Character endings

[Anna K]

Question: Was Edmund ever un-excommunicated by either Pope Franko or Pope Orlandus? Did Edmund accept it?

[Wulfen (David)]

He would sometimes try to find Deitrich, Bianca or Le Stirge. If he ever did, all he could manage to do was apologise.

if he ever made it to Germany Dietrich would have forgiven him and apologised too.

[Derek]

He would sometimes try to find Deitrich, Bianca or Le Stirge. If he ever did, all he could manage to do was apologise.

If Edmund had made it to Scotland, I'm sure you would have tracked Le Stirge down. He'd have been forced to stay for at least a few months. Been fattened up with some good home cooking and spent some lazy Saturdays lounging in bed until the children came screaming in with their puppy called "Orlandus the even younger".

When he left, he'd know in his heart that any faults he'd believed needed to be forgiven and forgotten were just water under a very dark bridge.

[amphigori]

Best puppy name ever.

(Still working on my character ending... it's become far far too long!)

[Elle]

Did Rainier come courting then? <joke>

no

[Uncle Vanya]

Pope Franko was quite happy to un-excommunicate Edmund as one of his first actions as Pope.

[joker]

Duncans song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0ykm1v9xbU

The visuals are distracting. Just listen to the words.

[Walter Hamer]

The year is 1325, in Daneland. A thunderstorm rages, battering two travelers with sleet as they make their way through the wilderness. Burdened though they are, the water making their clothes and bags heavier, they push on. Presently one collapses, unable to continue. The other stops to help when a violent gush of wind blows her hood off, revealing aged features. They huddle together and talk for a minute. Not talk, shout, for that is the only way they can be heard over the storm. Having reached a conclusion they get up and, changing their path, continue the weary struggle. The treas are too sparse to offer much protection, but ahead through the gloom can be seen a rocky outcrop. Once it is reached, fortune it seems is smiling upon them, as there is a small hole in the ground which provides some shelter from the worst of the weather. They crawl inside and after a pause for breath search for some food in their packs. Little conversation passes between them, except to remark how warm the air from the cave is. The old lady's companion takes off some of her wet clothes. Youthful she is, young enough to be a daughter. They eat silently together, and once finished are soon to doze off. As they sleep a strange, pained expression comes over their faces, as if they were witness to some awful torture, pitiable and horrifying at the same time. The girl mumbles incoherently in her sleep, the mother curls into a ball. Minutes turn to hours, and both companions begin to shudder intermittently, and twist and turn. As the night draws closer to the midnight hour, the jerking becomes more violent, and both cry out at intervals – horrible, shrieking sounds. At the witching hour, both convulse together and awake, silently gaping their mouths in a scream. For a while they sit shaking.

Terrible it was what they witnessed, and never again could they utter a word, nor would the pained expression leave them. They moved as if in a daze, dreamlike. And at night they whimpered, tossing and turning, to wake in a cold sweat. And so it was for the only two mortals ever to bear witness to the punishment of Marcus Hanes.

[Derek]

This isn't going to fit with what anyone else has posted. So if you want all your happy endings to go tidily together like a jigsaw, just skip this entirely...

Alyssa removed the last of the fired pots from the kiln with her thick felt gloves, eyeing each one critically, she decides they're all worthy of putting into the shop to sell. She closes the kiln door quickly, to preserve as much heat as possible. The bell in the shop rings, indicating the door has been opened, so she removes her gloves and, smoothing the apron protecting her black wool dress, makes her way into the shop with the tray of new pots.

Her customers are usually one of the village women, come for a chat and to buy something for the kitchen or one of the pub owners come to buy a pile of mugs and to haggle hard over the price. But today, there is someone new, a short man, with close cropped hair wearing a tidy green woollen tunic. He stares at her for a moment and begins to slowly examine every piece of pottery in turn on the shelves.

Alyssa becomes a little impatient watching him. "Customers" usually know what they want, if they want a mug, they examine only mugs. If they want a pot, they examine the pots. But this little man is looking at every single piece. He runs his fingers along every little mark, as though he himself was making the pot on her wheel.

