#as a woman golden eye made me want to fling myself off of a cliff so it's fair to say i was pissed off at sean bean at the time

[shirtlesssammy]

8x22: Clip Show

Then:

Cas almost gets hit on by Dean 

Now:

Lost Creek, Colorado

A couple are at a cabin in the woods, and the woman is so happy that her boyfriend finally joined her. He acts like it’s no big deal but we flash back to a memory —specifically of Supernatural season 1, episode 2: Wendigo. He’s Tommy and has some serious PTSD from the terror he experienced that night in the woods.

He thinks he hears a growl and pulls his girlfriend away from the window. He knows that a Wendigo is outside and pulls out a flare to take the unseen monster out. He crumples to the floor and then just explodes right in front of his girlfriend. Eeerp.

At the bunker, the brothers continue to find records that the Men of Letters have kept over the years. Sam’s not doing so well due to all the Trials. He’ll feel better once they finish them.

Cas shows up in the war room, and it appears that Dean and Cas didn’t follow the golden rule of not going to bed angry. Dean doesn’t even acknowledge the angel. Cas is still convalescing. He sits down to talk with Sam a bit about the trials. Dean comes back with food for Sam—well, jerky, beer, and peanut butter cups. 

Cas offers to go with Dean for more food, but still gets the cold shoulder. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “For everything.” Classic DeanCas, lol. (Brb, off to throw myself off a cliff.) Oh wait there’s more, Dean calls out Cas with the whole bolting with the angel tablet and adds, “You didn’t trust me?” 

THESE BOYS ARE NOT IN LOVE:

Cas is contrite but Dean is not accepting his apology. Sam stays out of it all for a bit but interrupts eventually to pull Dean aside to make it clear that Cas is one of the good guys. What’s that saying? Dean’s harder on Cas because he loves him the most? Well, meh, I do like their later seasons of grumpy banter more than the divisiveness of right now.

In any event, the brothers head to a storage room. 

Sam wants to find a case that their records mentioned. He finds the box, and Dean finds a dungeon! Sam’s box contained a movie film.

They set up the movie (They even made popcorn, guys!)

It’s an old black and white film of the Men of Letters. Josie, the woman that Abaddon possessed, is filming the experiment. They have a demon captured in the very dungeon the Winchesters just discovered. They throw holy water on the demon, recite an incantation at it, and then one priest cuts his hand and presses it on the demon. It flares out, apparently gone. The film stops. It was weird (!!!) One of the priests is still alive and Sam thinks it’s a good idea to get the lowdown on what they just watched on the film. Cas wants to go too but Dean won’t hear of it. (Brb, flinging myself off another cliff. DO NOT LIKE.)

Cut to the brothers meeting with the priest. He tells them that the other priest believed that demons could be saved. He thought that they could cure the demon and they could be a normal human soul again. There were other experiments after that one attempt, and then the priest ended up dead a couple months later. Something had torn him apart. Sam tries asking about records but goes into a coughing fit, complete with blood. He heads to the bathroom while Dean continues to talk with the priest. The priest agrees to give them the other priest’s papers.

Meanwhile, Cas is on a mission to make up with Dean. He’s at a Gas ’n Sip and pulling all the essentials to make Dean like him again.

Ways to woo Dean Winchester:

Beef Jerky

Porn

TP

Beer

Protein

AND Smiting the sap who can’t provide the pie

Cas almost smites the poor attendant. Metatron interrupts. They need to talk.

He wants to talk about Heaven. It’s apparently a mess up there without the archangels. Naomi isn’t in charge as much as she’s led Cas believe. Cas blames himself for everything that’s happened in heaven. (URGH, no! —I mean, yeah, but NO). Metatron thinks they can buddy up and save the day! They can sort everything out. First, they need to shut down Heaven. Then he mentioned crepes and flies away.

At the bunker, Sam can’t find Cas. Dean doesn’t care (URGH, no!) They decide to watch the last audio recording before the priest died.

Once again, there’s a demon in chains. This time, the priest injects the demon with purified blood. He continues to do this 8 times. And the demon seems to be cured. 

They decide to try the experiment out on their own decapitated Abaddon.

Meanwhile, Cas flaps over to Metatron’s brunch location, a cute restaurant with an outdoor patio overlooking the water. It’s a perfect place to relax!

Iconic dialogue alert: 

Waitress: Cool coat.

Cas: No, it's actually quite warm.

Waitress: Cute and funny. Okay…

Metatron: I should have picked a better looking vessel.

You’re not here to accidentally flirt with the waitstaff, Castiel! Cas asks for clarification on Metatron’s quest to close the gates of Heaven. Metatron waves it away as just another godly safety switch - you’ve got one for leviathans, demons, and Heaven, of course. Metatron tells Cas that it’s time for a heavenly lock-in to work out all their feelings. And he needs Cas, the warrior, to do it. Cas owns to feeling responsibility for the current state of Heaven but recoils when he hears the first trial. He’ll need to cut out the heart of the cute waitress, the sole nephilim on earth. (Pronounced in this episode as neph-IL-im.) “What’s more important?” Metatron asks. “Her life? Or your family?”

With season 9 under my belt, I watch Dean and Sam sewing Abaddon’s head on with particular horror. Like, you took on the Mark of Cain to defeat her, Dean Bean. Which led to a whole bucket of depression and sad men. Nobody likes buckets of sad men. (JK obviously I love it or what am I even doing here?) What a spectacularly bad idea! Still, it wouldn’t be my beloved show if characters were making smart choices. Abaddon wakes up, cracks her stitched neck, and greets them with “Morning, sunshines.” 

“I can’t wait to tear out those pretty green eyes,” she says, lovingly. The Winchesters smirk, drawing her attention to her handless state. (They chopped off her hands - or maybe just left them detached.)  “I’ll stump you to death,” she says and...that’s the spirit, Abaddon! She knows about the priest and his work curing demons. In fact, she was a special dispatch straight from Hell to make an example of him. The priest led her to Josie and possessing Josie helped her dismantle the entire Men of Letters network. Yeesh. 

The phone rings. It’s Crowley! Abaddon is appalled to learn that Crowley is the King of Hell. Dean and Sam leave the room to talk to Crowley and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BOYS they leave Abaddon alone. 

Outside, the Winchesters chat with Crowley. He directs them to some news stories, “sexts” them an address, and bids them farewell. They discover that Crowley’s been putting out hits on people the Winchesters have saved. 

While Crowley’s giving them the news, Abaddon makes like Thing from the Addams family and puppets her hands out of the loosely closed box on the table.

Her hand crawls into her mouth and pries out the demon trap bullet. It’s freedom time, mofos. 

The Winchesters return to find Abaddon gone. You FOOLS! Sam keeps his eyes on the prize, though. Crowley’s latest address is from their “witches and baked goods” case and is clearly a trap. Time to make a play to catch themselves a different demon. 

Prosperity, Indiana

The power’s out in the target’s apartment (and so are the cupcakes! yum!) Unfortunately, Jennie’s body is also out - sticking out of the oven, that is. “You were a great gal, Jennie Klein,” Dean says and...okay? Great mourning, everyone. 

