Ellis Callaghan

Pushing open the bright blue door to his house, he started about packing his bags. Even taking the liberties to pack Ellis a few clothes he had spare in a trunk from when he traveled here for trade purposes a few times a year. 

“Tak is going, we can go with the pirate. We will be more than safe, he wouldn’t ever let anything happen to cause you such peril as your last trip,“ he said with hint that there wouldn’t have ever been a chance such a horrible experience to have happened if Shiloh had been with Ellis when he decided to leave him in England without a goodbye. He bristled at the reminder that his friend could have died to the ocean and he never would have known had he still been in the forest.

“I know this is risky,” He said with an attempted smile, testing the edge of his favored sword while he looked over to his friend. Debating about how much he wanted to fill him in on. If it even mattered being so honest about his intentions there. What Cenric and him talked about while he was here had stirred things in him. The appearance of Silas’ wolves in the Ports to take Edgar had maybe surprised them both. Shiloh had his theories about why Cenric was in Athoria. And he knew deep down that he wanted to kill the boy himself just to avoid all that happened. But Shiloh had turned him, he hadn’t listened, and he was ultimately the one who had to murder him. Nothing between Cenric and Shiloh was what it seemed, and the wolf couldn’t risk telling anyone anything.

“Nah, y’don’ need to pack anythin’ for—” The darkling hovered, not sure what to do with his too-hot hands other than find more itchy skin to scratch as if the sea had already infiltrated his very pores, not interested in helping even though he could already see which way the wind was blowing.

“—aw, shyte.” Narrow shoulders sagged as he slowly gave up, swallowing ash. The wolf was trying to be reassuring, smiling at him and promising him that some crazy pirate’s ship was somehow safer than any of his other options for traveling the sea. There were just some horrible, irrational fears that Ellis couldn’t understand, some internal weakness woven into his very being as a darkling of fire and as being a creature wrapped in mortal, human flesh. He had no desire of ever extinguishing his existence by water, the very thought beyond horrible.

“It’s no’ ‘bout trustin’ yer fur-brained self, an’ ye know’t.” The blacksmith smirked, dark eyes straying to Shiloh’s weapon choices, unable to keep himself from making a chiding noise as he glanced at the hilt, as if he disapproved of the wear it had endured, as if he simply couldn’t stand the sight of the thing, “It’s all th’unpredictable shyte I don’ trust, everyone else. Everyone there.”

Family ties were hard for Ellis, though he valued the close friendships he had almost above anything he could call familial. He certainly had never been able to wrap his mind around pack life, around pack mentality, but he’d convinced himself in England that the pack that Shiloh once belonged to was somehow wrong, broken, or at least misdirected. He could trust one wolf, it was true, and he did, but those other wolves? No. Never.

“I weren’t a mess.” The darkling laughed, somewhat defensively, “All those decades ago, ‘sides yerself, England jus’ didn’t hold anythin’ for me. So I left. An’ it weren’t like I could tell ye nothin’. I couldn’t send letters into the Forest o’Dean.” Is that something Shiloh wanted to hear? Did he hold a grudge for Ellis leaving him? There was nothing for him to fix there; all that he had broken or all that had broken him was dead and buried. He’d definitely made Athoria his home, made Leeds his isolated sanctuary,

“Do you really think I am so stupid?” he said seriously though hinted to an exasperated plea for his friend to believe in him. All those who cared about the beast acted in similar ways, begging lightly for him to settle down, to keep safe, and it was all sweet in the grand scheme of friendship and love. But Shiloh wasn’t for that life. He had battled too hard to not execute a plan with all angles at least thought about. Shiloh deserved to end what was still tormenting him.

“I told you, I have a plan. This is bigger than me showing up and howling for my Father and fighting him until I am torn to shreds. There is no losing me so pathetically stupid– you hear me?” he might have growled that last bit out with a sheen of fangs, feeling the heated emotions off his friend was fueling himself into a more aggressive headspace that he tried to reel in quickly.

“Look– it’s not about just showing up and wagging my tail. Silas threatened me here, he sent his wolves to the Ports to take Edgar and I killed my son with my own two hands. Do you truly understand the depth of the message he sent me that day?” Shiloh asked, taking in all around him in the Ports now. From the buzzing noises of chatters, to the loud banging from the docks. “This is my territory Ellis, no matter it’s just me, this is my home, and these are my people. He thinks he can threaten me– well let him see me in Nottingham. Let him see me win, and leave back home before he can do a damn thing about it. Let him realize he created a wolf who isn’t afraid of him–”

Shiloh barked a laugh then, Ellis so concerned about the water and ocean that the beast nearly wanted to physically poke and prode his friend until he burst into actual flames of annoyance. He did step a hair closer, offering those awful puppy dog eyes that worked most of the time around a handsome smile.

He fell quiet, though, cutting himself short to prevent the slip of a snide riposte, and allowed his friend to speak his piece. Dark eyes narrowed further at the beast’s coy attempts to convince him of things, the wolf standing closer and pretending his well-practiced innocent look would somehow sway the blacksmith from his heavy burden of wariness over it all. It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand what his friend wanted … or what he was implying. He got it, he did, in his own way, the pair’s long-standing history a helpful reference, despite the fact that some memories of England were less pleasant than others for the darkling.

Having truly assumed something horrible had happened to Shiloh just a short time earlier, the casualness with which the creature spoke of jumping aboard a ship and heading to England for a bit of sport sat uncomfortably in the pit of Ellis’ stomach like so much molten lead. Sure, the insane bastard he called a maker deserved a bit of rousing in return. He couldn’t argue against that, especially with the safety of the crowded air of revelry any tournament created, even if it was under the watchful gaze of that demon for a king.

But …the protection of being surrounded by humanity wouldn’t be for the entirety of their stay.

“Y’don’ take advantage o’me when sober, so yer gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.” He huffed, more serious than joking, hardly convinced, “An’ it’s two trips ‘cross the sea, no’ jus’ one. Disgustin’. The way here almost killed me nearly fifty years ago, an’ I’ve no’ gone anywhere by boat since.”

The blacksmith could never truly put into words just how horrible near death by water felt like for a creature made up of so much fire like himself. He supposed it was a close to understanding the terror of silver that werewolves had, only more consuming. No one was ever dunked in liquid silver, surrounded and helpless and sinking in it without hope. Even if he was human enough, the cold ocean clawing at his lungs and desperate to flood his veins all those decades ago had been excruciating and terrifying. It hadn’t been his only nor last experience with water, either, though his other torturous moments had been carefully orchestrated and not the accident at sea in his youth. Still, those memories were haunting enough to keep him from traveling from Athoria at all, to keep him away from large bodies of water, to keep him from bathing only when necessary. Period.

