According to the ale-soaked map clutched in Bezel's fingers, he had arrived at the devil Rabberty's farm. It was a peaceful sort of place, or it might have been. One of the hardest lessons Bezel had learned from Mayvalt was that not all quiet was good quiet. She had pounded that particular wisdom into his skull several times. If Bezel cared to reflect on his actions in New York, he might admit that it had been the quiet and the relief to have it that had kept him from seeing his brother's tricks until it was nearly too late. 

Rabbery's house was quiet, but maybe not the calm kind. The pens built to stand on the top of a hill behind the house were empty, the gate had been left unlatched to blow in the breeze. The heavy thud of it slamming back into frame over, and over, echoed across the property like a metronome. Clothes hanging from a nearby line danced in that same wind, throwing shadows and the scent of soap into the air. 

Bezel approached the cabin, his sword tucked under his cloak so he seemed less threatening. Maybe it was a bad idea to bring it but what was the alternative? Leaving it behind with Ira? Ira the Bishop who used magical swords to kill mythical beings all the time? That was an abysmal idea. Even Bezel knew that. So, he took the risk. He took the sword. 

How it was a risk--to him, a nearly immortal Ely--was something he wasn't too keen on sharing. So, he hadn't. Not to anyone. Scratch that. Not to anyone besides Mayvalt--but she was Mayvalt. She didn't really count. Or maybe she did count, actually far too much. Not for the first time, Bezel noted himself turning to cast a played up look into the empty space beside him before the action stopped dead and rotted under his skin, festering up into something cold and empty that he didn't know how to place back under a mask. 

The front door to the humble brick and log home swung open, slamming against the wall with a thud very similar to the fence gate on the hill over. Whatever too-blank look Bezel had been wearing, he disregarded it for something softer. He relaxed the lines of his body, lowered the lifted tilt of his chin. He didn't look friendly--that was perhaps too much, but he was as open as he could make himself be. Much more than the old demon woman that stomped out onto the porch, butchers knife extended out in her flailing arm. 

"Forget that Raj! I'll slice you up myself, dog!" She hollered as she swung. 

Bezel took one stumbling step back into the guardrail of her porch. His lower back bit into the wood, nearly sending him toppling over into the mud he'd trucked through to get up the few steps onto the farmhouse. And that--well, being stabbed wasn't as bad as falling in mud. Bezel forced his spine straight with an unhelpful kick from his wings and met the demon woman head-on. The silver of her knife burst in a flash of bright white as she arched it down towards Bezel's heart. It wouldn't have hurt anything to let her knife find a place to ricochet off of his chest, but then he thought of his shirt and, like the mud, he didn't have time to sew it back together so he caught her wrist. 

Her knife froze half a centimeter above the white fabric of Bezel's loose top. He exhaled in relief, the action rubbing the tip harmlessly over the cotton. 

"Dwyvalt sent me." Bezel said, unsure of anything else that could be said after nearly being stabbed. 

The woman's eyes widened in recognition. Her arm went slack so Bezel released it but he kept his golden eyes on the knife that thumped against her hip. She tossed her head back, belly laughing louder than the sound of the thumping gate. "Well why didn't you just say so, son? I almost killed you!" She chuckled, wiping off one of her eyes with the tip of her claw-tipped fingers. "Do you want some desert, sweetie?" 

"No-" the words croaked to a halt in his throat. "Do you have any banana bread?" 

"I may have some left." She smiled warmly before turning with a swish of her heavy tail. The appendage dragged across the wooden floorboard, creaking with each step she lumbered forward. It was rather rude to stare at a lady's tail--so Bezel didn't, but the one glance he spared it was enough to tell him she could snap a Faun in half with it. It was thick as a log, scaled and green with small crests up the sides. It matched the tips of her clawed toes peeking from the edge of her simple blue dress and her paws. She was clearly a Halfling. A creature with the smiling face of an elderly Heimrian woman, but stuffed into the bottom half of an alligator. Or crocodile. It was too hard to distinguish. 