Crowley calls them up again. He’s killing off everyone they’ve saved (and using the books as a reference guide) until they deliver the demon tablet to him. 

Metatron and Castiel stalk the waitress outside her place of work, Metatron goading Cas to make a choice. Urg. It’s just the bad decisions gang all around. She whirls around to confront them and saves them the trouble of introductions. “I could see your halos.” (I start to hum Beyoncé to avoid thinking about this next part.) Metatron calls her an abomination and she begs to be allowed to just live her life. (She apparently works twelve hours shifts as a waitress, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like she’s exploiting her power.) Cas looks disturbed, apologizing even as he advances on her. She throws him across the grounds like he’s nothing and then advances on Metatron. Castiel kills her from behind. Oof. 

The Winchesters race to the next location, only to discover Sarah - the art dealer Sam flirted heavily with several seasons ago. She’s staying in a seriously adorable hotel room, with actual art on display. Dean greets her like he’s just dropped by for a casual visit. OMG Dean. Sam briefs her on the plan. Devil’s traps at all the exits, shotguns, and an exorcism ready to play on loop. We learn that Sarah’s married with a kid. (Sam gets a peek at what-could-have-been.) Sarah tells him that he’s changed - he’s more confident and grown up. She misses the old haircut. Awww… 

Crowley calls and starts counting down and when he reaches zero, Sarah starts to choke. She collapses. “You son of a bitch!” Dean shouts. “Son of a witch,” Crowley clarifies - his mother taught him a few useful spells. The Winchesters start tearing apart the room to try and find a hex bag. Crowley continues his villain monologue: he’s keeping all things hell-related far away from the Winchesters - no more demons getting close enough for them to kill. 

“I think the people you save, they're how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, the pain you've caused – the ONE thing that allows you to sleep at night, the one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, bloody heroes!”

I mean, when Crowley’s right, he’s right. 

Sarah dies. Ugh. UGH. Crowley gives an ultimatum: they stop their quest to close Hell or people keep dying. In rage, Dean hurls the phone across the room. When it breaks, they finally find the hex bag. (Me: But okay she only stopped breathing a minute ago? Start CCR and call 911!)

Back at the bunker, Sam is Not Okay™ and does not respond well to Dean’s attempts to cheer him up. Sam, who continues to look awful and exhausted, suggests giving in to Crowley. “We’ll kick it in the ass like we always do,” Dean insists. Rousing speech, babe. 

We fade to black, with everyone we love on dark paths of one kind or another.

______________________________

I NEED Quotes:

Well, that was weird with three exclamation points.

I NEED pie.

I can't wait to tear out those pretty green eyes.

First things first – what are you wearing?

You’d better find him toot-bloody-sweet. 

I know this is insane, but insane is kind of what we do.

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 8x22 #clip show #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #metatron #crowley #sarah blake #abaddon #supernatural season 8

[sammysdewysensitiveeyes]

@thecorteztwins

I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop myself.  Inspired by Pyro’s gothic romances, and that ridiculous Slate letter.  Sorry also for the purple prose, I’m sure St. John is a much better writer than I am.

           It had been a few weeks, and Tansy was starting to settle in to her role as governess.  The manor house, which had seemed to loom menacingly at her first approach, now settled around her like a faithful watchdog, although she would not roam at night without a candle in hand.  Sometimes she thought she saw flickers of movement in shadowy corners, odd reflections in the mirrors, but it was surely her imagination.  She had to be strong and sensible, with a fanciful child like Rowan in her charge.

           “There’s things in this house that you cannot see, child,” said old Mrs. Scragg when the two of them took tea alone at the kitchen table, far out of earshot of Lord Edgeware.  “Believe me, there’s old blood in this house.  But none of the spirits will mean you any harm, not a sweet girl like you. It’s the living you’ve got to fear.”

           There was only one man in the house that Tansy truly feared, and that was Lord Edgeware himself – stern and cold, with a face as hard and sharp as a bare mountain crag.  Tansy could barely bring herself to speak in his presence.  But the rest had found a place in her affections.  Lord Edgeware’s son Edgar, a beautiful, gentle soul whose eyes were haunted by tragedy of his wife’s passing.  Their son Rowan, who had inherited his father’s dreamy, melancholic disposition – Tansy often had to call him to attention during lessons. Edgar’s sister, the Lady Estella, a lively and intelligent woman, although there were times when sadness seemed to creep over her as well.  Perhaps it ran in the family, or perhaps it was simply living in the shadow of their tyrannical father.

           She got along with her fellow servants.  There was the family lawyer, Paul Bryson – every inch a gentleman, but always kind rather than condescending, and he treated her with such warmth.  Bill Wick the groundskeeper, brawny and rugged, who made up for his lack of manners with open-hearted good cheer.  Despite his rough manners and immense strength, Tansy always felt completely safe around him.  There was Ambrose Lockley the valet, who radiated peace and calm no matter what mishaps befell the household – he was often on the receiving end of Bill’s chatter, but never seemed to mind.  Mrs. Scragg the housekeeper, who spun wild stories but seemed to take a motherly interest in all the manor’s inhabitants.    

Unfortunately, there was one other guest at the manor.  Lord Edgeware was the only man that Tansy feared, but there was only one man that she hated – the Spanish nobleman Fernando Cortázar.

           It wasn’t entirely clear what his connection was to the family – no one seemed to want to claim him.  Paul said that he was the son of Lord Edgeware’s old business partner, although the two of them never seemed to discuss any actual business.  Fernando seemed more interested in drinking up the family’s good wine, and cornering the maids in stairwells.  Mrs. Scragg proclaimed him to be the Devil in human form, and would cross herself whenever his name came up in the kitchens.  

           He’d set his sights upon Tansy from the moment she’d crossed the threshold, a predatory stare that made her shiver.  He was an attractive man, that much could be said.  His face was noble and well-formed, and he had long scarlet hair that made Tansy think of a crown of autumn leaves.  But, just as hints of cruel Winter lurked beneath Autumn’s glory, malice peeked out through Lord Cortázar’s handsome visage – a certain gleam in his eyes, cruel lines around his thin mouth.  Tansy hated to be alone with him, but he seemed to track her through the house, like a hunting dog on the trail of a fox.

           She had just finished putting Rowan to bed, telling him stories and stroking his hair until the poor, nervous child drifted off to sleep, when Cortázar found her again.  She was in the drawing room, searching for a suitable book to pass the lonely evening hours, when he suddenly came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her golden hair.  She could not stop herself from shrieking, pulling away with a startled jolt.

           “Forgive me, my sweet, I did not mean to frighten you,” the Spaniard purred, grabbing her hand and pulling it forcefully up to his lips.

           “My Lord Cortázar, please do not take such liberties.  Perhaps things are different in Spain, but I am a proper English girl,” Tansy scolded as harshly as she dared, folding her arms around herself as if to protect from further assaults.  He seemed to occupy a place of importance in the household, despite being disliked by nearly everyone, and she could not risk offending him.