“Even if I wanted to go—an’ I don’t—an’ yer no’ goin’ neither—” Ellis squared his narrow shoulders in the wolf’s proximity, resisting the urge to bop him on the nose like some disobedient house pet, “—I should’ve started drinkin’ hours ago. Days even. ‘Cause, there’s no fuckin’ way. Ye won’t be needin’ backup for anythin’ if yer no’ goin’ nowhere. There’s no’ enough ale’n all the Ports to convince me that what yer sayin’ is at all a good idea.”

“That goes both ways Ellis,” he said about their scents, the clinging annoyance of his pack still stained along the walls of his home in reminder. But his heart suddenly pounded in worries he wouldn’t ever vocalize, wondering if Silas would actually make the trip to Nottingham just to see if Shiloh would show up. The timing was perfect, the warnings from Cenric burning fiercely under his already heated skin that his brother had begged him not to come back to England. Was this why?

“Yes, maybe I have other plans while I am in England Ellis,” he said quite seriously, not removing his stare down as he felt it always difficult to be completely honest about anything that could put his family and friends in danger. Not that Ellis didn’t call him out on the ruse right from the start. “Fuck the damn risk–I am not ignoring anything.”

He growled again, a meaty noise that drew a few eyes their way. The wolf shoved off the docks, moving to get his friend away from the water, and more apart of him wanting him away from himself. Shiloh’s large built easily parted the crowds, and he followed a familiar pathway around the back of the large Inn where a more private hill overlooked the water, but wasn’t necessarily right on the shore. His house was right there, a few steps away, off the beaten path but facing the ocean that lead to England. 

He was pacing, “the longer I am with these humans, the more I long for things I used to have. Its a burden. Silas wants to threaten me while in Athoria, then I will be confident in my abilities to reach Nottingham without issue from him. To think he will see me fight again is nearly as sweet as the message I am sending. Regardless they won’t come for me– not with the King there. He wouldn’t be allowed to make such a mess over a ronin wolf.” 

Not that Shiloh’s presence was entirely comforting, however. His gruff words made it obvious he’d already made up his mind, and the darkling wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of changing it without more than just his own too-hot, calloused hands,

“No shyte y’got other plans, I’m no’ thick-headed.” He hissed, all-but spitting embers with the heat of his words, “But for fuck’s sake, yer hardly ready to go an’ face yer maker yerself. I think y’know that much …” Ellis paused, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, dark eyes studying the familiar human features of his friend, full of the same concern he’d attempted to express when the wolf had visited him in Leeds to announce he was still among the living. The angry tenor of his voice wavered only briefly in doubt, afraid Shiloh would let his eagerness overpower all of his hard-earned realizations,

“... Right?”

The blacksmith sighed, narrow shoulders sagging. He shifted his gaze to the terrible sea instead, digging dirty nails back into the itchy, pale skin of his forearm, “Showin’ yer face durin’ such a public event would really put his bollocks in a twist, ‘M sure, but yer jus’ pretendin’ to know his game. Ye’ve always been graspin’ to hold it an’ still not held onto it for long. If ye’ve been warned no’ to go, I dunno—”

Ellis didn’t know what to say. He’d been told too much already, and he’d known the werewolf far too long to be unbiased in his opinions. The whole idea felt more than just dangerous, it felt stupid. He understood Shiloh’s sentiments, his thirst for making things right, for closure, he did. He knew the beast had begun to see things much more clearly over the past handful of years, and yet, the thought of his friend stepping off a boat back onto the shores of his home to claws and teeth waiting for him made the darkling more than just afraid. It made him angry. Surely, Shiloh knew that when the time was right, he would not be acting alone. Didn’t he? Didn’t he see all he’d been given as strengths in Athoria?

“—an’ fuck ye, I’m no’ gettin’ on any damn boat. No way. No’ if yer jus’ goin’ to wag yer tail a bit an’ flash yer teeth. I’ve gone this long without goin’ back, without havin’ to touch the sea.”

“I was the only one… who could help him.”

Unlike her grasp of time and space in that moment, her voice grew steadier with each word. Calmer. Dead. Pushing herself up again, temporarily useless legs tucked beneath her, she gazed out the window that served as backdrop to her father’s corpse, vivid eyes seeing nothing. “This sickness. It takes everyone. If anyone knew… no one would believe it did not corrupt my body also… I have murdered myself, too. How will I explain………” 

Visions of rotted men burning, of townspeople barricaded indoors to protect those who were clean, and the ghoulish plague doctors passed before her. Ellis’s heat made it feel all too real. Her father was spared that fate, but did it even matter now that Hell was real? Had always been? How hot was the fire that swallowed him now?

Ellis realized he would have to do the thinking here, hardly burdened by grief so much as fueled by guilt. He was already comfortable with being a monster, far too aware of his twisted origins and the consequences of living a supernatural life. Obviously, such information had already been too much for Eira in some ways, only to be made further horrible by the death of a man who had actually cared for her in full knowledge of what she was.

“‘Round here, that is. So, it’s no’ yer fault. Gettin’ sick can kill ye.” The darkling of fire tried desperately to sound sympathetic and not simply matter-of-fact, a conflict very obvious on his sharp, distressed features. Death was not new to him, not at his own hands, not at the hands of others. It’d been decades since the death of his father, it was true, but he’d killed since then, mostly in self-defense. This was different, so outside of his comfort zone, that the tenor of his voice wavered and his calloused fingers found themselves tangled back in his unruly auburn hair in thought,

“Sometimes, people’re spared, even from illness. For a bit, most people won’t make the connection, won’t be thinkin’ on why yer no’ sick but yer da was. Ye’ll have some time to see how it plays out. There’s better places to live ‘sides Night Haven, anyways. Yer givin’ this place a bit o’credit ‘bout their understandin’ o’how sickness works, let alone on things no’ human.” Ellis smirked, though there was no harshness to the expression, resisting the urge to reach out and offer physical comfort if only because he felt somewhat inadequate enough as it was, too-hot hands listless, “Ye can bide a bit an’ decide whether ye can stay here an’ carry on or whether ye should think ‘bout settin’ up shop elsewhere.”

Until Ellis had found his place in Leeds, he’d been good at leaving. He left Ireland and the still-burning husk of his father’s smithy. He left Norwich and his wife. He left Hereford and England to come to Athoria. Leaving was something he knew a lot about, perhaps too much.

He did not like that the men had defied King’s orders, considering Jezebeth was his brother and closest friend. Shouldn’t they be punished for their crimes, in the end? He wondered what sort of mess he would leave if he charred them alive where they stood, and decided that the last thing London needed was an unexplained spontaneous combustion to wake up to.

