Chapter 14: The Family Business

When we return to Phelan, the Candle has done its work and been returned to its place on my artifact shelf, and Mum is sleeping comfortably. My nephew is finishing his work when we appear, and after a few minutes of waiting, the three of us swing by the creek and grab the kids. They run ahead of us as we make our way back to the house, and by the time the three of us stop at the barn to return Phelan's tools, they're already at the house.

My nephew is grinning when he emerges from the barn. "Mum's horse is back." He says, and I freeze in place; a strange mix of anticipation and anxiety lances instantly up my spine. I'll finally get to see my little sister again, but with the way we parted… I'm keenly aware that I was called here because I was needed, not because I was wanted.

Unwillingly, the memory comes to mind of the day I left, of when they asked me to stay. How Elaine had turned away when I said no; the understanding, the unfathomable sadness in my mother's eyes when I walked away. She knew that I couldn't stay, and I think it was that knowledge more than the action that cut her.

I begin to lag behind my nephew on the walk back to the house, and Rum falls back to walk with me. Phelan, who towers over us both, quickly outpaces us with his longer legs and greater motivation.

"Well, little wolf?" Rum asks, referring to my hangman's pace. I run a hand through my hair, eyes fixed on the house and the person who waits inside.

"Remember how I said that I left on good terms?"

Rum nods, glances at Phelan a good distance ahead of us, and lowers his voice. "It still hurt them." It's half a quote from our conversation on the beach, half an observation.

"Yeah. And its been almost thirty years, and I haven't heard a word from them before now. What if-" I cut myself off abruptly when I realize what I'm saying; pride and, much more importantly, self-preservation, will not allow me to give Rum any more power over me than I already have today.

If he wasn't so bloody easy to talk to, this wouldn't be a problem.

Rum looks at me for a long moment, smiling gently in a this-amusing-idiot way. "They're happy to see you, little wolf."

I snort. "How do you know?"

"There's nothing like family to a d'Corbin." He sing-songs, quoting Phelan.

I look at Rum for a long time; then I grin, for several reasons.

Phelan is waiting by the house when we arrive, and we've barely rejoin him when he pushes through the door and calls for his mother. We're hot on his heels, but by the time we're inside, he's already enveloped someone in a hug. Then he pulls away, grinning, and there stands my half-sister.

Elaine is my opposite in almost every way, a fact that immediately strikes me at seeing her, just as it did years ago when we first met. Where years of hard labor on a ship and decades of swordplay have packed lean muscle onto my athletic frame, growing up on a farm has made my sister relatively thin, but allowed her to keep the soft curves that many an old bat has informed me makes one's form womanly and attractive. Unlike me, both Elaine and Tor look like Mum, though Tor's face had been a more square and hard-lined interpretation of it than Elaine's dainty, pretty features. And, though only three years separate us, only Elaine looks her age, silver having overtaken most of her once-chocolate hair where grey has barely touched mine. The only features that we share- besides the d'Corbin eyes and hair- is our mother's strong, straight nose, and even then, mine is the slightest bit crooked from one or two breaks.

It's an odd sensation, like looking in to a distorted mirror: here's what you would look like, if your father wasn't a Pellinore and you'd always been loved and there was still some hope for your immortal soul. Here's the contentment, the optimism and stability that I haven't been able to indulge in since I was thirteen. It's the same thing with Tor and Phelan, I realize; though there are moments where I'm hit again with how much Phelan looks like my brother, there are other times, when his eyes twinkle with laughter or a grin spreads across his face, that this same thing hits me: this is how Tor would have looked. How he would have looked if he lived past- or even to- thirty five, how he would have looked if life had afforded him the same happiness that our sister and nephew has.

All this I feel as Elaine and I lock eyes. Emotions flash across her face- old pain, subdued happiness- and we both freeze, evaluating the other's reaction with uncertainty. I flash a strained smile.

"Hello, little sister." I say quietly. Then we're hugging, and a thousand things flood through me at once- relief, affection, loneliness, loss. Elaine pulls back, touches a gentle hand to the roots of my hair.

"So she does age." She jests, referring to the thin streaks of grey at my roots that slowly dissolve into the rest of my brown hair.