Bezel followed her into her home, letting the swinging screen door slam behind them. Rabberty had Faunish connections, that was obvious by how Heimrian her home was. The small kitchen was full of trinkets, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of chickens that must have come from a home goods store in rural Heimr, a shiny blue tea kettle that was just too well made to have been Avernian, a woodburning stove with a set of honeycomb patterned oven mitts hanging above it. 

"I've heard from Dwyvalt that you trade goods." Bezel nodded with his chin towards a 'kiss the cook,' apron hanging on a hook near the front door. 

Rabberty's eyes fluttered towards the frilly pink smock. A grin split over her sharp teeth. "One of my favorites! I collect all sorts of things from Heimr. The Faun have no idea how lucky they are to fit through the Third Prince's gates--or, well. How lucky they used to be. I heard they all got shut out. After all that nasty business with the Second. Anywho," she waved her great green paws dismissively, "sugars?" 

When all the gates had shut. Bezel--the Third Prince she was talking about like she'd heard it on the radio--had done that. When he'd funneled all his energy into attempting to stop Legion, he'd had to close all his gates. The ramifications hadn't felt so severe at the time, not until he returned to Eden to a swarming crowd of panicked Fauns. It had almost taken everything he had left to open the gate back into Avernus, the one Mayvalt, Ira, and all the Faun trapped in Heimr had used. His days of being the shepherd seemed to be over. If that upset him--if it might have a long time ago, he didn't really know. 

Bezel was opening his eyes for the first time and finding out the world had changed when he wasn't looking. Avernus was changed, bruised and different from the day he had left it thinking he would come back after settling a few runaway Beasts. An uncomfortable gap remained between him and his new world--since, the odds of ever returning to Heimr were less than favorable. Considering only his older brothers could open a gate back up for him. One of them, missing. The other--well, Bezel wished he was missing. That would have saved him the trouble of ending him. 

Bezel was so caught up in processing what she had said he didn't even realize she had moved towards the kettle, pouring thin lavender liquid into two matching cups, until she cleared her throat softly to spur him into answering. "Oh, I'm alright. No sugars, thank you." He smiled, charming as a car salesman. 

She shrugged before filling her own cup with enough cubes to overflow it. The woman pulled out a stool and plopped herself on top of it, licking a long pink tongue at the rim of her sugary drink. "So, what brings you, son?" 

Bezel took the seat across from her and took carefully polite sips of his own tea. He didn't taste it as it went down, he didn't feel the heat of it either. "I'm looking for some items. Nothing too complicated. Just clothes, maybe some travel-safe foods. I'm passing through Kett with my companion but we didn't have the chance to stalk up before leaving home." 

She nodded knowingly, her frizzy white hair obscuring her face. "Is your companion the one who wants bread?" 

Bezel stilled for a moment before he played along, tilting his head curiously. "How did you-" 

"You didn't want any sugar." She shrugged like it was obvious. "Well, alright. I'll see what I can rustle up. I haven't made anything new in quite a few years. The population here has. . . stayed steady. No new farmhands sprouting up to grow out of their pants." 

"Old is fine." Bezel agreed. "He's not very fashion forward." 

She chuckled and set her cup back on the wooden table before them before shambling off to a small room besides the kitchen. The tip of her tail peeked from the doorway, slowly dragging back and forth across the hardwood as she ruffled through fabrics. 

Bezel glanced at her kitchen sink--or really, at the butcher's knife she had set in the basin. "Miss Rabberty," 

"Oh, please!" She called over her shoulder with another elderly chuckle. "Call me Theophania." 

"Theophania," Bezel repeated carefully, "why did you think I was a wolf?" 

The sound of clanking stopped for a half breath before it resumed. "Been a wolf around these parts, dear. It ate all my livestock. We can hardly be too careful, can we?" 

Bezel dragged the tip of his finger around the rim of his cup, swirling the largely untouched beverage. "Of course not," he agreed languidly, "is that why you've served me wolfsbane tea?" 