Valafar grunted in disapproval of his own actions. Being responsible was ghastly annoying.

“You may go, but remember this night well, gentlemen. If I so much as taste your puny scent around this part of London ever again you will feel the wrath of hell,”

He snapped his fingers and the flames diminished. “Go!”

The men did not hesitate to scurry to their feet, collecting themselves and sliding passed the two men in a panic. Valafar brushed his hands together, then frowned at the mess he had, indeed, left in that ally. He would explain to Jezebeth the situation and help clean it up in the morning among the mortals. Destroying his King’s city was not part of the reason that the demon was summoned to earth.

The heat of too much to drink still fueled the heat that ran in his veins, that smoldered always in the charcoal bones of his chest. Still, it had been a long time since he’d stood so close to a true demon, and even as the darkling slowly dragged his gaze away from the empty alley to study the visage of the vessel next to him, he might have blinked a few times at Valafar’s words before answering.

Sober now, the blacksmith offered a wry, lopsided grin, his lilting, sing-song Irish accent thankfully easier to understand when not so slurred by drink, “Those arses weren’t any friends o’mine.” Not that he was one to keep many friends, having left Norwich behind for Hereford and quite aware he wasn’t entirely welcome there as an outsider. With the exception of one persistent and annoying and dangerous pale-furred creature of the Forest of Dean, Ellis kept few friends at all after leaving his wife, mostly on purpose, just as afraid to entwine himself into the lives of mortals as much as he was intimidated by becoming involved in the affairs of his own kind.

“M’Ellis, a blacksmith currently in Hereford. Puttin’ my fiery talents t’use an’ all.” He added by way of introduction, offering his calloused hand in greeting, his nails still stained with coal, “I’m jus’ ‘round here blowin’ off steam before going back to minin’. Sometimes, alright, oft’times, that turns into gettin’ myself in trouble.”

The darkling managed a somewhat cowed sort of chuckle, feeling the weight of Valafar’s presence begin to sink under his pale, freckled skin. Standing in the presence of true demons was always a strange experience, full of an inexplicable heaviness and a magnetic force that churned deeper things than his half-human flesh could ever fully process. This demon’s title sounded impressive: Great Lion. Hell and purgatory. Is that why he could control not just the earth but Ellis’ own fire as well?

Unsure how to answer Valafar’s more probing question about his preferences of company, the blacksmith shifted on his feet and rolled his narrow shoulders in a shrug, “Why don’ I hang ‘round yer kind? I dunno. I used to live in Norwich, but those demons want their own Hell, no’ yours. I s’pose I’ve always jus’ … spent more time bein’ human.”

Well, that was a pathetic answer.

But it was the truth.

“You’ve got a smart mouth, Ellis. That’s going to get you in trouble one day.” She said, regarding his comment about certain ‘services’. “You must have me confused with some other succubus. The day Markus commands me to pay for his items with my body will be the day I usurp him.” Adarna tossed raven tresses over her shoulder as she retrieved a pouch of silver coins. She toyed with it in her hand before tossing it to him. “Its all there, no need to count.”

Quipped the darkling without blinking, hardly as dour as his tone or general disposition tended to imply. His somewhat fiery humor was often hidden under smoldering coals of his other issues, buried beneath cold, spent embers of things he refused to let go of or refused to climb away from, “It’s already gotten me in trouble more’n’once, though I can’t say I’m necessarily sorry ‘bout how some o’that trouble’s turned out in th’end.”

Ellis laughed quietly then, welcoming the ambiguity of such a response because it covered a gamut of possibilities, from bar fights to pleasures, from irate customers to the wife who’d long since been buried in Norwich. He’d certainly come to enjoy all the avenues of enjoyment Leeds had to offer, perhaps much more confident in himself and his charms and abilities when not under the watchful gaze of a supernatural creature he considered greater than himself, regardless of her subspecies. Succubi or any other demon, the blacksmith still clung to his limitations and it cowed him into self-deprecating humor instead of the normal bravado he was capable of displaying around others. The fire in his veins that hid under so much human flesh fueled more than just passions for smithing, but he wasn’t about to argue with a creature who’d admitted her disinterest in anything he could possibly have to offer outside of his profession,

“Y’may do what ye want with yer body, but yer still here doin’ Markus’ biddin’.” He winked then, the tenor of his voice coy even as his calloused hands accepted his payment, “Don’ worry, though, I wouldn’t want to be wastin’ anyone’s time lest they find they’re missin’ somethin’.”

Hardly wanting for coin, confident that he could trust his demonic employers, Ellis was more than content to set his payment on a worktable and roll his pale, freckled shoulders in a shrug, still happy to offer a congenial, truce-seeking sort of lopsided grin,

He climbed up the main mast of a ship, hulling a massive rope around the top of the yard to help reset a sail that that had split open from a bird on their travel into Athoria. Shiloh having actually knew the Captain of his particular vessel, being that he had given him passage here all those almost eight years ago. But hearing the gruff tone of voice from Ellis had him peering down at the uncomfortable sting of emotions hitting his nose, laughing suddenly at the words leaving his friends mouth. 

“The fuck you doing here?” he answered to his rhetorical question, tugging the thick rope around an eye hook and securing it better before he gave the signal to one of the hands below who tugged the line to test the new sail. It snapped and caught lightly in the sea scented wind, and Shiloh found a small bubble of pleasure at fixing something for the old Captain. With a chuckle he simply fell sideways from the yard at a staggering height, landing squarely on the deck with a bend of legs that was a little extraordinary for the Ports people to witness, but no one was really watching. Everyone somewhere to be, something to buy, all readying for the fleet of ships to take them to England. The beast liked it that way.

“What do you mean?” Shiloh inquired innocently a few steps from Ellis, offering a signature kind of look that would completely irritate his friend. The docks creaked under the demand of vessels tethered to her posts, additionally to the beast who was leaning heavily against a railing. “Nottingham will be too crowded for them to find me– even more if I go through Norwich. I could win this thing and you know it. Is that why you are here? Want to convince me that kind of gold isn’t worth the risk?”

It wasn’t about the gold, or the risk– and they both knew that.