She coughs politely, "is there anything special you're looking for?" she asks, stepping up beside the man.

"Yes", he says, "yes there is..."

He continues to look at the pieces. Having looked at all the best pieces, he begins to poke around amongst the older pieces. Her first pieces, the ones that didn't sell. Misshapen, imperfect mugs and pots she should long ago have thrown away.

"You won't find anything in there", she says, embarrassed that he is looking at these early pieces, "I don't even know why they're still in the shop. I keep meaning to give them to the church for the poor people, but I never get around to it..."

Eventually, his hands come to rest on a chunky, thick mug. The bottom so uneven it wobbles on the shelf. The walls thick and misshapen and covered in thumb prints. The glaze, incomplete and uneven, but still a striking green colour that almost manages to match his wool tunic.

"This one", he says, "how much is this one?"

She looks at the mug. It was the first one she ever made, and with a rush of emotion, she remembered her state when she made it over two years ago. It was months after Rome and she'd settled down to wait for Le Stirge to join her. But he'd never come.

With some of her brothers money, she'd started a pottery. Expecting that any day, he'd walk through the door. But weeks turned into months. Months turned into years and when she last went to the market to buy some wool for a dress, she bought black.

"Oh, that old thing", she stammered, "I ... I can't sell that, it's worthless".

"On the contrary, I think that it is priceless, and I will give you every single thing I own and every single thing I will ever own if you will give it to me".

Alyssa looks anew at the man, her brows furrowed her heart beating hard, she looks into strangely familiar eyes. His lips split apart is a sudden grin revealing strangely familiar crooked teeth.

"But, I'd ask that you fill it with beer from time to time..."

And then she's in his arms, something between a hug and a tackle. A shelf of pots is knocked to the floor, but she doesn't even notice.

And the tears flow and the sobbing starts...

...and they live happily ever after.

[amphigori]

That is about the most moving thing anyone has written involving any character of mine. Such a gift. Thank you. *Tears up*

[Luciano]

After the victories won by the Order in Hungary and at the Vatican, John stayed in Rome to oversee the union of his two esteemed comrades, Jean de Beauvais and Lady Isabelle. It was a small but beautiful ceremony, held in one of the outer chapels of the city, attended by the members of the Order that had elected to tarry for a time in the Holy See. He deliberately avoided any mention of the Wolfgang campaign, but instead spoke of his own deep affection for them both as a brother and sister in Christ, joining forces to become two parts of a greater and godly whole.

As the bride and groom sealed a loving kiss to bind themselves to each other in God's sight, there was no sign in their bearing of the battles they had fought through, save only for a touch of age in their faces which the keenest of eyes would have had difficulty discerning. Only their love, only the future, only their lives together. John smiled sadly as he watched the procession leave the chapel, quietly reciting a solemn prayer for their safety and happiness under the guidance of the Lord.

His next duty was to see the body of his sword-brother Ragnall interred in the graveyard at Argyll, though he did not proffer his services here, instead remaining silent among the small crowd in attendance, clutching at the old blackened wound in his chest and holding back the tears as best he could, for Ragnall would not have stood for that from him. He watched through glassy eyes as the coffin was lowered to its final resting place and a gentle Scottish lament echoed through the hills for the fallen warrior.

When John found his moment to speak alone with Ragnall the following morning, he found himself short of words, for the tears welling up in his throat impeded his speech. He fell to his knees in grief at the foot of the Scotsman's grave and wept bitterly. After some time had passed he declared he would never seek true healing for the demonic wound he carried, the wound through which the demon Barabbas had entered his body, and through which it was removed again with Ragnall's aid, so that he would never forget everything they had accomplished together. He vowed through tears that he would try to live his life with all the strength, courage and resolve by which Ragnall had lived his, that there might never be an absence of true bravery in the face of even the darkest hours of Christendom. He placed a small silver cross and a single purple thistle carefully at the head of Ragnall's resting place, and bade him pass safely into the Lord's keeping through sobs of mourning.

