Once the decision to move settled in his mind like rocks sinking in water, Tristan was eager to begin the journey. Alas, his impatience stretched his mind like a pacing dog. Other regional farmers bought the animals, but his horse he sold specifically to Svant, being incapable of delivering a beloved breed to the care of strangers as he was. Where he was going, the goods of his trade weren't needed, so off they were sold also. A few of Úlfar's antiques fetched higher prices with collectors than locals, thanks to the internet. By the time all not bolted down was stripped and sold, Tristan had enough funds in his back pocket to set a new life up in the CCD.

When the day came to leave the homestead behind for good, all the tension of the past few months crashed like stormy waves on rocky shores. He just stood in a cold rain as it drizzled down upon his shoulders not unlike the frozen remains of his trollish uncle's grave. A levity befell his eyes, bright and golden now. From where he stood he could see the distant Fjord, the inlet of the sea stretching its cold fingers into land. Birds darted tiny black dots farther than he ought to be able to detect. The scents of his youth curled his nose and clung to his beard in a way he hoped would never waft away. He'd already said goodbye to the cropping where he first saw the Huldufólk woman whom revealed the truth to him. He laid bare his plans like a sacrifice before a sacred alter. The house he built for her remained, and he prayed to the gods it would continue to do so on her behalf, but if she wanted to come visit in Norway, he would built her a cottage that she might visit. For some reason, he had the sense of someone smiling back, and in that sense, the goodbye was peaceful.

It wasn't to her that he presently spoke. It was to the basalt rock that encased his uncle (though he still thought of Úlfar as a grandfather). For some reason, the events that led to his uncle's demise seemed less of a betrayal than the abandonment of their ancient lands. Tristan felt it too, like a ballast tugging at the weight of his heart.
"Your accusations are not wrong, Uncle," Tristan told the stone's face even as he rubbed the mist from drenching his eyes. He was glad for the rain's obfuscation of emotional displays.
"I can't stay here, though. You know that I am like Rurik. I am my father's son and I will be driven mad if I stay. The east calls me like the bleating of a golden horn. I am sorry for your fate. I am sorry our line ends here, but I will not end, though I step away, my home will not be forgotten. I will bring my children back here, someday and their children after that."

Sometimes the planes and crags of the rock flickered like shadows of a face moved, but no such motion answered Tristan's explanation. His golden gaze fell to the soggy ground, drowning in the weight of his uncle's disappointment. Is that how Rurik, his father, felt before the end? Disappointment in what he was? Or defiance because of what he was?

Tristan's jaw tightened, "You will always remain, uncle. When generations have passed and all of Iceland forgotten, you will remain our guardian. Bear the duty honorably, uncle." Tristan lifte his chin, "Fare well."

When he left, he never glanced behind though he felt the stare of eyes on his back the whole way.

Jerry had spent hours upon hours scouring footage of the Vega house, sitting outside, reading files of known acquaintances, finding connections.  Where was the weakness, how could he exploit it.  What was the best place to go.

It seemed since coming to Moscow the boy god was friends with an missing girl.  Though recent reports suggested the girl was dead, a god killed her, and yet he wasn't sure it was that simple.  Too many coincidences, too many similarities.  

It was all a matter of finding the right information.  So today instead of sitting a stake out, Jerry made his way into a tattoo parlor.  A popular one from the recommendations he'd received around town.  The proprietor was dead - heart attack at a young age, but the catch here was the dead man was a former lover of the boy gods friend.  The dead one.  Coincidence?

The door jingled as he opened it and the man inside looked up from his current project, "I'll be with you when I'm done here."  Jerry didn't really care, he was here to look around.  He saw pictures on the wall and started browsing through them, there was one framed on the far wall which drew Jerry's attention, Lucas Andreff the metal plaque underneath said - the man who owned the shop - dead too young.  "Such a shame." he said to himself.

It was not often that dreams wracked his sleep, but the night of the ball was filled with torment. Something chased him through the city streets he could never quite glimpse. The walls closed in as he ducked through allies. The sky darkened and finally he was cornered. When he turned to face his assailant, it was while brimming with the power of the universe, power he unleashed with everything he had. Then it all burned and he woke from licking flames searing his skin.