“Too crowded? Yer a thick-headed beast.” Ellis grumbled, shifting to lean against a post as the waves and the ships rocked his world and the stench of the sea assaulted his fiery senses, itchy but desperate not to keep scratching. Paler than normal even after a long winter spent mostly indoors, the darkling may have even been slightly green at this point, resisting the urge to stare at the water that was literally under his feet as well as surrounding him,

“Gold m’arse. Ye wouldn’t go all the way t’England for that.” Looking up was making his head hurt worse, so the darkling squinted at the hull of the ship for a while instead, free hand straying to rake calloused fingers through his disheveled auburn hair, “The tourney’d jus’ be a ruse for ye, a cover to keep ye there an’ get yerself in trouble with other things. Y’know they all jus’ had a fresh reminder o’yer scent, eh?”

Ellis chewed the inside of his cheek at those words, heat in chest warming the charcoal bones of his ribs. The thought of Shiloh’s pack, of his maker, always sparking the flames of frustration and protectiveness in the darkling, “That bastard knows ye. Have ye stopped to think on all the timin’ o’things when put together?”

The blacksmith shifted away from the post, regretting standing still while everything else was moving in ways that made his otherwise cast iron stomach churn and gurgle. The sea was a terrible thing, and the thought of the wolf back on the other side of it, far from his reach should something happen, was almost more nauseating than the motion of the waves itself,

“Stop hitting me!” he shoved the large man off and glared at Ellis who started this mess. No he did? Or the guys did? Oh who was he kidding, everything was numb down to his fingertips and fucking blurry. And here he was getting hit by huge, stinking man over one or two drinks? He could probably pool enough money to buy the damn place! He had a coin pouch on him now that would more than pacify this situation. But that wasn’t what was happening, not with so much mead warm in his veins and a prideful interior who now wanted to jump in the fight.

“I can hold my own–” he grinned something handsome and opposite to his surroundings, brightening even the gloomy alleyway with his obvious tourist self. He ducked to tackle a man down, the drunk tripping over his feet and leaning on Rylan for support no matter their obvious embarrassing descent to the floor. The man made to squish him with it’s nasty self, but Rylan tucked his elbows and rolled to end up on top straddling his waist with a pinning to the ground. The doll broke his nose with a hard hit splitting his knuckles, suddenly laughing hysterically through it all to the point he had the guy under him, whose nose was bleeding down his cheeks, laughing too.

“The reason why I can do that move is hilarious!” he laughed again, the guy knocking him off easily with a hard shove and proceeded to grab his tunic to hit his face again. Rylan only grinned and kept laughing with a shake of his head, and blushing cheeks. Confusing the guy further who glanced over to another male as if to ask for help on how to deal with the smiling blonde.

“It’s cause I sleep with vampires–” he thought he whispered, but blurted out loudly to the human because ‘of course’ that was the reason why he could roll around with stronger men and end up on top of them. But what was funny to the blood doll, was enough to further confuse the drunk still holding his shirt. Rylan didn’t give him time to say any other words on the statement, quickly gripping his thumb to twist it until the man screamed painfully from the tendon and joint threatening to snap. The doll just pushed him to the side, tripping to the left from his own momentum to land into a spilled crate. Rylan huffed.

“Oh! If this was London! I’d be watching something horrifying happening to you rude bastards! How you would scream! He would make you for touching me like this! Over mead even! What did I do huh?! Get me out of here!” he added because he was stuck.

A huge man sporting a black beard helped him with another harsh tug on his clothes to free him from the turtle position to at least a swaying standing one. But upon looking around, it seemed the fight had brought out a strum of violence from more people. Because others had poured into the brawl to the point it was a a mob of people that hadn’t been involve in their altercation at all. He didn’t even see Ellis at first the humans and other people of Leeds crowding the entire place, all fighting to fight he assumed. Athorian’s were so weird. 

Rylan found himself laughing again, grabbing the first person he could reach and hit them square in the jaw before he took a hard hit to his arm making him jump up and down waiting for the pain of it to leave his muscle. 

“It’s no’ Athoria. It’s mostly jus’ Leeds.” The blacksmith laughed, perhaps not as disheveled as he should be. Not unscathed, but better off than one would expect, “It’s been one o’those winters. Folks jus’ wanna feel some spring. Makes ‘em rougher once y’fill ‘em up with too much ale’s all.”

He grinned then, lopsided and amused, “This ‘s no’ yer cup’o’tea, I see.”

Ellis was more than willing to talk and support the clinging blond tourist and throw a particularly hard, tooth-cracking punch at someone else who thought it a good idea to invade the momentary calm of their shared personal space, “S’alright. N’one told ye which taverns were a bit … uh … fluffier than others, eh? Well, we’re no’ goin’ back in there, in case ye haven’t figured that out.”

Dark eyes blearily scanned the chaos, picking a path for the both of them through the loud, roughhousing bodies that had all piled out of the door and into the snow. The darkling was no longer concerned about the manners of those who’d rudely tossed Rylan out, aware they wouldn’t remember what had annoyed them so greatly this eve in the first place. Not even sure what time it was in the evening, he managed to shove and shoulder a path toward an alley, no longer quite careful of his inhuman strength or speed while drunkenly focused on his self-assigned task of leading the London boy away from the fight he’d sort of invited for him out of ignorance,

“Didja leave a small army behind in London?” Ellis slurred curiously, the toymaker’s previous words about horrible things having caught his curiosity, considering the human’s lack of interest in violence, “I’ve been there a few times, an’ while ye may’ve got th’looks to fit in with nobility—”

This could be his worse nightmare. Should be actually, but the scents were all right of the home he left. He found himself shaking hands with all the captains, breathing in the rich leathers, and honeys from their meals. It balled a fierce longing to see the rolling hills around London, rest upon the mountain tops and just look at the country he was banished from. 

Of course he was now more curious why the fleet of beautifully crafted vessels were in fact here for Athorian’s. The tourney? He caught the words off the mouths a few other sailors as if they had heard his thoughts. Damn.

“You use to fight in tourney right Shiloh? You should go!”  “Our friend here use to win all these kinds of events in England! Go pack!” “You’re going right? You have to go! Bring us home a win.”

Fuck me. All his stories and lies, well– they weren’t lies at all actually, they were actual true stories from his days as a human where, yes of course he fucking won these types of competitions. He was the King’s Champion then! But that was also three hundred plus years ago, that was three King’s ago. And he hadn’t even met King Chester yet, even if the demonic King was the same. 

“No, I probably shouldn’t,” he mused with a leap onto another vessel to get away from the chatter of all his human friends being pushy about Shiloh winning it all for them. It struck a few, almost old, prideful feelings in him. Back then he was more or less forced to fight, but he had a choice now. Could be sneak in through Norwich and be at the tournament? RÁÐÚLFR shouldn’t be there, maybe Cenric since he was on patrol that far. Could a Garrett take home such a win again? Could he get out of Nottingham before Silas found him? 

It made Ellis’ skin itch.

