Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, March 1943

Wind and sand batter the windows as a sandstorm descends on Cairo. It’s the beginning of the khamsin season - fifty days of sandstorms throughout spring.

“Hate to be out in that,” a leading wren says, handing Emily Gower a coffee.

She nods, taking a sip and replies, “I’ll be driving in that. It’ll be fun.”

The wren gives a quizzical tilt of the head, then adds, “I guess so with your lot,” nodding at the parachutist badge on Emily’s uniform.

“Guess so,” she repeats back with a wry smile before turning to look out the window, watching the world turn an eerie red from the dust.

Emily hopes they’re in Cairo long enough to meet up with Edith. It’ll probably be the last time they’ll see each other for a long time. 

Five months feels like an eternity. Emily did ring up the old barracks to see where she was, and was told that Edith was in Tunisia, going between aid stations and hospitals. But she was due for leave soon, so maybe Emily’s luck will hold out.

The office doors open, with Second Officer Joyce-Frank and Major Carter file out. Emily stands at parade rest; ever the proper little sergeant. 

“Got the new marching orders, sir?” she asks.

“Yes, we’ll be meeting with the rest of the team shortly. Joyce-Frank will be navigating,” Carter answers.

Joyce-Frank turns to the leading wren, asking, “I trust you’ll have the General covered this afternoon, Moneypenny?”

“Of course ma’am,” the leading wren says with a nod.

“Very, good,” she then turns to Emily, “We have to pick up Petty Officer Mason; he’s staying at the Gezirah Palace Hotel. Then we’re going to the Maadi neighbourhood to meet everyone else.”

“Very well ma’am. Sir,” Emily replies, following out Carter and Joyce-Frank.

Emily is impressed with how Carter was able to not draw attention to himself. The uniform was decently new, tailored, clean, and had become rumpled rather quickly. Add to that a slouch to the shoulders and back (an apology for the new height), and a layer of Sahara dust, and one didn’t pay much attention. How many other officers coming back from the front looked just like Carter?

“You did very well,” Joyce-Frank says quietly to Carter.

“Well he was shuffled out of there before I could do anything. Credit goes to Halloway,” he replies. Carter must have noticed the confused face Emily made and says, “Kenneth Crichton’s here. He’s supposed to be going to Tel Aviv tonight, though. So we shouldn’t worry.”

Emily nods and continues to follow. She collects the car, brings it round while coughing up half a lung from the dust. She takes their briefcases, placing them in the boot. Carter opens a door for Joyce-Frank before climbing into the front passenger seat.

As Emily was just about to climb in herself, she spots a figure in a first floor window. A gaunt man with ginger hair and an impeccable uniform. He had a look so cold it sent a shiver up her spine. 

But for a split second, it’s strangely transfixing. 

A gust of wind catches her. She shields her eyes and makes her way to the driver’s side. On impulse, Emily gives one last look at the window, and finds it empty.

It’s nothing, she tells herself as she climbs in and starts the car.

“You alright, Gower?” Carter asks when she turns over the engine.

“Just some sand in my eye, is all, sir.”

Between giving directions, Joyce-Frank asks Emily, “Have you been able to track down Edith?”

“Somewhat ma’am. I rang up the old barracks, they say she’s in Tunisia. But she’s to be on leave, soon” Emily answers.

Joyce-Frank leans back in her seat and sighs, “Well there’s still time. It’s only fair to warn her about Crichton.”

“He’s like a bad penny,” Carter concures. He lights up a cigarette, then after a moment asks, “I’ve been meaning to ask, Maddie, but have you heard anything about Roger?”

She hums, then answers, “No. I ran into his sister - Lydia, remember, she’s with the WAAF - Anyway, I ran into her recently. She said that he’d been shipwrecked on convoy duty and found himself in Colditz. But she hasn’t heard much since last spring.”

“Blast,” Carter mutters, leaning back in the passenger seat, then lets out a heavy sigh. 

Joyce-Frank reaches forward and grips his shoulder, “As long as he’s patient, and carefully plans, Roger will be fine.”

“I hope so,” he replies, squeezing Joyce-Frank’s hand.

Emily’s been told a little about Roger Aubrey. Carter’s known him since they were boys at Repton, then read French literature at Oxford, was an enthusiastic rower and fencer, and did some journalism before the war. Joyce-Frank does most of the regaling about their pre-war life, which comes off as a sort of endless summer from how she tells it. Carter’s been quiet about Aubrey, and from what she’s gathered, their relationship was at the very least complex.

“There’s the place, Gower,” Joyce-Frank says, indicating a long, three storey building with swaying palms in front, “Be a dear and let Petty Officer Mason know we’re here.”

“Yes ma’am,” Emily answers as she pulls up to the curb. She’s only briefly sandblasted as she enters the foyer of the hotel, once a royal palace. 

She asks for Mason at the reception desk and the concierge points to a man in naval whites sitting in a cane and rattan chair. He’s leaned his duffle bag against his chair, sits with cross legs, and picks at his nails.

“Petty Officer Mason?” Emily asks after crossing the room.

“Who’s asking?” he responds, looking up. Mason has light sand brown hair and very blue eyes.

“Sergeant Gower. Here to pick you up,” she answers, “Do you need help with your bag?”

Mason stands, saying, “No, I’ll be good.” He swings the duffle onto his shoulder. He’s tall and well built, and she notes a Scottish accent. Probably an athlete or outdoorsman in a previous life. Probably has girls swooning over him, though Emily’s more interested in the tattoo on his bicep. He looks down at her and says, “Right then! Lead the way, serg.”

They exit the hotel, Mason stows his duffle bag in the boot before climbing into the passenger seat next to Joyce-Frank.

“PO Patrick Mason! Glad to meet you in the flesh!” Joyce-Frank declares, “This is Major Falsworth,” Carter twists himself around and the men manage to shake hands. Then Joyce-Frank ends with, “And you’ve already met Sergeant Gower.”

Emily pulls away from the hotel as Mason asks, “Storm seems to be getting bad. You think we’ll make the meeting in time.”

“Don’t worry, Mason,” Carter replies, “Gower here is the fasting driver in the Hijaz. Not even God can stop her. Regardless of how many red lights He throws at her.”

She sighs and says, “Blow through a stop light in Alexandria and nobody bloody forgets.”

“It was more than that, Gower,” Carter says.

“It doesn’t count if you don’t get caught, and I was only caught once!”

That gets her a laugh as they cross the Khedive Ismail Bridge with it’s lion statutes to the eastern side of the Nile. She turns south, heading upriver to the leafy Maadi suburb. It’s mostly used to house the New Zealanders and the main interrogation centre for POWs. Joyce-Frank instructs Emily to stop at a cream coloured stucco house with terracotta roof and green shutters. 

Mason regards his watch, commenting, “Look at that. Ahead of schedule.”

“And not a copper in sight, sir,” Emily says to Carter. 

He responds, “You say that, and then some perturbed Gurkha’s going to show up with a speeding ticket.”

They step out and enter the relative shelter of the house just as the wind seems to speed up. The foyer is well appointed with European furniture and decoration with a few Egyptian details. More French villa than eastern seraglio. 

“Oh, y'all are early!” a man says, standing in the passageway to what looks like a sitting room beyond. He wears an American uniform and speaks with a twanging drawl. He’s of medium height, lean, with medium brown hair and light brown eyes.

“Yes,” Carter answers, “Would you happen to be Corporal Todd?”

“Yes, sir,” he replies.

“Good. Would you know where Captain Frank is?” Carter asks.

Todd looks somewhat embarrassed, and scratching the back of his head, answers, “Captain Frank’s upstairs taking a shower, sir. Just came from the desert, apparently. Didn’t know you’d be here so soon.”

“Typical Robby,” Carter mutters, then adds while handing Emily his briefcase, “Gower, that parlour behind Todd will work for us. The Second Officer and myself will fetch Captain Frank.”

“Very good, sir,” she replies with a nod and turns to pass Corporal Todd.

The parlour has an assortment of couches, chairs, and tables, among which Emily places the briefcase on a gaming table.

“So are you some sort of ‘Girl Friday’ for the Major?” Mason asks, settling into an armchair.

She’d make a face, but schools herself before answering, “I assist the Major. And I am a bit of a chauffeur if I’m honest. Along with mechanical duties and a few other specialized skills.”

“Right,” Mason replies, “Just curious ‘cause I’ve never seen a secretary with a parachutist badge.”

Todd interjects, “Well I’ll be, little missy’s got jump wings.”

“As I said: I have other specialized skills that are rather helpful, like close quarters combat and marksmanship,” she answers, then turning to Todd, “And you’ve got dust on your jump wings, cowboy.”

He briefly looks down at his chest, causing Mason and Emily to laugh. And thankfully Todd joins in.

“Damn, and I’d thought she’d be some sort of stick in the mud!” Todd exclaims.

“No, they don’t install the rod up the arse until later. Anyway,” replies Mason, standing up and extending his hand, “We should properly introduce ourselves. Pat Mason, Royal Navy.”

She takes his hand, “Sergeant Emily Gower, ATS.”

“Corporal Mark Anthony Todd, US Army.”

“Robby, dear, do put on some trousers, we have company.”

Maddie has rarely bothered with knocking before entering a room. This was no exception and given that Robby was her husband, Michael is less surprised than would be expected to see his friend naked from behind. That and his time in a British public school conditioned him to expect a certain lack of privacy. 

The couple embraces as Robby barely gets his skivvies and trousers on. “But it’s been so long, sweetheart. I’m of half a mind to tell everyone to piss off,” he practically growls between kisses.

“Including your old friend?” Michael asks. He’d hung back, leaning against the doorframe. It let Maddie distract Robby, who had no clue about him being here. Let alone being alive, it seems.

Robby looks up bewildered. Green eyes wide. He looks back down at Maddie, saying “I thought he was…”

“So did I,” she says, kissing her husband once more. Michael does consider giving them half an hour alone. But they finally come apart and Robby sweeps him into what used to be a bone cracking hug. Robby’s easily over six feet and over fourteen stone, with a face that looked like it was stomped by football boots, which made him an ideal number eight on the Oxford Rugby team. Michael still cannot see his friend in the periwig and court robes of a lawyer.

“God damn, didn’t think I’d see you again!” Robby exclaims, “And when did you get so big?”

“Long story,” he replies, clapping Robby on the back, “Tell you about it later. In the meantime you should probably put a shirt on.”

“There is work to be done,” Maddie reminds him, “Also, Michael’s going by ‘Brian Falsworth’ for the time being.”

“Yes, dear,” he replies while moving to a suitcase and picking out a clean shirt and vest. Robby gets a thoughtful look after a moment, saying, “Sort of wish Roger and Edie were here. It would be like old times.”

Maddie gives a half smile, replying, “With some arrangements and luck, we might be able to meet up with her.”

“She’s here?” Robby asks.

“Yes, according to Sergeant Gower - you’ll meet her soon, she’s downstairs, absolute peach - Edie’s an ambulance driver with FANY out here and maybe going on leave soon,” She explains.

If Michael and Edie aren’t careful, he’s concerned that Maddie might snatch Emily out from under them. Instead he adds, “Gower and Edith know each other. Rather intimately.”

“Oh! Didn’t see that one happening,” Robby says, with a note of surprise, then adds with seriousness, “And did Maddie tell you about Roger?”

“Yes, I just found out,” Michael answers. A little quickly, honestly.

