Here's to proving them wrong

In the barren landscape of the Oakheart harbour, she suddenly appeared. In a blink of an eye and a twisting and twirling of material form. Her body landed limp like a weighted rag, although she was still conscious. But she was weak and relief had somehow already started to settle in her even if she had yet to allow its manifestation. It made her muscles feel heavy and impossible. Her pale-skinned body was barely covered – weeks old undergarments, slightly frilled and damaged, were the only thing shielding the young-looking woman against the constant misting rain, that while it didn’t immediately drench anyone daring outside, it only took seconds before one’s entirety was damp. However, the lack of clothing displayed a rather obvious story of her absence before now.
A deep, blackened purple band ran broad and painful around her one ankle, the leg itself showing further signs of damage done. Not broken – not anymore - but most definitely sprained and unfavoured would she ever stand up again. Smaller bruises were scattered over the rest of her body. Cuts. Very telling long and still tender red marks ran across her back. Her face in particular carried with it scabs from where skin had been broken by brute force and not a knife. Scabs that had started to heal but she wasn’t human. These wounds weren’t days old as one would think, a witch like her simply healed quicker. Most of what was still visible was recent. And one could only imagine what else she’d already healed that there now were no instant signs of. But underneath there were bones that had broken, only not having been sat properly before the natural regeneration had taken over and were now a cause of complications.

The little witch stirred carefully on the ground – barely moving the horribly bruised leg compared to her other limbs. She ached, thought exhaustion kept her from winching much in the pain of moving. But one thing finally seemed to numb some of the pain that had haunted her for a while. Numb that feeling of wrong just a little. Just enough that it wasn’t so much in the forefront like the menacing taunt that it was. She’s lost more than just blood and sweat and tears. Lost more than her magic. She’s lost soul and for ever bite, it’s left her feeling so … But now it was back. Magic. It felt the same as it always had but different because she had really not lost it just kept in restrains to let it out. Now she could finally feel it seep out of her fingertips again. Surge properly through her veins. Above her, somewhere behind the grey clouds, the very first crescent of the circle was present and feeding her growth.

She breathed out. A long and tired exhale. It felt warm as it bounced off of the ground beneath her and unto her face. Her eyes were open and gazed the horizon of the waving ocean only few metres from her. She was out. She didn’t doubt that at all. She’d seen Calvin Ambrose’s face just before the teleportation spell had brought her away from him. The surprise. The realization. She’d seen pure failure in the demon’s face. This wasn’t just one of his illusionary games. She’d won a hunt and freedom was her reward. Regardless, she couldn’t be certain of how long this freedom would last. She had no recollection of where she’d landed. She’d failed the spell and it’d given her a compromise where it’d left her with no choice of destination. It was a small price to pay. At least it wasn’t there. She was by the ocean. Somewhere.
Slowly she turned her hand – the one laying closest to her face as she laid on her front. Her palm towards the ground and gentle fingers curling to stroke the concrete. She watched the surge of magic escape and seep into the ground. Into the cracks and texture. Her fingers started darkening to a deepened red from the tips to the second joint and they burned like second degree burns; a price, a punishment for using magic whilst not in a state to. But she didn’t care about it. She embraced that pain for it meant something greater. However witnessing it must’ve been the last tip for her relief to overwhelm her exhaustion, because right as the last of magic had been guided, Saga fell completely unconscious. She didn’t get to see the sprout of something green forcing its way through the hard concrete. Nor did she get to see the impressiveness of that small sprout abruptly growing and growing, cracking the concrete to make way. Within mere moments a tree stood beside her small figure. A protecting rowan and while it wasn’t impossibly tall, it stood a good head taller than man when it slowly stopped growing and forming. The crown had curved to the side, almost as if to create a shelter for the little witch. And a thick root had pulled free from the concrete as well and grown so to lay on top of her. Hugging her waist, tightly enough that it wouldn’t be possible to simply pulled her out. It protected her. The rowan was known to protect, however maybe not like this..

The sudden sprouting of a tree – specially where a tree shouldn’t be sprouting – quickly caught attention of those few eyes. This part of the harbour had had no visitors but workers had work to do. Even on miserable days like this one. At first only one noticed. Then another became aware. And it was first when she was discovered that confusion turned to something else.

“What the hell?!”
		“She’s alive..”
“Someone get a saw!”
		“What’s going on over there?!”

One sentence in the midst of many others broke sharper through the rest, though.

“You; get a hold of Mr. Barnes!”

You; get a hold of Mr. Barnes!

Archie had changed.
The past month he had changed. He had spent centuries detaching himself from his banshee abilities; how to push them away, dealing with the sleepless nights and learning how to disconnect from the ever-growing feeling of death around him. But he had changed. He had started listening again. Listening and asking questions.
He had taken it all in with a clear and sober mind, searching though souls, ghosts and spirits - yet he had not come closer to understanding what had happened. So much death but not hers. And the others didn’t matter.
It had also meant less sleep. Every hour awake that wasn’t spent on official matters regarding the Barnes Limited Company was spent searching. Phone calls, letters, e-mails and small rituals. Circe didn’t leave his side for any of it; the two of them sharing the little comforts they could bring each other along with the knowledge that he would never stop looking. That much they knew, the cat and the banshee, as they sat in the grand library of the Barnes Estate.
The warm, gentle flickers from the flames, reflected lazily in the attentive golden eyes of the feline familiar. Although seemingly resting comfortably on the lush sofa armrest, Archie knew well that they listened intensely to any and all sounds in the old house.