He was slicked with sweat when he attempted to regain his bearings. The disconcerting moments that followed swirled a man like lost in a snowstorm. When recognition of his surroundings settled, it was not comforting. The gilded rooms were dark and hollow; palace of the tsars a cavernous, cold marble. He ripped the blankets from his lap and angrily stalked toward a shower.

Anger billowed like the power from his dream. At whom the anger was directed was as indecipherable as the assailant chasing him throughout it. Stalked in his own home, teased and mocked by the Atharim, humiliated before his aristocracy, and impotent to defend himself, he trembled with fury throughout the entire ordeal of the morning. The routine itself was a show; even the pristine way his hair was combed was but another masquerade. But the costume was donned as it was daily. Imagery was everything to him. Identity was nothing but what others assigned. The weakness and impotence displayed at the ball could be erased from the minds of those present if repainted and replaced. Persistence, he told himself, was key; and patience.

When he emerged from his rooms, a studious examination fell upon the first staffer he encountered in the Executive Offices of the Ascendancy. They quickly averted their gaze and hurried about their business. It only soured his already thin demeanor. Only his Deputy-Consul Chief of Staff, Viktor was brave enough to approach.

The rest of the morning was spent mitigating fallout from the ball. He wrote personal messages to each of the attendees, or at least drafted a template message for the staffers to customize to each guest before approving their distribution. Most of the contents were similar, inquiring about their wellbeing, ensuring his own and the strength of the Kremlin, promises to avenge the flagrant disrespect shown to them, vows to protect from further sleights, gratitude for support, commitment to the Custody’s missions foreign and domestic, so on and so forth. Finally, he asked to see Alexandrova sometime mid-morning. The look on her face the previous evening was not lost on Nikolai. Clearly, she required a conversation about topics she dared not confront without invitation: namely, Evelyn. Some of his simmering mood was lidded behind the mask of the man named Nikolai Brandon by the time she arrived. He would be careful as handling fine china because Alexandrova was valuable to him for many reasons. Offending her was not something he desired, the opposite actually. But at one point, he had to share an insight to a truth he’d never reveal completely to anyone. “I need Evelyn, you must see that.” She may assume he meant to manipulate the pretty, young American, but there was a stretch to his voice that he wasn’t sure he obscured perfectly. His gaze settled on something far-sighted when Alexandrova asked a pointed question that she eventually retracted. Nik didn’t know the answer himself and had little inclination to delve in search of it.

Evelyn would be departing Moscow in the coming days. Her entourage of American politicians had come to its end, and Nikolai grew increasingly sharper as the time for their parting drew near. He understood the need, but the box of reason was wrapped with barbed wire for ribbon in his mind. Logic, cold and calculated, became his central dogma. Others noticed it, the mask was more transparent than before, but remained. Only one brief moment when Evelyn squeezed his hand under the table of a state dinner did the façade fade and the man within revealed. He centered himself on her, and the epiphany that flashed through his mind was startling.

In that moment, he came to a decision.

Later, he inquired about the state of communications with the resurrected Atharim Regus. Another was named from Vatican City, but Nikolai barely bothered with the news. It was obvious the Atharim were choosing new tactics and the Catholic Church was careful to toe their association with an apparent terrorist organization. It was only for the love of his Catholic citizenship that he did not denounce the entire church the same time he did the Atharim. To reveal the truth of their demonic allegiance would throw the world’s largest religious organization into chaos, and that was a play Nikolai would save for only the direst of moments.

Instead, he guessed where the real power behind the Atharim slept, and such was a beast he wanted to rouse. Thus far, his messages to Armande were undeliverable or unanswered.

His mood was nearly reconsolidated when the cabaret was brought to his attention. In the shadows of a long evening alone in his office, he watched the video in its entirety. Every shred of footage as could be recovered from social media outbursts to reaction from the street, he consumed it all.

That was the first moment in his life he feared his control over the CCD was slipping.
“Kill them all,” he told Viktor coldly.
“Deserved, Ascendancy, but I advise against so harsh a reaction.” Viktor responded unflinchingly.
Nik fixed him with a stare that dared him to question the order a second time.