Robby and Maddie give him a sympathetic look. 1938 hadn’t been a good year. Maddie had gotten ill, and Robby later said there’d been a miscarriage. Then Edie ran off, sending two postcards - from Istanbul and Budapest - to let them know she was alive. Didn’t say what she was doing, but there was at least something. And Michael and Roger couldn’t hold a civil conversation for a few months after, and called it quits. 

In the early days of 1939, Michael and Roger were at least back on speaking terms. By summer they were planning that Middle Eastern adventure. As friends, strictly speaking, but it was far better than nothing.

“Roger’s stronger than he looks,” Maddie reassures, “We’ll see him soon. I’m assured of this.”

“Right,” Michael mutters, sucks in a breath, then says to Robby, “We’re having the briefing in the parlour downstairs. We’ll get you introduced to Gower and Mason. I guess you already know Todd?”

Robby finally starts buttoning up his shirt, “Yes! Interesting chap. Knows quite a bit about caving and explosives. Should be good fun.”

Michael spreads out a map on the gaming table, keeping a few files to the side. He sits down at the head with Maddie on his right and Robby to his left, and Emily, Mason, and Todd gathered around the other end.

“There are two islands in Greece that are causing us a lot of trouble recently,” he opens the briefing, pointing on the map between Rhodes and Kos, off the Turkish coast, “The one to the south is Aithinis, which has a radar station. To the north is Fidonisi, which we believe to have a U-Boat station that is either nearing construction or recently completed. Further, on Aithinis is a team of commandos who are in desperate need of rescue.”

A few glances are shared as a gust picks up outside. The sun is setting, turning the sandy haze red with it’s fading light.

Michael takes out a photo from one of the files, “This is an aerial taken from the eastern side of the island showing construction activity,” he sends the photo around the table for all to see. “The reason for the focus on Fidonisi is twofold: firstly the Germans still want the Turks to side with them. And if it takes intimidation to do so, they will. Secondly, not only does this base make any rescue of the commandos impossible, the Germans are poised to wreak havoc on our shipping.”

“So is our job to soften up this base, sir?” Mason asks.

“Indeed,” he answers, “Destroy if we can.”

Todd asks, “And the radar station?”

“If I may,” responds Maddie, “German radar is a bit more rudimentary than ours. And the commando team had been tasked with taking out the station. It seems like they did damage it before they went into hiding, so who knows how long it’ll take to repair the station if it hasn't yet.”

“Thank you, Joyce-Frank,” Michael says, sliding over another file, “And this is where we come in.” He opens the file, and reads out, “Petty Officer Patrick Mason, Special Boat Service.”

Mason nods with a quiet “sir.”

“Your job is mainly to get us on and off the Fidonisi. Along with mountain climbing and your exceptional marksmanship. I also understand that you speak Greek as well.”

“Yes,” he replies, “My mother is Greek. From Naxos originally.”

“Very good. The more Greek speakers, the better we can keep up our legend,” Michael says, turning over Mason’s page, “Sergeant Emily Gower will be joining us as our wireless operator. She also speaks German like a German, is a trained mechanic, driver, and an excellent fighter.”

Michael knows that Robby is amiable to most things, and will go along with Emily’s presence. The little bit of steel in his voice is meant for Mason and Todd. Gauging from their reactions, they’ll at least not say anything now. The last thing he wants is accidentally undermining her position.

 He moves on, “Corporal Mark Todd is on loan to us from the OSS. Trained at Camp X, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Todd replies.

“Read engineering at the University of Kentucky. Specialized in mining and metals, on top of being something of an expert in explosives,” continues Michael.

Todd gives a mischievous grin, answering, “I mean, makin’ pipe bombs and exploding rocks and rotten trees is some of the best fun you can have where I’m from.”

Bit of a snicker goes around the table. So it seems like the group’s in good spirits. That was promising.

“Good to know, Todd,” replies Michael, then continues, “Captain Robert Frank will be acting as second in command. He’s also an experienced mountain climber, and our planned route requires some cliff climbing. On top of that, he speaks Greek as well.”

“To be fair, mine is more ancient than modern,” Robby says.

“Better than nothing,” Maddie replies.

Michael continues, “Indeed, and I doubt your average German soldier can tell the difference, anyway. Which leads me to Second Officer Madeline Joyce-Frank. She won’t be coming with us, but she will be taking care of our logistics and acting as our ‘home base’ in Bodrum.”

She nods, adding, “I’ll need lists of everything you’ll need. Even the more unconventional things.” Then looking up at the others, says, “Aside from costumes, we can also arrange for salon visits. There aren’t many blonds in Greece after all.”

Emily looks down for a second, and Michael asks, “Will you be alright dying your hair, Gower?”

“I’ll be fine, sir. It’s only hair. I’ll cut it if I have to,” Emily replies. Her expression stony and not giving anything away.

He turns to Robby, who sports a head of dirty blond hair himself, asking, “And you Frank?”

“‘Course,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “As Gower says, it’s only hair.”

“Good to hear. But that being said,” Michael says. He brings out another map, this one of Fidonisi itself, “The general plan is to land at or around Cape St. Demetria. The south side of the island is rather uninhabited as that’s where the direction the smoke from the volcanic caldera is usually blown. There are two monasteries - Saint Elias and Panagia Spilliani - on that side. Otherwise it appears that the Germans do not pay much attention to it.”

“The island’s volcanic, sir. Should we be worried?” asks Todd.

Maddie answers, “The last major eruption was in 1888. It has been known to smoke from time to time and the area is prone to earthquakes. But nothing too bad has happened in a while.”

“In other words, volcanic activity is something we should be mindful of, but unlikely to give us many troubles,” Michael states.

“And what sort of boat are we using to get to Fidonisi?” Mason asks.

“Joyce-Frank is arranging for the sale of a fishing boat. It’s wood, so it shouldn’t be picked up on radar and it’ll be a common enough site to be beneath notice,” Michael answers.

Mason looks off into middle distance while fidgeting with his nails, more voicing a thought than stating for the group, “Sirocco winds will be starting up around now. Could be rough sailing.” Looking up, Mason asks, “Not to sound impertinent, sir. But do any of you have actual sailing experience?”

Emily and Todd shake their heads, and Michael shoots a quick glance at Robby. Sucking in a breath, he admits, “Captain Frank and myself did spend a few weeks on a small sailing yacht…”

Robby awkwardly clears his throat, and mutters, “That was a few years ago, though.”

“I guess, some of us will be getting a crash course in sailing,” Mason says. The look on his face, however, was that of a man realizing his doom at the hand of incompetence. 

Maddie tries to reassure Mason by saying, “It will take about a day to get to Fidonisi, and your target for extraction is closer. The Datça Peninsula near Marmaris.”

“I’ll take your word for it ma’am,” Mason says, still looking nervous.

“Be assured,” Michael adds, “that this is an extremely important mission and we will take our transportation seriously. I believe I speak for everyone that we’d prefer to get onto the island, and hopefully off it, alive. I have every confidence in you, Mason, and I promise,” Michael looks at the rest of the table, “We will not disappoint you.”

Mason nods, looking up from his hands, responding with, “Thank you, sir.”

After a moment, Robby asks, “So what’s the timeline for this mission?”

“We will be leaving at dawn the day after tomorrow, flying to Cyprus, then Bodrum,” Michael answers, “Once we have our boat, we have about seven days to complete the mission.”

“Seven days? Are you sure that’ll be enough, sir?” Gower asks.

He looks over at her, replying, “It should be enough to, at the very least, damage and disable that U-Boat station long enough to get those commandos off Aithinis.”

“Right, sir.”

With that, Michael closes a file folder, declaring, “Alright, departure time is 0430 hours from the air strip on Sunday. Prepare yourselves tomorrow. Understood?”

A round of “yes” is made and the briefing is broken up for the day. 

Maddie scribbles an address on a scrap of paper, handing it to Michael. “I need to make a few calls, but come to this hotel, dinner’s at seven o’clock. Emily’s invited.”

“Have a surprise planned?” he asks.

“Hopefully.”

He pockets the paper, and clasping Robby’s hand, says, “It’s good seeing you, again. But I will leave you two to catch up.”

“You, too, Michael,” Robby looks at Maddie adoringly, “Got a lot of catching up to do. But, I, for one, can’t wait to work with you.”

Michael leaves Maddie and Robby. He’s got all day tomorrow to put the final touches to the plan. He’s going to let himself relax this evening. 

Maybe the spectre of Roger won’t come up again.

In the foyer, he turns to Mason and Todd, asking, “Do you need a lift to your quarters?”

“That would be much appreciated, sir,” Todd answers.

“Right then,” Michael says, “Come along, Gower, we have dinner with the Franks this evening.”

“Yes sir,” she says, walking ahead to fetch the car. 

The wind’s slowed down a bit, but the street is covered in a dusty red haze. Among the many things Michael has noticed about his enhanced body is his sharpened senses. He can smell minute particles of petrol and dung. The odd taste of salt. He detects a strange buzzing noise to his left and turns.

For the briefest moment, Michael sees a formless shadow, roughly the height of a man standing next to a fence post. His hackles go up, instinctively.

There’s another gust and he ducks into the car, slamming the door behind him. Michael glances up, searching for the shadow. But sees nothing.

“Everything alright?” Emily asks, starting the car.

“Yes,” he replies quietly, “Everything’s fine.”

She gives him a sidelong look as she pulls away.

It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. He’s just being paranoid. His mind playing tricks.

There’s never such a thing as being too cautious in this business after all.

Chapter Text

Cairo, Egypt, March 1943

The food is delicious. The settings a slice of Paris in the desert. And despite Maddie’s best efforts, Edith Harker doesn’t show up. 

They make a good effort, but the Franks eventually leave and Emily and Michael find themselves at a café she used to frequent. They sit at a table with a half-full ash tray and a bottle of surprisingly decent Lebanese wine. There’s cane and rattan furniture, checked tablecloth, cream coloured walls, and a record player playing sad French songs. Rather atmospheric.

Not that the wine affects Michael. His metabolism works too fast now. At least it tastes somewhat like a Bordeaux.

“It was a long shot, I guess,” Emily concedes, pushing around her glass.

“Gave it a good try,” he replies in an attempt at optimism.

She looks down at the table cloth, resting on her head in her hand. And the look on her face is one of resigned disappointment. Poor girl. 

“What was she like at Oxford? Edith?” she asks after a long pause.

Despite himself, he panics and evades with, “Oh, I think Maddie’s given an accurate picture. Excellent memory.” 

“Yes, but you hardly speak of that time and I value your opinion,” she says, clearly trying to get him to talk, “How’d you meet?”

Michael steeples his hands, recalling the order of events - it’s been close to ten years - then answers, “Rugby. Robby and I played for the same club. Then I met Maddie, Maddie met Robby at our matches and she’d bring Edith along. They were roommates. Then Maddie started sneaking Robby into the dormitory...”

“They were always that bad?” Emily interrupts. When they showed up at the restaurant, Maddie and Robby had the terrible afterglow of good sex. 

“Worse,” Michael says with a wry laugh, “Poor Edith was often locked out of their room so she spent a lot of time with Roger and I. Helps that she and Roger had overlapping interest in Romantic literature - his French and Edith’s German and a bit of Russian.”

Emily swallows the last of her wine. “Bit of an odd man out, were you?”

“Not that bad,” he says, “Lots of themes and motifs in Romantic literature originated in late Antiquity and were brought over to Europe during the Crusades. And I specialized in Byzantine history.”