When the phone rang, they both lifted their heads - The old banshee from the journal he had been reading; his blue eyes peaking over the thin frame of his glasses, and the white cat from the armrest with a lazy flick of their tail. Their eyes met then, as they had done many times, each time with a dimmer hope than the time before.
With a low hum, Archie placed his journal on the soft cushion to his right and pushed himself up to go reach the mahogany desk with the old phone, whose sound once again pierced monotonely through the crackling fireplace.
“Yes?”
“You need to get down to the harbour, Mr. Bar-“
“Is it her?”
“We thi-“
“Lucy - Is it her?!”
“They say it is a witch.”

Turning right towards East Key. Impatient from the tips of his toes to the tips of his fingers, the Banshee read the signs as they went past in a blur. Dock 10. Warehouse B1. B2. B3. - a person jumped away from the speeding car with a loud shriek - B6. B7. B -
Archie let his foot raise from the speeding pedal; allowing his eyes to fully take in what towered above the last few warehouses on the long doc in East Key. A rare sight in this area so heavily donated by concrete and steel and square boxes and big machines. A tree. A rowan; its delicate green leaves shining through the evening, gently lit by the cold lamps and dim lights from the warehouses.
The car halted. In a blur, Archibald Barnes exited the front door, stepping out into the miserable March drizzle. People were staring but he only had eyes on the tree. His eyes flickered slightly, lowering to make sure the celestial being that accompanied him was there - somehow Circe seemed more timid than the impatient flutter of energy they had had earlier, now walking close to his heal. He felt his own emotions mirroring the familiar’s. The past month had accumulated into this moment and none of them wanted their hearts broken. Not again.
And yet, that small hesitation vanished as soon as they saw the shadow of a small being at the bottom of the rowan; the tree having almost wrapped itself around her. And next to her - was that?

Archie’s eyes darkened dramatically. His hand found the lean gun he’d kept under his coat, raised the weapon without hesitation, took aim and shot. The young man who had dared to grab hold of what appeared to be some sort of saw immediately slumped over with a groan, and the crowd that had gathered around the peculiar tree in the wintery darkness fell quiet and spun on their heels to observe the odd pair and parted for them.
Archie was rarely seen running - he always took his time - but he had either forgotten or simply pushed it aside in favour of a light jog. He was out of breath before he reached her; more so from the pure and utter panic he felt rushing through his body the closer he got.
No night-time darkness nor any shadows cast by large branches could hide the purple and yellow that decorated the fair skin.  He couldn’t take his eyes off her and spared no attention to the younger guy who had slumped down, holding his hand on his bleeding leg. “If ye’ve caused ‘er any fuckin’ harm with that; me next bullet’ll reach yer fuckin’ chest.” Coarse and dark, his empty voice nearly cracked then, as his eyes got to take in the state of her. For it was her indeed. Saga Calliope Rhyss.
His voice somehow ignited movement in the frozen crowd. Everyone had been cautiously standing still for the better part of a whole minute. Everyone except the white familiar with the golden eyes. Circe had moved in a flurry of white, dodging left and right through an ocean of legs to reach their human. The celestial being had not changed shape once since the witch’s disappearance and so Archibald’s companion had been the white cat for the many weeks - now, it’s shape seemed to not settle. A shimmery bright cloud of dusty white swirled around the body in an invisible breeze, hovering protectively, inspecting every nook and cranny before finally, finally settling into the shape of a small, graceful ferret, curling up into the soft spot between the shoulder and the jaw. The sounds coming from the little animal were different to what the Banshee had ever heard before. Small whimpers and wheezes.
His head went quiet.

A car pulled up behind them, but he hardly took notice as he took the final few steps towards the woman he had spent countless of dark, rough hours searching for without luck. Though loud shouts from the arriving car, ringing out with a thick northern accent and an accumulation of swear words, he looked straight ahead as the crowd slowly dispersed. There she was. Broken and battered and within reach at last. He crouched down then, tugging gently on the thick root that was almost cut through, feeling the wood bend slightly under his weight. With a little more force, the wood snapped, and would give him those few centimetres of air he would need to gently pull her out when time would come. But first.

“Oh, Saga, love.”
It was not often the rough, weathered voice of Archibald Barnes’ voice sounded gentle, but as he reached for her, desperate to feel a heartbeat through the frail, battered skin that had seen nothing but darkness for so long, his voice was kind and filled with a pained love he might’ve not known he possessed.
The moment passed as soon as his thumb stroked her chin.
A flash went through him. It was all wrong. It was all wrong! He growled loudly, retreating his hand. Loud enough for Circe to peep back out from her hide. “SULLY!”
The banshee stood back up, anger and darkness oozing from him. He had to close his fists to not show how heavily his hands were shaking and his heartbeat was so loud that the blood rushes through his body too quickly and his vision momentarily blurred. “Sully!” The taller, old friend came running and grabbed firmly around his boss’ shoulder to provide some little sort of support. He cast one look at the bruised body before finding Archie’s eyes and immediately knowing the seriousness of the situation. “We need t’get ‘er out, Sully,” he muttered, sounding almost defeated. The Soul Demon might’ve already felt it; that something had happened to the witch. Something the eye would never see. A deeper wound that would never bleed.
“Ye lift the-“
“I lift the wood, mh? I got it, boss. ‘S alright, eh? Ye take care of Miss Saga.”
They hardly needed words for the taller Demon to know exactly when to lift the half cut root, as Archie positioned himself, his hands under Saga’s arms, gently nudging at the loose body to wiggle her out.
The protective familiar had hissed at anyone nearing the body but allowed the older Banshee that had been there with them all along, to grab a hold and pull the witch out.
She had lost an inhumane amount of weight these past weeks and felt a whole lot smaller than what he remembered. His arms wrapped around her as soon as she was free of the majestic rowan. The tree has let her go. Perhaps it knew she didn’t need to fear for her protection now that the Banshee was there, clinging onto her as tight as the grown root. Never again. Never again would this happen. Never again would she lack protection. Never again.
Sully placed a hand on Archie’s shoulder. “We get ‘er in the car, yeah?”
Archibald Barnes looked up at his old friend with eyes that were clouded from beginning tears. “They - they’ve touched ‘er soul, Sul.”
“I know.”
“The bastards touched her fuckin-“
“Oy. Let’s get ‘er home now, ey? Let’s bring ‘er home.”