           “So you are,” Cortázar chuckled indulgently.  “I apologize for such unseemly behavior, but I was so moved by your beauty that I could not help myself.”

           “I am not so beautiful,” Tansy said, turning away.  It was true.  Her arms and legs were too slender, her eyes too large, and an old shade of blue that in certain light appeared almost violent.  With her pale blond hair, she seemed almost unearthly – a fairy-like creature that could not exist among normal folk.  It was her curse to bear.  How she longed for a plain, simple face like a proper English girl.

           “My darling, you are ethereal.  You are angelic.  You are la belle dame sans merci, and I am in your thrall.” Cortázar took a step forward.  Tansy stepped back.

           “Then I release you, good sir,” she said, attempting to walk around him, but he blocked her path.

           “You cannot.  That face, it haunts me.  Your voice sings in my blood.”  He grasped her hand and began kissing his way up her arm.  Tansy wished desperately that Paul would suddenly appear. Although she couldn’t stand the shame of such a compromising position, surely he would see her reluctance. Surely he would put a stop to this.    

           “Please, control yourself,” she begged, managing to pull her arm away with a jerk.  “Surely you should not lower yourself to the likes of me.  I am but a simple governess, from a poor family.  You could have your pick of any woman.  Someone closer to your station.”  Not she wanted Cortázar to unleash his passion upon Lady Estella, but she suspected Estella could deal with him quite easily.  Estella did not suffer fools.

           “Oh, I already have many,” Lord Cortázar said, waving his hand as if it were trifling matter.  “My wife, she understands.  And my many mistresses.  But I am always looking for a new member of my harem.  They would welcome you with open arms.”

           “Harem?”  The word was unfamiliar to Tansy, but she was more focused on what she did understand. “Did you say you are married, sir? Then surely you must cease this behavior and keep faith with her.”  

           “I have a wife who understands.  There are many women in my house, and they all understand.  I am a man of extreme passion.  My appetites are larger than normal men.”

           “This conversation is quite inappropriate,” Tansy said, retreating again. This time she moved towards the doors on the far side of the room that let out onto the veranda.  

           “Ah, you English are so prudish,” Lord Cortázar laughed, following her again.  “But that is part of your charm.  You are so innocent.  Pure and untouched.  Let me take you away from here.  With me, you would not be a servant.  You would live in luxury.  I think my English was mistaken previously – I said ‘house,’ but I really meant ‘palace.’ You would have your own set of rooms, maids waiting upon you hand and foot, the finest foods.  I would drape you in silk and diamonds, as such beauty deserves.”

           “Surely you have enough women, sir,” Tansy tried.

           “Never enough.  You must understand, I am cursed with…certain problems.  It is difficult to speak of –“

           “Then perhaps you should not speak of it.”

           “Oh, but I must!  For you to understand.  As I said, I am a man of appetite.  And I am too much for any one woman.  I require such extensive…..stimulation…that as much as I delight my partners, they quickly tire.  My wife could not bear such a burden alone – it would destroy her health and send her to an early grave.  I must look for outside conquests for the sake of my wife, so that I will not harm her with my relentless passion.”      

           Through the drawing room doors, the full moon shone upon the windswept moors, and just beyond that, the cliffs that overlooked the ocean.  When the window was open in her bedroom, she could hear the dark waves crashing against the shore, seeming to murmur dreadful secrets. Lord Edgeware forbade anyone from venturing near the cliffs, citing the danger, but Tansy had often seen Lord Edgar staring out across the moors with a hungry, longing expression.  And of course, it was forbidden to speak of the white-shrouded figure that was sometimes seen wandering through the bracken towards the sea, although she had heard servants whisper of their own encounters. Even so, Tansy was at that moment weighing in her mind whether or not to fling open the doors and run wild upon the moors, even to those dreadful cliffs, if it meant an escape from Cortázar’s company.

           “It can take hours, you see,” Cortázar continued.  Tansy placed her hand on the door handle.  “And I am….not built like most men.  I can take a woman to the heights of ecstasy, but the toll upon her body and mind…..It is like looking upon the true face of God, no mere mortal can withstand –“

             “So, when will the silly girl realize her mistake and fall in love with Cortázar?”  Fabian asked, putting the book down for a moment with his finger keeping his place within the pages.

           “That’s not exactly the direction I’m going with it,” said St. John.  He had been watching Fabian read in much the same way that he might watch someone open a lovingly gift-wrapped dog turd.

           “No? Don’t tell me he’ll die some beautiful, tragic death!  Or perhaps he’ll find another woman more worthy of him.  Perhaps this ‘Tansy’ is not really the main character, and she’ll soon be replaced by some fiery noblewoman who will join Cortázar’s harem.”

           “He’s not really meant to be the main character.”

           “But why not?  He’s so handsome, strong and virile!  The perfect epitome of machismo!  How could you put such a man in the book and not let him be the hero?”  Off to the side, Avalanche choked on his beer, and had to spend a moment coughing before taking another swig.

           “I mean, he’s a bit of a prat, isn’t he?”  St. John suggested.

           “I can’t imagine what you mean.  He must be charismatic to have charmed so many women.”

           “Yeah, about that.  He’s also a bit of a liar.”

           Fabian’s eyes widened in surprise, then he began to nod sagely, as if he’d just solved a difficult riddle.

           “Oh, of course, of course.  I should have seen it.  He is a fraud.  What a brilliant twist.  You set up the image of a perfect man, then shatter the reader’s expectations.  It is a shame, though, to waste such a likable character.  Perhaps he has a twin brother, who really is brilliant and handsome and virile, and Fernando is copying his life out of jealousy for what he can never be.  And then the twin shows up at the end and sweeps Tansy away in his arms.  Why aren’t you taking notes, these are brilliant suggestions.”

           “I’ll consider it for the sequel,” St. John shrugged, taking no notes whatsoever.

           “So, is that really the only thing you noticed about Fernando Cortázar?” Dominic pressed.  He seemed to be getting impatient.  St. John preferred to just quietly wait for the bomb to go off, it was more fun that way.  Although Cortéz was so unbelievably thick, it seemed like perhaps it never would.  “He didn’t seem at all familiar to you?”

           “Well, I am well acquainted with a handsome Spanish aristocrat,” Fabian preened, putting a hand on his own chest to emphasize the obvious.  “I was flattered at first, but from what you’re telling me about the story’s development, obviously he can’t possibly be –“ Fabian stopped abruptly, realization dawning in his eyes once more.

           “Oh. Oh, I get it.  This is all a bit of a joke.  The suave Spanish nobleman who is not what he seems.  You’re making fun of that pendejo de la Rocha, aren’t you?”

           This time Pyro was the one to choke on beer, while Avalanche thumped him helpfully on the back.

           “Yes, yes, mate, you’re exactly right.  I’m making fun of Empath, and not anyone else,” he said when he could speak again.  “You should go tell him that right now.  Read the book aloud to him and the other Hellions.  It’ll be great.”

#fabian cortez #pyro #st. john allerdyce #avalanche

[likethetailofacomet]

And They’re Off

All bets are off when Claire joins Drake and Liam to watch some of the races in their private tent. 