He’d caught wind of it all in whispers and rumors last autumn at the Ports, meeting with vendors and planning his exports of armaments back across the sea to England. There had been an unusual influx of wanting more, more than previous spring seasons, and finally, on the lips of delivery boys and tourists, the darkling of fire knew why. Such a grand event had made many of the competitive, glory-seeking types of even Leeds, distant and dingy though it was, full of cheaters and has-beens … the words England and tournament used in the same sentence with such weight made old gambler’s hearts flutter and bar brawlers foam at the mouth.

Whatever. Ellis enjoyed the influx of business, truly, but at the same time, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the temptation was most likely not only strong for the residents of the city of sin, but for those living elsewhere. Specifically elsewhere. Specifically someone prone to chasing his own tail without realizing it may ultimately make him dizzy instead of accomplishing anything. Coupled with the uncomfortable burden of knowing all that had transpired during the reluctant transition of seasons, the blacksmith eventually found his level of concern and worry over the danger that could be seen as opportunity for this particular friend unbearable at best, and it frustrated him even more knowing he’d have to make another godsbedamned journey to the Ports alone … as if he hadn’t already made just one too many than usual.

So he did.

Far too flustered over what ifs to even appreciate the gloriously painted landscapes that spring brought to the previously-slumbering land of Athoria, Ellis arrived within the disgusting proximity of the ocean to be met with all the blustering crowds of an overly-busy Ports. As if the stench of brine and the sting of saltwater wasn’t overwhelming enough, the sheer number of people who’d been caught up in this event was somewhat shocking. Everyone was going somewhere, though far more than he expected were going to England for whatever this fucking tournament was put on by that demon of a king. Merchants, glory hounds, families. The sea would be full of their eager bodies, there and back again, and the darkling was of the mindset to at least prevent one of those bodies from getting himself in far too much trouble than was necessary …. and it wasn’t himself.

The darkling had little interest in wandering the docks in search of Shiloh, who was probably working if he wasn’t stowing himself away this very moment, but he feared waiting for the werewolf at his home would only waste his time further.

The wooden docks creaked and moaned and moved in ways that were so terribly wrong, especially when all the ships bobbed and tilted and groaned tied to them, waves lapping against their hulls in the most nauseating of ways. Ellis picked his way through various paths like a frightened animal, terrified of being knocked over by all of the bustling deckhands and travelers, perpetually dirty fingers digging helplessly into pale, itchy skin. Dark eyes searched the faces of deckhands and porters until he could finally stop himself from scratching and point, the tenor of his voice carrying with only a hint of gruffness above the bustling docks, mostly because it was all he could do to not shout and throw up at the same time,

Turning back to the tavern made his jaw drop, eyes wide for an additional second and brought his oft’ worried lip to slip into his mouth, looking at Ellis like he was some mad person making threats over letting them leave.

“He don’t mean that–” he waved off, noticing with a sinking feeling that Ellis was blocking their way to more drinking, and leaving Rylan on the opposite side of all of them. Did Ellis want to watch him get into a fight? A small slither of betrayal made him mad, actually lifting his hand as if to say ‘why’ towards Ellis. His confidence appreciative to the prideful Ianson but regardless seemed a terrible choice of entertainment when they could have gotten into less hurtful things. “You didn’t mean it right?” he asked Ellis with a worried look.

One of the men cracked their knuckles in an universal signal that he was going to get physical, and Rylan paled a little, not wanting to be involved in something like this no matter he could actually pack a mean punch. The doll only ever wanted to handle things peacefully if he could manage it, and he buckled down the little fear that these guys were much bigger than him. That they smelled awful, and reminded him of Hereford miners in the worse of ways with their attitudes and rude behavior after he offered them a seat at their table…

“Yeah you hear him, back off!” he slurred with a pointed finger in accusation and complete opposition to his actual, more clear headed thoughts that slipped away as a feather to wind from the alcohol warming his veins. Anger reddened his cheeks in a flushed tone, hair falling into his eyes that he blew away childishly to offer the group a narrowed gaze that held not much by the way of intimidation, but to the toy maker it was fierce and angry as if he had actually snarled. Clearing his throat to speak more clearly, he moved to the left in attempt to not be against a wall. Grinning pretty, even laughing a little towards Ellis before a fist wrapped around his arm and a hit struck across his face.

The sudden reluctance of the blond tourist caught the inebriated blacksmith off-guard, standing near the door between a handful of angry drunks and an almost apologetic victim. He blinked heavily, the weight of his decision to invite an altercation now squarely on his narrow but well-muscled shoulders.

“Shyte. Are ye fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Ellis grumbled warily, words quite sharp instead of slurred, shifting his footing at the not-so-idle threat of cracking knuckles, “‘Course I mean all that.”

Rylan made it clear that he was not entirely in agreement with the darkling’s convictions once the first blows were exchanged, and had he been sober, he may have felt a little guilty. However, the toy maker fought back anyway, leaving the blacksmith more confused than apologetic. Once there was that first hint of blood, the other men were eager to get in on the game, ignoring the quaintly-accented request for peace and promise of retribution with a bit of gruff, mocking laughter and some muttered, vulgarity-laden threats.

Ellis took advantage of the distraction, the other men closing in on Rylan and ignoring the narrow-shouldered darkling who’d threatened them. Faster, stronger, he stepped quickly from the door of the tavern and crashed into one of the men advancing on the blond, smashing himself and his target into a third. While he hardly looked heavy or powerful enough to do so, Ellis sent all three of them to the street in a tangle of drunk, confused limbs with a cackle of his own, more than willing to make up for the fighting spirit Rylan seemed to lack.

Not with someone familiar with himself or his abilities, the darkling was foggily aware that he had to be somewhat careful not to burn the shyte out of anyone or immediately crush a few bones under his knuckles, though Rylan was at least quite drunk and not at all a Leeds resident. Ellis happily landed a wicked swing into the first face that surfaced beneath him, narrowing dark eyes at the London man as he did so,

“I do believe there is order to this city. The King has made it so. You shall repent for your crimes. I shall see to that,”

Valafar watched as the flames licked at the mans arms besides him, temporarily mesmerized by the notion of the singes and how unaffected he appeared. It was incredible, unlike anything he had seen during his visits to earth. He wondered about the boys nature and if this was just simple witchcraft or spellwork. With a curious grin, Valafar raised his hand to hover over his forearm, using his strength and abilities to attempt to manifest the fire out from under his skin. His fingers shook as he concentrated, watching in awe as the fire danced beneath the surface. Sparks began to break through as the manifestation of pure fire exploded from the flesh. Unable to have created the fire himself, Valafar was now in control of the exposed element. It danced over the boys arms as Valafar’s fingers curled and flexed in order to give it life.