14.03.21

For once nobody knew what to say. The sound of the rumbling motor was the only sound that dulled the loud voices in the Banshee’s head. He had opened a door, he knew, inviting them back into his life like this; ancient rituals making sure that he was protected, but he knew it would come with a price. A price he had decided long ago would be an endlessly insignificant price for her. That much he knew. That much he was certain of. And so, the voices that tried to speak with him seemed somewhat trivial as he held her in his arms, his rough hand carefully supporting the back of her head to avoid her vigorously moving around the speeding car.
He sat straight and stern, staring out the window as they moved closer to the estate, everything seeming utterly grey through the light misty rain. Everything except those familiar golden eyes that he had become so accustomed to having near him. And the voices dulled further as the slim body of the white ferret wrapped itself around his neck and made him lower his tense shoulders. Like a small flicker of hope through the boiling rage that built up in his entire body. There was a heartbeat. There was still a heartbeat.

_____

The white crow circled the dark room before landing elegantly on the headboard of the wooden bedframe that bordered the witch’s resting body. It was only almost a month since they had lost her, the Banshee and the Familiar, but had they been able to fully converse, they would have agreed that it felt closer to a year.
Archie had not dared touch her bruised since they had placed her like that earlier in the evening. Surrounded by white sheets and fresh flowers from the garden; flowers that would be replaced every so often by the fallen angel who had wandered the vast gardens to find them – her old books promising health and strength to those in their vicinity. Now, in the darkness and on his own, he finally reached for her good hand. The hand he had longed to hold for so long. He let his coarse thumb trace the soft spot next to hers before kneeling down next to her. His knees hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud and his hands wrapped around hers, gently bringing it towards him.
It had been centuries since Archibald Barnes had cried, but he wept then, lowering his head until his forehead touched their entangled hands. The silent stream of salty tears marked the delicate silky cover of the duvet as he cursed himself. If only he had found her earlier.

15.03.21

Nightmares were not uncommon for Archibald Barnes, but he had remedies to soften them, and had learned to live with the terrors through the years. They had gotten increasingly worse by the night, loud voices screaming at him along with visions he wanted nothing to do with; visions of the dying. Visions of the spirits and the souls. It was chaos. Most of the time he could hardly distinguish any of the voices from each other. Not until he would be lulled to sleep by the white noise of the crashing waves from the see below his window, only to wake up after a few hours when the voices would be clearer. Some would warn him. Some would curse him. Most would call him.

“Archie, you need to fix this.” The welcoming sound of Kit’s gentle voice reached him through the empty kitchen, gently bouncing off the stone walls in a shy echo. Their blue eyes locked, as Archie’s slowly refocussed. “No. Not yet, Kit. Not ‘till she’s alright.” Because as long as he could hear the voices, the biggest blessing and much needed safety was to not hear hers along with them.

16.03.21
Dandelions, she read, as she made her way back into the house, her arms trying to deal with the abundant flowers, the book and the tricky doorhandle all at once. She gracefully managed to close the door behind her with the use of her elbow, kicking off her shoes and entering the downstairs kitchen on bare feet, where she had placed her indoor shoes a few minutes earlier. Hands full, she decided to keep the flowers steady and favoured a bare footed journey to the upper bedroom. The leaf of the dandelion is used for healing, purification, and ritual cleansing. To bring positive change about, plant dandelions in the northwest corner of your property. The dandelion is associated with growth and transformation – Lucy hummed approvingly as she reached the door of the bedroom, ready to substitute the early white willow branches she had placed two days prior. She closed the book and opened the door; her eyes already feeling the sadness from seeing Saga Rhyss –
Sitting up?
The grip on the dandelions weakened, and the scattered onto the floor, their yellow caps gently bouncing off the floor. “Miss Rhyss?”

___

Circe had found their spot to be two different locations of the office room. The first, and the best spot to have a great view of the largest area, was the top of one of the old bookshelves next to the crackling fireplace, where they would sit in the form of a white crow. The second, was curled up next to the Banshee on a delicately embroidered upholstered stool, either snuggly curved as a small ferret, or completely covering the stool with the soft, furry shape of the larger feline. Today, like most days, they had settled into a cat, their tail lazily flicking back and forth as Archie scribbled on one of the many pieces of paper in front of him.
Then something peculiar happened. The cat’s head perked up, taking a short moment to let their golden eyes settle on the working man, before turning towards the door. Archie caught onto the quick movement and turned his own head towards the familiar, a curious frown knitting his eyebrows together. “Circe?“
The familiar rattled; a sound so far from the more elegant noises they would usually make that it nearly had Archie drop his pen. Circe jumped down from the stool, shifting their shape midways through the jump and managed to stay nothing but stardusty, white smoke, as they seeped through the cracks of the door. Archie didn’t hesitate to follow, quite frantically knocking over a small jar of ink as he arose from the chair in haste. His heart was beating heavily in his chest. It could only be about Saga.
Reaching the hallway, he turned a corner and nearly collided with the small framed maid of the house, her hair seeming a little more frizzy than usual and her round cheeks flushed in something that could only be described as delight.
“Lu-“
“She’s awake, Mr. Barnes!”
And for the second time in two days, Archibald Barnes ran.