“Oh,” she says, “So I’m assuming you know Greek because of that.”

He nods, “Ancient and Modern. I try not to be the typical ‘Englishman abroad’ you see.”

“Understandable,” she replies, “Did you do anything else other than talk history and literature?”

“Played quite a bit of tennis. She’s very good and we used to flip a coin to decide who partnered with her. Never wanted to be on the receiving end of her serve,” Michael answers. 

It brings back the memory of warm summer days, cut grass, and cool lemonade. A fantasy now if there ever was one. Everything seemed so simple then. But there was a sense of living on the edge of a volcano. One is happy in the moment, but always with a sense of unease in the background. 

Or that’s hindsight talking. One must be careful about that.

“How much did Edith tell you about herself?” Michael asks. He’ll admit to being sparse in details about his own history, but Emily rarely asks, and he doesn’t pry into her story.

“Not a lot,” she answers, “I knew that she doesn’t get on with her family. She got really upset when talking about her parents. Mum died when she was young and her dad seemed a right bastard. Close to her grandmother, though.”

“About right,” he says. Maddie had told Roger and himself about the phone call between Edie and her father that devolved into a hair curling screaming match, a slammed telephone, and a lot of tears. 

“So how does Crichton fit into this?” Emily asks suddenly.

Michael looks up, caught off guard. “I thought Maddie would have told you?”

She shakes her head, “No. Not really. Said he was an obsessive, wouldn’t leave Edith alone. Nothing more than that.”

He sighs. It’s not a fun story. “It all happened before the rest of us met Edith properly. She had gone out to lunch with Crichton out of politeness rather than actual interest. Got a bad feeling from him and declined seeing him again, which the little worm took offence to.”

“So he followed her around?” 

“Unfortunately. And the university wouldn’t do anything. So we did our best to keep her safe. And it helped that Robby’s a giant and could back up any threat.”

They’re silent for a while as Lys Gauty sings J’attends un navire from the record player on the bar.

Quietly, Emily asks, “Did she run off because of Crichton?”

Michael has gone over many times why Edith disappeared. Why did she only send the postcards from Istanbul and Budapest? She’d never been a bolter like that. And Crichton had gone to Romania before Edith left. 

There were some odd rumours about her family being a bit strange. They weren’t helped by old Quincey’s association with the Van Helsings. And Crichton was curious about the relationship.

So he answers, “I don’t know. There were a few questions about an incident early in her grandfather’s career. But she never said why. And events were moving so fast.”

“At least she wasn’t caught up somewhere she shouldn’t have been,” Emily replies, “Having been in the lion’s den, I tend to believe the refugee stories.”

Michael hums in agreement, then reaches for the wine bottle. Lifting it to the light, he figures there’s enough for one last drink. He paid full price for it, so he may as well get his money’s worth.

He asks, as he tops off Emily’s glass, “Have you written to your family recently?”

Emily doesn’t answer. Instead looking away shame faced.

“Sergeant Gower, does your mother and father even know you’re in Egypt?”

“Yes,” she answers, a little petulant, “I told them before I left.”

He takes a swallow of wine, then asks, “That was last year. Have they heard from you since?”

She looks down at the table. That’s a “no” if he’s ever seen one.

“What would I even tell them?” Emily asks, barely above a whisper.

Good question. There’s not much she can say, though it’s not likely to be believed anyway. Michael feels a bit of a hypocrite in the moment, however, giving her an earful when his own family thinks he’s dead and he hasn’t bothered to rectify that. He tries to excuse himself with a belief that his letters would be censored into nonsense or conveniently “lost” in the post. Emily’s got a better chance at communication with the outside world.

So Michael gently takes her wrist, saying, “Tomorrow, you’ll buy a postcard, address it to your family, and tell them you’re alive. You do not need to say more than that if you don’t want to.”

She huffs and mutters, “Right before we step off. Could be dead before it gets home.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

Emily is awoken to the sound of static, like the sound of a record player before the song starts. She feels a pressure on her chest, like a hand holding her down. She tries moving, but finds her limbs numb; almost painfully so. Like when one sits on their foot for too long.

The static sound turns into indistinct whispers too close to her ears. She senses to her left, a presence. Panic swells in her chest. 

Breathing becomes difficult. 

Something flickers in and out of her peripheral vision. Moving as if it’s trying to climb onto the bed.

She tries crying out, but nothing more than a strangled squeak is made. A sooty black figure comes into view. Emily can’t make out any defining features. Just a shadow in the vague shape of a person. 

She tries fighting back, but she finds it impossible to move her limbs. It feels like someone is placing their entire weight on her chest. She’s going to die.

Emily starts feeling lightheaded. Her vision narrows. The shadow shifts. She feels a particular pressure on her left shoulder, like a mouth pressing a kiss that’s about to turn into a love bite. 

Finally, Emily lets out scream as the pressing sensation turns to the sharp pain of needles piercing her skin.

She wakes up panting, staring at the ceiling. Instinctively, Emily reaches for her shoulder. She feels two small bumps, like deep pimples, and a little wetness that she thinks is blood.

There’s a knock at the door, followed by Carter asking, “Emily, are you alright?”

In a burst of action, she turns on the light, blinded for a few seconds before stumbling for her housecoat. At the door she slides the security and quickly opens the door, letting in cooler air from the corridor. She finds Carter standing in a vest and trousers and a concerned look on his face.

“I’m fine sir,” Emily blurts out too fast and panting. She just realizes that her heart is pounding in her chest.

“Well I heard some noises…” he trails off as an odd look passes over his face. 

Without so much as a by-your-leave, he moves the lapel of her housecoat from her left shoulder. “Go sit down.”

There’s not much arguing. She lets Carter in while she sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Was the window open?” he asks, moving to the sink to wet a face cloth.

“No. I kept it closed. Didn’t want dust getting in,” Emily answers.

He wrings out the face cloth saying, “Looks like a bite,” and handing the cloth to her, “I don’t need you getting an infection, let alone rabies, before we step off.”

“I know.”

She steps to the mirror above the sink. There are two small marks on her shoulder that look like pin pricks. She lathers up the soap and washes the spot. Already the puncture wounds are fading. 

“Did you scratch yourself?” Carter asks.

Emily shakes her head. She’s certain that did not happen. She searches her memory for what could have bit her, for she’s certain that she’d been awoken by something. Maybe it was just a bad dream. An odd shadow she thought was alive.

Just her imagination of something hovering over her, she tells herself as she clutches her shoulder.

A phantom feeling creeps over Emily as she sits down. It isn’t a tightness in her chest. It’s the pressure of someone on top of her. Of a whiskered cheek brushing hers as he growls sweet nothings that sound like threats in her ear. Of Hot breath on her neck and hungry wolf’s eyes. Of the terror of knowing exactly what he wanted. 

She wavers on her feet and if it weren’t for Carter, Emily’s sure she’d be on the floor. He lays her down.

“Do you remember something?” he asks. His voice is calm, but his face is concerned.

She shakes her head, laying an arm across her forehead. “No. It’s just,” Emily whispers, “Remember Malvagio, right?”

“How couldn’t I?” he replies. 

“Do you think there’s more like him? Like…” 

“Us?” 

He shifts on the narrow bed. When she looks up, she sees Carter hunched over in uneasy contemplation. His eyes are fixed on a point on the floor, but appear unseeing, his mind somewhere else. After a long pause, he answers, “I’m beginning to think that we have just scratched the surface of what our world truly holds. That there is far more in Heaven and Earth, Emily.”

Picking out a postcard at the hotel is the easy part, once the first stage of packing was done. Emily decides on the one of the Temple of Ramses II at Abu Simbel. Her family, or at the very least her younger sister, Olwen, will be delighted by the giant statues of the pharaoh. 

Writing out “Bethan and David Gower, Penceirw Farm, Trelewis, Wales” was surprisingly easy as well. Same with “Dear Mum, Dad and rest.” 

Emily is petrified by what else to write. Between the Official Secrets Act and a feeling she can’t really put a name to. 

What does she tell them? I’m fine and in Egypt. I work with interesting people. I’ve travelled on camels and seen the Pyramids. All of that seems trite and not what her parents would want to hear after a year of silence. A silence because she’d change so much.

Because the daughter who’d showed up on Midwinter night may as well have been a changeling. She knew it. Her parents knew. Everyone did. Being home was like being an intruder. A stranger in what had been familiar.

It hits her like lightning how much she misses home.

Emily keeps the message simple, but battles back tears as she finds the words. She says she’s well and working with good people, and that she loves and misses them. That she hopes to see them again under happier circumstances. 

She signs off and it takes everything to not create a scene. Because there’s two parts to what she feels. There’s a fear that this little postcard with it’s pathetic message will be the last thing from her. But after everything that’s happened, Emily doesn’t know if she truly has a home to return to.

So she swallows her sadness and fears and posts the card before darting into the laboratory. She takes an empty stall and lets herself have a good cry. It’s not pretty; her face feels hot and she has to blow her nose several times. Good thing she can’t afford mascara now, it would be all over her face. She has to stop getting into these states. Not because they’re unseemly, but because she simply has no time.

Speaking of which, Carter will be looking for Emily soon. They’re to go to some undisclosed location somewhere on the edge of Cairo and step off from there.

At the sink she soaks a towel in cold water and presses it to her face. It’s not like she had a lot of makeup to begin with. Just a thin layer of powder and lipstick. She isn’t quite confident to use kohl like the local women. And it won’t matter when she gets to Fidonisi, anyway.

The door opens and Emily barely acknowledges the woman walking in, dumping her suitcase on the floor. That is until she smells jasmine. She could write it off as the soap until Emily looks over at the woman.

Despite the dust and disheveled state, Emily would know Edith Harker anywhere. Auburn locks tossed into a wind-tousled bun, rolled beret stuffed under an epaulette, busy hands, and shifting cornflower blue eyes. Tall and elegant even with the shadows under her eyes.

“Edith?” 

She looks up, shocked. Edith doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches her hand out to touch Emily’s cheek.

“Good God am I dreaming?” Edith gasps.

Emily steps into Edith, replying, “It’s me, alright.” She presses her face into Edith’s chest, breathing in the scent of dust and jasmine and lipstick. Edith has a good half a foot on her. 

Edith wraps her arms around Emily, and pressing kisses into blonde hair, whispers, “I’ve been thinking about you every day. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same here.”

They kiss, slow and deep. Emily’s missed this, for sure, but she underestimated just how much. She’s really been out in the desert, hasn’t she?

Then she remembers that she doesn’t have a lot of time. And despite herself, there’s an opportunity.

“What’s wrong, love?” Edith asks when they part, sensing Emily’s uncertainty. 

She picks a tack, a clumsy one, but it’s better than nothing. Emily decides to be as honest as she can. And damn Official Secret. So she sits on the sink counter, and says, “I’m not here long. Leaving tonight, in fact.”

“I just get you back and you’re gone again,” Edith says, resting her head in the crook of Emily’s shoulder, “And I guess you can’t say where.”

“No,” she replies, noticing that the shoulder is the same that was bitten last night. Emily adds, “But I’m going in with Michael Carter and Robert Frank. And Madeline Joyce-Frank’s helping us.”

Edith raises her head with a look of utter bewilderment. 

Emily replies, “I know. It’s a small world I live in.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Edith asks. Those blue eyes were full of sadness. “There some sort of angle?”