The men were silent. That would change temporarily.

The moment the obvious demon turned his attentions onto Ellis’ self-made fire, the heat that always surged invisible under his skin, a backdraft of sobriety washed over his person with nauseating strength. Dark eyes blinked, and he was both awed and afraid at the same time. No one had ever reached in such a way to borrow, to manipulate, to display control over what had always been his, even in Norwich. The experience was new, somewhat violating, and yet fascinating at the same time.

The blacksmith had no idea such things were even possible.

Surely that meant the demon knew they were kin. It wasn’t like this creature stealing his fire (literally) was about to ask him, of all supernaturals, any permission to do what he was doing. For several moments, Ellis forgot about the drunk, angry humans he’d aggravated, who had in turn aggravated the angry thing demanding some sort of repentance (was that a demon’s job? surely not). Chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from asking questions, to keep from blurting out thoughts and rambling curiously about what, exactly, was happening between them at the moment, the darkling slowly drew his gaze away from his own pale skin and the flames of his own making to look back to the other men in the alley.

They were, quite clearly, saying nothing. Terrified, transfixed, and quite caught off-guard by what their minds could only wrap around as magic, the three men stared slack-jawed and weak-kneed at Valafar and his command over fire that shouldn’t even have been existing in the first place.

A slow, lopsided grin burned its way into Ellis’ sharp features, now very eager and curious to see what this demon planned to do with those who’d offended him. The blacksmith was just going to break a few bones and leave them in the alley, but it seemed as though this other, more powerful creature had different plans.

“That money is yours. You earned it. Now, listen, you aren’t in any danger. Especially not from myself or Caden.” This was risky. After all, the blacksmith likely had some supernatural powers. But, Stephen wasn’t about to lose his blacksmith. After all, Ellis did better work than half of the blacksmiths in Monir.

Dark eyes narrowed, but the blacksmith’s determination did not waver. As interesting as the work had seemed, the admission of everything had sorely soured the deal for him. Word of mouth was his best ally in gaining new clients, but spreading secrets about his true nature, about his inhumanity, was usually not the subject of such advertising. He’d given Stephen enough on his first visit; a man under the employ of the church with his apparent status was such an uncomfortable danger to the half-demon that it made his pale skin crawl and itch.

“Am I a threat? O’aye, I can be.” Ellis smirked, unamused by the ploy to woo him over. The hearth crackled to life behind them, a roar of heat and flame in emphasis of his words, though the blacksmith also held up his palm between them and allowed some embers to flutter to the stone and packed earth of his floor, “Are y’askin’ if I’ve killed folks before? Humans? Aye. Hunters? Aye. Only ‘cause they’ve attacked me first. Do I g’out lookin’ for trouble? Well, only sometimes here’n Leeds where it’s acceptable. A few barfights an’ n’one’s the wiser, eh? But, who’s a threat an’ who’s no’ is always a matter o’personal opinion, isn’t it?”

The darkling’s opinion on what was dangerous to himself was enough of a list already. He had no idea what the other man’s opinions were on what constituted a threat to humanity. Ellis was half-demon. He could consume souls and set fire to people’s insides at will. Whenever he wanted. He wasn’t just a blacksmith, though he often chose to live his life that way on purpose. Because he enjoyed his work much more than he enjoyed ruthless murder.

“It’s safter ye go elsewhere. We can sketch somethin’ up an’ then ye can take it t’another smith. I know some decent ones, even in Brailston.” He admitted, still very set on refusing the work and escorting Stephen to the door, stepping closer in order to imply such things,

His grin grew if that was possible, “I have never been chased by a whore, I mean I have been chased plenty of times but its more in fun games over needing to pay someone. That’s a funny story Ellis–” he drank more of his mead, not realizing the three men standing behind him. No instinct from the doll ever aware of his surrounding when he hit this state of inebriation. He turned to see if the waitress was around to order food when he was met with a large belly right in his face, and instead of being frightened in any capacity to the closeness of the male, Rylan laughed like it was the funniest thing to happen to him. 

“You coming to join our table?” he asked the three men, leaning back to get a better eye to them. Actually moving his chair to give room without any notice that they weren’t there to sit and chat pleasantly. Rylan still assumed, waving for a waitress to get them drinks that actually did filter in mild confusion over the much larger men’s faces but Rylan didn’t pay any mind focusing back on Ellis with his own curious expression. 

“Wait– I just got your toy reference,” he chuckled, the laughs bubbling almost giddy from his chest while he shoved Ellis’ shoulder in play. “Took me a second, ha ha no I make–”

Hands finally grabbed biceps and his brain still didn’t entirely register what was happening, but something deeper triggered a panic in him that at least tugged for his arm to be freed. 

“Hey! Let me go!” he yelled, squirming around the bruising grips from the men much larger than he was, and before he could work out where they were taking him they were in the alleyway. One torch flickering the stonework, and catching an eerie glow along the smog that sat in this city. He was tossed quite easily to the ground and he turned to see them walking back into the tavern. Was he just kicked out?! Rylan huffed in an adorable way, brushing blonde strands from his eyes while he staggered up to the doubling walkway.

Dark eyes shifted at the movement behind Rylan even while the human was still laughing and amused. He noticed first the vacating of the table they’d been diverting drinks from, weighing their level of intoxication against the determination that was set heavily into their expressions. Personally, the blacksmith deemed the lot of them little threat to himself, but he wasn’t exactly as he appeared, even when a little far from sober. Calloused, dirty fingers listless on his mug, he brought his attention back to the blond and began to open his mouth in warning.

When the human turned and noticed, his casual, inebriated response was amusing enough to elicit a chuckle from the darkling, though he tensed a little in his seat in anticipation of what the larger, angrier patrons had in their skulls to do with the situation,

“Ah now—” Ellis started to chide, glaring threateningly as they put hands on his unexpected guest, dismissing Rylan’s utterly no longer humored reaction as totally related to just how drunk he was, “That’s no’ necessary. We can jus’—”

Scowling, he stood as the handful of angry men began to drag the blond from his seat and towards the door, two of them making sure to block his way specifically, attempting to keep him at the table. It was a foolish mistake, however, for the darkling was more than just annoyed that his entertainment had been so rudely interrupted, even after their borrowed drinks had been more than paid for,

“That’s no way to treat a tourist, y’know.” He hissed, roughly shoving the first broad-shouldered fellow in his way towards the door before snatching the collar of the other, using the second man as a living broom to sweep the other, slightly larger, angry patrons who were returning inside from tossing Rylan out back toward the door, “Yer all goin’ back out t’apologize. Yer drinks were paid for, an’ we’re all tryin’ to make up for things. No’ start anythin’.”