But Viktor was unwavering, and logic was slow to trickle through the cracks of blind fury. “Only the owner. Then strip the theater of everything not bolted down and turn it into a school for the impoverished. I want everyone on that stage tonight to lose everything. They won’t be able to get a job cleaning the toilets after the Custody is done with them.”

Viktor nodded. “And Scion Marveet’s son?”

Nikolai fixed the frozen image of Jaxen’s smirking, smug face in his view.
“Send him a message he won’t forget. Then bring Scion to me.”

Ryker did not prefer fast hits. He liked to learn and plan. Human beings were irrational bastards that required study. Unfortunately, these orders could only be written by one man, and he could be a sensitive bitch sometimes thinking the world revolved around him. The hit was to take place tonight, fine by him. He had nothing else to do except pay Yun Kao a visit. Ryker watched a few inciting clips on the way across town, viewing only out of sheer amusement for the mockery. The Kremlin's response was not surprising, though a twinge of curiosity made him wonder at who was being sent to entertain the actor himself.

The mark lived in a turn of the century home on the Golden edge of Moscow, so the forty-five minute drive provided adequate time to study. Boda was an elderly man of surprising athleticism for his age. Imprisoned on three separate occasions in various Russian prisons going back to the 1990’s, he certainly lived his fair share of darker experiences. The guy survived wars, Gulags and Putin. It was either a complete shame or utterly fitting he would be meeting his end like this. As it was, there was a bullet with Boda’s name on it.

Ryker did not expect much of a challenge.

Since coming to Moscow the world had tumbled and tumbled until it was no longer what it once was. Nox hadn't even set food on Russian soil before the world upended.  His father would be furious to know he was going to Russia - the CCD he'd hated the other side of the ocean for years.  It was breed in him from his father.  But Aurora and Nox had thought differently when they decided.  They decided together that they would come to the homeland of their ancestry - they would come to Moscow and be named Atharim full fledged by the grace of the Pope himself.  Or so the story had gone after they'd become gods.  The most hated things on earth for the Atharim and he was one.

Thinking about it all made Nox want to hurl.  So instead of thinking about it and dwelling he thought about the future.  The future which brought him no hope.  He'd be hunted the remainder of his life.  Nox knew that now.  They'd come at him once, they'd come again.  There was no time to waste, yet he felt empty inside.  Devoid of all things, all hope.  Sage and Aiden didn't help any with their blissful love.  Fuck them. 

He didn't need to have a future, Cruz and Dorian, even Aiden and Sage deserved that.  Ana and Christian most of all they just got pulled into the unlucky situation.  Though Ana... she was the mother of a god.  Nox sighed as he pressed up on his hands into a high plank before moving into downward dog.  Yoga was becoming more and more required to get through a day.  To focus on his body and his body alone, drown in the calm cool serenity of the power lingering at the edge. 

But not touching it.  It no longer brought peace of mind.  It brought pain and memories and things Nox didn't want to feel, but he did every time he touched the power god had granted him.  God... no... he had nothing to do with it, even if Aria believed, Nox didn't.  This was science - genetic. Why else kill parents.  The perfect storm came and that storm came with Apolyon - Ascendancy.  Another man who probably wanted him dead and for what?  Because he was Atharim.  

That was the theme in all this misery.  The Atharim - if you got down to it his mother died because of the Atharim.  If she'd never met his father.... Nox knew he'd never have been born,but she'd never have died either... except she would have, his father saved her.  It was a well told story.  

Nox pushed it out of his head as he stood into Warrior 1.  So many reasons to leave the Atharim behind - to go find a hiding place and live and die there.  But there were still monsters out there.  Monsters that could devour the world whole and even the Ascendancy in all his grand glory could never win if they all came calling at once.  He barely survived the Ijiraq.  

Nox shuddered at the memory of the ball and yawned in response to the weariness of his body.  But he pushed harder. He needed a direction.  A life outside of the Atharim.  Warrior 2.  Nox knew that.  But he also knew that he had no skills.  Not a single one besides survival and killing monsters - that wasn't real world in the least.  So for now Nox pushed his body and his skills with the power.  He'd defend this family with his life.  Which meant he had to grab the power, it was painful -  more so than ever before as he reached into the dark light and pulled it to heart.  It struggled as it burned his soul.  It fought against his control as he wove the light show Methos' stage hand had used at the misshapen concert.  It danced in fury, in chaos and Nox let it eat at his very being, but he didn't let go.  It stung and burned and he felt the Ijiraq feeding on him.  It was all in his head - he knew it.  