He bade a heartfelt farewell to the two newlyweds, Alyssa and all the others that have made the voyage to the funeral of the brave Scotsman and set off alone for where he had been told Lucius had laid Nicholas, Ancel and Duncan to rest. Although he had known all of them for such a brief expanse of time, their deaths weighed heavily on his soul, as they might all have survived had Mephistopheles not turned his weak human mind from the task of Sanctuary which he had been assigned.

He spent a long time conversing with Duncan especially, knowing that no words of apology he had could restore the bold warrior to life but somehow wishing to make amends. He whispered that he hoped the Lord in His divine mercy had saved a place for him in that branch of Heaven where all the bravest of Englishmen go, and that with any luck he would be sharing tales of war and legend with the great Saint George even now. He then spoke aloud and told Duncan of how much he admired his dedication and fearlessness in the face of the most terrifying evil, and hoped that some day he might be able to emulate his heroic example. In place of a lament, John offered Duncan a rendition of the twenty-third psalm he had learned as a child, in the hope that his soul in Heaven might yet take comfort in it.

Although he was sorely tempted to head south back to the land of Anglia, the place where this whole twelve-year detour had begun, he knew his work was not finished, his purpose in God not yet fulfilled. There was still a duty which he owed it to himself and to the Lord Almighty to complete: the restoration of his church in Skargen and the advancement of the Christian faith throughout the Danelands. He worked for a short time at a small monastery along the windswept eastern coast near Tollesbury, never using his pious powers so that he would not become the subject of any undue attention, but continuing to study where he could.

In late October 1231 he made his pilgrimage to Skargen to find the entire area in disarray. While it was true that the Danelands had recently been conquered, the daywalker Pope had achieved much of this success through the daywalker creations in his employ. With the daywalkers destroyed, the monks of the recently restored church were virtually defenceless. Often besieged by pagan insurgent rabble, their numbers had declined in recent months from 120 to a mere twenty-six. John spent many months working to contain the threat against the church he had sworn to protect, and in the early 1230s John spent much of his time employing Christian soldiers in defence of the surrounding area, often utilising dispatch reinforcements sent directly from the Vatican by Pope Innocent IX (Orlandus) himself, who was only too happy to not have to deal with the problem himself. Remembering the lessons of the generals of the Order, John eventually became a passable commander of men in his own right while continuing to lead the Offices of the liturgy all hours of the day.

During this period he occasionally made short voyages abroad to visit or aid some of his former comrades in need when he felt confident the defences at the church would hold. Nevertheless, it was a significant period of time before the entire area became safe enough for new converts to join the monastic community at the church, and it was not until the summer of 1238 that John felt his mission was truly complete, having secured the area around Skargen for Christendom, and having produced more than a hundred bound copies of scripture, the musical Offices and the works of the great Christian philosophers in Latin and Danish for dissemination throughout the Danelands.

Perhaps it was intuition, perhaps it was divine intervention, or perhaps it was luck, but by whatever means it came to pass, shortly after his return to England from Skargen, John found himself beholding the very monastery he had been cast out of nearly twenty years ago in the heart of the Anglian countryside. The cruel abbot that had beaten John within an inch of his life so long ago had passed on the previous year, and Brother James had proven adept enough to replace him. James and John had always competed for the highest praise in their training when they were young, and they were both distrustful of one another at first following their brief reunion in Crete, but in time they came to see each other as equals rather than rivals. James permitted John access to the wealth of knowledge he had so craved as a young scholar, and he became the resident librarian and head scribe for the monastery in due course. It seemed that John would live out his life in the peaceful scholar's paradise he had always longed for. He would never venture beyond the monastery grounds again.

On an overcast and shaded autumn day in the year 1247, John was taking a break from his studies to tend to the vegetable garden. The junior brothers had permitted their garden to become a little overgrown with weeds, and they would probably be punished for it by James, but this did not concern John in the least. It meant he could set his mind at ease from the tedious chore of authoring his philosophical treatise, ambitiously titled "On the Price of Knowledge and Immortality".