Stepping over yellow flowers that decorated the dark wooden floor, he slowed down only as he entered the bedroom. Golden light shone through delicate curtains and bathed the room in warmth, a sight, visitors would usually comment on with flavourful remarks, but all Archie saw, was how the light made Saga glow ever so slightly. Her pale skin had neared the hues of grey and green a few days ago, but now, in the afternoon sun, she looked warmer and healthier. A warmth that somehow never seemed to make it to her eyes.
Utterly breathless, he crossed the room to get to her. "Saga?”

To Saga, it became a fluttering of yellow through the corner of her eye. A flutter so absolutely gentle and soundless that it almost felt slowed down; taking away any real weigh in the bundle of flowers. Her own movements mimicked that, turning ever so slowly to catch the drop directly. And of course, the curly-haired and golden skinned woman. But she seemed too slow for when her eyes fell on the fallen angel, Lucy had promptly turned in her heel and returned from the way she came. The door was left open in the hast, however. There hasn’t been need for any more confirmation of where she was – the diligent maid had been plenty of evidence that her eyes hadn’t deceived her and her mind hadn’t remembered wrongly of the walls and interior surrounding her. But she liked being able to see the hallway. Even just the slimmer of it she could from her line of view from the bed. It matched what she saw around her. It wasn’t different as if the room she was in was wrapped in illusionary lies. Calvin Ambrose hadn’t had the concentration to uphold such details. Not by the end of it. The demon had become too distracted. Priorities other things and convinced she was doomed either way.
The clamming numbness, that had kept her in the forced rest through the past few days and simultaneously saved her from gasping awake in pain, was beginning to settle and – sadly – fade. Seeing Lucy hurry away, initiated a subconscious choice to follow but as soon as Saga made the first small move to get out of the comfortable bed, she stiffened abruptly, winching in the piecing and burning soreness. In a moment all she wished for was to curl up and, if possible, stop existing in the physical plane. Escape that remaining souvenir.

It was then very strange. Attention and sound should’ve been muffled from her mind, and yet familiar soles hammering against the hardwood floor shot through the haze. She sensed her familiar instantaneously as well but those footsteps were no where near as soft as the furred paws or the elegant flaps of wings. A breath filled her lungs as her body ignored everything else once more and suddenly it became caught and jumped in her chest. Eyes having locked with the tall figure emerging in the door way. A few seconds were given for the two sets of blue eyes to meet intensely. His clearer and more alive than hers for perhaps the first time.

An immediate new flutter, now of brilliant and glittering white swept passed Archibald Barnes in the door way with high speed. In the time Saga had been out, this bonded being hadn’t been hoarding their witch. Rather they had taken a step back for others to grieve and cope. But in that very moment, all selflessness had disappeared, all care for the need in their secondary companion was overruled by their own. As soon as the flutter had come into view – no, before that – Saga’s eyes had steered from Archibald’s. Breath caught even more in her throat and continuingly ignoring any pain, her arms were raised. And then closing just in time for the flow of white entered. It was perfectly choregraphed how the non-form turned into its feline form upon her arms wrapping tightly around it. The cat’s front paws resting over her one shoulder and its hindlegs standing tiptoed in her lap. She hugged her familiar like a child hugged a lost but found teddy bear and while she already carried a very young appearance, right then she looked close to a child. Circe was desperately rubbing their head up against the nape of her neck and her face – whatever contact they could get. Long fur was tickling her nose. “I thought-.. You were here. Thank the moon,” she whispered. Just not in English. Nor in her mother tongue. Her words were Latin as she spoke them to her familiar. Songlike and yet rough. The familiar purred and chirped in response.
Saga had not allowed her much external worry for her familiar so it all came then. But… tears that should’ve pressed forth were non-existent. Where those would’ve been was a void of space instead. A lack. Crucial missing pieces.

Finally the reunion loosened and Saga carefully raised her head, sat up and the cat crawled down from her shoulders to instead lay curled up in her lap, still purring loudly, she turned her head to the side once again. The image of the intense man was a surreal one. Not simply because she had thought of him many times and then had him stand right there at last. But he looked exactly like he had that first time she had met him. Moments before he had spoken to her for the first time. He looked older than she was used to somehow. She remembered how his voice back then had brought heathy glow and fullness to his face. Seeing him tired was not unfamiliar to her but this was very different. And then there was his eyes. They looked at her differently. Very differently. Or was it her that saw differently now? Had her vision also become wrong? Her lips split. Archibald. “Barnes,” she answered back, being back to English. It hadn’t been clear when she had whispered to Circe but now speaking louder, her voice cracked due to lack of use and overall hoarseness. She shallowed, trying to fix it, cringing in the strain of it. “What ever is Circe doing here with you? How come I’m here?” She has to ask. She could only put together how the ocean she’d witnessed upon her escape was the harbour – his harbour – but still. She knew to little of what had actually happened. While she’d been away as well as while she’d been out.