She replies, “They’re worried about you. Haven’t heard from you in a long time. And Kenneth Crichton was here - he’s supposed to be in Palestine now - and they thought you should know.”

Edith doesn’t say anything at first. She looks down at the space between them, breath becoming ragged. “There’s always an angle,” she murmurs.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Edith says, “Neither of us are the most forthcoming.”

Emily takes Ediths hands, “If it’s any consultation, I’ll tell you my secrets when this is over.”

“I don’t care about secrets. I care about you coming back alive.” They look at each other for a moment. Tears prick Edith’s eyes as she says, “But I didn’t mean to bolt the way I did.”

“Why?” Emily asks.

“Because it goes back to Crichton and that stupid book,” she explains, “Friend of my grandparents had a book written about some events they were involved with. More fiction than reality. Grandmama still curses it, thinks it’s the worst thing Dr. Van Helsing did to us. Slandered my grandfather’s good name and Kenneth Crichton took it at face value.”

It’s Emily’s turn to be bewildered, “A book?”

Edith nods, “Dogged my life. Crichton thought I was somehow special because of it. Said I was lying when I didn’t have the answers he wanted. And caused me to question everything I knew. So the first opportunity I got I went east to investigate.”

“They could have helped,” Emily says, not knowing what else to say. What sort of book was this?

“I know. Especially with hindsight,” she replies, “Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble.”

Emily reaches out her hand to Edith’s cheek this time. “Was it Crichton?”

Edith shakes her head, answering with a shaking voice, “He was a catalyst, but I… I wanted answers. Didn’t expect to lose so much.”

She hates seeing Edith like this, distressed and sad. Emily hates that she’s the one who caused this. But she has to know. “Did you get your answers?”

“I did. And it cost me everything,” Edith whispers, swallowing back what appears to be sob.

“What do you mean?” Emily asks, trying to get Edith to look at her.

Edith takes a few breaths, steadying herself. Preparing to reveal something left buried. Emily knows that feeling too well.

“I didn’t leave alone. There was someone before you. A man… a very good man. The best of men. Rüstem Yıldırım. He didn’t deserve to die the way he did,” she looks up, tears welling up, “I had to give up our child.”

Now Emily starts tearing up again. Good Lord she hates crying. “Oh Edith, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Edith pulls her into a fierce hug. Emily can feel her gulping back sobs. “I didn’t know what to tell you, love. Nobody knows about Lucy. I couldn’t even tell my own grandmother. I just hope that she doesn’t hate me. That she doesn’t come to think that I didn’t want her.”

“Her name’s Lucy, right?” Emily asks, face pressed into Edith’s shoulder, feeling her heartbeat, “Is she safe?”

Edith nods, “I got word that she’s been sent to Istanbul. That’s all the people in Lucerne told me. I haven't been able to get into contact with Rüstem's Parents.”

“That’s good.”

They part a little, resting their foreheads against each other. Edith says, “Come back to me, please.”

“I’ll try,” Emily replies.

“Don’t try,” Edith says, almost commanding, “You have to come back. I can’t lose you, too.”

The mission is borderline suicidal. And even if they live, who knows how long the war will go on. But Emily pushes her doubts aside and makes a promise to Edith, “I’ll come back. Safe and alive, I swear. And we’ll be together, okay?”

Edith kisses her. It’s sweet and sad and Emily doesn’t want to leave now. They part, again, Emily wiping away her girlfriend’s tears with her thumbs.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Edith says with an unladylike sniff, “And remember, no matter what we’re meeting again in Istanbul.”

“At the Hagia Sophia, yes,” Emily confirms, taking in Edith’s angelic face.

“And tell the old gang I’m okay,” Edith adds, “And I’m sorry for bolting.”

Emily presses a kiss to Edith’s cheek, then replies, “I know they’ll understand. But I have to go now.”

“Good luck, Em.”

They kiss again. And the parting is far harder. 

But at least there’s answers, right.

Chapter Text

2000 Hours, Mediterranean Sea, 14 March, 1943

Despite everything. Despite training, and immersion, and learning how to jump out of the damned things, Mark Anthony Todd hates flying. Grandma Tilly always maintained that if the good Lord had intended man to fly, He’d have given us wings.

But no. They left earlier than expected. Barely packed and briefed when the pilots told them to get in the damned plane while the winds were calm. So Mark’s in the belly of a steel beast hurtling over the sea some time after 8 PM, and hoping against hope it don't go down. The contraption’s loud and the damned thing rattles periodically. And despite his best efforts, Mark squeezes his eyes shut.

“Little turbulence scarin’ you, laddie?” Mason more or less shouts from across the aisle.

“Never cotton on to flyin’, Mason. Man weren’t meant to fly!” Mark hollers back.

“Ha!” he laughs, “It’s but a wee jump across a pond. Nothin’ to be worried about. Right, Gower?”

“It’s a bigger jump than crossing The Channel, though,” Gower chimes in.

Mason looks over at her, incredulous, “What? You’re scared of a little flight too?”

She flashes a wicked grin, replying, “Absolutely not! I find it thrilling. Especially jumping out of them!”

Mark groans, but throws out, “I might not like flyin’, but I slept like a baby on the passage over from New York.”

“Good to know! A landlubber with sea legs!” Mason says, smacking Mark in the shoulder. It’s friendly enough, but does little to reassure him. Especially when they hit another pocket of turbulence.

If there’s one thing Mark’s learned over the past year and change, it’s that the Brits are all crazy. And Mark knows crazy. It’s how he didn’t get the shit kicked out of him by Willard Bishop when he had the audacity to talk to Sadie Callahan at junior prom. And Mark only did so to be friendly; didn’t like that she was stuck standing against the gym wall while Willard spiked the punch bowl with his friends. Girls weren’t really Mark’s thing anyway.

But the sort of crazy Willard Bishop had come from adolescent frustration and entitlement. The sort of craziness the Brits have is almost admirable. A sort of fearlessness and reckless lack of concern for personal safety. 

On his first day at Camp X, while working on a pretty easy assignment, a man bursts in running, pursued by two sergeants shooting blanks. No announcement. No warning. Didn’t even know it was blanks until they were told after completing the new assignment of accurately recalling the scene. Then there was the one sergeant who’d just walk around the training grounds like it was Hyde Park while they were firing with live weapons. Or the loon who liked to stuff plastiques and a time pencil into a fake rat then throw it into a bonfire that weren’t more than five feet away.

Mark has only known this group of Brits for a little over a day, so who knows how crazy this group will be. The officers seem alright. Major Falsworth - if that’s his real name; Mark’s got a feeling about it - is polite, civil, and at least a surface level realist. He’s holding his judgement for when they actually get into the shit. Captain Frank is excited for action, but doesn’t seem like a glory seeker. Then there’s Joyce-Frank, who seems to be the brains of the outfit. Or at least representing the interests in the higher up brains. She’s poised, calm, and patrician. And it’s abundantly clear that they have an extremely healthy marriage if the hour long disappearance and smudged lipstick before take off was any indication.

The now brunette Sgt. Emily Gower is nice, yet shy. She’s helpful and pulls her weight, and can hold her own in the way quiet and thoughtful people do. And she’s surprisingly strong to boot. Rather impressive given her waifish appearance. Gower hasn’t shared much about herself and Mark’s noticed an air of sadness about her, like she had to leave someone behind. At first he thought it was over a fiancé, or even a husband, judging by that ring on her finger. But then he’d seen an all too familiar look in her eyes. It’s very common in the hollers he’s from. The look of someone who’s had to grow up fast, experienced a lot - few of it good - and can’t really see the end of it. They’re ‘bout the same age, but she seems far older.

Finally, there’s Pat Mason. Mark likes Mason. Even when the man’s ribbing him. But that comes with the territory. Mason left school at sixteen, joined the Merchant Navy for a time, then went over to the Royal Navy at twenty, going in as a bosun. A peacetime navy didn’t offer much advancement, but did offer opportunities to learn new skills. Like mountain climbing, canoeing, and becoming something of an amateur boxing champion. 

And Mark believes it. Mason’s on the tall side, well built with lean muscles. His nose does look like it’s been broken a time or two, but it gives his face extra character. Not that it’s wanting for attractive features. It gives Mason a tough guy look, but your friend the tough guy. There’s a tattoo on the inside of his left bicep of a galley ship with a raven on its sail; a symbol of Clan Sinclair, a family he’s related to. There’s plans for further ones, like a sea turtle (shellback, he called it), maybe an anchor, too.

There’s that sharp pang of guilt, again. He’s just looking, Homer. And he probably won’t have much time for asking, anyway.

The plane shudders again, and Mark, once again, winces in fear.

2230 Hours, Bodrum, Turkey, 15 March 1943

The caïque was not the worst boat Pat’s ever seen; even in the low light of street lamps and torches. She had a new coat of paint on the hull - mostly white and orange-brown trim - the sails in good order, and she didn’t appear too worm eaten. Not too well kept to draw attention, but not so decrepit to sink. He does take heart seeing the evil eye painted on her prow. 

They’ve switched into civvies and hopefully they can pass for Greek fishermen. Gower’s hair’s been braided, pinned up, and shoved under a wooly hat, which makes her look like a fairly passable boy. It helps that for someone of her size, Gower’s got a raspy contralto. Hopefully it sticks long enough to get past any Kriegsmarine patrol. Hopefully they’ve packed everything in such a way to not draw suspicion.

“We managed to get this one loaned to us from the Levant Flotilla. So there’s an engine and a radio,” Joyce-Frank explains. She sticks out from the rest of them in her nice blue and white striped summer frock, matching bolero, and white gloves.

Pat’s familiar the outfit, been transported in them before. He goes about his inspection, spotting the Matilda engine and Kittyhawk radio below deck. Packed away, hidden under tarpaulins and netting are guns, explosives, a wireless set, and ammo. Carefully hidden above is an old Vickers, a Bren gun, and a 20mm cannon. Everything seemed to be in working order. He just hopes that they can get to the blasted island first.

They gather topside for a final briefing, taking advantage of the early dawn’s low light. On top of the fo’c’sle, Falsworth spreads out a map showing Fidonisi. In a quiet voice, using wind and gulls for cover, he says, “For the most part, the plan is the same as outlined earlier, but a few more details. First of all, we’re going to try to keep a good distance from Kos. Larger island, more people, it’s where most of the patrols will be coming from. Our actual route is at Mason’s discretion, of course.”

With the tip of the pencil, Falsworth points to a cape, continuing, “When we disembark at Cape St. Demetria - and get up the cliffs - we are to go to the Saint Sebastian chapel to meet up with a local resistance group. Gower will go to Porphyris, where our contact, code named Nausicaä resides. They’ll guide us across the island and help with taking down this u-boat pen.”

“I’m guessing Jerry’s done away with a lot of the young men, sir?” Pat asks at a natural pause.

Falsworth answers gravely, “They massacred the men of a village called Glauki last year for objecting to the construction of the u-boat pen. An influx of young men will be noticed, but a woman won’t be given much serious attention. That's why we must act quickly.”

They nod and Falsworth moves on, “Should we run into a patrol, we will be going by local names,” and with the pencil points, “Todd is Vassilis. Gower will be Nikos. Mason will go by Petros. Frank is Ioannis. And I will be Andreas. When we need Gower to be a girl, she will go by Eleni. Should her ‘Nikos’ cover be discovered, ‘Eleni’ becomes the younger sister of ‘Vassilis’. You two are closest in age and bear a passing resemblance.”