"Just the hair, so far. Seems to happen mostly after my-" I catch myself and continue in half a heartbeat, so fast that no one but Rum would know me well enough to notice, "My more painful adventures."

I glance to Rum, confirming that he has, in fact, caught the slip. His eyes dart to my hair, no doubt realizing that I gained a streak of grey after my resurrection following Frederick's castle, and again after the unfortunate explosion in my study. It's an odd little side effect of the Promethean Curse, and my blood family knows about neither.

My sister arches an eyebrow to hear it. "Not too painful, I trust?"

"When it comes to magic, there's always a price to be paid. It can sting like a bitch, but you develop a tolerance."

My younger grand-nephews and grand-niece oohh to hear a curse, and I flush red, shooting Aislin an apologetic look. Elaine, meanwhile, has locked her eyes onto Rumplestiltskin, an eyebrow raised teasingly.

"And who is your friend, Faolan?" She asks, extending a hand towards Rum to shake, only for the imp to sweep into a perfect court bow and give the offered hand a gentlemanly kiss.

"Rumplestilskin," He introduces himself with a charming smile. "It's a pleasure to have finally met all of you. Ellyn is so stingy with the details."

Elaine returns the smile. "I've long believed that it makes her feel mysterious and intriguing."

"Sadly, only one of those is true." He returns jovially, shooting me a teasing smile.

"What, me? Not mysterious? Not intriguing?" I return in mock offense, directing my words to Elaine and her grandchildren as I add, "Then I suppose you won't want to hear any of my stories?"

The children object immediately to the idea, the young voices blending together in a gaggle of noise, and it takes a few demands for quiet from Arran for them to settle down again.

"You'll get your stories later. Now go on, go play outside! We'll call you when dinner is ready." Bethany is already starting to herd the children out the door, and Rum, Elaine and I crowd out of the way to let them pass. The minute the door shuts behind them, Elaine turns to me and takes my hands.

"Faolan, I'm sorry to tell you like this, but Mum-"

"I know." I say flatly, not even attempting to gentle my voice. "I took care of it."

"You what?" Arran demands. "When?"

"I don't know, half an hour ago? Rum and I took a detour while Phelan was fixing the fence."

"Thank you, Faolan." Elaine says earnestly; over her shoulder, Arran is trying very hard to look grateful, instead of livid that we defied his requests.

I nod grimly. "She won't live forever, you know. She's already gotten more time than most people. But she'll survive what was ailing her."

Elaine thanks me again, and disappears to check on Mum and unpack. With the kids out of the house, my adult relatives finally have the chance to interrogate me properly, and we settle on the various chairs and the high-backed bench near the hearth, trying to catch up on decades of lost time. When Elaine joins us again, the women and I migrate to the kitchen, and their husbands and Rum follow along, hovering in the doorway and along the edges of counters to continue the conversation.

My sister, niece, and niece-in-law move like a well-oiled machine, setting a stew to boil over the fire pit and sliding around the kitchen, chopping and dicing as they talk. I try my best to keep out of their way, feeling oddly out of place, and quite frankly rude, as I lean on the counter next to Rum and the other men and watch my family members prepare our dinner. They don't seem to mind, though, and keep up a lively conversation.

Naturally, Elaine asks after my adopted brothers almost immediately; when I left her and Mum, I'd told them that I planned to inform the Jones brothers of Tor's death. Here I keep things vague, and skirt around lies, wanting to keep Rum far from any tale he could connect to Killian Jones. I simply say that I lost my older brother shortly after leaving the d'Corbin household, and that after several years, Ian was also lost to me. After that, they don't press me on the matter of my adopted family, though Elaine's eyes linger on me. She saw how hard I took Tor's death, and the idea that I learned of Liam's death almost immediately after turns her somber.

As can only be expected, they ask about love interests. I tell them that I was briefly engaged, and politely answer questions about Vali, but skim over the fact that he's an Asgardian demigod; that would perhaps be a bit overwhelming for these farmers to process. Since they seem to be trying to find evidence that I've had some kind of family in these past years- especially after realizing I'd lost my brothers- I volunteer that I had an apprentice for some time.

"Ezra was his name." I say, and watch the pieces fall together for Rum. He knows I had some past experience with Frederick's mage, but I never confirmed how. "I trained him for five years. He was just a boy when I found him. Barely sixteen. But when he was grown, he found someone with deep pockets and pretty promises, and turned on me in the blink of an eye."

