They had to pass beneath the great stone statue again, the imagined her which stood towering above the town square. The fading sunlight cast most of its details in shadow, only the victorious silhouette of the raised sword standing out against a blue-cast sky.

It was strange; Selene had expected to be forgotten by her town. Decades had passed and she'd left as barely a young woman. Why would anyone remember the youngest Lamothe child as anything other than a tragedy?

Yet here she was, misremembered, a false image of a hero wrought large and enduring.

The shadow passed and they entered the warm light of the inn. The inn got it's name because of a stained glass lamp nestled atop one of the corner tables. A witch wrought in brass, with emerald green panels shaped like the folds of her dress. A candle lit the glass dress from underneath, and gave the little witch an unearthly glow. When she was a child, Selene had spent hours playing next to that lamp, imagining a world beyond the watermills and quarries of Prathil, a world full of spirits and weavers.

Selene huddled closer to Bebin to shed the cold that still clung to her, made real and prickly by the feeling of spice-laden heat. As they bumped together in the narrow entry, she couldn't help but look around for the lamp. She spotted it atop a high shelf, unlit and covered in dust. The sight eased her some, though she didn't know why.

"Welcome to Bavol's!" came the voice of someone Selene didn't recognize.

Layers were peeled off. Gloves and cloak and scarf. The steam and the cookfires made them unnecessary.

"It's the cumin you're smelling," the young lady said brightly back to Bebin. Sounding like she'd made the same explanation a hundred times before, she barely looked up at the pair. "My father couldn't find any this far north, so he brought some seeds back from his home and figured out how to grow them here himself."

Selene seated herself at the tall counter, shifting up onto the rough hewn stool. "Do you have any lamb today?" she asked.

"You're in luck, syrs." A shallow pot-pan warmed up on the stove next to the young cook, hot oil glistening at the bottom of it, just beginning to crackle. "We got a fresh pot of lamb curry rolling this morning, which means it's nice and falling-apart now."
 
Bebin's lip curled up at the corner of his mouth, hands folding over his cloak, bundling it with the rest of all the things they had peeled out of to set aside. Frost laden, and melt soaked. "Such pursuits require such dedications," he said, removed as he remarked on the cumin, though his whiskers bristled with an unmistakable pride before boots knocked away to set cloaks and scarfs upon hanging hooks.

"Do you have any lamb today?"

"You're in luck, syrs...nice and falling-apart now."
​
A pair of thick fingers were raised up and splayed to the young woman as he settled down to the counter anew. "Two then,"

A little huff of excitement from the lass. "Two then!" she said spine sticking straight up as she snapped the ladle up to salute. Noticed the splotch of burnt golden brown that splat there before her. "Oh!" she sounded, let ladle go back to pot, hand found rag, and she wiped it up, lickety split. "Sorry, sorry! Just," she laughed, turning and moving to snatch up heirloom irons, deep bottomed, and gleaming with their hard earned season. "It's not too oft new faces come to have our pies!" she grabs a pair and sets them down at another station. Finds the pastry dough and sets them in with neat cuts and crimps. "I'll have them ready in no time!"

Bebin nods, and looks to Selen's hands. Lets his fingers work over her knuckles, digits slide through the bones. "Thank you,"

"Oh, don't mention it, syr! It's my pleasure!"

He huffs a little laugh. Leans closer to Selene and says quiet to her ear while the young woman works. "To think I'd get to see the little green witch you'd told me so much about,"
 
New faces.

Selene lets out a breathy chuckle at the girl's innocent comment. Doesn't mind enough to correct it.

Sounds and smells envelop the little shop as the proud pie monger gets to cooking. Oil crackles in a pan somewhere behind the scenes, scented with garlic and the prized cumin.

The green witch stands quietly on her shelf, overseeing the happenings with untroubled grace. Her bronze cast face is too roughly hewn to bear smile or frown. A perfect blank canvas for a child to scribe any kind of wish upon. Today, Selene thinks the green witch looks vigilant, ready to guard the peace of the pie shop.

"I did not have many other friends in town," Selene reminisces. "Outside of my siblings. I am lucky the green witch was such a good listener."