Drake x Claire 

tagging: @sleepwalkingelite @zaffrenotes @nekkidmolerat @notoriouscs @gardeningourmet @ooo-barff-ooo @natalievgoodehenry  if you would like to be added just let me know! 

Liam stood in the tent on the in-field, beer in hand, enjoying the breeze with a smile on his face. This truly was one of his favorite annual events, engagement pressures or not. He and Drake had watched this event together since before he could remember, and had been placing friendly bets on the races since their teen years. Liam sipped his beer, thinking of bets he could make with Drake when he finally arrived. Perhaps I’ll ask Lady Claire for her opinion on the matter, he mused to himself.

He had been patient and supportive with Drake after he’d finally opened up about Isla 5 years ago. Simply based on the fact that Drake hadn’t told Liam anything about the woman until a month after her departure from court, Liam knew the toll that she had taken on his heart. Drake had confided that he’d actually been thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father- that having a child that was part him and part Isla would have given him the greatest joy he’d ever known. Liam’s heart had broken for his friend. Not knowing what to say or how to fix it, all he could do was be patient. He’d not tried to set Drake up with anyone or suggest that it was time to put himself back out there. He’d stood by as Drake opted for meaningless flings and one night stands that required no commitments or promises, no sharing and no emotion. He knew that Drake felt nothing for Kiara, and it seemed that finally, he’d reached a point where instead of craving meaningless sex, he’d prefer none at all. He knew that it was time for Drake to move on; he just needed him to see it.

Liam was a believer in soulmates and love at first sight. He believed that when you knew, you knew, no matter how long it took or how quickly it happened, and he believed that when it came to Claire and Drake, he knew. He saw the way the two of them had lit up sitting side by side on the cliff at the beach, the way Drake was mesmerized by her carefree movement and the playful, tingling tone of her laugh. He recalled the way Drake had tried to contain his excitement the following morning when he told Liam about his plans to go back to New York; he caught a glimpse of him last night as he made his way back into the ballroom from the balcony, face flushed, hair askew, and Lady Claire following just minutes after. Liam was sure about this.

The races were about to be underway, and jockeys had begun to make their way to the starting gate. Liam looked around for sign of Drake- he’d gone for a walk to clear his head after Liam had told him the truth behind Claire’s motivation in coming to Cordonia. With a glance toward the stable he saw his friend walking toward him, and beamed as he noticed the woman walking next to Drake. He went to the table and poured two more beers, having them ready for Drake and Claire.

“Lady Claire,” Liam smiled and handed her the beverage. “What a pleasant surprise! I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”

She took the glass gratefully and offered a smile. “Thanks, Liam, I didn’t know I’d be joining either… I ran into Drake in the stables,” she shot Drake a sideways glance. Ran into each other was one way to put it. “He said it would be alright if I watched the races with you, I hope you don’t mind.”

Liam turned to Drake and smiled, Drake avoiding eye contact. “I don’t mind at all, in fact I am very happy to have you. Isn’t it nice to have some extra company this year, Drake?” he elbowed his friend.

“Yeah, yes. It’s uh…” Drake stammered, “nice to have you here.” He directed the last bit to Claire.

Claire smiled warmly at him over the rim of her glass and took a sip of the light golden ale Liam had given her. She tried to remember the last time she was out on a beautiful day, sunshine drenching her skin, drink in hand and in good company. She couldn't. It was a nice change.

“So, Lady Claire, it's actually a relief that you're here. I was hoping that maybe you could help me with something.” Liam said.

Drake shot a sideways glance at his friend. What was he up to now? He wondered. He let his eyes fall from Liam's mischievous grin and onto Claire. His heart skipped for a second as he remembered how close she'd been to being hurt back in the stable, before he'd pulled her to his body and out of the horse's range. It had been just a brief moment when they'd been pressed together, tumbling out of the stall in a tangle of limbs, but he remembers feeling her heartbeat banging against her rib cage, begging his for entry. He swallowed a large gulp of beer as he remembered what happened after that; the rush of air in his lungs as he broke character and threw caution to the wind and gave in to the deepest desire he'd ever known. But he hadn't given in completely; she'd tried to say more, to give more, and he'd stopped her, cutting it off before the hole got too deep to climb out of.

Claire swallowed her sip. “Well I think it would be rude of me to refuse a prince when he needs help,” she joked. “How can I be of service, your majesty?” She held her beer out to the side and did an overly exaggerated curtsy that made Liam chuckle and made the corners of Drake's mouth pull up in an involuntary smile. She moves like water... he thought to himself.

“Well, you see Drake and I have been placing friendly bets on these races every year since we turned thirteen. I have come up with some incredible wagers, if I do say so myself, wouldn't you agree, Drake?”

Drake smirked. “Maybe, but none as great as the time you lost the bet and had to-”

“Drake, Lady Claire doesn't need to hear that one.” Liam cut him off and Drake laughed. Claire lifted her eyes to watch him laughing. It was the first time she'd seen it, and she wanted to memorize it sensing how rare it was. She didn't want to forget the way his dark brown eyes seemed to lighten a shade as the corners of them crinkled with the lifting of his cheeks. She tried to commit to memory the deep, rumbling sound and the way that it seemed to fill her own chest. Drake flicked his eyes to her as the laugh left his lips, clearing his throat.

“Okay, I get it, you guys have embarrassed each other for years. How can I help?” She looked far too eager in Drake's opinion.

“Well you see, I just can't think of a good bet this year, and I was hoping perhaps you could contribute to our tradition?”

Claire shot a look over at Drake, whose eyes had gone wide, clearly nervous about what she might come up with. “Hmm...”she tapped her finger on her chin in mock deliberation. “Okay, I have an idea. But I'm playing too.”

“Alright, I think we can make an exception for you, Lady Claire, right Drake?”

“Sure, Berkley. Who am I to stop a Lady anyways?” he shrugged.

“Great,” Claire nodded. “So whoever wins gets to ask the two losers anything they want.” She smiled proudly.

Liam grinned. “Excellent suggestion,” he remarked. “Now then, the first race is about to start. Have you two picked your horses? I'm going with Stargazer.”

“Bourbon Barrel,” Drake claimed his horse without looking up from the odds sheet. “He's got the best name, the best odds, and he won his last two races.”

“Exactly,” Claire looked him in the eye, smirking smugly. “He's due for a loss. I'll take Marabelle's Dream,” She finished her beer and set the glass down on the table behind her. “And you boys better be ready to lose.” she winked at them. Drake felt his heart stutter as she did.

The trumpet blared and the bell rang as the gates swung open, releasing the galloping horses wildly onto the track. “And they're off!” came the voice of an announcer somewhere. Drake tried to focus on his horse, but the chestnut colt couldn't capture his attention quite like the woman standing next to him. He didn't have to look left to know she was smiling; he heard it in the way she cheered on her philly. Her slim fingers gripped the tent pole that she was leaning against, and he found himself wishing she was gripping his hand instead. Or other parts of him, he thought with a flush of his face. Her short hair swinging about her shoulders as she excitedly jumped up and down; she looked like the embodiment of happiness to Drake.