A box crashed as it was knocked onto the floor. Theophania cleared her throat loudly and shambled back into the kitchen, her thick arms stuffed with stitched fabrics. "Well? Is it working?" 

Bezel smiled, aiming for something between personal injury attorney and celebrity, and shrugged up his shoulders under his cloak. "It probably would have but I'm not a wolf, Theophania." 

"Right," she sighed somewhat apologetically, "is it good then?" 

"Pretty good." Bezel said, although he couldn't taste it. "Did you put anything in the banana bread?" 

She deposited the clothing on the top of her stool. With her freed hand, she tapped one claw against her pursed lips. "Nothing much. Oh! Some walnuts-" 

"I'll have to pass then." Bezel interrupted with a sigh. He stood from his chair and crossed to the clothing, leafing through them expectantly. There were some pieces in colors so offensive--lime greens, sunshine yellows, internal organ pinks--he immediately pushed them aside. But the rest, a handful of tan, black, and cream shirts and pants he picked up. "I have some coin." 

Theophania lifted her thick palms and shook them in a gesture of refusal. "Nonsense, son. Just take them. They're too old. When I sell my stitchings, I want them to be worth it. We can call it an apology over the tea." 

Bezel didn't argue. He just nodded and pressed the clothes into his chest. "You wouldn't happen to have a bag?" 

She nodded and disappeared around the corner again. When she returned she held out a large canvas travel pack and a leather sword sheath. Bezel took the pack but raised an eyebrow at the scabbard. 

"For your sword, son." She pointed her claw at the glinting silver tucked under his cloak and arm. "Which I appreciate you not using against me when I tried to stab you--and poison you."

"Well, none of it would have worked anyway." Bezel said with a shrug. He folded up the clothes and placed them into the bottom of the pack before he accepted the scabbard. It was well made. With cured leather so dark it was nearly blood black, but flexible enough that it molded itself to the odd shape of his kris as he pushed the blade into the body of the case. Bezel slung it over his shoulders, over his cloak. The sword was heavy on his wings, pressing them flat against his spine.  

"It's the thought that counts." Theophania chuckled. "I will be requiring payment for the pack and scabbard, son." 

Bezel nodded his agreement and fished into the sack fastened to his belt. He picked out four golden discs and placed them flat on the table. Theophania snatched them up to roll them between her green fingers. She smiled before tucking the payment into one of her apron pockets. "Now, you run along, son. Not much good goin' on in Kett. Oh, Princes. Not much good goin' on in Avernus at all these days." 

"I've heard." Bezel agreed as he eased towards the door. "About the wolf." 

"Blagh," she spit. "Awful thing, really. And so tricky. He's been running circles around that wolf hunter--all the good his reputations done him. Hound of Hounds. Can't even catch a pup." 

Bezel's foot froze halfway out of Theophania's door. He turned, casting a look over the handle of his kris. "He?" 

She nodded firmly. "Aye, son. The wolf." 

"He?" Bezel echoed again. "How do you know?" 

She tapped one curled claw on her lips. "Well, I saw him. Walking along there." She extended that crooked claw towards the distant edge of the dark forest. To the place where Kett was cut abruptly, turning it into the Sikker Woods. "Walkin' on two legs. Like one of us. He saw me lookin', turned and looked right back. His eyes were like yours. Gold, maybe a little more green." 

Bezel turned and stared into the trees like they would start talking long enough to give him any more clarity. Different, he remembered. Wolves in human form were rare. Rare enough that when the stirring in the back of his skull came alive he didn't immediately squish it down. He let the thoughts linger, soft and quiet, as he made his way back across the sleepy town of Kett. 

The sun had risen hours ago, not that it seemed to matter to the residents. Doors remained locked, curtains drawn. Children bounced off walls inside the cabins he passed, fighting their littermates like dogs in cramped cages--if the sounds drifting towards Bezel's keen ears was any indication. Fathers grumbled about their heads aching to mothers who taunted them, saying a migraine is the least of what they deserved for abandoning their duties. 