By the grim look that settles over my family, I realize that I have not reassured them that I didn't spend the last thirty years as a lonely hermit.

"You've had bad luck with men, Auntie." Tara says lightly.

"Hasn't everyone?" I return with a grin.

"Well, I haven't." Rum proclaims, to the chuckles of the others.

"You are the bad luck."

"So true." He replies with a predatory grin.

In turn, my family tells me of their lives throughout the decades. Elaine's father, my mother's last husband, died perhaps fifteen years ago. I offer my condolences, though I did not particularly like the man, and he carefully kept his distance during my brief time with my mother and sister; I suspect that having all of his wife's bastard children showing up at his door had brought up old insecurities. It likely did not help that I gifted them a better house and land than he himself had been able to provide.

I learn that both Arran and Phelan were part of the militia for years, and would spend a few nights a week patrolling the town and nearby roads. With the growing fear that the Barking Beast has returned to the area, they were eventually expelled from the guard for the family's refusal to take part in the hysteria. Likewise, Tara had trained as a midwife and medicine woman in her younger days, but the current tensions between the family and the town has kept patients from seeking her out.

Eventually, as the sun just touches the western horizon, the kids are called in for dinner. The dining area consists of a considerably long, bench-lined dining table set on one half of the living room. It's a tight fit for everyone to have a seat; not uncomfortably so, but we're still bumping into each other fairly often.

I would like to say that I enjoy having dinner for my family, and most of me really does- it revels in this, in fact. But after an hour, the constant buzz of conversation, the accidental but frequent jostling, it all starts to grate on nerves already frayed from recent experiences. Have I slept since meeting Thanatos in the Netherworld? I don't think I have. A migraine forms slowly behind my eyes, and though everyone is done with their food, they seem content to sit around the table and the nearby hearth, talking the night away.

I'm saved by my five-year-old grandniece, Eimar, when she accidently knocks her cup of blackberry juice onto my lap. Aislin apologises profusely, and I try not to look relieved as I excuse myself to go change. Rum watches me intently as I go, knowing full well that I could magic the garment clean.

When I emerge into the quiet of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, I breathe a sigh of relief. It's cooler in this part of the house, away from the heat of the hearth and of so many bodies. I follow the directions Tara gave me to her room and step inside, closing the door behind me. I can still hear the voices of the d'Corbin household through it, muffled and distant. I shed my soaked shirt, happy to feel cool air on my skin again, and for a long moment I simply stand in the middle of the room, thoughts turning inward and chasing each other in circles. Underneath it all is the drum of the most important question: how long can I afford to stay? How much time can I buy with them before something from my real life pulls me away, or until I cannot put off my brother's rescue for any longer? The door opens behind me, creaking softly, and the scent of pine hits my nose.

"So this is where you're hiding-" Rum begins as he shuts the door, but then he stops short. I look over my shoulder, brow furrowing. He's staring; he's never seen me in any state of undress, and for a minute I have the urge to grin lecherously and strike a pose, see if I can get him to blush. But something in his gaze catches me off-guard, something somber and melancholy. He crosses to me in two quick strides, and I tense when a hand touches the bare skin of my back, just above my breastband.

Ah. Thanks to the frantic beating of my heart, it takes a second for things to click in my head. The scars. Injuries obtained around the time of my deaths tend to scar dramatically, and I have died enough times, and suffered enough injuries besides, to have collected an obscene amount of them. His fingertips rest over one of them now.

"What happened here?" Rum breathes, sounding almost pained. I turn a little to face him more fully, and he suddenly draws his hand back. There's something nervous and boyish about him as he shoots me a tentative, worried glance, afraid that he's crossed a line; though we don't usually shy from physical contact, it's another thing entirely to walk in on someone half-dressed and start touching them.

"Which one?" I ask with a rueful smile, and watch some of that nervousness ease from his face. He puts his hand on my back again, skimming his finger over several raised scars, and a pleasant tingle runs up my spine.

"These. Almost a dozen of them." He pauses, considering. "Arrows?"

"Got it in one. I must have looked like a porcupine after Fredrick's castle."

I watch his face fall at that memory, and something between a bemused smile and a grimace stretches across his lips.