Gower and Todd do not look like siblings. They are both short, and have straight noses, yes. But Gower is a big-eyed waif, while Todd is a square-jawed farm boy. Hopefully the darkness will mask what hair dye and disguises cannot.

“That’s all fine and good, sir, but neither Todd nor I speak Greek. How are we to explain that?” Gower asks, “Without giving away too much.”

“We’ll do most of the talking,” Falsworth says, gesturing to himself, Frank, and Pat, “But keep your ears open.”

“Right, sir.”

“Any more questions?” Falsworth asks.

There’s shakes of heads and murmurs of “sounds good.” With Frank adding a “Seems pretty clear. Madeline, is there anything else we should know?”

“Indeed,” she answers with a breezy air, “My code name for this mission will be ‘Penelope’. Usual protocols apply. In an emergency, the code word is ‘Medea’.” Joyce-Frank pauses and it gives Pat enough time to catch an odd look on Gower’s face. But Joyce-Frank continues, “There are strong winds in the area, the sea will likely be a bit rough, and possibly a storm this afternoon. But hopefully you’ll be on Fidonisi by dawn. Speaking of which,” Joyce-Frank checks her watch, “It is now 2248 hours. Sunrise will be at about 0600 hours. General Halloway wishes he were here to see you off, but sends his regards.”

At this point, Joyce-Frank sands, brushes off her skirt and adds, “Good luck everyone. And God bless. I hope to see you all no later than Friday. I’ve made dinner arrangements at the Çiçek Pasajı in Istanbul for all of you upon your triumphal return.”

“Thank you, Second Officer. Your confidence in us is greatly appreciated,” replies Falsworth.

“Come now Major, I have every confidence in all of your vast abilities,” chuckles Joyce-Frank, and as she’s escorted from the caïque by Captain Frank, adds, “Dinner is at the Solovey, the proprietress, Countess Shuitskaya, is a friend of mine and I expect you all to be well turned out - Sergeant Gower, I’ll take care of you,” To which Falsworth rolls his eyes, “Anyway, I shall now bid you adieu, mes amis.”

On the pier, Captain Frank gathers the Second Officer into a passionate embrace in full view of all. Pat leads the chorus of wolf whistles in response to the display and the Second Officer throws up a middle finger. All in good fun, of course. The Captain looks breathless when they part, though happy, it seems. Pat moves to the caïque’s cockpit, makes his checks, and throws out an order to Todd to help the Captain with unmooring their boat. Frank leaps back onto the boat and Joyce-Frank gives her last farewell. He looks up quick enough to see to catch that and Falsworth whispering something into Gower’s ear. She nods in response and they go about their tasks.

Pat hopes it’s nothing. He doesn’t think there’s anything romantic between them. That the odd looks Todd gave him were only nerves. Just nerves before a dangerous mission. Everyone gets them all the time. Himself included, he’s felt it before. And it’s easier (and far more useful) to believe than the little suspicions in the back of his mind. Then the feeling that everyone’s got a secret suddenly and he’s the only one not in on them.

2319 Hours, Aegean Sea, March, 1943

As predicted, they have to do a lot of tacking and relying on the Matilda engine. The wind is strong and warm, and the sea is rough with whitecaps. By Michael’s estimation they’re making decent progress. 

He tells himself.

Robby presses a mug of coffee into Michael’s hands. It’s a fairly strong builder’s tea. It’s brewed strong and Turkish style with the grounds at the bottom.

“Gower put the kettle on. Turns out that Matilda is quite the stove,” Robby says, sitting down next to Michael on the forecastle, “Todd was talking about making something called… ‘grits’? Ever heard of it?”

“No,” Michael replies, shaking his head.

Robby shrugs, saying “Honestly do miss a good English breakfast. But you’re never one for that, you Gaul.”

“Coffee and toast alone are perfectly fine,” Michael defends himself, adding in a very exaggerated French accent, “We French need only need un petit déjeuner to fight the Boche!” 

“You nearly got scurvy your first term!” exclaims Robby, “Thank God you figured out food could be good and started eating.”

Michael takes a sip from his mug and lets Robby have this one. 

In his first year at Oxford, Michael threw himself into his studies. He loved the subject, he’s been fascinated by Antiquity and the early Middle Ages since he was a boy, and here he could immerse himself in them. And avoid having to think about his feelings for Roger, mixed in with the trauma, abuses, and shame of Repton he hadn’t reckoned with at that point. Some parts of his past he still has difficulty looking at. 

So he stewed in fear and self-loathing for over a year. Punishing his body and throwing himself at the prey to someone who enjoyed having Michael at his mercy. A svengali if there ever was one.  

“Is this a lead into anything?” Michael asks, staring into the inky darkness as they sailed south. 

He offers Robby a cigarette, sparing him a light. Robby then leans back against some nets with a groan, “Put on a good show there” he says, loud enough for only Michael to hear.

Michael lights up his own cigarette, saying behind his cupped hand, “None of them are traitors, if you’re wondering.” Meaning the other three.

“Wasn’t saying anything about them,” Robby replies, then asks subtly gesturing to Gower, who’s talking to Mason, “Is she fully brief, being in charge of comms?” 

“Of course she is. Got to catch a traitor somehow. Stop being a worry wart,” Michael answers after a drag, “And she’s off limits.”

Robby looks at him with mock insult and attempting to suppress a laugh, “I am a man of principal. Sergeant Gower is spoken for, and I presume an honourable woman. I would never steal a friend’s beau, you whore.”

Michael lets out a snort, “At least remind your wife!”

“Look, you. Just because Maddie likes to dress up pretty little gamines in Schiaparelli doesn’t mean she’s going to seduce Edie’s girl away from her,” Robby retorts with laughter in his voice. All’s good.

Michael downs the last of his coffee and spits out the grounds before getting up. “I’ll hold you to that, Robert,” he says, offering a hand to help Robby up, “But in the meantime, we should get to work.”

“Right that,” Robby replies, finishing his own coffee.

0020 Hours

“Hey, Major, we got trouble,” Todd calls out.

“What sort?” Michael asks.

“E-boat to the northwest comin’ our way,” he answers, handing the binoculars to Michael.

Against the moon and starlit sky, Michael can just make out the low silhouette of the E-boat. A light starts flashing rhythmically. He makes out the dots and dashes of Morse code. He’s no time to translate it, but it’s safe to assume they’re being ordered to stop.

Michael starts giving orders, “Alright, slow the boat, Mason.”

“Aye aye, sir,” comes the reply.

“Frank, Todd, Gower, arm yourselves,” he says to the rest. This has to look as natural as possible.

The E-boat comes closer. He hopes that they’re meeting the patrol at the end of it’s patrol, instead of the beginning.

“Stay frosty, everyone,” Michael says to the rest before they’re in earshot.

They slow down and go quiet. He hopes that they go unnoticed. Their only plausible excuse for being out is that they’ve had engine problems. They’ll be searched when they come alongside. It’s just a matter of whether or not they’ll have to shoot their way out. 

They can’t beat the E-boat’s speed, but maybe they can slip past undetected.

Michael opens his peacoat. Easier access to his Webley in its shoulder harness. And down his right boot there is a knife strapped to his calf. Emily has taken up a place next to the Bren gun, loosening the tarpaulin ties. Robby and Todd crouch next to the hidden Vickers and ammo can. 

A tenseness settles over the crew as they drift closer to the E-boat. They watch as the small ship comes their way. They watch as it slows down and maybe makes ready to stop. A light starts flashing rhythmically, recognizably as Morse code. With a torch, Robby signals back their acknowledgement and Mason steers the boat closer.

They come alongside as a spotlight flickers on. Michael tugs down his fisherman’s cap so he isn’t blinded by scorching light. He leans against the cockpit, spreading his legs shoulder width, and stuffing his hands in his pockets to complete the look. He was to be the bored, tired, but not intimidated Greek fisherman.

There’s the staccato of cocking guns followed by an officer calling out, “State your names and where you are going.”

The astonishing thing was that the officer said this in English. To their credit, no one answers back. Just stares on in stunned silence. 

The officer repeats himself in English again. His voice has an air of tiredness to it and he’s starting to sound frustrated.

“Syngnómi, den miláme germaniká,” Michael shouts back over the hum of engines. 

“Who are you? Where are you going?” the officer asks in Greek, but it’s clear he’s uncomfortable with the language.

“The name’s Andreas Laskarellis. These are Vassilos, Ioannis, Petros, and Nikos,” Michael says, pointing to each in his roll call, “We’re heading to Kos, had some engine problems earlier.”

“Yes, of course,” the officer says. He makes a gesture and three sailors jump onto the deck of their boat. They’re your typical sort of German sailor: plain, dull looking, blocky face and carrying Schmeisers. They move somewhat sluggishly, perhaps from exhaustion. 

The officer joins and he is not much to look at. He’s a sub-lieutenant, looks a little over twenty and doesn’t want to be there. Michael doesn’t blame him on that part. 

No one truly wants to be here, anyway.

“Where were you fishing?” the officer asks in a stilted fashion.

“Around Kos, near the east side of the island. We are on our way to Symi.”

“It does not seem like you caught anything.”

Michael blows out some smoke and thinks that the sub-lieutenant could stand to eat more. He’s just skin and bones. “The fishing was bad. Rough water, you know,” he answers.

“Really?” the sub-lieutenant answers, trying his best arrogant prick act, but it’s clearly not working, “Not even one fish?”

Michael tosses the cigarette, answering, “We were not lucky. But there is always another day.”

He’s trying to keep the young lieutenant’s occupied while surreptitiously keeping an eye on the rest of the crew. One sailor is sniffing around the cockpit and a quick glance shows Mason in a corner where a hatchet is stowed. One is lazily poking some nets next to Robby and Todd. The last of them keeps glancing at Emily and is getting close to where the Bren gun is hidden.

Michael can make out another five sailors on the deck of the E-boat. Out of sight there’s probably another ten to twenty crew members. 

“So why were you at Kos?” the lieutenant asks. He’s still distracted and a thought about possibly teasing the poor boy crosses Michael’s mind. He looks like the sort of confused young man uncomfortable with himself. And Michael is very aware of how people stare at him. This young man’s making his roving stare obvious.

“We usually can get a good haul there,” Michael replies, “Just not today.”

Michael just doesn’t want to get into a fight. The Germans would know something was up immediately. Through the operation completely.

“What was the issue with the engine? You could have stayed in Kos for the night,” the young sub-lieutenant asks, continuing his interrogation. From the corner of his, Michael sees the sailor next to Emily moving out of sight. 

It won’t be long before they find guns and explosives.

“Mein Herr!” a sailor calls from the E-boat.

The lieutenant whirls around, demanding, “Was ist es?”

It takes Michael a moment to adjust to the conversation in German.

“We have new orders from command!” the sailor shouts.

The sub-lieutenant snaps, “Well spit it out, Gebhardt!” 

“But sir…”

“They’re stupid Greeks, they don’t speak German!” 

The sailor with the message hesitates, and his crew mates on the caïque turn to listen. If there’s an exasperated sigh, the poor sailor suppresses it. “We have orders to go to Rhodes. Immediately.”

The sub-lieutenant turns to the other sailors, saying, “Alright, lads, let’s go.”

Michael hears at least one relieved sigh as the sailors return to the E-boat. 

“Go back to Kos. We shall radio the harbour master to let them know,” the sub-lieutenant says before departing. 