He was very much on the elderly side of five and two-score, and he had developed a slight haunch from his years of hunkering down over the various texts in the library, and also from writing various humble communiques to the Pope and those others who still remembered him from his time in the Order. But he worked enthusiastically, the sweat on his brow coming as a sweet relief from the chill and dust of the monastic library. He had continued to keep his blessings and talents of the Lord hidden well, utilising them only in moments of greatest need. He would occasionally restore a true believer to full health with his healing powers, but this often meant that many more would follow in the days and weeks thereafter. When the fools did come in their droves, he would usually proclaim to know nothing of what they were talking about and send them away to a nearby practitioner of medicine instead. It was not that he did not wish to be of service, but it genuinely grated on his nerves that they interrupted his solitude, his peace and quiet.

As he toiled in the garden, a merchant convoy appeared in the distance. A brightly painted caravan pulled by two beautiful white horses rambled forward at its head. The convoy slowed and came to a standstill at the bottom of the hill below the monastery. John looked up from his garden work but thought very little of it. It was perhaps some rich Cistercian fool who did not have time to pray for his own sin, but instead wished to pay the monastery to do so for him. Such was the way of things, he thought, that the idiot theologians of the day were encouraging salvation by coin. He mused whether he should write to his good friend the Pope on such matters.

There was much hustle and bustle around the head caravan as the merchant's servants set to their work readying the caravan for the departure of its occupant. Eventually a figure appeared from the vehicle, but it was not some haughty or egotistical gentleman with coin jingling merrily about his waist on all sides. Instead, a vision of beauty stepped carefully out into the sunlight. She wore a dress of deep red velvet with intricate embroidery about the hems and pearls lining the seams, and a matching headdress with a sheer white veil covering her downcast eyes. Strands of long raven-dark hair drifted softly about her person in the wind. She walked with absolute posture and womanly grace toward the monastery chapel, holding an ornate box in her small suntouched hands.

Much as John tried to busy himself with his work in the garden, he found himself oddly distracted. It was strange that a woman should approach a monastery of men with such poise and confidence. Usually the gentleman merchant leading such a convoy would have issued stern instructions to his wife and children to stay put while he conducted his business within. But here there were no self-righteous alpha males to be found; just this angelic woman walking towards him. He told himself that as a scholar and a man of God he had no business looking upon such a creature, and had almost averted his gaze when a strong gust of wind blew the veil covering her face aside momentarily as she passed through the gateway.

Her eyes met his.

Now he recognised her immediately. This was the woman who, nearly thirty years before, had unwittingly doomed him to suffer through weeks of forced fasting and torture at the hands of the previous abbot, to escape and run blindly into the forests of Anglia that fateful afternoon, to almost be torn to shreds by the undead things that crawled in the night, to be saved by the vampire Father Edward and his so-called "detachment of the Order of Saint Wolfgang", to be sent on a suicide mission to the Danelands, to be lost for eleven gruelling years in the pagan wastelands outside Skargen, and then to be rescued by a new generation of the Order seeking to destroy Lord Mephistopheles. This was Francesca.

In that brief moment he took in the full beauty of her face. Her eyes that had glistened so brightly that fateful day had not faded with age in any degree. Her hair retained its full ravenish colour. Her skin, though aged, radiated with the glow of one who has lived a happy, well-kept life. Her cheekbones, though protruding ever so slightly, served only to add an air of world-wisdom to her immaculate countenance. Now a woman of some two-score years, she had clearly been taught in the ways of courtly bearing and etiquette since their previous meeting, when she had danced and moved about the meadow beyond, wild and carefree.

She offered him no smile, but quickly dipped her eyes and uttered a polite greeting in high Latin, inflected with a noticeable Spanish accent, quickening her steps a little, clearly embarrassed that she had betrayed her countenance to a lowly man of the cloth. She did not recognise him.