"Oh, you did. It was a dramatic sight." His eyes flicker from the scars to my face, hardness crossing it. "You didn't tell me everything about dear Ezzie. When we passed his body, you said he was no one."

I stare at no place in particular, keep myself distant and detached from the memories I recount. "When he turned on me, he trapped me in that cell they kept you in. It was not a pleasant experience- Frederick and I weren't on the best terms. I only got out because I died. I woke up next to two lovely chaps digging my grave. Scared the shit out of them." I look Rum in the eyes. "I couldn't kill Ezra back then, but by the time I fought my way into that dungeon, he was no one to me." I smile tightly, and add, "Believe it or not, Rum, but I try not to lie to you. There are just some things I don't like to talk about."

"So I've noticed." He replies wryly, a curious emotion flickering across his face. Then he cocks his head. "Would you like to talk about why you're hiding from your quaint little family?"

"It's not so little, is it?" I shoot back, and he cocks an eyebrow. "I'm fine, Rum. It's just a lot all at once. For gods' sake, I'm related to three five-year-olds in this house and I can't even tell them apart. I'm used to you and Graham, not twenty people who expect miracles and legends. I love them, and I'm sure they love me, but I don't... This isn't my home. They're not family in the way that Graham and yo- and Ian are."

He grins, smug and delighted, to catch the slip. I expect to feel horror crawl up my spine to have nearly admitted that aloud, but feel only the pleasant warmth of Rum's hand on my back. I really need some sleep, I think, sighing.

I send some magic through my shirt to clean it, casting a minor glamour to change it's color and keep up the charade that I came in here to change . Rum reaches around me to tap a finger on it, and the shirt changes to a deep maroon.

"Red looks better on you." He declares with a lecherous grin, finally taking the opportunity to rake a mock-predatory gaze across my nearly-bare torso. I lean into his chest and smile charmingly at him.

"I think a gag would look great on you."

"Oo, how adventurous, little wolf."

I let out a small huff of laughter and step away to throw my shirt back on. "Com'on, I promised the kids a story."

When it's nearing midnight, the last adults of the house start to go to bed. Phelan and eldest grandniece Bethany have made it the longest, but when even they are starting to look tired, I stand and announce that Rum and I are turning in.

"Oh. Uh, we don't really have a guest room, but we can-" Phelan begins.

"You're not kicking anyone out of bed. Me and Rum don't sleep much, and I have some things to take care of."

Phelan arches an eyebrow. "You're not going to terrorize the villagers, are you, Auntie?"

"No more than usual." Rum quips from my side, a devilish grin across his face.

"Auntie, things are already tense-"

"We'll leave the locals alone. Well, as long as they don't come around waving pitchforks and torches. That's quite annoying, you know."

Bethany chuckles, but Phelan does not look particularly relieved. He nods wearily anyway. "Thank you. Good night, Auntie."

"Night, kids."

My nephew and his daughter shamble off towards their bedrooms; they're barely out of the room before I'm headed for the front door. Rum follows along quietly as we slip into the cool night and head towards the barn, and I summon a few small balls of magelight to float around us as I take Rum's hand and teleport us up into the hay loft.

"You've piqued my curiosity, little wolf. Why are we hiding in the barn?" The pale blue glow of magelight makes his face appear sharper and gaunter. I settle on the ground and summon Zoso's little box to my hands. Then I draw my dagger, prick my finger, and use the blood to open the lock. Inside, the three oblong purplish crystals gleam in the light.

"I don't have time to research these, and I don't have the patience either. I'm going to see what happens if I pick one up, and I'd like you to watch my back."

Rum stares at me for a moment, annoyed. "I'm getting deja vu. I recall these odd memories of exploding books and ruptured organs and a dead wolf in my guestroom. Sound familiar? No?"

"Look, I don't think they're actually cursed. I just want you here as a precaution."

"Well, as long as you don't think they're cursed," Rum retorts scathingly.

"Oh, come on, Rum, aren't you curious about what the hell they are?"

He ignores my question, because we both know he is. "Tell me, little wolf, what do you think I'm supposed to do if you die? Good morning, children! Don't go into the barn, Auntie Faolan is dead in the loft! Oh, don't cry, this happens all the time."