“Come on, Stargazer, come on!” Liam shouted in vain, as Marabelle's dream blew past both of their horses and took the lead.

“Yes! Yes! Come on baby!” Claire was laughing and cheering as her horse crossed the finish line a full head and shoulders before Bourbon Barrel. Clapping her hands and jumping up and down, Drake saw a glimpse of that girl from the beach, skipping and cartwheeling into his life. None of those ladies back in the other tent were enjoying themselves like this. They didn't know how to express happiness like she did; it wasn't a marketable skill in the marriage game. This woman knew how to live a life un-tethered. She knew how to go after what she wanted, she understood the risks and took them, fearlessly. She was fearless, and despite whatever battles she'd fought and lost in the past, she looked towards the next fight with hope and confidence. She was a warrior in a world of lace and gold, of high tea and elegant balls, and yet somehow, she fit right in. Damn it , he thought to himself, feeling another piece of scar tissue fall away from his heart.

“Okay, boys, I warned you,” she wheeled on them. “Your highness,” she gave a cartoonish curtsy, giggling a little. The beer in the sunshine, the rush of the win...the kiss in the stable...she was buzzed.

“Go easy on me, my lady,” Liam chuckled.

“Hmm, okay, let's see...Oh, I've got it.” She leveled her gaze at the prince. “I know it's just the beginning of the season, but, is there someone you've got your eye on yet? You don't have to say who, of course! Just yes or no.” She smiled, waiting for his answer.

Liam couldn't hide the blush that crept into his cheeks, and it wasn't just because of the alcohol. “Lady Claire, I do believe you can see right through me. Yes.” he laughed. He pointed a finger first at Drake and then at Claire, “But that's all either of you get from me right now.”

Claire put her hands up in front of her in surrender. “That's fair, that's all I wanted to know.” Her hair caught the sunlight and glowed golden. Drake drained his glass and prepared himself for her question.

Turning to face Drake, her heart played a frantic rhythm. “How about you, Drake...someone you've got your eye on?” she ventured boldly.

Liam's eyes widened and he sputtered into his beer. Drake stood stock still. “Pass,” he said. “New question.”

Claire pouted. “That wasn't in the rules we agreed on,” she whined.

“I said pass, Berkley,” he said again, more firmly.

She didn't dare press her luck any further. “Fine...” she swallowed, eyes steady on his. “You know my last name but I don't know yours. I think that's an unfair advantage.” She took a tentative step towards him. Liam politely took a step away and busied himself with refilling his glass with a beer he had no intention of drinking. “What's your last name, Drake?” she asked in a low voice, placing her hand close enough to his so that he could almost feel it, and that almost was not enough.

He kept up with her stare, not taking his eyes from hers. “Walker,” he answered.

“Suits you,” she said quietly. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, struck by the way he was looking at her.

Just then the tent flaps flew open and Maxwell's energetic presence came bounding in. “There you are, Claire! I was starting to worry when I didn't see you with the other ladies, but I see you found yourself a more exclusive venue.” His eyes darted between her and Liam, oblivious to the tension between her and Drake- oblivious to the small movement of Drake's pinky finger as he slid it to cover hers, and to the small intake of breath as she felt him do so.

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly, “Yes, Prince Liam and Drake were kind enough to let me join them.” Drake shifted next to her at the sound of his name on her lips.

“Ooh, the other ladies will be squirming with jealousy,” he said happily. “But unfortunately, you'll have to come with me. The tea party is about to begin and you don't want to keep the Queen waiting.”

“No, I certainly don't” Claire responded, not really caring about the other ladies or tea or the Queen. “Liam, Drake, it's been a pleasure enjoying the races with you.” she blew a kiss in their general direction, but Drake felt it land on his cheek like an arrow to the heart. Damn it.

For the rest of the afternoon, time had slowed to at least a third of its normal pace compared to how quickly it flew when she was in that tent. After answering some brief questions from the press that mainly had to do with which designer she was wearing, although Maxwell had beamed at her for the way she'd responded to the few non-clothing related questions; Claire was glad he was pleased, but she didn't think it had been that hard to tell them what they were clearly asking to hear, they moved on to a field where tables had been set for high tea. Idle chit chat and finger sandwiches, croquet in heels and dresses, and no one was even talking about the array of interesting hats that were a quintessential part of derby fashion. She'd at least found some pleasant conversation with Lady Hana, preferring her to the rest of the ladies looking down their elegant noses at her.

Back in her room at the palace, she flopped on her giant bed, hat, dress and heels still on. She closed her eyes and sighed, thinking of the way her blood surged when Drake had slid his finger over hers. Damn it, she thought to herself, you're in trouble now, Claire. She took her phone out to text Daniel.

So you know how I said I'd have a great story for you?

A few seconds passed before her phone buzzed in her hands. Oh boy. Seatbelt is fastened, let's hear it.

Well...I'm in Cordonia and I think I'm falling for someone. Hard.

#trr #choices trr #drake x mc #drake x claire #drake walker #the royal romance #fanfic #trr au #learning to love again

[readbookywooks]