No more sorrow in the memory. Only a quiescence as she rests her head against Bebin's shoulder. Elbow couched in his, fingers intertwined. Thumb stroking against thumb.

"We must vandalize that statue of me, tonight," she says. "I need the sword embedded in its grasp. It is a family heirloom."
 
Ease comes easy across Bebin's shoulders, as Selene rests the more against him. Limbs twined, and digits laced while thumbs dance slow circles about each others bones. A smile, soft across his face as he eyes the little green witch on high at her station. There upon the shelf.

The sounds of the pie shop all gentle rumble and steady roil as the cook fire crackles, and the shroud ring stove creeks and strains in that way of heated metal moving so small as it did. He listens as his Captain speaks.

"... I am lucky the green witch was such a good listener."​

"Then I will be sure to thank her before we leave," he plays along. Bringing her hand to his lips and planting a kiss there upon the knuckle of her thumb. "For being as good as she has to you,"

He sets their hands down once more. And rests his head there against hers.

"We must vandalize that statue of me, tonight..."
​
"Is that so?"

"... It is a family heirloom."
​
Bebin slowly unwound and sat up the straighter. Put on a more dutiful face. Cleared his throat. "Give the order, my Captain, and it shall be yours before dawn," he smirks, and spies at her sly. "Tell me, what is so special about this sword?" his next breath was laden with the savory richness of lamb stewed in herbs and spices, encrusted in buttery flakey goodness.

He had to take a second whiff, and track the smell's origins.
 
Beneath Selene's robes, a smooth and steady scar runs along the bottom of her ribcage. One of many. A knight she is, and her years of service far from flawless. This scar stands out from the others, because it looks near fatal.

Her smile is a cooling brook cutting through the warmed forest floor. "Well, it is the sword that killed me," she says, cheerful. "But that is not why it is needed."

She raises her head from the comfort of that shoulder. Mostly because she sees Bavol's daughter approaching, carrying something hot and steaming. Their hands stay tangled still.

"No, Segale hates that sword. We can draw it out with the blade and beat the Sightless to their prize."

"Here you go sers, two lamb pies."

The source of the savory smell is plopped down between them on a heavy wooden plate. Twin halfmoon pies, crisped to a bubbling, flaking golden brown. Warm curry spills out along the seam of one of them, still excited from the cook fire. Next to the plate in a little wide-mouthed jar, bright green sauce* gleams like a jewel.

"But not before dinner, I say." Selene nods her thanks, unhooks from Bebin, and takes up one of the pies.

Eyes glint with a somber light. Even the weight of the lamb pie palmed in hand cannot warm the chill that comes over her. Quieter, her next words barely disrupt the bustle of the kitchen sounds. "...and not before we find Demeix."

*Mint grew wild around Prathil, but no one had thought to grind it into a paste and make a sauce of it before Bavol moved into town.
 
He knew his Captain carried dark secrets. Still those darker than he could fathom.

Yet.

"The very same sword," he gave voice to his pondering. Fell back to his silence. Listened.

The steam swirling and hissing from pots so stacked and set to flame. When his eyes did look there in those rolling veils, his mind painted pictures within the swirls of grey, white, and fire's light made warm the shadows.

"Worry then, that in drawing the river spirit, we would draw those Sightless gathered to hunt them all the same," the young woman came, pies in hand. "Which begs the question," how exactly do you plan to draw Segale out.

"Here you go sers, two lamb pies."​

"They look to die for," rumbles the low voice of the beturbanned knight. "It does my heart good, to see so fine a curry, accompanied by so bright a mint sauce," he gives her a smile.

"Oh," the young woman finds herself caught in a laugh. Fixes her hair, and gives a little bow of the head. "Well, you see, ser, just another one of those same traditions that followed up my Father's way alongside the cumin, helps cut the richness of the pie, and adds a nice variety to the bite! Now, most folks don't usually like the stuff, but, I do have a bit of our families yogurt stashed about, i can go and fetch some for you if you'd like? Really ties everything together, if I do say so myself,"

Bebin but smiled, and bowed his head in a nod. "That would be splendid,"

"Ha! Right, then, I'll be riiight back," she hurried off again. And still, the little green witch stood her vigil.