"It doesn't happen 'all the time'." I grumble back. "And even if it does, I could be awake by morning." Or I could not wake up for three days; I don't have it down to an exact science yet. Rum doesn't seem convinced, so I add, "If I give you five minutes to look the thing over, will you stop pouting?"

"I am not pouting. I am annoyed." He shoots back defensively, and I raise an eyebrow. "Ten minutes."

"Seven."

"Fine. But this is a foolish idea."

"Noted." I say, and levitate one of the crystals into the air for him to examine. He raises a hand, and wisps of purple, smoke-like energy begin to slowly swirl around the rock.

A few minutes later, he cocks his head. "Hmm. A container of some kind. Based in the school of Illusion, I believe."

"Sounds fun," I say, in a dry tone that means, sounds dangerous. "Well, let's give it a go."

Rum lowers his hands to his lap, the traces of his magic fading from the air. I take a deep breath, shoot Rumple a reassuring smile, and pick up the crystal.

I am in another place, another time. I am watching the world through another's eyes, now a passive audience that experiences every emotion and action as though it is my own, though some distant, objective part of me recognizes that I am a third party.

"Balthazar!" Someone calls to the man whose mind I inhabit. Balthazar stands in a large two-leveled room that seems half library and half museum, with display cases scattered on the shelves or on stands at the end of bookcases. He is thumbing through a book, and looks up to the second level. The man who called for him stands on a balcony that holds more bookcase and displayed items; he is in his late twenties, and has wavy brown hair and dark, dark eyes.

"Yes, Alastar?" Balthazar's voice is deep and gravelly, insistently familiar.

"You have a visitor."

"Hmm." Balthazar teleports to the balcony in the blink of an eye, and I am distantly aware that, based on the drain he feels from this, he is not a particularly strong mage. Alastar, the younger man, begins walking as soon as Balthazar is by his side, leading the way into the rest of the building. "Are they in the dining hall?"

"He is still outside." Alastar says, emerging from the library-like room into a long hallway with high ceilings and stone walls. A castle.

Balthazar sends him a sharp sideways glance, surprised and disapproving. "You left a guest standing outside in the rain?"

Alastar is silent for several steps. "There's something wrong with him. He reeks of dark magic."

"So does half our castle, little brother."

"I'm not talking about a little bit of blood magic. I'm talking about seriously dark shit. Be careful with him, Bal, I'm serious. There's something… malicious about him."

"Interesting. Did he say what he wanted?" Balthazar is growing more on edge, but keeps his voice light; he trusts his brother's instincts, even if he would not tell him that.

"He wishes to discuss a trade with the lord of the castle." I am surprised by the anger that courses through Balthazar when Alastar says trade.

"I see. And a dark magician, you say? Perhaps I should retrieve the Seal."

"If you don't, I will." Alastar grumbles, and they make a sharp turn to avoid bypassing the next hallway. In a few minutes, they pass through a heavy wooden door and descend a flight of steps. The temperature drops notably as they go, and they emerge into some sort of catacomb; torches automatically flicker to light at their arrival. The ceiling is low and arched, and stone sarcophagi are slotted into the wall. As they walk, they occasionally pass marble statues with urns resting between their feet. They stop at one such statue; a man with curly hair and wiry limbs rests one hand on a stone sword, the other hand held out to the viewer, palm-up.

Balthazar draws a small drop-point knife and rolls up his sleeve. Small scars litter the palm and forearm, and he adds another by making a shallow cut on the back of his arm, holding the limb above the statue's hand and watching as blood drips into the palm. The sound of grinding stone fills the air as the statue begins to move, joints bending and straightening as it comes to life and draws it's sword; Balthazar and Alastar watch passively, obviously familiar with the event.

"By what right do you trespass here?" The statue rasps.

"I am Balthazar son of Caim, Lord of Corbin."

"I am Alastar son of Caim, Heir and Keeper-In-Waiting of Corbin Castle." The rehearsed cadence of their voices tells me that this is a ritual of sorts, and when the statue speaks, his words carry the same stiffness.

"For your father's name, you may enter." The statue replies. He rests the edge of his sword on his shoulder and steps to the side, placing the other hand on the wall behind him. A rune on the back of his hand glows red, and stone grinds as a section of the wall slides away to reveal another descending staircase.