Authority's End

Mrs. Coulter whispered to the shadow beside her: "Look how he hides, Metatron! He creeps through the dark like a rat..." They stood on a ledge high up in the great cavern, watching Lord Asriel and the snow leopard make their careful way down, a long way below. "I could strike him now," the shadow whispered. "Yes, of course you could," she whispered back, leaning close; "but I want to see his face, dear Metatron; I want him to know I've betrayed him. Come, let's follow and catch him..." The Dust fall shone like a great pillar of faint light as it descended smoothly and never-endingly into the gulf. Mrs. Coulter had no attention to spare for it, because the shadow beside her was trembling with desire, and she had to keep him by her side, under what control she could manage. They moved down, silent, following Lord Asriel. The farther down they climbed, the more she felt a great weariness fall over her. "What? What?" whispered the shadow, feeling her emotions, and suspicious at once. "I was thinking," she said with a sweet malice, "how glad I am that the child will never grow up to love and be loved. I thought I loved her when she was a baby; but now - " "There was regret," the shadow said, "in your heart there was regret that you will not see her grow up." "Oh, Metatron, how long it is since you were a man! Can you really not tell what it is I'm regretting? It's not her coming of age, but mine. How bitterly I regret that I didn't know of you in my own girlhood; how passionately I would have devoted myself to you..." She leaned toward the shadow, as if she couldn't control the impulses of her own body, and the shadow hungrily sniffed and seemed to gulp at the scent of her flesh. They were moving laboriously over the tumbled and broken rocks toward the foot of the slope. The farther down they went, the more the Dust light gave everything a nimbus of golden mist. Mrs. Coulter kept reaching for where his hand might have been if the shadow had been a human companion, and then seemed to recollect herself, and whispered: "Keep behind me, Metatron - wait here - Asriel is suspicious - let me lull him first. When he's off guard, I'll call you. But come as a shadow, in this small form, so he doesn't see you - otherwise, he'll just let the child's daemon fly away." The Regent was a being whose profound intellect had had thousands of years to deepen and strengthen itself, and whose knowledge extended over a million universes. Nevertheless, at that moment he was blinded by his twin obsessions: to destroy Lyra and to possess her mother. He nodded and stayed where he was, while the woman and the monkey moved forward as quietly as they could. Lord Asriel was waiting behind a great block of granite, out of sight of the Regent. The snow leopard heard them coming, and Lord Asriel stood up as Mrs. Coulter came around the corner. Everything, every surface, every cubic centimeter of air, was permeated by the falling Dust, which gave a soft clarity to every tiny detail; and in the Dust light Lord Asriel saw that her face was wet with tears, and that she was gritting her teeth so as not to sob. He took her in his arms, and the golden monkey embraced the snow leopard's neck and buried his black face in her fur. "Is Lyra safe? Has she found her daemon?" she whispered. "The ghost of the boy's father is protecting both of them." "Dust is beautiful... I never knew." "What did you tell him?" "I lied and lied, Asriel... Let's not wait too long, I can't bear it... We won't live, will we? We won't survive like the ghosts?" "Not if we fall into the abyss. We came here to give Lyra time to find her daemon, and then time to live and grow up. If we take Metatron to extinction, Marisa, she'll have that time, and if we go with him, it doesn't matter." "And Lyra will be safe?" "Yes, yes," he said gently. He kissed her. She felt as soft and light in his arms as she had when Lyra was conceived thirteen years before. She was sobbing quietly. When she could speak, she whispered: "I told him I was going to betray you, and betray Lyra, and he believed me because I was corrupt and full of wickedness; he looked so deep I felt sure he'd see the truth. But I lied too well. I was lying with every nerve and fiber and everything I'd ever done... I wanted him to find no good in me, and he didn't. There is none. But I love Lyra. Where did this love come from? I don't know; it came to me like a thief in the night, and now I love her so much my heart is bursting with it. All I could hope was that my crimes were so monstrous that the love was no bigger than a mustard seed in the shadow of them, and I wished I'd committed even greater ones to hide it more deeply still... But the mustard seed had taken root and was growing, and the little green shoot was splitting my heart wide open, and I was so afraid he'd see..." She had to stop to gather herself. He stroked her shining hair, all set about with golden Dust, and waited. "Any moment now he'll lose patience," she whispered. "I told him to make himself small. But he's only an angel, after all, even if he was once a man. And we can wrestle with him and bring him to the edge of the gulf, and we'll both go down with him..." He kissed her, saying, "Yes. Lyra will be safe, and the Kingdom will be powerless against her. Call him now, Marisa, my love." She took a deep breath and let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. Then she smoothed her skirt down over her thighs and tucked the hair back behind her ears. "Metatron," she called softly. "It's time." Metatron's shadow-cloaked form appeared out of the golden air and took in at once what was happening: the two daemons, crouching and watchful, the woman with the nimbus of Dust, and Lord Asriel - Who leapt at him at once, seizing him around the waist, and tried to hurl him to the ground. The angel's arms were free, though, and with fists, palms, elbows, knuckles, forearms, he battered Lord Asriel's head and body: great pummeling blows that forced the breath from his lungs and rebounded from his ribs, that cracked against his skull and shook his senses. However, his arms encircled the angel's wings, cramping them to his side. And a moment later, Mrs. Coulter had leapt up between those pinioned wings and seized Metatron's hair. His strength was enormous: it was like holding the mane of a bolting horse. As he shook his head furiously, she was flung this way and that, and she felt the power in the great folded wings as they strained and heaved at the man's arms locked so tightly around them. The daemons had seized hold of him, too. Stelmaria had her teeth firmly in his leg, and the golden monkey was tearing at one of the edges of the nearest wing, snapping feathers, ripping at the vanes, and this only roused the angel to greater fury. With a sudden massive effort he flung himself sideways, freeing one wing and crushing Mrs. Coulter against a rock. Mrs. Coulter was stunned for a second, and her hands came loose. At once the angel reared up again, beating his one free wing to fling off the golden monkey; but Lord Asriel's arms were firm around him still, and in fact the man had a better grip now there wasn't so much to enclose. Lord Asriel set himself to crushing the breath out of Metatron, grinding his ribs together, and trying to ignore the savage blows that were landing on his skull and his neck. But those blows were beginning to tell. And as Lord Asriel tried to keep his footing on the broken rocks, something shattering happened to the back of his head. When he flung himself sideways, Metatron had seized a fist-sized rock, and now he brought it down with brutal force on the point of Lord Asriel's skull. The man felt the bones of his head move against each other, and he knew that another blow like that would kill him outright. Dizzy with pain - pain that was worse for the pressure of his head against the angel's side, he still clung fast, the fingers of his right hand crushing the bones of his left, and stumbled for a footing among the fractured rocks. And as Metatron raised the bloody stone high, a golden-furred shape sprang up like a flame leaping to a treetop, and the monkey sank his teeth into the angel's hand. The rock came loose and clattered down toward the edge, and Metatron swept his arm to left and right, trying to dislodge the daemon; but the golden monkey clung with teeth, claws, and tail, and then Mrs. Coulter gathered the great white beating wing to herself and smothered its movement. Metatron was hampered, but he still wasn't hurt. Nor was he near the edge of the abyss. And by now Lord Asriel was weakening. He was holding fast to his blood-soaked consciousness, but with every movement a little more was lost. He could feel the edges of the bones grinding together in his skull; he could hear them. His senses were disordered; all he knew was hold tight and drag down. Then Mrs. Coulter found the angel's face under her hand, and she dug her fingers deep into his eyes. Metatron cried out. From far off across the great cavern, echoes answered, and his voice bounded from cliff to cliff, doubling and diminishing and causing those distant ghosts to pause in