But not before Dinner, I say... and not before we find Demeix," ​

Bebin let the weight of all they had come to do, and all that had found them sit inside him for a moment. Like a thing coiling as it tried to shed its skin.

"I am not a man who believes in fate, and yet, that we would find such warm trail of him here," his eyes are fixed onto that verdigris figure. Her impassive expression. Was it judgement she passed down on him? For all he had done, and would still do? He gave Selene's hand a sure squeeze. "Segale must come first. Demiex must come after," Bebin said cold as that black ice upon which he had dueled his protege what seemed like a lifetime ago. There upon that same surface where herons danced with a basilisk. There above that Kingdom of Mud.
 
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Sinking, she was always sinking into the mud while those two glided so faultlessly across the Loch. The assuring squeeze does nothing to buoy her. Selene slips her hand away from Bebin's. Slips deeper into that muck.

"Stubborn ass," she says, familiarity in her voice, but no small affection. Cheeks turn warm and red. A rare occurrence. "Fate gives you another chance, yet you still will not take it. Would it kill you to think with your heart for once, and not your head."

The young cook comes back with a clay jar in hand. Her shoulders are screwed up high and and her smile is strained. She looks more anxious than before. The little corner of the inn is small, and the walls are nothing more than slatwood.

"H-here's the yogurt, syrs," she says. Sets the offering down upon the table with a humble bow of the head. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Thank you, dear. Some spiced tea would be lovely, if you have any left from the day."

"Oh yes, of course. I'll come right back with that."​

The tilting smile of thanks Selene gives is genuine. It falls level as soon as the young woman turns round towards the kitchen. She picks her anger back up where she'd left it.

"Already, you have let Demiex slip away once before. Are you really willing to risk losing him again?"
 
Coiling, and coiling.

Bebin's hand comes shut. "I would risk trusting him, Selene," he holds that fist sure upon the counter. Meatpies steaming. Mint sauce bright. Yogurt cool and thick. "I would risk that we do what needs must,"

That she would ask him to think with his heart.

"It was Demiex who had cast me into the Mud all those years ago, was it not?" He spoke tense. Felt no hunger. Save that to hold her. He turned his eyes to her once more. One finger, then the other dared probe her hand. Tried slip across her wrist, gentle. "My heart tells me, that he will appear again, that he will show himself to us,"

He could not believe, with all they had seen in the years since the boy had fled the order a traitor. A Kin Killer. Wanted for the murder of Knight, Pursuant of Life, Linda Merrycourt. Who then appeared again. A revenant amidst the mists of Lanoline. A fitting partner to their own Knight of Dawn. Faramund. Worms. Writhing afore a serpent.

Bebin looked away. Brow furrowed. Lips set to frown as the young woman returned. "It was twice that I had let our son slip away. I shan't let it happen again, Selene. But do not pretend like he would have us turn our back to this place. To these people."
 
Part of her knew it was absurd, arguing the order in which they should conduct business. And so too was it unreasonable to draw her hand away, and deny that touch so tentatively offered.

Pies go on steaming, undisturbed on the plate. The bright warmth of their flavor wouldn't be tasted through the wrath currently coating her tongue. Or worse yet, as soon as she bit into one it would melt everything else away and reveal it to be the passing frustration that it was. No, she wanted to hold on a bit longer. 'He would not have us turn our back to this place.' She let the words spiral her into mad conclusion.

"Of course I care about this place. I threw myself into the river for these people."

A willing sacrifice, to appease the gods and quell the waters.

"And now I must do it all again, because, because--"

Selene let out a sigh. She could not think of anything to say that wouldn't be childish.

She thought again of the placard in the town square. Surely it was her name and her face inscribed there, but not her actions. The story twisted there to suit the needs of Prathil. And now that she had returned, there was no reconciling the woman the townsfolk saw with the myth that they had been told.

"It is so strange, being here. To walk into familiar rooms and have no one recognize me." She nudged a finger underneath Bebin's own, steepling tips up together. "Forgive me. I fear it is my own pride which has got the better of me."
 
What heat roiled there in that barreled furnace that was Bebin's chest, abated at the touch, rise and press of fingers he found so familiar as to miss their very press against whatever parts of him were there last to recieve them. Fore the waves of blood and wash of minds lightnings had him feel whatever else felt new.