It ripped through John like a sword to his soul. It was understandable in some respect that she should hold no memory of his person; after all, he was much aged since the day they first beheld each other. But to have no memory of the energy which surely coursed through her veins as it did his while they gazed upon each other all those years before, the energy which had made him fly towards her with the irresistible burning ardour of young love only to be clubbed down in his tracks by her father, the energy for which the abbot had decided to purify his mortal soul through pain... It had all been for nothing.

His blood ran deathly cold, his skin coursed pale, his body shook feverishly and his throat all but seized up, disabling his speech. He lost track of time as he stood there shivering like a leaf in a gale, but after the lady had conducted whatever business she came to transact with the brothers in the chapel and begun making her way back towards the caravan, he found enough strength within him to dash forward and throw his old body prostrate at the feet of the startled Francesca.

Head bowed with tears streaming from his eyes, he whimpered a pitiful entreaty. "My lady, have mercy... I am but a simple man, unfit to dwell in the presence of thy beauty, which the Lord in His divine wisdom saw fit to grant thee. I have suffered through much misery and toil to behold thy countenance once again, and throughout my mortal existence I have sought only the sustenance of thy love to guide me through my darkest of hours... I beseech thee, if thou art not unkind and without feeling in thy veins, to permit me that most beautiful of worldly gifts, a kiss from thy perfect lips to show me some little affection, lovelorn and weary as I am..."

During this time Francesca had stood over him with a stunned expression on her face. But as his request for her love was made plain, her expression changed to one of violent anger. Her rejoinder to his pleading was swift as it was merciless, her Latin grammar turning cursive and her Spanish accent thickening in her rage.

"How DARE you profane yourself before me thus! A man of God is sworn to love none in this world but the Lord of all things, is it not so? By my faith, has this auspicious monastery fallen short of its high standards of godly education in chastity's regard? Know thy place, thou snivelling wretch, and stain not my dress with thy pauper's tears! As God be my witness, it is written that thy lowly and pathetic kind is from all forms of worldly love ever forbidden! Were my dear husband at my side, he would see you cut in pieces for thy most shameful transgression upon my person. Be thou thankful I choose not to set my guard upon thee. Yea, be thou thankful I allow thee to live yet in thy squalor, thou whimpering wormling! BEGONE with you, and pray to the Lord in Heaven that thou may yet atone for thy sin!"

Electing not to wait for John to obey this command, Francesca stormed away down the hill, needlessly clobbering a servant with her open palm on her way past and noisily re-entering the head caravan. The convoy turned about and stampeded away at a near-gallop, clearly spurred on by the lady's anger.

John wept unceasingly in his quarters for weeks afterwards, taking no food or water, no matter how much James personally insisted he do so. When he eventually unlocked his door he was a ghostly form of that which anyone might identify as "John Saville". His bones protruded noticeably throughout his body. His skin had turned permanently pale. What remained of his hair had greyed significantly. He found himself unable to continue writing, researching or working in any capacity, and thus it was that he was stripped of his position as librarian by James, left to live out the remainder of his days in self-inflicted despondence and misery. A manuscript from the Anglian monastery believed to be authored by James shows that "the bitter, heartbroken old man" died in the long winter of 1253.

John never completed his treatise, which is perhaps why very few people today are aware of the lesson that he almost paid the ultimate price to learn at the hand of Yuri the daywalker. On a blank page in the incomplete treatise can be found a short sentence, written in an almost illegible scrawl: "Custodis semper solus est."

Thus ends the tale of John Saville, alternately known as the Watchman in his time.

(edited at the top to bring into line with other stories)

[Derek]

Thus ends the tale of John Saville, alternately known as the Watchman in his time.

You Emo's are all the same. You manage to live through hell on earth and you just can't put it down afterwards and relax and have a good time.

[theotherphoenix]

Once again, on her lengthy travels, a visitor makes the time to stop by a quiet farm in rural France. She enjoys catching up with old friends, and the home these two make is warm and welcoming. Jean, grey haired now, his face browned and crinkled from a life lived mostly outdoors, greets her at the gate with a laugh and a hug, though the briefest look of sadness flickers across his face, as it does every time she appears.