“Will do,” Michael replies with a tip of the hat.

The sub-lieutenant confers with someone on deck, then turns back to Michael, shouting, “We will give you the signal to depart once we have confirmation from Kos.”

Fifteen minutes feels like forever. The sailors on the E-boat’s deck kept their weapons pointed at them. The sub-lieutenant keeps looking back at them. It’s unlikely that they’re just going to be allowed to leave. 

But they are now untied from the E-boat.

Michael crosses his arms across his chest (all the easier to grab his revolver). He leans back, and quietly says to Mason in Greek, “On the count of five, we’re bolting from here.”

“Right sir.”

He sees the sub-lieutenant return to the railing of the E-boat as Michael counts down to one.

"Is the Bren gun ready?" He asks Emily.

Mason hits the throttle, tarpaulins come off the guns. Emily's the first to shoot, swiftly followed by Robby and Todd. The sailors fire back, but no one hits anything as they speed into the darkness. It's not the point anyway. 

They just need distance.

Michael looks back to see if the E-boat pursues them. After a while, the Germans disappeared. But it’s hard to tell if they're actually heading to Rhodes, or finding a way to trap them.

They speed along for another fifteen minutes before Mason slows the boat down. They sit in silence for a time: taking a breath and processing what had just happened.

Robby is the first to break the silence, "Jerry bastard spoke English as if he knew who we were."

"I know," Michael says, "But let's see if our luck holds out, regardless."

0230 Hours, Fidonisi, 15 March 1943

The cliffs of Cape Saint Demetria are illuminated by the moon. It is difficult to tell in poor light, but he guesses they’ve got over 130 feet to ascend, and another sixty of very steep ridge. It’s night time, too, and windy. But it’s honestly not the worst conditions Robby’s faced. That honour goes to Ben Nevis in June.

They’ve laid anchor in a little bay on the south side of the cape. On a little rocky beach, barely a few feet long and wide, they’ve offloaded their equipment. It’s not a lot, but there should be enough explosives to cause considerable damage to the U-boat pen.

“What do you think Mason?” Robby asks.

Mason points, saying, “Probably aim for that ridge about, what, 110 feet up?”

There’s a ridge that becomes part of the cliff’s spine. On the other side is a small plateau, where tucked away somewhere was the rendezvous.

“Good eye,” he replies, patting Mason on the shoulder, “Right oh, then. Let’s get on with it.”

It’s going to be comparatively a short climb, yet hard. Aside from the light and weather conditions, Robby and Mason are climbing with the broken down Vickers along with it’s ammo box. So a tumble was going to end more gruesomely than normal. And the cliff quickly proved to be more pebbley than expected. Robby’s a little worried that the pitons won’t grip well into the rock, but there are few alternatives.

Luckily, Mason finds what appears to be a small water channel to guide them further up when the light fails them. From time to time they’re buffeted by a cold northern wind; a final reminder of winter. For the most part it just makes Robby uncomfortable. 

What he doesn’t like is how long it takes them. No one’s fault, just a bad setting. But it takes time they do not have. Every hour counts on this mission.

But Robby shoves that complaint out of his mind. Coming up behind him and Mason are Todd and Gower. The former has the explosives, the latter has the wireless. Bringing up the rear is Michael with the Bren gun and the heaviest of their equipment. 

Gower takes her climb slow and steady, pointedly not looking down to the beach and sea below. Todd goes up faster, but Robby senses it’s more out of fear than skill. He’s seen Todd’s wincing on the plane ride over; it wouldn’t be surprising if he was also afraid of heights. It’s admirable to see someone climb a steep cliff despite their trepidations. But in his haste, Todd misses a handhold, slips, and in a breathless moment, finds himself dangling 100 feet over the rocks.

“Todd, look up, take my hand,” Gower says to Todd. Robby watches the both of them, nearly sick with fear. Through gritted teeth and muffled curses, Todd swings his free hand to catch Gower’s extended one. She manages to prove stronger than she looks, hauling Todd up enough for him to take hold of Mason’s rope. For the last thirty feet, Todd adopt’s Gower’s more cautious approach. Once at the ridge, Todd lets himself catch his breath before joining Gower near further up. Poor boy’s pale as a ghost, though.

Michael’s ascent is thankfully easier. He doesn’t have the same level of experience and clearly he’s learned a lot over the years. His approach is just as cautious, but displays more grace in his movements.

Robby know’s what’s happened to Michael. Maddie told him. It’s still strange though seeing him so changed. Taller, stronger, darker. Michael’s always been a little reckless about his own well being. Hopefully whatever they put into Michael hasn’t made certain things worse. 

He’s a good bloke, it’s just no one’s perfect.

0400 Hours

The sky is turning pre-dawn grey by the time they get to the chapel of Saint Sebastian. 

After climbing the cliffs, there was the steep spine they had to cross. Then a lava field full of ankle twisting rocks and down a slope of loose stones and juniper trees. Finally, they settle at a low, white plaster building with a cross, thankfully hidden under a copse of sycamore. 

The men stow away rucksacks and equipment. Carter arranges watches. Emily opens up the radio case and begins her work.

By moonlight she checks her wireless (everything appears to be in working order) turns it on and begins transmitting.

Emily: Assassin this is Honter. Over

She bangs hard on the ‘u’, turning it into a Morse ‘o’. It’s her signature when all is well. Emily does a few more security checks before proceeding with communications with Joyce-Frank in Bodrum.

Joyce-Frank: Copy. This is Assassin. Hunter go ahead. Over.

Emily: Hitman has landed and at RV. Awaiting instruction. Over.

Joyce-Frank: Copy. Any unfriendlies en route? Over.

Emily: E-boat inspection at 0030 hours. Called away at 0045 hours. Small arms exchange. Unfriendlies were in process of reassignment to Rhodes. Over.

Joyce-Frank: Copy. Assassin to Hunter. Proceed to RV Archer with caution. Over.

Emily: Hunter to Assassin. Copy. Over.

She waits for Joyce-Frank (or possibly one of her assistants) to sign off when there’s a rushed final transmission.

Joyce-Frank: Hunter. This is Assassin. Be advised. Stalker is loose. Proceed with extreme caution. Abort if necessary. Over. Out.

Emily signs off and sits back. She feels cold. She doesn’t know what to do.

She looks up, feeling a hand on her shoulder, seeing Carter.

“So what does Bodrum say?” he asks, getting right to business.

Emily swallows back her shock, and answers in a mechanical whisper, "Proceed to rendezvous with our contact with extreme caution. Crichton has escaped."

Chapter Text

0400 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece, 15 March 1943

Carter doesn’t say anything at first. He crouches down next to Emily, his hand gripping her shoulder for dear life. 

“Sir, should we…” she starts.

“We don’t know where Crichton is. And we definitely don’t know if he’s on this island,” he interrupts.

“So I just proceed with the rendezvous like normal?” Emily asks. 

“Of course not,” Carter answers, he brings out the island map, and pointing says, “We were going to meet at a boulder, near the church of Saint Irene. Instead, when you make contact with Archer, you’re to go with them to the ruins of Leuke.”

“Going to need a sign if it’s safe,” she says.

He asks, “Do you have a scarf or a kerchief on you?” 

“Yes,” she answers.

“What colour is it?”

“Red.”

“Good,” Carter says, “Tie it to something - a branch, preferably - if Archer’s compromised.”

“And if we’re in the clear?” Emily asks.

He goes over to a pack and pulls out a roll of medical gauze, “Use this, then.”

“Any changes to the challenge?” she asks.

“If all is well, it stays the same. I will still ask, ‘did you visit your mother?’ If we’re in trouble, you will answer, ‘yes, I left red flowers.’”

Emily asks, “Anything else I need to know?”

“Archer’s home is on the northwest edge of Taxiarches. It is white plaster with a lavender door and trim. There’s a dolphin painted above the doorpost and a Judas tree in front - should be in bloom. Code sign is ‘Chloe’. Get to the Leuke ruins by sundown.”

“Will do,” she says. Emily packs up the wireless case, then hands it to Carter. 

Whilst he stows the case in the chapel, Emily switches out of her boy’s clothes into a green gingham dress and tan trenchcoat, keeping her chukka boots and socks. She keeps her hair in it’s braids. No cosmetics, pretty much everything is rationed, but it’s still easy to slip past the Germans as a woman.

Emily stuffs her Browning into her coat pocket and bundles the clothes into her rucksack, handing it over to Carter.

“Good luck,” he says, squeezing her arm in farewell.

“You blokes stay safe,” she replies, “I will see you at sundown, alright.”

And with that, Emily slips off into the darkness.

0424 Hours

“Robby, a word,” Michael whispers, gesturing away from the chapel. Robby nods and follows to a copse of juniper. 

In a fierce whisper, Michael states, “Crichton’s escaped.”

“What? When?” asks Robby, suddenly agitated. As if they need this sort of news right now. 

“Heard it over the wireless from Maddie,” Michael explains.

“Did she say anything more?”

“Warned us to be cautious and abort the mission if necessary.”

Robby lets out a frustrated sigh. Time could have only twisted that little worm into something monstrous. He worries for Maddie, even though she’s more than capable of taking care of herself. For Edie, because an obsession like Crichton’s doesn’t abate quickly. And a new worry enters his mind.

“Do you think our run in with that patrol has anything to do with his escape?” Robby asks.

Michael is quiet for a time, swallows, then answers, “Logically, we don’t know. It could be completely unrelated. My instincts say otherwise. And I think Maddie feels the same.”

“Probably why she warned us,” Robby replies, then adds, “And what about Gower, should he have to get off the island quickly? Hate to leave her behind.”

He thinks he’s hit a nerve. Michael looks Robby dead in the eye, and says in a steely voice, “She’s either with us by that point, or she’s finding her own way off. Gower’s a clever girl. Got herself to Switzerland when her cell went down. If she has to do it again, she will.”

Clever and brave. No wonder Michael and Maddie are fond of her.

0506 Hours

Emily’s regretting the dress. 

The terrain is scrubby maquis clinging to steep volcanic slopes. The sea is a quick tumble below. Emily herself clings to a very narrow goat path. At times scrambling over boulders, at times climbing hand over hand up slopes nearly as steep as the cliffs. The dress doesn’t snag too much, but it doesn’t give her quite the freedom of movement she’d like. Though having to do this in the dark doesn’t not help.

She stops to catch her breath at another chapel, this one seemingly abandoned and half covered with moss and scrub. Emily looks east, towards the horizon turning from soft grey to red. She’s reminded of the old adage about red skies. Joyce-Frank did say something about bad weather heading their way.

Emily has her back to the chapel, paying no mind to it. It’s a cool morning, with a wind blowing from the north. She’s starting to feel tired, but she’ll rest later. 

There’s an odd sensation on her left shoulder. Right above where she was bit. Like ice cold fingers ghosting over the pin prick marks. Emily clamps a hand on her shoulder, wheeling around. 

And finding nothing. 

No one.

Just the lonely, abandoned chapel left to the mercy of nature.

Emily’s tempted to look into the chapel’s entrance. It’s a beckoning thought. But even a glance tells her that whatever lies within is better left alone.

She’s on a tight schedule anyway.

0558 Hours, Taxiarches, Fidonisi, Greece

Emily presses herself to a wall as another motor patrol roars by. She makes herself as small as possible, shielding her face from dust and German eyes. 