Still they were there. Like prints upon a shore which longed to be tread evermore.

"Tis a twisted time we find our selves in, oh love of mine," Bebin entoned between them. "Where in pretenders long known, tell all the rest that there's is the path that must be followed. Whilst we lose, more and more of our precious few. Kith. Kin," he grasped at her bones. "Selves and skins that can only be shed so many times before we find nothing there beneath the last husk we've spent." He shook his head. "There is not to forgive, save my own tired mind. My own hunger. My own want to be done with all this," when they both knew there as no end, save that most bitter promise all life was given. He smiled daggerous. "And now I owe you apology, for I have prattled, here in Prathil," he placed a kiss to her knuckle. To her wrist. "And if I do recall, that is your least favorite play that bares the name of your haunted home,"

From behind some corner in that cramp of pots and pans, dishes and wares, hid Bavol's daughter. "Um, pardon," the girl interjected. "I didn't mean to-" clears her throat. "Drop no eves, but," she titters. "It is a small establishment after all, and even through the hiss and the roil of the,"

Bebin let his wrist twist about that trunk of Selene's own. Palms cupped fingers twined and squeezed. "Bavol's daughter," the pursuant began. "I am Bebin Theros, and I give you my name, so that I might ask for yours in turn,"

The girl blinked. A little more front and center now as she stands afore the two, and there before her own inheritance which that green witch does look after well as her new keeper. "The name is Mary Anihavol, ser,"

"Mary Anihavol, Daughter of Bavol Anihavol, I presume,"

"Aye, you presume rightly so,"

A nod. "Very good. But I interrupted you."

"Oh, well," she smiles warmly. "It's no matter ser, you seemed, occupied and well, seemed worried. About Syr Demiex?"

Bebin's brow raised. "You know of Syr Demiex?"

She blushed. "Well, he, stopped by just yesterday to pick up a load of pies. Always orders a big batch, and well, I had told him, I did, that I would be more than glad to deliver such a large order to him direct, would he only give me the place to go and venture toward doing so, yet, well," she frowned and slumped some. Shook her head and sighed. Something exasperated as the wind before a butterfly's wings. "He just gave me that smile of his, and said it was no trouble at all, and he would handle it,"

Bebin but stared at the girl mouth ajar.
 
There again, in the dimmed candlelight of the inn, their pains were shared and halved. For words which were true had a magic all their own, and she felt them resonate there between the air in steady tones, and in the infinitesimal touch of fingertips.

"Never, could your voice drone on so much as that dreadful play." She smiled there at that kiss against wrist, the prickle of beard against most tender skin, press of nose and the soft damp left behind by lips. She would have held that brawny face fast and done something markedly less demure, had the young cook not come back with their tea.

The crooked lean of shame at having such bad table manners (forgetting even to ask their host's name), straightened to attention in Selene as the girl found her courage to speak.

She was Mary Anihavol, and with a story to tell!

"...He just gave me that smile of his, and said it was no trouble at all, and he would handle it," ​

"And you, diligent baker that you are," Selene prodded gently. "Sought to help deliver them anyway?"

"Yes, well, it's not as if I followed him or anything strange like that. It's just, that is more pies than any one man can eat, and Berdi saw him ordering little pairs of shoes at the cobbler's, and those mercenaries know his comings and goings over the bridge, and he doesn't want to burden any one of us. It's all well and good to be mysterious on one's own, but if there's little ones to look after--! So, I went to the old mill up the river, but not because I-I was following anyone..."

Mary had worked herself up. Fingers wrung themselves apart, only to clamp down at her sides and hold tight to handfuls of apron. "Sorry, now I'm the one prattling in Prathil."

Selene let out a sign, and it was a very heavy sigh because it contained, thrice over: the revelation of just how much the girl had overheard, the second mention of her least favorite play, and that her son, even in his dire exile, had found some brood to protect.

"Legault, what have you gotten yourself into?"
 
Eyes upon the tea set there upon the counter. Trails steaming from the coloring drink turning tawny.