Jean calls ahead to his wife that they have a visitor and they go into the house. Isabelle is teaching her nine year old daughter, Ellenor, needlepoint. She too, is looking much older, but after one glance she flings herself at Maria with a shriek of joy that takes all the years away. The three old friends swap tales and reminiscences over lunch as Ellenor and Duncan, now a sturdy young man of twelve, listen in fascination to these stories of impossible things. Afterward, Jean shakes his head at the sheer amount of chatter and heads back out to finish the day's work with his son. The two women continue to gossip like magpies as Isabelle completes the day's chores.

“Rainier and Blanche have four children now, if you can believe it, including Pierre. It wouldn't surprise me if they had more yet. Their house is unbelievably noisy.” Maria continues, sitting at the high kitchen table.

Isabelle smiles fondly at the memory of her friends, her hands busy clearing dishes from the table, “I never would have thought to see Rainier surrounded by sticky fingers and loving every minute of it.” She sighs and falls silent.

Maria waits, knowing what is coming next.

“How is he?” Isabelle asks, always promising herself that she will not, and always unable to stop herself.

“Busy” Maria replies, “He is a good Pope, although I should never say so to his face. His ego is quite large enough as it is.”

Maria has as dry a sense of humour as her absent cousin. She keeps the conversation lighthearted, telling of his trials and successes. She soon has Isabelle in fits of giggles. It is best this way. Maria knows Isabelle will never ask the things she really wants to know; Does he remember me? Does he mention me? These aren't questions a good wife can ask, nor can a good friend honourably answer them.

After a day or so, as always, Maria leaves again. Isabelle stands at the door, staring after her, lost in memories. She sighs. How different would her life have been had Jean fallen in that battle? Orlandus had become a good man, the man she'd always believed he was. She shakes her head, her first love would always hold a place in her heart, perhaps too big a place.

Jean silently puts his arms around her from behind, knowing anything he says now will restart the only real argument they ever have. He cannot blame her. His sister warned him right from the beginning that Isabelle loved another. He had been sure that with the passing of years she would forget. And she has, except when Maria appears. Then, briefly, Isabelle seems too thoughtful and he wonders.

They both sigh and Jean hugs her closer, reflecting that while he cannot beat a memory, neither can she be held by one. After a moment, she relaxes back into his embrace, placing her hands over his and leaning her head into his shoulder. They stand in the summer sun, watching their friend disappear down the dusty road.

[amphigori]

After the bodies of Nicholas, Ancel and Duncan were seen buried in England, and Ragnall's body was returned to Scotland, It was time for Alyssa to farewell to Jean and Isabelle as they departed for France to begin their new life together.

Standing outside the mighty walls of Ragnall’s father’s castle, Alyssa took comfort in the strength of her brother's embrace as she spoke firmly to him. "You listen to Isabelle. You listen to her all the time and don't do anything stupid or I'll be so very cross with you. Now go. Both of you. Before I start crying again!”

Feeling as if a part of her very soul had been torn away, she stood as still as a shadow, watching their figures grow smaller and smaller until they were merely dark specks on the horizon.

It was a sight that the servants of Domhnall mac Raghnaill would become used to seeing - Lady Alyssa standing upon the walls of the castle looking out into the distance, as if waiting for someone to appear on the road. "She awaits her brother's return," the scullery maid murmured. "No, it's someone else she hopes to see,” said the stable boy.”I know not his name but I see her polishing a great sword that must belong to him, one carved with words of angels and faith."

Grateful for the offer hospitality she’d been offered by Domhnall, she insisted on earning her keep by assisting with the repair of leather armour, using the techniques Le Stirge taught her. The amount of repair work needed would see her busy for a few weeks – more than enough time for the gargoyle to complete the end of his journey.
But weeks turned into months, and months turned into a year and a half, with no sign or word of Le Stirge's return or whereabouts. During this time, Alyssa became something of a craftsman, fashioning beautiful leather garments and bags when not repairing armour. But she was a shadow of her former self, grown distant and quiet with her eyes often fixed on the horizon.