How strange, really, this feeling of one sidedness that hit him; that the two lives they had recently lived had brought them somehow to the same place but not the same emotional conclusion. Was it disappointment he felt, he wondered, as her glazed eyes didn’t mirror his own sentiment? No. It was worry, he established. His heart felt fuller than ever and the empathic happiness that filled him to his core from watching the beautiful familiar finally having their moment with their life companion was enough to put any doubt to rest. Relief. Even with the nickname he had suddenly become un-accustomed to and somewhat felt distanced and cold. Worry as her face recoiled from the pain she must’ve felt upon speaking again.
Archie finally lowered his shoulders, not caring a bit about showcasing that particular softness, he knew his eyes had taken as soon as she had seen her and turned sideways to the door where Lucy had arrived. Her face was the most angelic he’d seen since she had arrived at the estate – bright light shining from her brown eyes and a healthy, excited glow that nearly gleamed from her. Their eyes met and for once his own didn’t subdue hers in any way; instead there was a slight nod of encouragement and thankfulness that they shared. He knew the fallen angel had been worried sick and he had overheard the young girl speaking rough words upon herself, knowing that she hadn’t the powers to heal the witch. “P’haps sum tea for the throat?” The Banshee suggested her. Very unlike him to not simply bark out an order or a demand, but the immediate threat had vanished and left him with a new appreciation for the staff in his home, and the whole setting called for a gentler approach. They had kept everything running smoothly when he had retreated, and Lucy had had a very big part in it all. The maid lit up, if possible, a little more, and nodded gracefully. “Mr. Barnes.” She lowered her head in a light curtesy before turning back to the door and with a sincere amount of self-control, managed to not run down the stairs in a frensy.  
Archibald took a second to breathe in before he turned back to face the witch he had spent so long searching for.

An explanation was certainly not easy. He found it difficult to supress the urge to demand her to tell him everything. He had to know where she had been. He had to know who had dared force this upon her and what on earth it had all been for; he had to know, and he had to act, and they had to burn. All of them, whoever they were. They would burn and he would see them in hell where they would burn again.
His eyes refocussed and he forced away the anger he felt build in his chest. Away for now. Away until he was certain he could ask her the questions he needed answered and instead, his eyes went to the familiar. The white cat on her lap making content purrs and looking entirely relaxed for once. He could’ve sworn the golden eyes shone brighter as they locked with his own.
Saga’s first thought had been of the familiar and so Archie would answer that one first, still regarding the familiar. “Found them in yer shop. We agreed t’was probably best Circe stayed w’ me until ye returned.” A decision he was happy with. It had been a most welcome familiarity amongst the panic and anxiety he had felt throughout the last month. Most welcome, indeed.
He was still standing there, in the doorway when the footsteps from the wooden stairs behind him sounded, and Lucy came back with a tray. Fragrant chamomile filled the room in an instant, and she placed the tea on the counter next to the door, knowing that they would most probably want alone time. “Put the lemon in first, Mr. Barnes, the honey is already melted in the pot.” The little excitement she felt over finally being able to do something she found would be helpful, clearly echoed in her voice. “Good to see you awake, Miss Rhys!” Chippy and youthful the angel felt warmth in her cheeks before leaving the two of them alone.

Archie had no time to thank her, but the flutter of movement and energy she had brought with her, made him realise he had been standing still there for too long. The tea was a natural way to advance to the bedside, and he didn’t hesitate in doing so; placing a slice of lemon in the delicate china cup before pouring the aromatic tea on top. His hands were, as always, steady even when his body was in turmoil, and he felt calmer with the soothing smell of chamomile, as he finally crossed the room.
“You ‘rived on my harbour,” he explained, attempting to answer her last question as he walked over. His blue eyes keenly observed any reaction her face would show. Did she not remember? “Made quite the fuss there, ye did. Safest place for ye’s ‘ere, considerin’ we didn’t know who’d taken you.” There were many underlying words in that statement. I didn’t know where you were or who took you; but they won’t find you or take you whilst you’re here. He raised his hand towards her, holding the cup steadily for her to take, making sure that if she reached for it, he would hold it until he was sure she had the strength. “Ye’ve been away for 22 days, Saga,” he finished, his eyes trying to catch hers, wanting to fully observe the slight glaze they had. He knew why of course, and he knew that he needed to find a way to get her back. All of her. All of her.

There it was again: Her name on his tongue. So delicately spoken too. In a way, it sounded much, much lighter getting carried by his accented voice now as well. She’d realized before how much she liked the sound of it but it had worked as a barrier, one that kept them from ever accidentally crossing the line, one that held back whatever forbidden feelings that circulated the two beings. And every time they dared play with that barrier it would weaken further and further. It would eventually crack and break. That was; if it hadn’t just done that in that very moment. With the repeated use it had really only cleared it up for her, that the first time around hadn’t simply been a slip of the tongue, a spur in the moment. Was this possibly the first time he’d spoken her name in a sentence and not a breathless breath?
With his eyes locked into hers like they were, she doubted that he’d have missed the surprise in them. Her hands had been slowly lifted towards the offered cup and had luckily reached it to gently cup it in both her hands – fingers curling over his steadying hand more so than the cup itself – so when her movement had briefly stopped to look at him, they at least didn’t stay hovering in the air. And so, as the feeling settled and the second passed, she strengthened her hold a little better but not denying herself to stroke the back of his hand as she did. Did other people know about the adoring softness of this man’s hands? Or did they only imagine dried blood in between rough lines?.. “You were looking for me?” she had to ask, experiencing a sort of drop in her voice; in her chest, in her shoulders which unknowingly had been tenses for a while. She looked down at the bundle of white fur in her lap and it looked up at her as well as if it confirmed that it was indeed what had occurred. “22 days. I didn’t even know. I had a feeling it had been long but not… I was never able to be certain.. 22 days.”
The little witch carefully leaned forward to position herself better to then guide the porcelain to her mouth and relying heavily on Archibald to actually hold the cup. 22 days. It wasn’t long for immortals like her, like him, and they had gone without seeing each other for much longer than 22 days regularly. “Thank you,“ she gently uttered with poised sincerity and with her gaze, not on him, but down into the directions of the cup. “Thank you for taking care of Circe. My magic had been involuntary disabled for a …while so they must’ve suffered under the prolong disconnect as much as myself. Know that I didn’t mean for it.” The last words, although highly guaranteed to then be said to her trusted familiar they might as well have been for the banshee. She gulped just before taking that first sip of tea.