"There is only one way for us to find out," Bebin said with a squeeze of Selene's hand. "Come the morrow, we find our wayward son," His hand came unwound from hers and took up a spoon. Burried its edge there in the flaky pastry of the pie's crust. Watched as its stewed gravy and all the bits there in slowed out. Scooped it up. "We go and find this, old mill," blew on the morsel.

Looked to Selene and offered her the bite. "You were in the right of it," he smirked. "I am sorry for questioning you, Captain,"
 
Milky sweet smell of the tea, swirling with the spicy steam of the split crust, enveloped Selene. She was pleased as punch, as the perfect bite was offered to her. Cardamon and garlic, bay and tea, and that brave cumin, grown proud in the cold rains of Prathil. Old flavors enjoyed anew, shared with the one whom she could share all with. Such moments were rare, and worth savoring, even in the midst of the battle they found themselves in.

"I am sorry for questioning you, Captain," ​

"Don't do it again," she said, but her voice was full of good humor, and could not be taken seriously. After all, who else could curb her foul moods, with only the humblest of offerings - a bite of pie?

She took the bite delicately between thumb and forefinger. The grease of the buttery crust remained on her fingers, even as the bite disappeared behind plump lips.

But she would not make the same mistake twice, and ignore what was right in front of her. A little questioning went a long way, loath as she was to admit it. After the bite was sufficiently savored, she turned back to the cook.

"Mary, what did you discover in the old mill?"

"Half a dozen kids that I could see, of different ages, sitting 'round the fire as an older one read aloud to them. They looked... strangely," Mary admitted. "I could nae tell what sort of kith they were."

Mary let go and smoothed her apron back out. Looked down at the fabric, and not at either of them. "Sorry, I didn't see more. I had to go away and start on those pies, after all."
 
Bebin took Selene's finer hand there amidst the broad plane of his own. Already snatched up a kerchief he kept stowed away in one of the pockets hidden away in the bands of his gambeson. A snap of the fabric with the flick of the wrist. Practiced digits slid there to the long bones of his Captain's fingers. Wiped them clean of the grease earned from her adventurous pluck. A single sure swipe.

Let her hand free. Folded the square of cloth neatly and put the rag away.

"You've nothing to apologize for, Mary," he said, voice warm with the steam that swirled about them. Each lungful, buoying him up. "That you would be so concerned for our dear Demiex and what cause has found him, well," pride curled there about the corner of Bebin's mouth. Black whiskers bobbing. Though sorrow lingered there too in the mirror of his eyes.

For all that Demiex had done. And all that had transpired since that fateful day where in Bebin had been cast into the Kingdom of Mud, with but the stroke of the Heron's beak, and the blast of its great wings. He took another bit of pie. Ate it quick.

"You have nothing but our gratitude, Mary Antihavol, Daughter of Bavol," he bowed his head to the young woman. Took up the warm tea. Spiced and sweet with its burnt bitterness, and drank it deep.
 
Such a careful gesture could never be called a waste of time, even if Selene was quick to dirty her fingers again. She picked up her own pie and split it down the middle, watched the earthy orange curry glistening inside each half in each hand until the steam quieted down to a whisper. She took a bite, and another, and realized with urgency that she was very hungry.

"Mmh-hm," Selene hummed along with Bebin's gracious words, as she grabbed up her own mug and took a big draught of tea. The drink thick with caramelized milk, a silky flavor which lingered pleasantly on her tongue.

There was much to do, and many more things they could disagree about. Now, however, it would all be a little easier to bear, for the hearty pies of Miss Mary Anihavol.


The night had cooled to frigid, sparks of ice stirred along the ground with short gusts of wind. Selene's cheeks pricked with the cold, livening her pace as she walked staff-stepped along the riverside path. Cobblestone long grown over by moss crunched underfoot. And the river, once babbling, had stilled to a whisper under the rippling layer of ice scabbed over it.

Ahead of them, the old mill stood just as frozen, its wheel buried in blue. Slender gold shone through narrow windows, bars of light flickering like candles themselves in the dark.

Mary looked back at the pair of knights, past the thick red scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. She carried in her hands a wicker basket, layered with straw and a checkerboard cloth, to keep its hot contents safe against the night.

She hefted the basket onto one hip, making the adjustment to pull the scarf from her mouth with her freed hand.

"We're almost there," she called back with a puff of warm breath.
 
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