rich illustrations. Working like slaves, the monks managed to copy the whole book, about 15,000 lines, within two weeks. It turned out to be the right decision. The copy was the one that lasted through time while the original vanished under mysterious circumstances when Gisela left the Abbey.

Neal knew St. Gall had had a lot of monks working night and day on this task but it still gave him some comfort to know others had been forced into the same ordeal he now faced. And it definitely helped him finished the Parcival fragment in time. When Bishop came back at ten o'clock, he took the piece, smiled and left again only to bring back Anna minutes later. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there was a dark bruise on her cheek. Neal bit his lower lip when he saw her swallow down her tears when she couldn't stand his eyes on her. He wanted to hug her, to give her some comfort of any kind but she just shook her head and went to bed in silence. Neal did the same, the words unspoken between Anna and him wearing him down.

The silence between them continued over the next few days, while they were working on the Nibelungen manuscript again. Neal had no idea if he had passed Bishop's test with the Parcival. He had to hope for the best; he couldn't stand the thought of Sara getting hurt. It was hard enough to watch the bruise on Anna's cheek changing color every day. Neal knew she blamed him, even when she didn't say it out loud. It was the way she kept her distance that gave her away. She kept her massages short and her chats shorter.

On the fourth day after Anna had gotten punished for his mistake and he'd had to forge the Parcival fragment, Bishop entered the room in the early afternoon with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He smiled as he put everything down in front of Neal.

"Mr. Caffrey, I'm happy to give you this as a mark of recognition. Your manuscript passed as the original. You and the Professor enjoy the drink and take the day off. Congratulations. And my apologies for even thinking of doubting your abilities."

Bishop left with a wave of his hand and Neal watched Anna relax. He started to wonder if it wasn't so much reproach that had caused her to keep her distance, but the fear of what might come if Neal failed the test. She turned around, opened the bottle, and filled both glasses with the sparkling golden liquid.

"Neal, I've always said it and I'll say it again." She toasted at him and sipped her champagne before she continued. "Your hands, my dear, are priceless."