The music in Nox's ears ceased as a text came over his wallet.  Nox touched his left earbud and  it read the text. Hey Nox. This is Ivan. I need your help. I need to learn this power

Why did Ivan always come to him when he needed to learn?  He knew exactly what he was, where he went in life, his beliefs, he'd left him to fucking die on his own because he couldn't stomach his truth.  The voice in his head, the one that sounded like his sister told him, he had to help him, the power was dangerous if you experimented.  "Remember how many times I had to heal you."

Nox sighed and headed for his make shift room for clean clothes and a shower as he pulled out his wallet and typed Ivan a reply.  "I'm free now.  Where do you want to meet?"

Today The Write Practice gave a prompt for Halloween - 6 word stories with a horror theme.  I started out with a simple one.

Quote:Locked Door.  No way out.  Help!

Quote:Missing girl.  Last seen with boyfriend.

Quote:Invisible claws sundered a silent scream.

Quote:Maniacal laughter. Severed head fell. Oops!

Hood was not a good man.

He was not one for 'doing favours' or going out of his way to help strangers. Or acquaintances. Not if there wasn't something in it for him. But if there was something in it for him, he could be convinced to go above and beyond the intent of the request.

Hence why he was sitting in a long-abandoned mini-aquifer, a level or two below the active sewer and city services tunnels, a shemagh wrapped around his head to hide his features from his 'guests.' Not that it much mattered. All three were tied to much sturdier chairs than his own, and the only one that mattered had a bag over his head.

What confusion the other two may have had that their boss had his head covered began to evaporate when Hood removed his shemagh. A subtle hint on who was likely to get to leave that water-damaged brick chamber.

One, a young twenty-something piece of shit, was already weeping before Hood pulled the piece of fabric from his face. The man's sobs only deepened.

The other was a tougher sort. Self-delusion, of course; ex-CCD military. Still had the haircut. Still wore the boots. Clothes were functional, durable; much like what Hood wore in fact. The delusion though, was that he wasn't near as strong, as untouchable, as he thought. That one just glared coldly, probably thinking he was being clever as he tried to twist and flex his wrists in an effort to break the zip-ties that held them together.

The third, with the bag over his head, was the only one that actually mattered. The sort of douche-bag stylish casual suit that self-important rich kids wore to whatever shit popular club-of-the-day where he'd spend more on booze and drugs in a single night than most people earned in a month. The sort of douche-bag grease-stain that, if he saw something he wanted, he had people to get it for him. Cars, gadgets, people.

That one was the center piece of Hood's attention for the past few weeks. A sort of side-project, something to fill his free time. It certainly wasn't a challenge, and there was no big paycheck waiting the results.

Just an old bag lady that had rather rudely barged into his house one morning screaming at him in Russian. Hood didn't recycle. He didn't need the money, didn't care about the environment. But he did leave his recyclables on his porch. It was always better if your neighbors liked you (and respected you enough to leave you alone and not ask questions). The old bag lady was the one who tended to take his bottles.

He didn't lock his doors when he was at his house. His security system warned him well enough in advance that she was coming. And if anyone wanted to barge in and ruin his day, they weren't likely to leave on their own two feet.

The old bat didn't speak a word of English; a remnant of an older time. There were still a few, too stubborn or poor to learn another language. One of many that had slipped through the system's cracks. Considering how many people eked out a living under Moscow's streets, there were quite a few cracks in the system.

Luckily for her, he was fluent in Russian.

A simple demand. Not a request, not a favour. Not that she offered any payment either. Just a demand.

Kill the monsters that had killed her granddaughter. Not that the girl was any saint herself; an escort. The seedy sort. Drugs, prostitution, a criminal file. Not a saint. But she, like everyone really, was someone's child. Someone's mother, father, brother, sister. Whatever.

She'd run afoul of the douche-canoe in the suit, who now found himself sitting in an old aquifer well below the city's streets. His suit stained with blood, only some of which was his own. His pants soaked with urine. His own, plus whatever had soaked into the fabric while Hood had dragged the idiot down there.