And at night, her head was filled with troubling dreams.

As sleep took her one stormy evening, she found herself standing on the deck of a ship that was being tossed wildly in the waves. There seemed to be no crew to tame the sails or take the helm. An impossibly long sword was in her hands, one she could barely wield. "What am I to do with this?" she asked aloud.

"Hit me."

Wheeling around, she saw Le Stirge standing opposite her, unaffected by the rough seas.

"No! Le Stirge I will never ever hit you again. I cannot possibly hurt you."

"You won't hurt me. You'll help me." The gargoyle took a step closer. "C'mon. show me what you've learned from Deitrich. Right foot forward. Right hand close to the guard. That's better. Now, hit me!"

Alyssa took a wild swing and missed. Her second swing missed as well and saw her nearly topple over from her effort.

"Come on! Get serious," Le Stirge growled. "Hit me!"

CRACK!

Her next blow struck so solidly that the bones in her arms vibrated. As did the next, and the next, and the next. Le Stirge weathered the onslaught, unflinching, an undeniable calm radiating from his unblinking eyes.

"I can't do this anymore. I have to stop."

"NO! HIT ME! HARDER!"

Recoiling in shock from his raised voice, it took a moment before Alyssa had the strength to strike him again. But when she did it was with as much effort as she could possibly summon.

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

A giant black line formed between his brows and travelled down the length of his face.

"No!"

Alyssa dropped her sword as she rushed over to Le Stirge, her face as pale as snow. "What have I done!"

"You've..."

Whatever he'd meant to say was lost as a great chunk of his jaw fell free and shattered on the deck of his ship.

"Le Stirge!"

Alyssa dropped to her knees to gather up the bits of rock, only to nearly be crushed as the gargoyle’s arms fell solidly onto the wet wooden planking. Like a landslide, each bit of stone that fell from him caused another section of his body to crumble and crack.

THUD!

The lower half of his legs gave way, bringing him to her eye level as she knelt before him. Unable to speak, for lack of a mouth, and unable to hold her, for lack of arms, he could only offer her a look of gratitude and relief before the rest of his body crumbled to dust.

"NO!!!!!!"

She woke up screaming, reaching out into the darkness for a ghost that wasn't there – only to find an entirely different ghost walking toward her, carrying a small lantern in his hand.

"Be still now, Lass.” The words were spoken in a deep, gentle brogue. “Bad dreams?”

The similarity was so close that the man could easily be mistaken for his son. In the flickering lantern light she could imagine him with a few less lines creasing his brow and with shorter hair – but it was the glint in the eye, a steely determination mixed with concern that made Alyssa think of Ragnall.

"Come. Sit with me a while by th' firre. I have a drrop of something that may help calm ye."

Accepting Domhnall‘s invitation, she joined him before the hearth, drink in hand, her eyes dark with thought. "I dreamed of Le Stirge again," she confessed. "I trust it's a sign he'll be here quite soon."

Domhnall frowned his concern and took a moment to choose his next words with care.

“I'm glad ye can have such hopes, Alyssa, but the day has long passed that this man, any man, should have made it herre. Even frrom Rrome. If he is as good a man as ye've said so often, therre arre any numberr of things that could have befallen him, especially a rrighteous man alone. "I know what it is, t' have such hopes. They arre th' stuff of drreams, God himself filling ourr hearrts and showing us therre can be something betterr..." He turned to look at her squarely , his voice grown sombre and wistful. “But therre comes a time when ye must face th' worrld as it is.”

The Lord’s eyes dropped as he gave in to his own memories. His own loss.

"She was a beautiful woman, his motherr, and I loved herr so. I waited many yearrs, even hoped he might brring herr back himself. But such things, all things, have a time t' happen. And herr time passed long ago. Ye need t' decide, and think on it well, if th' time forr this man of yourrs has yet passed too."