It’s the second patrol she’s seen. She hid from one under some juniper brush about a half hour earlier. A bit harder to do in such a narrow street. She counts to five before slipping down an alleyway, grabbing a basket, and stealing some laundry. Emily is now Eleni, a regular woman going about her morning chores. Not an agent hiding her pistol under some shirts and linens.

She knows where she’s going, but wanders the streets for a bit to check for tails. Not that she thinks anyone is following her. But she keeps seeing something on the edge of her vision. An odd shaped shadow that gets her hackles up. Hopefully it’s just exhaustion. Emily hasn’t really slept in close to twenty-four hours.

She’s running on fumes. 

Emily takes a turn to the west. Archer’s home is on the outskirts near the beach. She follows the sounds and smells of the sea; the breeze coming off it. The houses of Taxiarches are mostly whitewashed - though some display their sea rocks and mortar - with brightly painted trim, shudders, and balconies. A little black cat slinks by and Emily spots a calico luxuriously stretching on a sun-drenched stoop. Such were the hardships of the island cat. 

Eventually she walks into a little square, facing the sea. The morning sun silhouettes Kos and a few smaller islands. The sky is a mix of red and gold and the sea is bronze. It’s stunning to behold. And disquieting. There’s something about the sky that warns of more than just an oncoming storm.

She peels her eyes off sea, scans the square, and spots a blooming Judas tree next to a lavender door. When closer, she sees the stylized dolphin. Emily adjusts her basket and knocks on the door, tapping out the Morse for “Chloe”. 

She waits, straining to hear for movement. And if she needs to be ready to beat a retreat. The sound of motors sets her heart racing. What are they up to? She swallows back fear, turns back to the door, raising her fist to knock again. 

The door opens, revealing a very beautiful woman. She’s tall, with dark skin, soft brown eyes, and an oval face. Her hair is black and very curly, styled in a pompadour fringe, the rest held under a turquoise scarf. She didn’t smile, but was calm and welcoming.

This person’s safe, Emily thinks as she’s being rushed into the house.

A smile spreads across her face once inside, “Can I help you?”

“I am looking for flowers,” Emily says, starting the challenge.

“What sort of flowers do you want?” the woman asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“On Sunday I’d like white ones,” Emily answers.

“For your mother, then,” the woman says, completing the challenge.

“So you are…?” the woman asks once she goes to the stove. The house is very small; the front room and kitchen are all in one. The walls are painted white and most of the colour comes from trim, rugs, furniture, and flowers. It smells heavenly of saffron, spring blossoms, and incense.

“Eleni,” Emily answers, sticking her hand out.

“Anthea,” she replies, shaking it.

Anthea looks her up and down, then says, “You should have a seat, you look like you’re about to fall down.”

“Thanks,” Emily replies. Anthea points her to a chair at her kitchen table, and Emily’s grateful for the gesture. The aches and pains of the past day are now catching up. Her body feels heavy and there’s a peculiar prickling feeling in her thighs.

“When was the last time you slept?” Anthea asks, bringing out coffee cups and a copper pot.

Emily’s a little surprised by the question until she realizes that she hasn’t had a wink of sleep in over twenty-four hours. Since that… thing entered her dreams in Cairo, she’s been far too restless. Seeing Edith once more was both thrilling and heart wrenching. She’d been given no time to rest. 

There’s a mission on, but sleep sounds wonderful. 

Emily answers, “Not in a while.”

“And it’ll be a while yet,” Anthea replies, half turning from the stove, “Have some coffee and nap a little. It’ll take the edge off. I still haven’t changed yet.”

It finally dawns on Emily that Anthea is clad in a soft pink robe and not much else. She feels a little embarrassed. “Of course, yes,” she says, feeling heat in her cheeks. 

“It’s a plan, then,” Anthea says with a smile.

Emily nods, making a note to scope out Anthea a little more before they leave for the next part.

0628 Hours

From a perch above the chapel, Michael has a commanding view of the road above and the sea below. There’s a burst of activity on the road, mostly motorcycle patrols. Groups of four, and three in the past hour. On first pass, they look Werhmacht. But on closer inspection through the binoculars, he sees the distinctive patch of HYDRA. And that the uniform was becoming more distinct. More stylized than even the SS uniforms.

So they’re here, too. And Michael was thinking this mission would be simple.

It also goes into a working theory he’s been developing since January that HYDRA is about to split with the Nazis. Hitler’s always been a dilletent when it comes to leadership, giving light directions, feuling rivalries, and letting his underlings fill in the gaps to vague orders. Schmidt always had a strange degree of independence and his own discrete following before the war. A following that has somehow survived to today.

And now they’re making more distinct moves. Not exactly counter to Berlin, but definitely heading in its own direction. So are they interested in taking over the U-boat pen? Or something else?

In any case, it is definitely time to move.

0633 Hours

Anthea has changed into a simple wrap dress - black with a cherry pattern - and her hair’s pinned back into a roll at the nape of her neck. All it does is accentuate her lovely figure. 

Emily hides a blush behind a sip of coffee before asking, “So will there be more help for the operation?”

Anthea frowns, quietly setting out breakfast, answering, “There’s not much of a resistance left, I’m sad to say. There’s not many people left on the island.”

“How come?” Emily asks around a sliced cucumber dipped in yogurt.

“It’s a lot like many places,” she says after a pause, “First a lot of the young men go off to war. They’re either captured, dead, in exile, or gone to ground. Then the men left behind are drafted into labour. Those who resist are killed. And when the Germans started building that u-boat pen, they relocated the villagers from Glauki to here, first.” Then she adds, “And now, a lot of people have left for Kos, or are trying for Cyprus.”

Emily looks up, asking, “Do you have any help?”

“I’m sort of it,” she answers with a sigh and a half smile, “I mostly gathered intelligence and did work an escape network with some fishermen into Turkey. But that’s hard to do with the pen now.” 

“And the Germans aren’t forgiving towards any resistance,” Emily replies, to which Anthea smiles ruefully at. If they blow up the pens, then hopefully the worst will just be the forced relocation of Fidonisi’s remaining population to another island. 

Anthea seems truthful. At least for now.

“It smells lovely here. Do you grow flowers?” Emily asks, switching topics.

Anthea looks up from her coffee, a little surprised. After a thought, she answers, “I do. I make perfumes and oils, soap and other toiletries.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The local churches and monasteries are my best customers. They use rose oil for their lamps,” Anthea says, “And we have a few myrrh trees here on the island. I can make incense from that, tinctures for horses, mouthwash, and the gum is good for relieving many ailments.”

Emily looks confused, saying, “I thought myrrh only grew in the Horn of Africa?”

“This island is rather… special, you see. It’s why I’ve stayed here so long,” Anthea says, giving a mysterious smile.

This gives Emily an idea, “Where abouts are the myrrh?”

“In a grove near the top of the crater.”

“Are they near some ruins called Leuke?” she asks.

“Yes,” Anthea answers, “Those trees were brought here by Phoenician traders in the Archaic Period. They founded a settlement here along with a temple to Adonis.”

“That’s our cover then,” Emily says in a rush, “How far is it from here?”

“About two hours, mostly uphill. I have a bicycle we can use to help. There’s some equipment and food I have to take up there anyway,” Anthea explains.

“For who?” Emily asks, “People at a monastery?”

Anthea chuckles and says with that wistful, mysterious smile, “Just one person. My last escaper. He’s rather enthusiastic to help out.”

0715 Hours

It takes them the better part of an hour to get themselves up to the top of the ridge, laid down with equipment as they are. It’s practically vertical in some places, especially near the top.

Pat’s the first to crest the ridge. And the first to realize they’re in trouble when he sees a lone German soldier walking along the ridge from the east. 

He’s below a small rise, bush and shadow sheltering him from sight. Pat gestures for the team to stop moving. He slides off his pack. Takes out his knife. Waits until the soldier is practically on top of him. 

Using a foothold, Pat springs into action. Grabs the soldier by the collar, plunging his knife between the ribs and into his heart. With his momentum, Pat tosses the soldier hard against a tree. If he isn’t dead now, he will be soon.

“Good show, Mason,” Captain Frank compliments. 

Right as a telephone starts ringing.

A quick search reveals a field telephone under the shelter of some rocks. 

“Should we answer it?” Mark asks, still panting from the climb.

“Jerry will send someone if no one does,” Frank replies, looking at Falsworth.

“They’ll know it’s not him, sir,” Pat argues, gesturing to the dead German, “We don’t know what the codeword is.”

Falsworth nods, “I’ll do it. There’s a chance they’ll think he simply forgot.” 

He takes a breath, picks up the receiver, “Hallo?”

The tension’s thick. If Falsworth is nervous, he doesn’t show it. He answers, “Nein. Nichts zu berichten.” Then he nods along to whatever instructions he’s receiving on the other side, before ringing off with a “Jawohl, mein Herr.”

“We better move quickly. Officer on the other end wants him to return to base,” Falsworth gestures to the soldier, “They’ll probably send someone to this side soon.”

0839 Hours

The air is sweet with clover, honey, and resin. Birds flit about from tree to tree and bees buzz about their business. Every once in a while, the wind shifts in a way to remind one of the sulphur in the crater below. The sky is growing overcast, but the place is oddly bright.

There are few places Emily’s ever been to that felt holy. Lud’s Church in Staffordshire was such a place. Aunt Gladys and Uncle Arthur took her and her younger siblings there once as a girl. The Lollards apparently used Lud’s Church as a meeting place. But Emily was more fascinated by it’s connection to Sir Gawain. It seemed a propper place for an Arthurian legend. 

The myrrh grove at Leuke was another such place.

Among the tall grass and thorny trees and blooming myrtle are the grey stone outlines of buildings nestled in a sheltered plateau above the crater. At the far end is another little whitewashed chapel, though there is no cross on it, but a five-pointed star above the entrance. The place has a golden hue wherever the sun hits, and it feels warm like a summer morning. And there’s a beautiful view to the sea and the Turkish mainland.

Judging from the way she came to Taxiarchis, and the route taken to Leuke, Carter and the rest would likely be coming from the northeast. Emily finds a cypress tree and ties a good length of the white gauze around a branch. They should be able to see it through binoculars.

So far, Anthea’s been honourable and reliable. They’ve only come across two Germans out for more of a stroll than a patrol. They’ve made it to the rendezvous safely. 

And yet, Emily checks her pistol once more. She has to be able to escape quickly if the time comes. 

“So where is this escapee of your’s?” Emily asks casually. 

“He should be here,” Anthea replies, “By the gods I told him not to wander.”

“Right here, love,” a man says with a very posh English accent.

Emily turns, bringing up her pistol, “Who are you?”

The man stands in profile. He’s of average height, wiry build, with blond hair, and blue eyes. His somewhat scruffy hair matched the dusty workman’s shirt and trousers and muddy boots. Though he did seem to take pains to shave by the looks of his clean face.

He turns his head, his face amused, and says in a mocking tone, “Come now, sweetheart, put that pistol away before you break your wrist.”

“My wrist is just fine,” Emily replies, keeping her aim on his centre of mass and her voice firm, “Your lungs won’t be unless I get a name.”

The man rolls his eyes and steps swiftly towards Emily. Before she can pull back, he’s already holding the barrel of her pistol, leaning down close to her. He says in a strangely calm voice, “The name’s Aubrey. Lieutenant Roger Aubrey, Royal Navy. How about you, sweetheart? Got a name? Anthea’s got plenty if you need one.”