Ellis may have lied just a little, uncaring whether they all returned to drinking or whether he ended up smashing a few faces. He was aware that his actions were far from gentle, swifter and stronger than the handful of men who had apparently been so insulted. He managed to get them all out the door, slurred curses from their lips and some very rude protests that would soon turn to blows brewing between them as his too-hot hands shoved and dragged roughly,

“Go on. Yer all gonna work it out all nice-like, right?”

“You all keep me here, I swear,” he said around a smaller smile, and shrug away from the immediate attention. “I have never had a family like what my friends here have given me. Ever Ellis, I can’t lose you any of you because of my vendetta, I can not handle it. You get me? I really can’t…” 

He sighed, scratching along tufts of fur littered over his forearms, and into the crux of his inner elbow before he plopped down in a chair looking truly tired. Thinking again, about Edgar, and England, Silas, and too many things that involved his family. He hadn’t told anyone about what Tanner had saw in his vision last year from his Mother Gaia. About the black wolves killing Emery, of course Tanner knew him as the forge owner where he squatted as a kid when it was abandoned. But that was his fucking brother— what other group of wolves contained so much black? It had him wonder if Emery would come with him to England. And he already knew that answer as well— Of course he would. 

So who else would go? Who else of his family would die in front of him by his pack because he had to face his maker? Would Silas take pleasure in watching him lose them? Watching him destroy his family only to shove him back towards Athoria after he defeated him again? Maybe he should stay put so Em didn’t leave, or Ellis, or anyone of his other friends…but then what? Another few years that meant nothing to them and Silas waits more? That shadow behind him, lingering in wait for him to fuck up again, to snare his son once more. Engage him enough that hes on a boat and gone before he registered what he was doing.

“I’ll take what I have. I don’t need more, and I don’t need a pack— ever again if I can bare it. I just want to live how I want too, for now,” he said honestly, maybe Ellis’ whining having a little effect on him. His hazel gaze lingered up towards his friend, feeling exposed over their talk and not liking it one bit. “I want to live, here— how I want too Ellis. I’m quite desperate for it.”  

Shiloh bit the inside of his mouth, that wall of not wanting to talk anymore sliding up in place easily to dull his gaze, and forge a rigidness to his form. He fought that instinct to lock down everything tight, but he also really didn’t want to talk about this shit anymore. Not now at least. Only Emery and Ellis could get him talking in this depth, about the real issues at hand. The ones long buried, that had shaped the great beast into who he was now. They got him. And all his friends understood him better than the acquaintance, but what he was telling Ellis no one knew. And it frightened him to give that burden of truth to his friend, to let him think on it later. Shiloh hated himself profusely that he was giving Ellis a chance to work out his own plan be sure he was involved with Shiloh’s no matter what.

“I just want him to leave me alone and I’m not sure how to do that without seeing him. He always demanded that from me, every time he’d beat me down. I’d get up man, I’d raise my chin and stare him right in the fucking eye. No one else dared it, but I knew him enough to know that was what he wanted from me. He wanted me to challenge him until I won, and I never won. Not once,” he sighed, palming his face before leaning back in the chair to tuck his neck over the edge to stare up at the ceiling. 

“He always let me live— its all I have as a guarantee Ellis. No matter how bad it was, no matter the state I ended up in, and sometimes it was so—” he swallowed thickly, forcing awful memories away before they crowded his head and truly locked the beasts mouth closed. “I don’t think Silas can watch me die, by someone else’s hand or his own. It’s the only fatherly thing I have from him, the only way I know I might come back from it. And why I have to go alone. It’s the only way I know you all would be safe. But ok— I am done.”

The darkling pulled a blanket up over the dead man’s face, then backed away and sank to her knees, burying her cries in them.

Part of her wanted to shake her father back alive and scream at him for dying. If he had been the devil that cursed her with this power, who knew what he could withstand… It was the first time she ever hated someone for being human. What good was an aging, fading parent to a demon child?

Eira was not a child by any human measure, but she felt even before this day that she was being left behind by the world. There was so much one had to know and learn simply to live an ordinary life. No one had taught her how to live extraordinarily. There was no way for her to react except as a moth toward the flame that was Ellis…

In a sense, Ismo Dima was dead because she took his ordinary life for granted.

And a fire was rising, ascending the staircase and washing over her back.

“I do not know…”

She hiccuped as she tried to quiet down long enough to talk. 

“…what to do…”

“I am a killer…”

Ellis said nothing for longer still, hovering in the threshold between the hall and the room, gaze still lingering on death, hidden though it was in its truth, instead of looking to the weeping Eira. He’d shed a few tears, much later, over his father, and carried the burden of guilt much longer still.

Killer.

The younger darkling hadn’t done anything on purpose, and she’d claimed the man was already ill. It’d been some accident, an irrational emotional response to the blacksmith’s personal intrusion. She was far from the one at fault, really, if anyone chose to see things differently. What had happened in Ireland all those decades ago had almost entirely been on purpose, though Ellis’ emotions had blinded him from the consequences and certainly set him free to cross lines he wouldn’t have otherwise crossed. He’d had enough and he willingly escalated the conflict that day, so achingly aware of his abilities, of how much stronger and faster he was than his Da, though the sting of fire actually consuming his flesh because he’d failed to stop it had been the surprise that pushed him over the edge of being at all level headed.

He’d still chosen to end things his way, discovering the shocking satisfaction of consuming life by demonic means just to preserve his own.

Eira hadn’t any of the same intentions. She obviously loved her father and he’d apparently actually taken care of her and protected her from who she was.

What to do?

“Nah.” Ellis muttered almost dismissively though not without the embers of empathy in the tenor of his voice, almost too quiet to be heard, narrow shoulders sagging even as he continued to hesitate stepping into the room. Already too close to death, despite having killed more than a few in his lifetime other than his own flesh and blood, he found he had no idea how to comfort someone in this situation. He tried to think, had his mother lived, had she loved him, had Ide then died later, would he feel differently? He couldn’t even imagine, so he paused, tongue against the back of his teeth, fingers listless at the hem of his tunic,

“Look, it were an accident. Ye didn’t mean it, so it’s no’ murder.” It was still death, though. Her abilities, even if they had been out of control, had still killed someone. The darkling of fire had no idea how to comfort someone about such things, despite how well he knew the feelings the situation contained. He swallowed a few more words and they burned their way down his throat, sparking in an unsettling way in his stomach,  “It’s no’ really yer fault, Eira. Ye’ve been doin’ the best ye could to take care o’him, an’ … well …”

Nothing would have happened at Ellis not been so persistent. He blinked heavily, slowly, standing there, letting his words trail off for lack of anything better to say. What could he say? That she was free to blame him? That it would just be another notch on his belt? That he’d help clean up for her if she wanted?