They sat together a little while longer until weariness overtook her. Heart heavy with words she had not wished to hear, no matter how truthful they might be, Alyssa retired to her room to think on what she had been advised.

Another year would come and go before Alyssa could accept that the time for Le Stirge to return had indeed passed. And when she made that decision she emerged from her room wearing a gown of black and a grave expression. Her mourning lasted 30 days and 30 nights, and then the rhythm of life continued on. She remained a member of the household, continuing to contribute through her leatherwork but also seeking to educate herself as much as possible to be of greater use.

Visits from her brother and his family were always occasions for joy – and provided opportunities to engage in a bit of friendly sparring, her finesse with the blade continuing to improve through the years. Others would come to visit too, friends she’d made and warriors she’d fought side by side with. But the time she grew to enjoy the most were the hours spent in Domhnall’s company – in particular the visits to Holy Isle spent amongst the monastery and caves that contained the history of his lineage. Ragnall’s lineage. A people who had been fighting the darkness since they were little more than a collection of tribes – now keepers of the records of the Order, stewards of the monastery which serves as sanctuary for those of the Order in need, and warriors always at the ready to strike should the evils of the darkness appear again. “Let his name be spoken within these halls as the hero he was,” Alyssa had murmured. “He honoured the blood within his veins.”

As enjoyable as it was, she grew restless again, uncertain of her place in this world, or her purpose. The idea of France appealed somewhat, a chance to visit her brother and perhaps pay her respects at Notre Dame – a pilgrimage she’d meant to make after accepting Le Stirge’s likely death. And perhaps it was seeing her wrestle with this indecision that prompted Domhnall to ask a question that would see her finally choose her path.

"Ye arre a fine woman, Alyssa. At my time of life, I find that good company and keen spirrit arre trruly what makes one happy. I find ye have both, and would no' see ye leave afterr this time. Would ye ever considerr staying, not just as part of th' household, but as my wife?"

They married in the spring, and though she was no longer a de Beauvais, she remained a Lady, and was very much in love – and finally able to think of Le Stirge fondly and without the dull ache of sadness and longing that had filled her for years.

Here was a safe place for her, but also one with allies to join should another unholy threat raise its head. Here was a place where the faithful continued to train, armed with the knowledge of what horrors might threaten the good and the just. And what better place for a Lady who could no longer content herself to sit amongst the courts and partake in gossip and games now that her eyes had been so opened, and her faith so tested.

She devoured all the knowledge Domhnall would share with her, and though she was no less firey she lived with a greater sense of purpose, kindness and faith. Gone was the selfishness and the tantrums , and she swore an oath to never, ever again use the dark power Antonius had inflicted upon her.

Come November Alyssa took to the markets to in preparations for Christmas. “I’ll give you two silvers for that, that and that,” she said as she gestured to a pile of leathers at the tanner’s shop . The fullness of her skirts did little to hide that she was heavy with child. In her eagerness to haggle she did not notice a short man with close-cropped hair wearing a green tunic observing her from afar.

“Finest quality,” the merchant assured her with a smile. “Making something for yourself, my Lady? A new pair of gloves perhaps? A fine bag? Or perhaps something for Lord Mac Raghnaill?”

“Yes,” Alyssa confirmed as she examined the leathers, handing them off to a servant after finding them acceptable. “Something for my husband. And perhaps a soft pair of boots for baby Josephine,” she said as she smoothed a hand over her belly tenderly. The merchant laughed. “Never have I seen a woman so convinced she was carrying a girl,” he remarked warmly as he accepted her coin.

Smiling a farewell, Alyssa left the tanner and moved past the short man, offering him a distracted nod of thanks as he stepped out of her way. He opened his mouth as if to speak, revealing slightly crooked teeth that would have been familiar to her were her back not already to him. Thinking the better of calling out to her, he simply watched as she and her attendants make their way toward the castle, standing as still as a statue until their figures were merely dark specks on the horizon.

[Derek]

*sigh*

this is why you should never be late on a date...

not fair