The suffering of Kett was louder than that of Heneth's--but the song was the same. Something dark and alien to their way of life was prowling the forest beyond their doors. In Heneth, a Beast had turned the He-Goats shy and captive to an exploitative sort of protection.  Ira and Mayvalt had handled the Beast in Heneth and Mayvalt had stayed to handle the rest. Which, Bezel had full confidence in her ability to do so. Something he hoped she knew. Maybe he should have said it better. 

He huffed an unnecessary exhale through his nose and rolled his eyes to demonstrate the uselessness of that particular thought. Words weren't any skill of his--not truthful ones anyway--and regretting the past did nothing. Bezel would know. He was incredibly practiced in the art. So, forward. That meant Kett. On paper, the problem seemed rinsed and repeated. 

Something unfamiliar lurked the town's border picking off a different sort of sheep. And suddenly, Bezel was glad reincarnation was off the table for him. With his luck, he would have ended up a sacrificial lamb in his next life. He was hardly that selfless. 

Heneth had turned docile under their circumstances, Kett had turned into a tinderbox. It was a disastrous recipe on the tipping point of boiling over. A town full of day laborers and farmers forcefully turned into shut ins. The air was thick with tension and laced with the stench of alcohol that seeped from the ale-soaked citizens. 

A scent that persisted all throughout town but grew steadier the closer Bezel grew to Hogfly's. He crested the small walkway that would bring him up to the front door, tilting his head to stare up towards the second level where he'd instructed Ira to wait for him. The windows were shuttered. Hopefully because Ira had decided to get some sleep--Heimrians needed sleep, even Bezel knew that so Ira's stubborn refusal of it was. . . confusing? In the hollow robotic way Bezel processed confusion, anyway. It registered in his mind like a bug in his coding. A tremor running up the wires that said something was six inches left of where it was meant to be. Ira was that gap and Bezel had no great faith that he'd be closing it. 

The door thunked shut behind him. Hogfly's was different in the afternoon sun. Grittier, duller, and vacant. The floor had been cleared out, the stools flipped to rest on the table tops. Only one devil remained in the body of the building. Dwyvalt, the Faunish server who had pointed him towards Theophania's farm, was behind the bar polishing glasses like the All King would be coming for a pint. She startled when the door settled in its jamb and then startled again when she glanced up through the wayward curls of her brown hair to see Bezel coming into the tavern. 

"Si-sir!" She squeaked, setting aside the cup she was polishing to death. "Did you find what you needed from Miss Rabberty?" 

"Well, actually, I did. And then some, so thank you." Bezel said. "Where did my coworker go?" 

"Co. . . worker?" Dwyvalt echoed, eyebrows pinched. 

"Travel companion." Bezel amended with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Short, mud-soaked, an attitude the size of Mount Mojaere?" 

Dwyvalt's face fluttered with recognition--not terribly bothered recognition, though. So maybe Ira hadn't been sharing his less than pleasant quips with anyone other than Bezel. She jerked her head towards a set of stairs sweeping behind and above the bar. "The last room at the end of the hall." 

Bezel gave her a docile nod that he hoped passed for travel-weary and breezed up the creaking wooden steps. The second level of Hogfly's was even less appealing than the bottom. Cobwebs bloomed like weeds in every corner, fat and lazy spiders dosed in the center of the dusty gray webs. Pests were common enough between Heimr and Avernus. Creatures like beetles, mice, and squirrels passed through the rifts like air through an opened window. So Bezel wasn't shocked to see them there--but he imagined Ira had been. He'd probably spent precious many minutes, hands locked on his hips like he did when something was particularly meddlesome to him, leaned forward inspecting the webs. He'd probably counted their legs and eyes trying to find what made them Hell spiders instead of Earth spiders. The thought wasn't. . . amusing. Not in the way things used to be amusing but it was light. Like pockets of air had been infused into the parts of his brain responsible for creating the image. 