The sip she took was too big for what one would consider ’normal’ when drinking any fresh hot drinks. It’d started innocently enough, though, with plans to simply let the aroma touch her lips and, by that, satisfy the man’s small wishes for her to drink something but as soon as the smallest drop made contact, an agonising thirst activated and she drank. Drank till her heart’s content. She didn’t make mind to the temperature or really noticed the honey soothing her hoarse throat. There was only the drought in her body, which she finally felt she could quench.
However, Saga still had to stop before the cup was empty and the cup – as well as Archibald’s hands – got pushed away as she gasped in a large breath; having had the warming effect of the beverage and lack of remembrance to breath catch up on her. Intuitively, she leaned all the way back against the headrest of the bed and as her back touched both soft pillows but also hard bedframe, she grimaced in short pain. But when she looked back up at the old fool by her bed-side she made and automatic effort to play it off like if nothing. “I was told he’d help himself to my debt. You were at my shop; What was missing? Did you see?” Wait. Her dark brow furrowed slightly. Would Archibald even know? He was familiar with her place, yes, but he wouldn’t know her catalogue. He wouldn’t know even if something had been taken.. “I should go..”
It was nothing more than a whisper, a whisper to herself, but in an instant the white cat in her lap shit its head up and spiked and turned its ears in a protesting reaction. Golden eyes quickly looked to the banshee and although they stayed laying comfortably, its tail swung in an irregular rhythm.

Had the two of them been telepathic; able to read each-other’s minds and fully understand what was going on behind their blue eyes, they might have not wasted precious time. They might have reached conclusions faster and spared themselves worry and torment. Alas, none of them were, and all that could be understood was so heavily reliant on words and looks alone. And looks could so easily be misunderstood.
The blue eyes that echoed the vast sea with its infinite size enlarged slightly in surprise; a feeling the Banshee caught onto the second it appeared. Had he been pushing too hard? He swore he could hear his own heartbeat in fear he might’ve been forceful in any way; the voices that seemed to always be in the back of his mind growing louder – could he even seem to faintly hear the violent waves clashing onto the sharp cliffs or was it but distant thunder? His lips parted as if needing to inhale more oxygen to support the heavily beating heart, but the breath was irrelevant the second her delicate fingers touched his. How insignificant and superficial air was in that moment. Air didn’t calm his heart. Air didn’t subdue the voices. The wrapped-up hands of Saga Rhyss did, however. How could something that looked so broken make him feel so full? He only managed to breathe as the moment slowly passed and her fingers daintily caressed his hand, bringing him back to Earth and recentring his core.  
“We were,” he confirmed, not knowing whether she had explicitly asked of his own personal priorities in the matter and knowing that he could never take full credit for the search. Many people had been involved the past many weeks and thought he could not take credit for the successes; he did blame the failures solely on himself. The guilt was his alone as it so was for those who truly cared.

Archie lowered his eyes – conveniently shielding her from seeing the guilt that had blossomed with his thoughts and instead allowing him to focus on the cup, not wanting to spill the hot tea on her fragile skin. His eyes didn’t keep away from her for long as the words so softly spoken from her lips had him raise his gaze quickly upwards, eyes opening in surprise. “Of course,” he uttered breathlessly, knowing full well that he would have done infinitely more than that, but not finding the words or the courage to convey it to her. He could have said so much; told her that it wasn’t her fault and that he held nothing against her. Make her understand that she was to feel no guilt in the matter, yet somehow, words seemed stuck in his throat and all he could do was to abide and finally support her hands in reaching the cup to her lips. He allowed her control, despite wanting to pull back to assure a less intense moment. Instead she overwhelmed herself, and he finally pulled back with her push, quickly placing the cup on the side-table to return to her side, raising a hand as if wanting to touch her. He gave in, then, reaching for her cheek, placing his hand so his fingers could gently wrap under her jawline halfway through her wince. “You’re oka-“

The banshee had told himself that he would indeed take it slow. Not push for her to remember. Not push for her to expose herself, but by that very word, an overwhelming anger took hold in his blue eyes, darkening them drastically. “He? – Who, he?” The softness evaporated in the golden light of the afternoon sun.
“No.” Firm, demanding and strict, there was no softness in that word. Worry perhaps and slight fear. “You should not,” he asserted, the northern accent wavering in favour of strict clarity to make sure she understood that this was in fact an order. “I’f had men ‘round the clock lookin’ after yer shop. Nothin’s been touched since you left.” He had in fact left it in its exact state; broken and messy as it had been, to make sure that she would be the one to put it back in order when she would finally return. A gesture he strongly knew he would want others to give to him, was his place ever ravaged in the same manner as hers had been.
She was impossibly stubborn, the small framed witch, and he knew that assertiveness might not be the best way to convince her to stay, so as quickly as the flare of anger had blossomed in him, as swiftly did he make efforts to push it away. He did not wish to keep her prisoner – she had been enforced in that for far too long – but knew that he could not live if she was to disappear now. Or stain herself and fall back into that heavy sleep. “Please, Saga. Ye need rest.” Had he ever begged of her before? Had she ever heard the word please leave his lips in broad daylight? “At least ‘til t’morrow.”