She'd ended up in an illegal brothel. One mostly populated by the illegal immigrants that lived under the streets. That didn't exist as far as the government cared. Easier to ignore it as long as they didn't become too big a problem. And hell, it did help keep a lot of the human-trafficking kind of crime away from the city's tax-paying population.

Why had he done it? Why bother doing what some old homeless bag-lady demanded of him? Why waste ammunition and time, both far more valuable than the lives of the people he had killed up to that point, on something that didn't concern him? Had no impact on his life? Hell, there hadn't even been a risk of their activities drawing the police into his neck of the woods, not like the idiots that had thought to hide one of their trafficking projects in his part of town.

“Because I was bored, mostly.”

The answer to the babbling, weeping fool's most repeated question. 'Why are you doing this?'

It certainly wasn't what he had wanted to hear, and his weeping bawling pants-shitting fit just ratcheted up a notch. The other one just continued to glare and work at his bindings. At least until Hood waggled a finger towards him while still looking at the weeping druggy. “Same reason I'm probably going to leave that one alive. Blind, deaf, mute. Quadriplegic. But alive. Snip a few tendons. Break a few bones. Don't need to break any, of course. The tendons will do the job. Then I'll make sure he doesn't die. Leave him with the immigrants. Maybe pay one to keep feeding him. Keep him alive.”

It was his tone. The look in his eyes. When he looked at the ex-soldier, the man knew. A sudden dawning of realization that Hood would do everything he had just, because...because he was bored. It wasn't personal. It wasn't even really because of anything the ex-soldier had done. It was just because Hood knew it would be a fate worse than death, and was just bored enough to follow thru on it.

Hood stood then, walked behind the three seated men, and dragged a table over into their view. All sorts of tools sat on that table. Crude things, mostly. A box of nails and a hammer. A few bottles of industrial disinfectants...he didn't want them dying of an infection, after all. A subtle implication of just how long he expected to play with them. Pliers, a propane torch. Car batteries...good ones. Quality ones. Not some knock-off brand.

He was a professional, after all. Didn't want to use a recycled battery that might not have a full charge.

And, most curiously, a transmitter, that was attached to those batteries.

“I'm going to start with you though.” His focus returned to the addict. The one that had turned the old bag lady's grandchild into a cheap escort. Too bad; the girl would have been gorgeous if she had been born into any other family, probably. Hell, she'd probably have done very well in the same line of work if she'd just had better contacts first.

He picked up the first bottle of disinfectant, poured it into a bowl. Pulled his jacket off to reveal the body armour underneath. A pair of durable latex gloves. Then dipped a nail in the bowl. “Oh, you're probably wondering why your hand hurts, Mr Bolevsky. It's because I cut your tracker out. It's plugged into a signal booster, so your father can find you when I'm all done here. He'll probably send his best men to get you. Well, his second best...” a disapproving glance at the ex-soldier “...and I'll go pay him a visit. Just to have a talk. I have some very interesting things to tell him about your plans for inheriting the family business.”

-----

It took longer then he had expected for the douche-bag's father to get his people together. By the time a warning popped up on his Landwarriors, he had long dismissed the idea of keeping the pitiful sack's bodyguard alive. The loser wasn't worth the money, no matter how amusing it would have been.

The douche-bag had nearly drowned on his own vomit at one point. Pathetic. He couldn't even see what was happening. He could smell it, sure. Hear it, obviously. Probably a result of an over-active imagination. Impressive, considering how unimaginative the fool seemed to be in regards to his own mortality and possible repercussions of his actions.

Not the point though. By the time his Landwarriors had warned him that there were people approaching, trying to track the signal from the idiot's tracker, he had long finished with the druggy wanna-be pimp and had been taking his time on the ex-soldier.

Time up, he'd cleaned up a bit, put his shemagh back on, and pulled the bag off the idiot wanna-be crime lord's head. Let him get a good look at what Hood had done to the pair over the past two hours. The ex-soldier was still alive; would be when their friends arrived. Wouldn't be much long after though.