The brothers take the short plunge downward, and emerge into a small, dome-shaped room, torches flickering to light on the walls. Racks of weapons and mannequins in armor line the walls, and two rows of various objects in display cases dominate the center of the room. Almost everything is accompanied by an engraved plaque or, for what I assume to be more recent acquisitions, hand-scrawled notes.

Balthazar immediately crosses to one such display case. Inside are rings and gemstones, all labeled by plaques: Bezoar, Adder's Stone, Ring of Gyges, Seal of Solomon. There's a lock on the front of the case, but instead of producing a key, Balthazar holds his still-bleeding arm over the glass; when a few drops of blood fall onto it, the glass seems to dissolve into thin air. He plucks the Seal, a brass signet ring, from the case, and with a wave of his hand the glass reappears.

"Aunt Maeve!" Balthazar calls as he slips the ring onto his hand. A figure seems to materialize from the walls, silvery and translucent. Somewhere, my own mind recoils. Is that a bloody ghost?

"I assume that this is about the warlock at the door." Maeve says mildly. Her ghostly form distorts color, but her long-limbed form and curly hair vaguely resembles Alastar.

"Alert the stonemen and confine the servants to the kitchen. We expect a volatile meeting."

Maeve's face falls deadly serious at his tone, and she nods curtly before drifting away, seeming to fade into the air of the vault. Balthazar spins on his heels, and he and Alastar retrace their steps back up the stairs, back through the catacombs, and up to the ground floor. In less than a minute, they are approaching a huge set of oaken doors. Lining this particular hallway are several carved statues similar to the ones in the catacombs, each holding a long stone spear. Balthazar nods to one as he passes, and it nods back.

Balthazar and Alastar stop before the doors and exchange a glance. Then the former waves his hand, and the doors open of their own accord; the cloaked man waiting outside them is forced to step back as they swing open. Their visitor is a small mountain of muscle with a bearded, boarish face of wild brown hair and small dark eyes; his skin is covered in soft grayish-gold scales. From beneath the cloak, the hilt of a dagger just barely pokes into visibility. The pair of brothers step forward to greet him, and he looks down his nose at Balthazar, grinning savagely.

"You're the one they call Zoso?" He asks, almost laughing, voice a deep rumble. Balthazar is instantly annoyed, but does not flinch; somewhere, I do.

"I am Balthazar, Lord of Corbin Castle." He says stiffly, formally. "Zoso is simply a word in the local dialect."

"Fascinating." The stranger replies sarcastically. "I must say, Lord d'Corbin, that I am less than impressed by your hospitality."

Balthazar's voice holds no sincerity as he returns, "My sincerest apologies, mister…"

"I am Gorgon the Invincible." The stranger makes the statement a lofty announcement, eyes gleaming as he waits for a reaction. When neither Balthazar or Alastar give one, something on his face shifts, becoming cold and hard. "Have you not heard of me?"

The cold shot of anxiety that went up Baltahzar's spine tells me that he has. Calmly, flatly, he says, "I have been told that you wish to trade. We are guardians of this land, not merchants."

"So I have heard. Guardians does have a much nicer ring to it than hoarders of artifacts." Alastar bristles; Balthazar stares passively, his anger calm and collected and cautioned by fear. "I believe that you will want what I have to offer."

"And what would that be?" Alastar interjects before Balthazar can, and Gorgon's face flashes with predatory delight.

"I was going to offer to spare that abysmal town at the bottom of the hill. Now, however-"

Balthazar never sees him move, never sees a limb nor magic wrap around Alastar, but in the blink of an eye Gorgon has snagged the smaller man and wrapped a meaty arm around his neck in a choke-hold. Balthazar reacts on reflex, firing a blast of concussive energy that should break limbs; instead, it only rocks Gorgon back onto his heels.

"Oh, that stung." Gorgon taunts, Alastar flailing useless in his arms. A flex of muscle, and Alastar suddenly gasps for breath. "Do you still wish to deny my trade?"

"What do you want?" Balthazar snarls, unparalleled terror pounding through his veins.

"Everything." The predatory smile twitches wider, becomes more manic. "Let me in."