It wasn’t Saga’s own conscious choice to flinch at his touch. If anything wanted that touch so badly and had never ever before swayed away from it as she ultimately craved it. But for the first time, she realized how broken she’d become. Out through her time at the motel, she’d not had a chance to noticed it. There she’d only ever been in the company of one person and while she’d flinched from every single one of the demon’s caress, it had been with good reasoning. Then she’d never been able to know if the hand reaching towards her face would be a gentle stroke over the sore bruises or a fist flying across to create even more of them. And she’d never wanted for that man to touch her. It was such a vile thing. But Archibald wasn’t him, not in the slightest and yet..
Her only solace, she found little after when his hand didn’t move away and she got to feel it against her cheek. He wasn’t the only one who gave in to something in that moment, for despite the tenderness of a continuously abused and beaten face, she gently closed her eyes and with a tiny clench of the jaw to bite down the discreet pain, she leaned her head further toward his hand, letting him cup it as ease swept over her expressions. She breathed deeply. Just a moment..

A moment was then also all that she got as her words abruptly triggered an anger in the banshee. Not an unfamiliar one. Not one that startled her, at least, and opening her eyes and tilting her head back upright, she did it rather calmly and slow. Albeit a distinctive form of regret had taken rest in her eyes as they looked up at him and her rosy, newly rehydrated lips - that had probably looked just as thirsty as her moments prior - hovers apart, just waiting for the cue to move and speak. But she didn’t know what words. No! She knew exactly what words, only there was something that had stopped them from making over the tongue. [ Sshh ] She pressed her lips together almost begrudgingly; fighting an urge. As well as fighting the discomfort that came over her the moment the demon’s voice whispered in her head. “I can’t tell you,” she finally spoke and could only held her gaze upon him for a second or two - she expected his anger and at least wanted to meet it barren before having to look away marginally. 
Circe visibly calmed as well, despite the intensity that Archibald expressed. Something that could get anyone in the room tensed up even if they were nowhere near the centre of the man’s fury. One could easily guess that the feline nodded in self-righteous agreement -  quite humanlike. “I should ..not?” She sounded more surprised by his command than she intended. It wasn’t in defiance, though. She’d already know what dumb decision it would be, and had she started to move she’d realized it even more as she’d come to know that she couldn’t even walk. Well, barely. She could move her legs just fine but they wouldn’t hold her up if she tried. Especially not the blackened and sprained ankle. “Then what should I do?”
The answer followed shortly after when suddenly the man, she knew so well as a sturdy wall of pure confidence, pleaded his case. She barely heard her name being said a third time - it starting to get normal in her ears now. Had she heard him utter that word before? No. Absolute not. They’d shared their sparing use of such a thing. It was not a bad word, but a word of weakness. He was weak, she figured out. Willingly. “Does that mean that I can stay here then?” she asked with a different tone in her voice that sort of matched with the delicate smile she smiled at him. Knowingly and asking simply for him to have to state the obvious for her. She wetted her lips and upon folding them in, let her teeth scrape them and then return back to the smile. “At least until tomorrow.” Although she repeated his words, hers weren’t flavoured with any accent.

The lift in the air dropped again and scared off the smile a new when she then admitted: “Archibald, something is wrong with me. I can’t cry.”

I can’t tell you.

I can’t tell you.

I can’t tell you.

He had never, in their many years of knowing each other countered a sentence like that. That was, after all, how they worked – and they worked to terribly well like that. He had always put it down to respect. There was no want or need to be snoopy in each-other’s lives and they were both too proud to beg for information on anything so a ‘no’ had always been just that. A no. Yet this felt so entirely different and wrong and he could no longer assure himself that respect was the case, for in that moment he wanted nothing more than to demand an answer to his question, no matter how unreasonable it might seem. It was a question that had haunted him in his dreams for too long and it was an answer he feared as much as needed. The only answer she could give him was this; that she apparently knew the identity of the person and that was miles worse than had she not known who it was.
His lips pinched together in anger and he pulled backwards, taking a precious moment to collect himself. Whoever had done this – and whatever the fuck they had actually done – they would pay with their lives and with their souls and with their sanity and they would suffer hundredfold of what she had.

The anger was evident to those that looked for it. Like a flicker of a flame behind his cold, blue eyes. Enough anger for him to slowly remove his hand from her cheek, scared that if he couldn’t control it, he would end up causing more damage – so instead, the hand was moved onto the side of the bed, firmly clenched with his nails dug so deep there had certainly been blood, had his skin not been worn rough.
So angry, that the almost-hesitant voice of the bruised witch did very little to clear the cloud that had fogged his mind. For that is what wrath presented itself as. Fog. Until the voice spoke again, clear as day, and more demanding for an answer. Demanding that he take charge; softening up the clenched hand and allowing blood to flow through his tensed fingers. And when he blinked, the fog lifted with a gentle question, as though she had known just how to get through. Just what to say to get him back there, in the warm afternoon sun and away from the high winds of fury.
“Yes,” he insisted breathlessly, his voice hoarse from the rage that had rushed through his body moments earlier. “You must.”