He'd decided he wouldn't bother visiting the idiot's father in person. Not that it would have been all that hard, but because it just wasn't worth the effort. He'd insulted the man enough, but the evidence that his own son had been planning to kill the father and take over would probably be enough to keep the old fool from trying to hunt Hood down.

It didn't take him long to get back to street level, where his old-model cellphone received a signal again. A quick glance indicated he had a new message; his day job, a new contract offer. Security analysis for some politician's new estate. Simple enough, a few days work. Someone that owed the company favours for past work. Well, it would help kill some time until something interesting came up.

Phone tucked away, he made his way into the subway and pondered what to do for supper.

The party had been interesting to say the least.  What had been planned as a fun event had been full of monsters and channelers and the like.  Emily for one, was glad to be home.  She was equally glad for the man that held her.  She hadn't known love before.  Of course she loved her parents and her sisters, but romantic love was a new feeling for Emily, and it had come out of nowhere.

Emily had known from the instant she had met Jared that she had loved him.  She felt as if she had loved him even before they had met.  It was a strange feeling.  She had never read about that sort of thing in any of the fairy tales or stories.  She sat on the couch with Jared - well, really she sat on Jared who was sitting on the couch - and his arms were wrapped around her.  She felt safe there. Safer than she had ever felt.

They hadn't said much since they had returned to Emily's place, but she felt they hadn't needed to.  Emily sighed contentedly as she leaned her head into Jared's shoulder.  She saw his arm move, his hand taking her jaw and turning her head as he gave her a light kiss. It wasn't their first, and the passion in it didn't come for the pressure of the kiss or the length.  It was ethereal, but it was definitely there.

Emily smiled as they broke it off. "I love you," the words came unbidden and without fear from her lips.

Jared smiled, but didn't answer right away.  She knew the answer - she knew he loved her too, but why did he hesitate.  He surely wasn't worried about her reaction. "And I love you." he said, smiling and kissing her again.

Emily sank into it wondering about his hesitation.  "Is something wrong?" she asked, when their kiss had ended.

"No," Jared said, smiling. "It's really the opposite...It's..."

The meds worked pretty well. Not like he still didn't hurt, but it wasn't bad. Well, maybe not as bad. He coulda taken a few more tabs but...he wanted to be lucid. And pain worked as well as any stim for that. Three of his ribs were fractured so clearly he would't be running around anytime soon; jaw nearly broken; Nu-skin covering slashes and bites itching something fierce; concussion that still made him see double at times; lip split in a number of places; a couple of broken knuckles; a broken toe; and everywhere else deep black and blue bruises covering him. 

It had been a good fight.

At least he hadn't broken his nose or lost any teeth. And thankfully, his eye was not swollen anymore- although maybe it was a shade darker that it should be. Not that he'd put on make up to cover it.


Thank God for modern medicine. He coulda done without the lecture from the doc. Her frowns made him smirk, though of course he regretted it, what with the lips and jaw and all. Her look said it served him right. And it probably did.

The Cap'n was worse. Ivan just told him it had been a fight club thing. The man tore him a new one before putting him on the DL for the time being. It was stupid of him, he knew. He had a job to do. And he would do it. But still. he didn't regret it. It had been good for him.

And truthfully, Ivan looked forward to hanging out with Ryker again. No more fighting like that. No. But it was fun all the same. Something had changed. What it was, Ivan wasn't sure. Well, nothing really had changed. Ascendancy was still the same pompous ass who allowed and even used corruption as a tool in his empire; Yun Kao was still out there holding his family over his head; Zoya was still gone; and Danya and Zara....

Ivan stood at the door of her apartment, his stomach fluttering. He took a deep breath, appreciating the sharp pain that came from his complaining ribs. It was funny. He'd had no fear getting into the ring with that man. He'd had no fear when the woman held him with the power, used it to dig into his wounds. But now....at the prospect of seeing Zara, fear paralyzed him.

His arm weighed two hundred pounds it seemed, as he tried to raise it to knock. He clenched his jaw and stab of agony lanced through him. Not broken, but definitely had been put out of joint. The resetting had been bad.

"Coward," he whispered to himself. He knocked and the door opened. The sweet smell hit him in the face and he inhaled sharply. Suddenly he was 19 again. And Danya had surprised him with dinner. Some sort of Persian stew her mother used to make. Despite himself, his heart opened for a moment, allowing himself to remember, to feel what he had felt, what had been walled off for all these years. God he missed her.