The door to their shared room creaked as Bezel eased it inward. The scent of soap drifted sleepily through the air, mixed with the slight tang of candle smoke and fresh sheets. The curtains had been drawn leaving the room less than illuminated by the soft orange from a single lit candle. But the lack of light wasn't anything Bezel's golden eyes couldn't navigate. A quick glance around the tight quarters painted in the rest of the picture. A wooden bed frame fit with a hay-filled mattress had been placed in the corner of the room and stacked high with thick quilts. The bedside table was small enough that it only had room for a pile of hardened wax, a half-melted candle, and a set of Ossein daggers. 

The Vestige--or the soon to be? Had been? Potential Vestige was laid flat on the mess of tangled blankets, nestled beside Ira's fitfully sleeping form. He was under the bedding, only the tips of his yellow hair visible. He stirred every few seconds, his fingers tightening and releasing where he had them rested against the handle of the Vestige. 

Bezel let him be and after dropping their bag of new clothes and his sword on the floor near the door, crossed to the small attached washroom in the corner. The plumbing was more evolved than in Heneth. A bronze pipe hung above a metallic wash basin. The mechanics weren't anything difficult to figure out. There was a hand pump attached to a wheel, that Bezel figured functioned as automatic pumping once the wheel had been given enough beginning momentum. A theory he didn't test. He worked the crank just enough to wash his face and used the remaining drops to push his hair into a semi-gelled position at the top of his head. He wondered lamely if Theophania sold hair care products--or if she had a collection just out of sight that he could have plucked through. 

Ira's voice shook him from his vain commiserating. It was slight, just enough of an interrupted in the silence to draw Bezel's attention. He tilted his head, angling it towards the straw mattress. He counted the seconds, then the minutes, but if Ira had woken up then he must have fallen back asleep. 

Bezel crept from the washroom. His borrowed boots were as quiet as cat paws as he moved. His shadow was the only interruption in the room, just another black streak chased back and forth by the flickering candle light. 

Ira was still under the heavy covers, buried up to the tips of his tangled strands. His pale fingers were tensed on the sword. The lump of patchwork quilt that was most likely his chest heaved up and down. Bezel moved nearer, drawn in by some force he couldn't name. Ira whimpered--because whispering was far too generous a word to describe the noise he made. A sound not even Bezel's enhanced ears caught. 

The blankets shifted as Ira rolled onto his side and curled inward. The quilts slipped down revealing sickly white skin beneath his golden hair, eyes squeezed so tight water pushed up from between his eyelashes, and a sweat-coated throat working around a knot of more choked noises. 

Bezel disregarded the caution he had been giving to all of his silent movements and dashed towards the mattress. He drew to a stop at the edge of the bed, dropping down onto his knees to bring his eyes level with Ira's shivering form. He was glad Ira was asleep--since awake, he wouldn't have let Bezel closer than the length of his sword. 

Bezel's fingers sunk into Ira's hair, brushing it away from his forehead. The tips of his icy skin cooled Ira's human-warm head causing another wave of shivers. Bezel withdrew his hand, satisfied from his brief touch with the knowledge that Ira was as warm as living things were supposed to be. 

Living things--as a living Heimrian, Ira had no place in Avernus. No Heimrian did. As much as they told stories about spending an eternity in Hell it just wasn't possible. Still, it hadn't been that long. Bezel thought they would have more time before his soul began to splinter under the pressure. Could it have something to do with the illusion Bezel had placed on him to aid his mortal body pass through the Trammel? It had been fading considerably since Heneth--and now Bezel couldn't see it at all. No, not that. The illusion was an extension of Bezel. It's weakness was his own. A wound that had been etched into him by Lake Seneca and the Tachtadh. 

"Ira," Bezel murmured, "wake u-" 

The sound of steel slicing air was becoming as familiar as birds in the morning to Bezel. The Vestige's black glass blade was stained by the orange of the candlelight as it arched through the inches between them. Until it was close enough that the only thing painted inside the onyx sword was the golden reflection of Bezel's wide eyes.