Surprise was understated. The delicate smile faltered, and something showed in her eyes that he had never seen before. Was that fear behind the glaze? Bewilderment and puzzlement nearly made him miss the importance of her words, but it took less than half of a breath for his heart to drop and for him to completely melt. The most horrible feeling he had felt in decades. Helplessness. His heart was shattering – by the Gods, how he wanted endlessly more for her and yet here he was, unable to provide her with anything except a hand to hold. She was worth so much more than that. She was worth wars and thunder and burning cities.  
“Oh, love,” he whispered; knowing that if he spoke louder, his voice would break alongside him. “That's okay.” He reached for her again, this time for her dressed hand, to cup it gently in his own.
Archie lowered himself, reaching the old hardwood floor with his knees, he equalised their heights, placing himself at the end of her bed on his knees with his hands on hers and their faces closer. Had he been a religious man, this position would have been in church, facing an altar and the words of a promise would have been made to a divine force. Instead, the vulnerability came in the confides of his own home and he pledged it to the only force that had any power over him.
“If there are ways t’ heal things that ain’t there, I’ll find ‘em. If there ain’t, I’ll make ‘em.” One of the hands lifted and re-found the point it had been placed earlier, cupping around her face, but this time to ensure the focus from her as their eyes were locked; determination nearly overtaking the anger. “Somethin’ was taken from you, my moon, and I won't stop, till we get it back.”
Words echoed through his mind. I was told he’d help himself to my debt. A whole new meaning emerged. “We’ll get it back, aye? And until then, ye rest and ye heal.”

It was overwhelming to say the least. To witness the banshee fall to his knees for her and to practically surrender himself like he did. Exposed and vulnerable. The hand he held didn’t seem to hurt as long as he held it, she noticed. There was only a distance soreness in her finger joints like being halfway numb and on the verge of the muscles in it falling asleep although she felt the desperate warmth from his grip. Perhaps that warmth was what the stinging had turned into as her mind had chosen a new registration now that he was there; holding that injured hand; his face so strangely, comfortingly close to hers. He was no longer the only person who was breathless in that very moment and while hers felt like extreme weight on her chest and pressing on her hurting ribs, she minded not the light-headedness one bit. This closeness was much more private than anything else they had done and somehow it didn’t actually feel as trespassing as she’d have originally thought. It was a closeness she suddenly craved and possibly had craved beforehand.
She smiled.
Her lips had faintly been parted but then as she had chosen to close them instead, the corners had stretched and curled just the tiniest bit and immediately softened her deeply stoic expression. And then as he cupped her face one more time, she bit the pain and leaned even closer, fully relying on his hands support along the way, until her forehead touched his. The smile was gone again but only due to the lack of energy she had to keep it so rather than it having faded he has smoothed back into her fatigue together with any tension she’d had in her face as well. The only thing she held on to a little longer was his gaze. So close, she could almost feel his long lashes graze her delicately when he dared to blink. But eventually her eyes also closed.
“Some is still there,“ she whispered with excessive about of gentle procedure as if she’d actively tried to speak with as little air huffing Archibald in his face. From the sound of his words, she had gotten an idea, that he knew what she was missing. What had been taken from her. And from the frightening determination she’d seen his is strikingly blue eyes, he’d made her feel as if it had been taken from him too. Like the devouring of her soul had somehow been a devouring of theirs instead. “But I’m not knowledgeable enough to know if it’ll ever be able to grow into new. I don’t know if a soul is like the skin or the body. I.. I don’t know.” It was almost painful to admit and while her voice spoke unchanged and borderline monotone, she was nearly convinced she’d sense the sensation of choking up.

Saga shuffled slightly but it was enough for the white cat to perk up from its stationing in her lap and seemingly knowingly got all the way up and moved from the lap to the mattress beside the little witch just in time, as she managed to rolled her body over and further towards the edge and towards Archibald. She’d glided her hand out of his and in a simultaneous choreograph both her arms found their way around his neck where they wrapped around either pulling him down and closer or pulling herself to him. Whatever it took. Her head had moved from resting by his to rest over his shoulder. She clung to him like this, knowing that, although her body was dangling cautiously close on the edge of the bed, she was not to fear falling. The only reason for her heavier breathing against his nape was again her lasting fatigue. She did indeed need rest but how could he rest yet? So close to wakening from former rest and with him there?

The two of them shared many views. On the world and on how to take it on. How to keep in one’s grasp. Apologies were one of these but so was the state of whatever relationship they had. One had faltered why shouldn’t another? “I’m sorry.” She licked her lips as if having to taste the words on them despite the ease and nonchalance of speaking them. “I’m not entirely sure for what. If it’s for my arrogance didn’t let thought travel to you being out there looking for me. Of if I nearly had him break me. But it feels as something for me to tell you.”
It was quite a lot of words for her to say in continuation like that in her weakened state and it became especially apparent in the way her voice lost volume the more she spoke. It didn’t help with how she held on to Archibald but that she kept up with. She didn’t let go nor let her arms loose grip. If they did, she’d simply reset the strength as best she could. “I’m sorry,” she repeated silently. Rather than sounding sorrowful, the little with sounded actually relieved.