Magdalena was aware that in their short time knowing one another she had gotten more information out of the blacksmith then he had wanted to give. She could sense it, and while she felt bad about it there was not much to be done, she had that effect on a lot of people. The old woman that took her in when she arrived in Monir had said that it was because of Magdalenas kind and gentle ways. That she was just one of those few people in the world that someone could really talk to without having to worry about it. Maggie wanted to believe that, and even now the thought brought a smile to her face. She knew that getting Ellis to get some things off his chest was better then him being locked away alone in his forge all winter not talking to anyone about anything, and even if he didn’t let go of the things he was holding on to at the very least he was talking about them. She also knew from the way he spoke and his actions sometimes that he was worried about her well being, fearing that she may get hurt. He had even stated it at least once that she could remember but she wasn’t bothered. She knew that she was playing with fire, it just didn’t bother her. She was trying to show him that she cared enough to want to be around him, to be his friend.

Most of his caution, most of his hesitance to be free about anything in particular, definitely revolved more around his inhumanity than anything else. With good reason. Even now, there was the possibility of outliving other humans he chose to be close to, to trust, or to even love. There was the possibility of betrayal: fear was very real and very motivating regardless of species. There was the possibility of being hunted should he reveal too much of himself to the wrong person, and the blacksmith already knew that was not something he wanted on a regular basis in his life. He was also a danger to others, occasionally unpredictable, with powers that were, if nothing else, destructive when he chose to let them be so … and sometimes even when he didn’t.

Ellis didn’t feel like he was being foolish; decades of experience having hardened his exterior and forged his cautious nature into something he considered important. Maybe his gruffness and purposeful distance weren’t always necessary, it was true, and he’d come to realize living in Leeds had given him the most freedom he could probably expect as a darkling in Athoria to be himself more often than not.

So much was hard to explain outside of that. With a sigh, he realized it was simply better to change the subject. The edge of tiredness from his travels had begun to creep into his charcoal bones, though he wasn’t about to fall asleep alone or without at least a small expression of gratitude, which at this point he was sure wasn’t going to be appropriate or comfortable in front of his forge,

“I’m sure I’ll get some use outta all’f it. But, I don’ think yer implyin’ I can give ye away to whomever I like. There’s prob’ly plenty o’folks here’n Leeds who’d take me up on that, ye know. I could make a pretty decent sum o’coin on yer behalf, I’m sure.” The blacksmith laughed, obviously teasing an alternative meaning out of her coy offer, shifting to stand without warning and tossing the fallen woman over his shoulder as if he meant to emphasize the deviousness of his joking, “But, well, I couldn’t promise what’d happen t’ye if I did that. At least while y’re here, I can more’r less figure that out.”

The Bloodhawk saw the fur the man touched. it wasn’t Shiloh’s, he knew hat much. He tried to think back to what Cenric’s fur had looked like in the brief glimpses he’d gotten. he couldn’t quite remember, but there was enough chance that it was dark which meant there was a chance that was  Cenric’s fur, meaning there was a chance he was involved. This either disproved his demons theory  completely, or Cenric (or some other dark wolf) had been around o help Shiloh if it had been demons, btu somehow that seemed unlikely. Micah didn’t know of any other wolves except maybe the one he’d been in the cage match with, but they had seemed like friends almost as much as Cenric and Shiloh seemed to be friends. So surely it couldn’t have been Shiloh against one of those wolves. So it must have been another wolf. Or maybe it wasn’t a wolf at all and it was a bear or some other kind of animal. BUt surely a bear attack wouldn’t run Shiloh away.

The blacksmith scowled, frustrated that he had to travel all the way to the Ports, so close to the disgusting ocean that was already making his headache, to find this mess and no Shiloh, but even more frustrated that the lanky, creepy youth under his bed was of no help whatsoever. What kind of friends did the werewolf keep, anyway? Of the few of them, who was really useful?

“Well,” obviously flustered, the darkling turned back to poking the fire with the closest tool near the hearth, purposefully occupying himself with something familiar in order to keep himself sane, “since I came all th’way here from Leeds, an’ since I haven’t had some ridiculously strange order from anyone there lately, I know Shiloh’s no’ back in trouble with the locals.” He smirked at that, though Micah obviously couldn’t see, Ellis aware of the werewolf’s entanglement with Seryth and their sport because he’d been the one to craft what was needed for the whole event, all in ignorance of its participants. The memory left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was still somehow more palatable than all he could assume had gone on in the wolf’s home recently to cause his absence,

“That’s jus’ me, though. There’s too much here that points to his own kind than to anythin’ else that’s no’ human.” That was as obvious as he was going to state things, unsure of the young man’s knowledge of the supernatural outside of werewolves and, well, now himself, “I’ll admit I know nothin’ of the packs here in Athoria save for bits an’ pieces. I stay out of their wild politics outside o’the friends I’ve got.”

He rolled his narrow shoulders, somewhat satisfied with the state of the hearth, resisting the urge to perfect things with his bare hands. Turning back to let his dark-eyed gaze travel over Micah as if desperate to decide whether he was worth trusting and confiding in or not, given the circumstance, given the need for quickness, given the seething heat of anger under his skin, Ellis’ tone was quieter and less harsh as he continued, “I only know o’the bastard things from England, an’ I don’ really know but one of ‘em that’d come all the way here for anythin’ havin’ to do with Shiloh. I can’t see him leavin’ here to go back there, though, not willingly. Not ever. So maybe he ran from somethin’.”

That sounded mostly wrong, but the blacksmith was forced to think out loud, mostly to himself, wandering the room again with fingers raking through his already messy, auburn hair,

“I don’ know what y’know. Since ye don’ got ideas on how to figure things out, I’m kinda talkin’ out m’arse here. I don’ think he’s dead—” The darkling knew everything would be messier, too aware of his friend’s stubborn nature and his personality when it came to fighting for anything important. The problem was he couldn’t put everything together. No matter who came here to harass the wolf, to cause such a violent struggle, where would Shiloh go afterwards if he survived? If he wasn’t here … would he go to Monir? If he wasn’t in Monir, would he take off into the woods? Even the Oak was dangerous for him, considering his status and the other werewolves that called the forest home. Was he hiding in Night Haven? Surely not. And surely the bastard would poke his head in Leeds if he was seeking refuge there.

Surely.