And there she stood, blonde streaked hair pulled back in a pony tail, white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Nothing had changed. She looked at him curiously, her smile fading as she took in his injuries. "Hi Danya," was all he said before she hugged him- and then he breathed sharply through clenched teeth as his entire body protested.

She pulled back, concern painting her face. "Oh! I'm sorry." She looked at him, studying, then stepped aside so he could enter. Pain colored her words. "Oh Ivan, what did you do?" It was more chiding than anything else.

And he didn't feel like talking about it. Not with her. He felt stupid enough as it was. He tilted his head briefly and tried to give a halfhearted smile. "I just fell down. That's all." She looked at him for a moment, raising an eyebrow and one side of her lips in a smile. Then she shrugged, not pressing the issue. She knew him.

He looked around. It was as he remembered. The brown leather couch covered in different colored pillows; the plush blue chair opposite it, zebra print pillow on it; thick patterned carpet on the floor; lamp in the corner with a red and gold gauze cloth draped over it; mix of prints on the wall, some from her homeland, Iran, and others of people or script that he remembered was Farsi; a low table in between the the couch and chair. He looked over at the kitchen. An easel was near the wall, a half finished black and white painting on the canvas. There was green tea pot, as well as another on the stove giving off the aroma he remembered so well, meat and onions and cinnamon and the sweet of carrots.

But there were differences too. Childish drawings covered the refrigerator. And amid the music or art or travel books on the table were children's books. He recognized one of them, The Illustrated Book of Russian Fairy Tales. Another of Persian stories. And he saw toys in a couple of places.

He looked back at Danya. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was a mother. She had become a mother.

And I am a father.

He looked at her, smiled weakly, the butterflies returning. "Thank you for...well, just...thank you." Her smile warmed him- and cut him. Maybe we can...- he stopped that line of thought. He was not here for her. He couldn't open those doors again. Boundaries. He need to keep it light. Going down that road again...no. He just couldn't.

She nodded, but kept her distance. She knew what he was thinking. She always did. She didn't want to give him false hope. Her kindness cut his heart. "I want her to know her father. You're a good man Ivan." Her smile fell as she looked at his bandaged knuckles, saw how he moved, took in the cuts on his lip and the slight bruising under his eye, replaced it with a small frown, deep brown eyes filling with concern. Softly, "You deserve some happiness. Clearly."

She took a breath as if to clear the mood. Walls again. Damn her and her walls. "Anyway, I made your favorite stew. It's Zara's too." She paused, looking at him with a hopeful encouraging smile. "Ready?"

He took a deep breath, ignored the pain, and smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I'm ready."

A dull rain pattered the ground soggy when Tristan pulled into the village. The temperature hovered above the freezing point during the day, sloshing rift-marks into mud-veins that crossed the village center. The only road that was paved in and out was the sole highway that stretched around the Westfjords like a noose. A few hours’ drive along it would take him to Ísafjörður, the de facto capital of the western peninsulas. A couple thousand people called it home, but there was also a hospital, library, even an airport. Ísafjörður was a city compared to the village in which Tristan found himself. Half a day’s walk from his house (a quarter day’s walk by horse & cart assuming all went well), placed him square into the arms of Flateyri.

Flateyri was a fishing village hundreds of years old. More trade filtered in and out by sea than by land, yet the population never swelled beyond a few hundred people. Tourists came through once in a while on their way to the cliffs to watch the puffins play at sunset. Otherwise, Tristan knew everyone. He waved at Svant, an older man that first taught him how to tie a fishing line, when he reined the horse in.
“Good to see you, Tristan,” Svant approached. He was solid and healthy looking as ever. He wasn’t a tree of a hulking man like Tristan’s uncle was, but he was strong as the rocks underfoot.
“You too, Svant.” He replied and let his horse loose into the fence. A little bag was slung over one shoulder, but his smile was warmer than the rest of him.
They clasped hands, but Svant was looking closely in the younger man’s eyes. “Look like you could use a hot drink. Come over?”
Tristan would never turn down drinks. They caught up on the walk to the fisherman’s house.