their endless procession and look up. And Stelmaria the snow-leopard daemon, her own consciousness dimming with Lord Asriel's, made one last effort and leapt for the angel's throat. Metatron fell to his knees. Mrs. Coulter, falling with him, saw the blood-filled eyes of Lord Asriel gaze at her. And she scrambled up, hand over hand, forcing the beating wing aside, and seized the angel's hair to wrench back his head and bare his throat for the snow leopard's teeth. And now Lord Asriel was dragging him, dragging him backward, feet stumbling and rocks falling, and the golden monkey was leaping down with them, snapping and scratching and tearing, and they were almost there, almost at the edge; but Metatron forced himself up, and with a last effort spread both wings wide - a great white canopy that beat down and down and down, again and again and again, and then Mrs. Coulter had fallen away, and Metatron was upright, and the wings beat harder and harder, and he was aloft - he was leaving the ground, with Lord Asriel still clinging tight, but weakening fast. The golden monkey's fingers were entwined in the angel's hair, and he would never let go - But they were over the edge of the abyss. They were rising. And if they flew higher, Lord Asriel would fall, and Metatron would escape. "Marisa! Marisa!" The cry was torn from Lord Asriel, and with the snow leopard beside her, with a roaring in her ears, Lyra's mother stood and found her footing and leapt with all her heart, to hurl herself against the angel and her daemon and her dying lover, and seize those beating wings, and bear them all down together into the abyss. The cliff-ghasts heard Lyra's exclamation of dismay, and their flat heads all snapped around at once. Will sprang forward and slashed the knife at the nearest of them. He felt a little kick on his shoulder as Tialys leapt off and landed on the cheek of the biggest, seizing her hair and kicking hard below the jaw before she could throw him off. The creature howled and thrashed as she fell into the mud, and the nearest one looked stupidly at the stump of his arm, and then in horror at his own ankle, which his sliced-off hand had seized as it fell. A second later the knife was in his breast. Will felt the handle jump three or four times with the dying heartbeats, and pulled it out before the cliff-ghast could twist it away in falling. He heard the others cry and shriek in hatred as they fled, and he knew that Lyra was unhurt beside him; but he threw himself down in the mud with only one thing in his mind. "Tialys! Tialys!" he cried, and avoiding the snapping teeth, he hauled the biggest cliff-ghast's head aside. Tialys was dead, his spurs deep in her neck. The creature was kicking and biting still, so he cut off her head and rolled it away before lifting the dead Gallivespian clear of the leathery neck. "Will," said Lyra behind him, "Will, look at this..." She was gazing into the crystal litter. It was unbroken, although the crystal was stained and smeared with mud and the blood from what the cliff-ghasts had been eating before they found it. It lay tilted crazily among the rocks, and inside it - "Oh, Will, he's still alive! But - the poor thing..." Will saw her hands pressing against the crystal, trying to reach in to the angel and comfort him; because he was so old, and he was terrified, crying like a baby and cowering away into the lowest corner. "He must be so old - I've never seen anyone suffering like that - oh, Will, can't we let him out?" Will cut through the crystal in one movement and reached in to help the angel out. Demented and powerless, the aged being could only weep and mumble in fear and pain and misery, and he shrank away from what seemed like yet another threat. "It's all right," Will said, "we can help you hide, at least. Come on, we won't hurt you." The shaking hand seized his and feebly held on. The old one was uttering a wordless groaning whimper that went on and on, and grinding his teeth, and compulsively plucking at himself with his free hand; but as Lyra reached in, too, to help him out, he tried to smile, and to bow, and his ancient eyes deep in their wrinkles blinked at her with innocent wonder. Between them they helped the ancient of days out of his crystal cell; it wasn't hard, for he was as light as paper, and he would have followed them anywhere, having no will of his own, and responding to simple kindness like a flower to the sun. But in the open air there was nothing to stop the wind from damaging him, and to their dismay his form began to loosen and dissolve. Only a few moments later he had vanished completely, and their last impression was of those eyes, blinking in wonder, and a sigh of the most profound and exhausted relief. Then he was gone: a mystery dissolving in mystery. It had all taken less than a minute, and Will turned back at once to the fallen Chevalier. He picked up the little body, cradling it in his palms, and found his tears flowing fast. But Lyra was saying something urgently. "Will - we've got to move - we've got to, the Lady can hear those horses coming - " Out of the indigo sky an indigo hawk swooped low, and Lyra cried out and ducked; but Salmakia cried with all her strength, "No, Lyra! No! Stand high, and hold out your fist!" So Lyra held still, supporting one arm with the other, and the blue hawk wheeled and turned and swooped again, to seize her knuckles in sharp claws. On the hawk's back sat a gray-haired lady, whose clear-eyed face looked first at Lyra, then at Salmakia clinging to her collar. "Madame..." said Salmakia faintly, "we have done..." "You have done all you need. Now we are here," said Madame Oxentiel, and twitched the reins. At once the hawk screamed three times, so loud that Lyra's head rang. In response there darted from the sky first one, then two and three and more, then hundreds of brilliant warrior-bearing dragonflies, all skimming so fast it seemed they were bound to crash into one another; but the reflexes of the insects and the skills of their riders were so acute that instead, they seemed to weave a tapestry of swift and silent needle-bright color over and around the children. "Lyra," said the lady on the hawk, "and Will: follow us now, and we shall take you to your daemons." As the hawk spread its wings and lifted away from one hand, Lyra felt the little weight of Salmakia fall into the other, and knew in a moment that only the Lady's strength of mind had kept her alive this long. She cradled her body close, and ran with Will under the cloud of dragonflies, stumbling and falling more than once, but holding the Lady gently against her heart all the time. "Left! Left!" cried the voice from the blue hawk, and in the lightning-riven murk they turned that way; and to their right Will saw a body of men in light gray armor, helmeted, masked, their gray wolf daemons padding in step beside them. A stream of dragonflies made for them at once, and the men faltered. Their guns were no use, and the Gallivespians were among them in a moment, each warrior springing from his insect's back, finding a hand, an arm, a bare neck, and plunging his spur in before leaping back to the insect as it wheeled and skimmed past again. They were so quick it was almost impossible to follow. The soldiers turned and fled in panic, their discipline shattered. But then came hoofbeats in a sudden thunder from behind, and the children turned in dismay: those horse-people were bearing down on them at a gallop, and already one or two had nets in their hands, whirling them around over their heads and entrapping the dragonflies, to snap the nets like whips and fling the broken insects aside. "This way!" came the Lady's voice, and then she said, "Duck, now - get down low!" They did, and felt the earth shake under them. Could that be hoofbeats? Lyra raised her head and wiped the wet hair from her eyes, and saw something quite different from horses. "Iorek!" she cried, joy leaping in her chest. "Oh, Iorek!" Will pulled her down again at once, for not only Iorek Byrnison but a regiment of his bears were making directly for them. Just in time Lyra tucked her head down, and then Iorek bounded over them, roaring orders to his bears to go left, go right, and crush the enemy between them. Lightly, as if his armor weighed no more than his fur, the bear-king spun to face Will and Lyra, who were struggling upright. "Iorek - behind you - they've got nets!" Will cried, because the riders were almost on them. Before the bear could move, a rider's net hissed through the air, and instantly Iorek was enveloped in steel-strong cobweb. He roared, rearing high, slashing with huge paws at the rider. But the net was strong, and although the horse whinnied and reared back in fear, Iorek couldn't fight free of the coils. "Iorek!" Will shouted. "Keep still! Don't move!" He scrambled forward through the puddles and over the tussocks as the rider tried to control the horse, and reached Iorek just at the moment when a second rider arrived and another net hissed through the air. But Will kept his head: instead of slashing wildly and getting in more of a tangle, he watched the flow of the net and cut it through