Slowly, mechanically, Balthazar backs into the castle, Gorgon matching every step. A blood-red barrier shimmers across the doorway as the Dark One steps up to the threshold, and Balthazar glares at him from across it. Blood magic is unbreakable, and though Gorgon might be able to use Alastar to extract a way through it, it would take time. Balthazar could escape or arm himself, but it would cost him his brother, and they all know it.

"I welcome you to Corbin Castle." he growls, and the red glow of the barrier makes Gorgon's visceral, unhinged smile all the more horrifying as he steps into the castle.

"A lovely place." Gorgon says patronizingly, backing Balthazar down the hallway. "I'm curious. What does zoso mean?"

From his peripheral, Balthazar marks the first set of stonemen along the wall, and continues backward until Gorgon is in between them. Now it is his turn to smile predatorily.

"Demon." Balthazar snarls, and the stonemen lurch forward and skewer Gorgon through both sides with their spears. No blood flows, but Gorgon roars in fury, and the world becomes chaos.

There is a flash of black magic, and a limp Alastar is discarded as Gorgon twists to round on the rightmost statue; Balthazar darts forward after his brother. More stonemen are thundering down the hall, but neither they nor Balthazar are there before Gorgon's body ripples, expands into something boarlike. Somewhere, I think, Is that a fucking bandersnatch?

Then that bandersnatch launches himself further up the spear impaling him, and breathes fire into a stoneman's face. Balthazar is still ten feet away, and is forced to recoil from the sheer heat of the flames. The stoneman staggers, head and shoulder molten. At his feet, a sluggish Alastar is trying to crawl away, and Balthazar dives underneath the struggling monster and stonemen to hook an arm under his shoulders. Distantly, Balthazar registers something wrong with his brother, something making him gasp and choke horrifyingly.

They make it perhaps ten feet.

The other stonemen arrive, and suddenly the fire cuts off as Gorgon shrinks back into a man to avoid a thrust spear. A roar and a pulse of magic, and the nearest two stonemen disintegrate; the next two are batted aside as Gorgon lifts Balthazar with one hand and hurls him fifteen feet to the side and into the wall. Bones crack and his vision flashes black, and he is dimly aware of Alastar's strangled yelp as he is kicked hard enough to send him sliding down the hall.

Then Gorgon is rounding on Balthazar again, and he throws up a bluish ward that shields him from the first bone-shattering punch. The first blow cracks the ward; one, two more, and it shatters. He is seized by neck, lifted, and slammed into the wall repeatedly, each impact punctuated by a word.

"You- Fucking- Upstart-" Gorgon roars, and Balthazar's hands scrabble on the bigger man's wrist as he fights to stay conscious. Distantly, he knows he has only one play. The Seal of Solomon glows warmly on Balthazar's hand as he finally gets a solid grip.

"Cease this," Balthazar chokes out. Gorgon screams in wordless fury, tensing to draw back for another slam; he screams again as his entire body stills, and Balthazar is dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. He staggers back against the wall but pushes off it, launching himself into Gorgon's chest. The bigger man barely moves back a step, but that was not the point, and grim satisfaction washes over Balthazar as his hand closes on that dagger that Gorgon wears on his hip.

The influence of the Seal snaps, and a pulse of magic slams Balthazar back into the cracked wall. He slides to the ground, nearly unconscious, but the Kris Dagger is still in his hand, and Gorgon freezes.

The fight is over; it lasted perhaps forty-five seconds. Balthazar rolls to his hands and knees and staggers blindly to his feet, leaning all his weight onto the wall.

"Whatever you did to my brother," He rasps, "You will undo it."

Gorgon's smile is bone chilling. "Take a listen, my lord. It's too late for that."

Balthazar does, heart racing, gut clenching. At first he hears nothing, and then realization hits him: he hears nothing, not even Alastar's ragged choking. He concentrates his blurry vision on his brother's limp form, searching desperately for the rise and fall of his chest.

"Alastar!" he calls down the hall, desperate and decomposed even to his own ears. Gorgon burst into laughter, crazed, booming laughter, and a wave of cold rage and absolute emptiness sweeps into Balthazar's chest.

He never registers moving, but he does not particularly care when he stabs the Dagger through Gorgon's throat.

I jolt back to myself with a gasp, terrified and disoriented for several long seconds. Is that what it would feel like to lose Ian? That cold, deathlike numbness that promises the world will never be right again? To lose Tor and Liam and Pops and Zoso was painful, but to watch my baby brother die might truly break me.