in a matter of moments. The second net fell useless to the ground, and then Will leapt at Iorek, feeling with his left hand, cutting with his right. The great bear stood motionless as the boy darted here and there over his vast body, cutting, freeing, clearing the way. "Now go!" Will yelled, leaping clear, and Iorek seemed to explode upward full into the chest of the nearest horse. The rider had raised his scimitar to sweep down at the bear's neck, but Iorek Byrnison in his armor weighed nearly two tons, and nothing at that range could withstand him. Horse and rider, both of them smashed and shattered, fell harmlessly aside. Iorek gathered his balance, looked around to see how the land lay, and roared to the children: "On my back! Now!" Lyra leapt up, and Will followed. Pressing the cold iron between their legs, they felt the massive surge of power as Iorek began to move. Behind them, the rest of the bears were engaging with the strange cavalry, helped by the Gallivespians, whose stings enraged the horses. The lady on the blue hawk skimmed low and called: "Straight ahead now! Among the trees in the valley!" Iorek reached the top of a little rise in the ground and paused. Ahead of them the broken ground sloped down toward a grove about a quarter of a mile away. Somewhere beyond that a battery of great guns was firing shell after shell, howling high overhead, and someone was firing flares, too, that burst just under the clouds and drifted down toward the trees, making them blaze with cold green light as a fine target for the guns. And fighting for control of the grove itself were a score or more Specters, being held back by a ragged band of ghosts. As soon as they saw that little group of trees, Lyra and Will both knew that their daemons were in there, and that if they didn't reach them soon, they would die. More Specters were arriving there every minute, streaming over the ridge from the right. Will and Lyra could see them very clearly now. An explosion just over the ridge shook the ground and flung stones and clods of earth high into the air. Lyra cried out, and Will had to clutch his chest. "Hold on," Iorek growled, and began to charge. A flare burst high above, and another and another, drifting slowly downward with a magnesium-bright glare. Another shell burst, closer this time, and they felt the shock of the air and a second or two later the sting of earth and stones on their faces. Iorek didn't falter, but they found it hard to hold on. They couldn't dig their fingers into his fur - they had to grip the armor between their knees, and his back was so broad that both of them kept slipping. "Look!" cried Lyra, pointing up as another shell burst nearby. A dozen witches were making for the flares, carrying thick-leaved, bushy branches, and with them they brushed the glaring lights aside, sweeping them away into the sky beyond. Darkness fell over the grove again, hiding it from the guns. And now the grove was only a few yards away. Will and Lyra both felt their missing selves close by - an excitement, a wild hope chilled with fear, because the Specters were thick among the trees and they would have to go in directly among them, and the very sight of them evoked that nauseating weakness at the heart. "They're afraid of the knife," said a voice beside them, and the bear-king stopped so suddenly that Will and Lyra tumbled off his back. "Lee!" said Iorek. "Lee, my comrade, I have never seen this before. You are dead - what am I speaking to?" "Iorek, old feller, you don't know the half of it. We'll take over now - the Specters aren't afraid of bears. Lyra, Will - come this way, and hold up that knife - " The blue hawk swooped once more to Lyra's fist, and the gray-haired lady said, "Don't waste a second - go in and find your daemons and escape! There's more danger coming." "Thank you, Lady! Thank you all!" said Lyra, and the hawk took wing. Will could see Lee Scoresby's ghost dimly beside them, urging them into the grove, but they had to say farewell to Iorek Byrnison. "Iorek, my dear, there en't words - bless you, bless you!" "Thank you, King Iorek," said Will. "No time. Go. Go!" He pushed them away with his armored head. Will plunged after Lee Scoresby's ghost into the undergrowth, slashing to right and left with the knife. The light here was broken and muted, and the shadows were thick, tangled, confusing. "Keep close," he called to Lyra, and then cried out as a bramble sliced across his cheek. All around them there was movement, noise, and struggle. The shadows moved to and fro like branches in a high wind. They might have been ghosts: both children felt the little dashes of cold they knew so well. Then they heard voices all around: "This way!" "Over here!" "Keep going - we're holding them off!" "Not far now!" And then came a cry in a voice that Lyra knew and loved better than any other: "Oh, come quick! Quick, Lyra!" "Pan, darling - I'm here - " She hurled herself into the dark, sobbing and shaking, and Will tore down branches and ivy and slashed at brambles and nettles, while all around them the ghost-voices rose in a clamor of encouragement and warning. But the Specters had found their target, too, and they pressed in through the snagging tangle of bush and briar and root and branch, meeting no more resistance than smoke. A dozen, a score of the pallid malignities seemed to pour in toward the center of the grove, where John Parry's ghost marshaled his companions to fight them off. Will and Lyra were both trembling and weak with fear, exhaustion, nausea, and pain, but giving up was inconceivable. Lyra tore at the brambles with her bare hands, Will slashed and hacked to left and right, as around them the combat of the shadowy beings became more and more savage. "There!" cried Lee. "See 'em? By that big rock - " A wildcat, two wildcats, spitting and hissing and slashing. Both were daemons, and Will felt that if there were time he'd easily be able to tell which was Pantalaimon; but there wasn't time, because a Specter eased horribly out of the nearest patch of shadow and glided toward the daemons. Will leapt over the last obstacle, a fallen tree trunk, and plunged the knife into the unresisting shimmer in the air. He felt his arm go numb, but he clenched his teeth as he was clenching his fingers around the hilt, and the pale form seemed to boil away and melt back into the darkness again. Almost there; and the daemons were mad with fear, because more Specters and still more came pressing through the trees, and only the valiant ghosts were holding them back. "Can you cut through?" said John Parry's ghost. Will held up the knife, and had to stop as a racking bout of nausea shook him from head to toe. There was nothing left in his stomach, and the spasm hurt dreadfully. Lyra beside him was in the same state. Lee's ghost, seeing why, leapt for the daemons and wrestled with the pale thing that was coming through the rock from behind them. "Will - please - " said Lyra, gasping. In went the knife, along, down, back. Lee Scoresby's ghost looked through and saw a wide, quiet prairie under a brilliant moon, so very like his own homeland that he thought he'd been blessed. Will leapt across the clearing and seized the nearest daemon while Lyra scooped up the other. And even in that horrible urgency, even at that moment of utmost peril, each of them felt the same little shock of excitement: for Lyra was holding Will's daemon, the nameless wildcat, and Will was carrying Pantalaimon. They tore their glance away from each other's eyes. "Good-bye, Mr. Scoresby!" Lyra cried, looking around for him. "I wish - oh, thank you, thank you - good-bye!" "Good-bye, my dear child - good-bye, Will - go well!" Lyra scrambled through, but Will stood still and looked into the eyes of his father's ghost, brilliant in the shadows. Before he left him, there was something he had to say. Will said to his father's ghost, "You said I was a warrior. You told me that was my nature, and I shouldn't argue with it. Father, you were wrong. I fought because I had to. I can't choose my nature, but I can choose what I do. And I will choose, because now I'm free." His father's smile was full of pride and tenderness. "Well done, my boy. Well done indeed," he said. Will couldn't see him anymore. He turned and climbed through after Lyra. And now that their purpose was achieved, now the children had found their daemons and escaped, the dead warriors allowed their atoms to relax and drift apart, at long, long last. Out of the little grove, away from the baffled Specters, out of the valley, past the mighty form of his old companion the armor-clad bear, the last little scrap of the consciousness that had been the aeronaut Lee Scoresby floated upward, just as his great balloon had done so many times. Untroubled by the flares and the bursting shells, deaf to the explosions and the shouts and cries of anger and warning and pain, conscious only of his movement upward, the last of Lee Scoresby passed through the heavy clouds and came out under the brilliant stars, where the atoms of his beloved daemon, Hester, were waiting for him.

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