When I can once again take in my surroundings, I realize that I'm clinging to Rum for dear life. He must have been kneeling in front of me, trying to get me to come back to myself; now, I've curled forward, latching onto his shirt and tucking into his chest. He, in turn, has wrapped both arms around me and rested his chin on my head, calling my name coaxingly.

I take a few more breaths and pat his chest, and he loosens his embrace so I can pull back.

"I'm back, Rum. I'm okay." I lean back against the wall of the barn and run both hands through my hair, trying to keep my mind from that all-encompassing emptiness.

"What did you see?" He prompts gently.

"A memory. Not a fun one, either." I glance back to the box that contains two more crystals- and two more memories. After this, I am not keen to see what they hold. "Why the hell would he show me that? The Vault, sure. There might be something useful in there. But why Gorgon? Why… that?"

"Gorgon?" Rum interjects stiffly. I blink dumbly for a second.

"'Course you would know about him. Yeah, it was a lovely little memory of Zoso getting the shit beat out of him by Gorgon." That seems to brighten his mood. "Felt every bit of it. You have any idea how many times my head got bounced off a wall?" I rub the back of my skull, recalling it far too vividly.

"And when can I say I told you so?" His smile is teasing, but soft enough to tell me that he isn't totally unsympathetic. "At breakfast, perhaps?"

"More like dinner. After this, I'll probably sleep through breakfast."

"I look forward to it. Should we have roasted Bandersnatch?" That gets a snort of laughter out of me, and he grins wider. "Fitting revenge, don't you think?"

"Hell yeah," I laugh. "Let's see how they like being blasted with fire."

He giggles in turn, but as the amusement slowly fades, curiosity slips back onto his face, and he cocks his head. "What Vault?"

"Yeah, I blew right past that. That castle that overlooks the town used to be his-" Ah. That's it. It didn't use to be his, it used to be ours. Our family's. He named me his Heir; something that will get me into the Vault, yes, but as the only magician in the family, I am also the best chance to revive that family legacy. We are guardians of this land, Zoso had told Gorgon.

"What are you thinking, little wolf?"

"I'm thinking that my family is living in a field, getting harassed by villagers, when they should have a castle."

"Hmm. That little family legend has already told them that much. So why are they still here?"

"As far as I know, the d'Corbins were driven out of nobility when the Pellinores started hunting them for the Curse of the Questing Beast. The castle's been abandoned since. The Pellinores say it's cursed ground. Now, I think they couldn't get past the barriers on the doors."

He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Perhaps your dear baby brother could be convinced to give it back."

"Maybe. I would need to talk with the family about it first." I sigh, rubbing the heel of my hand against my eyes. "This was supposed to be a quick trip. Mum's fine now. I should be going after Ian, not getting involved in Listenoise politics."

Rum scoffs, pokes a finger into my ribs. "Cheer up, little wolf! Peter Pan won't just kill your brother over night." More seriously, almost wistfully, he adds, "Treasure this time with your family, Ellie. There is never enough of it."

"Trust me, I know. I used to have three brothers, remember?" A weight settles over me, and my hand drifts to my belt, to the bone-handle hunting knife that Tor made me all those years ago. "Phelan looks so much like Tor. I never got to bury him, and that stung, but it's weirder to see his doppelganger grow older than he'll ever get to be."

My voice wavers on that last sentence, and Rum wraps an arm around my shoulders; I lean into his side, rest my head on his shoulder. We exchange few words after that. Slowly, the warmth of his body against mine, and the fact that I have not slept more than a few hours in the last two days, begins to override my pride. He undoubtedly notices as I begin to doze off, but he only leans back, gently shifting to allow me to rest my head on his chest. I groan a protest, but am too drowsy and emotionally worn to actually want to move. It is not long before the steady beat of his heart lulls me to sleep.

A/N: I will hopefully get more writing done in the near future. I actually have several of the bigger scenes for later written out, which will hopefully make things easier in later chapters. At this point, I believe that this fic will end up having around twenty chapters (certainly less than twenty five), so we're 75% complete. A big thank you to anyone still reading this fic! I may fall in and out of writing it, but I've never fallen out of love with it.