Emily’s not going to let this Aubrey fellow mess with her. She tugs the pistol out of his grip, putting it back into her dress belt. She looks up at him, and with equal calm, and using her workname says, “I’m Eleni, sir. I’m here to help.”

Aubrey makes a derisive chuff, “‘Eleni’. Really. You’re about as Greek as Welsh cake.”

“Roger, be kind,” Anthea chides, “She’s part of a team sent here to take out that U-Boat pen. Do you want to help?”

“‘Course I do, love. Rip and tear! That’s what I do best!” he quips back.

“Good,” Anthea says, looking out over the ridge, “Because we’ve got trouble. And it looks like Eleni’s friends need help.”

That’s when Emily hears gunfire.

0842 Hours

Their luck runs out when they run into an armoured car. 

They start exchanging fire and they start running into the scrub. Get somewhere that car can’t reach. Mark figures if he can get a grenade on the car’s turret and take out the machine gun, they’d be in pretty good shape.

Where’s the fun in that, boy?

“Not now,” Mark growls. He’s starting to feel the heat again. 

There’s a burst of fire from the machine gun. Mark ducks into the grass beside some rock. Next to him is Falsworth, sheltering behind a tree, reloading his revolver.

“Todd, can you get a grenade on that car now!” 

“Can do, sir!” Mark replies. He takes his chance and bolts to a spot with a clearer view of the armoured car.

Lot of sinners in there. Sure could use some cleansing.

“Shut up!” He didn’t need the other guy distracting him. He needs to make this throw. He’s starting to burn up.

Fine, if we’re playin’ it by your rules.

Damn the other guy for sounding petulant.

Before Mark can throw anything, something bright and human shaped rushes past him and the Krauts start going nuts.

Now Mark has seen some truly strange things in his life. Bodies mangled and twisted by the mines and the guns of the boss’s men. Shadows that stir that should not stir. The dark things and the haunted things. The old things and the deep things. He counts himself as one of those things, too.

But Mark Anthony Todd doubts he’s ever seen a man with skin like crystal that weren’t from bellow. And certainly he’s never seen anyone impervious to bullets that this thing is.

Chapter Text

0844 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece, 15 March 1935

Roger lets his momentum propel him down the slope. Whatever that experiment did to him, it definitely made him faster and more agile. He runs down a few yards before jumping to close the distance with the besieged saboteurs. His skin turns to its diamond hard shell. 

He lands hard, rolls, gets up, and sprints past the pinned downed men. The poor Jerry soldier has no time to defend himself as Roger grabs him by the throat and throws him against the armoured car.

He next takes hold of the rifle of another German soldier and… well there’s not much of his head left.

Bullets ping off his skin and he withstands a stream of fire from the machine gun at the top of the armoured car. Silly boy.

Before Roger could sprint over to the gunner, he hears an all too familiar voice shout, “Get out of the way!”

Roger turns, and time slows. He must be dreaming. Because right in front of him is Michael Carter. Taller and stronger than he’s ever seen him before, but it’s still Michael. And here’s Roger watching him catch the handle of a thrown stick grenade, rear back, and throw it back towards the armoured car. 

It was beautiful. Disturbing. Awe inspiring. 

Was this what it’s like to be in the presence of a god?

“Duck!” another voice shouts. 

Another grenade soars. It curiously looks to be on fire. Roger watches with little flinching as it hits home, leaving little of the car behind. He was still surprised by how powerful the explosion was. And turning back he sees a brown haired youth with burning eyes. He’s never seen anything like that.

“What the Hell are you?” Michael shouts, jerking Roger up by his shirt.

Roger almost forgets himself. The Hell is Michael doing here? He was in intelligence the last time he’d heard from Lydia in person. But shouldn’t Michael be in London or Cairo? 

“I won’t repeat myself,” Michael says, barely above a whisper.

“Darling it’s me,” Roger answers in a rush. Finally remembering to turn back to himself. Letting himself put a gentle hand on Michael’s wrist, who lets go of Roger’s shirt.

“What are you doing here?” he says, eyes searching with wonder.

“I should ask you,” Roger replies.

“Oi! You two!” another familiar voice shouts from the trees. “Stop your lallygagging!”

“Bloody Robby’s here, too?” Roger asks. What was this, a class reunion?

Michael shrugs, answering, “I’m full of surprises.”

0909 Hours

“So you mind telling me what the Hell’s going on, Michael?” Roger asks once they’ve reached the grove at Leuke. It’s an oddly warm place with a golden hue to it, especially on what’s proving to be a cloudy day.

“Mind sharing with the rest of the class about why you’re here?” Michael retorts. Maybe it’ll distract those not in the know.

“Michael?” Mason says.

Man plans. God laughs.

“I knew it!” Todd exclaims.

How did he -

“Oi!” Emily says, “It’s a workname and none of your business.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replies Todd.

“Thank you, Gower,” Michael says, still keeping his gaze on Roger. “My question still stands.”

Roger sizes himself up to Michael, looking him up and down. It was always hard to tell the difference between anger and lust on Roger’s face. 

“And I’m still curious about how you gained four inches and, what, three and half stone?”

Is this a taunt? All this time and Roger’s still going to goad him into a fight? Of all the times.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Roger! Michael got experimented on to make a better soldier. Like that Captain America fellow,” says an exasperated Robbie.

“I’m sorry! I’ve been in the wilds of occupied Europe for the past year. You’re going to have to explain things to me like I’m a child,” Roger snaps.

“By the Gods you men are impossible. It’s not important, Roger,” says Anthea. “Lt. Aubrey is an Inhuman, that’s why his skin can turn diamond hard.”

“And just what is an ‘Inhuman’?” Michael demands.

“Him! And others! There are people, far and wide and even here, who have latent abilities. They are the product of experiments conducted at the dawn of your species history. Many long ago left for sheltered places, like this place. But a few lineages lingered in the wild, like Lt. Aubrey’s. They just needed to be awakened.”

“And lucky me got my powers from this  delightful SS doctor. Not the only one who got abilities in a lab,” Roger spits. “But I’ve been a good little officer. Turns out my powers are pretty good at causing mayhem for the Hun.”

Roger shoots Michael a look. The sort that spoke of unhealed wounds; new and old mingled together. Looking for something to lash out at. Looking for sympathy and a shoulder to cry on. One sometimes didn’t know where they sat with Roger. Not even Micheal. In fairness, he didn’t help himself much.

Darling. Still calling him that after all this time. 

“So Miss Anthea, how exactly do you know about these ‘Inhumans’?” Michael asks.

She sighs, “Excuse my tone, but it’s a long story and we don’t have time right now. And Miss Eleni - I know that’s not her name - is about to fall over.”

Emily sits on an exposed ruined wall, head in hand and almost dead to the world. 

“Gower?” 

Emily startles awake, then looks around embarrassed, “Sorry… didn’t mean to nod off.”

“No need to apologize, Gower. Anyway, we will post a watch, prepare some rations, plan our next move. And you need to get some sleep, Gower.”

0941 Hours, Bodrum, Turkey

“Ma’am, take a look at this,” says Celia Martell, a coder on loan from the Istanbul office.

Maddie puts down her coffee and takes Martell’s notepad. She reads the words, they’re clearly printed. But they barely make sense.

“This is about Crichton, right?” she asks.

Martell nods, “His escape specifically.”

“And he had, at most, a thirty minute window for escape, according to General Halloway?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maddie looks back down at the notepad, “I’m not particularly concerned about how he did it. But I am curious as to why Crichton drained the guard of his blood?”

1227 Hours

Micheal picks a spot under a sycamore tree for the debriefing. He gives a quick glance to the sky, noting the clouds threatening rain. The wind’s picking up, too. He lays down the map of the island, with Robby, Roger, and Anthea gathered around.

“I believe we should get to the point, where do we stand with that u-boat pen?” he asks.

“It’s mostly complete, single entrance facing southward. They’ve taken over an old Knights Hospitaller castle as their headquarters. It’s on the cliffs above the u-boat pen entrance,” Anthea answers. “We think it’s big enough for two u-boats.”

“Two Type VIIs ,” Roger adds, “They’re small, but enough to cause a lot of trouble. Funny thing is we don’t think it’s a Kriegsmarine op.”

“How do you mean?” Robby asks.

“The German Navy has a nominal presence, enough to say it’s a naval operation and to maintain and run the pens. But everything else is being run by some other organization. HYDRA, I think they’re called,” says Anthea.

“Yes. They have a skull and tentacles,” Michael adds. “Saw some HYDRA troopers patrolling this morning.”

“A few of their officers arrived just before dawn, according to the monks at Panagia Spilliani,” says Anthea.

Michael and Robby exchange a look. 

“That may have something to do with that patrol boat last night,” Robby says.

“Patrol boat? You mean like an E-boat?” asks Roger.

“Yes, we encountered one about three hours after we left Bodrum,” Michael answers, “It was called rather quickly to Rhodes.”

“What for?” Roger asks.

Robby moves to answer, but Michael stops him, saying, “We don’t know if that has anything to do with our operation. My question is what are you doing here, Roger? I heard you were in Colditz.”

Roger looks at Michael, blue eyes blazing. “I told you, I escaped, came down the Balkans, and now I’m here. Are you accusing me of something?”

Michael plays it cool, “No. Just curious. You said you had a run in with some SS doctor?” 

“Got any cigs? It’s bloody Antarctica here,” Roger mutters. He’s more restless than Michael remembers.

He fishes out his pack and gives Roger a light. Roger takes a few pulls, keeping his eyes down, gathering his thoughts. Anthea puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks up and straightens himself a bit.

“It took me one escape and a smart mouth to get me into Colditz. It took me three attempts to get out. I cocked it up, got recaptured after maybe twenty-four hours. Got roughed up by the Gestapo and found myself in a Bohemian castle. Got experimented on and learned about HYDRA.”

Roger keeps smoking and looking down. It’s best just to let Roger explain what happened. “Marched me and a dozen others into a gas chamber. They pumped it full of this gas - terrigen I later learned. I was the lone survivor.”

“How’d you get away from them?” Robby asks.

He blows out a puff, “Took me a couple months. Got moved from Bohemia to Sokovia. But I figured out their schedule and how to control my powers, caused a gas explosion and escaped. I’ve been making my way south through the Balkans.”

“And it took you six months to get to Greece?” Michael asks.

Roger looks up, “HYDRA’s got a lot of bases up and down the peninsula. And I’ve gotten very good at sabotaging them.”

“When did you get to Fidonisi?” MIchael asks.

“Two weeks ago,” Anthea answers, “We’ve been monitoring the activity at the u-boat pen. The HYDRA development is new.”

Robby asks, “Why would HYDRA want a single u-boat pen in Greece?”

“Who the Hell knows,” Roger mutters. He takes final drag before crushing his cigarette under his boot, looking at anyone or anything but Michael. 

Michael notices how the strange light of the grove brings out the gold in Roger’s hair. He’s gotten leaner, the lines of his face sharper. There’s a hardness that’s settled in where he’d once been rather boyish and lively. To anyone who didn’t know, Roger’s as handsome as they come now as he’d ever been. Michael knows better.

Michael is starting to realize how much this war is changing them. They were children when this war started. Whatever innocence they’ve had is gone. They were so naïeve. It takes everything in Michael to not reach out and embrace Roger. And he hates himself for it.

“Anthea, is there anything about this island we should know about?” Michael asks. This place is strange. It gave a similar feeling he had at Wadi Rum and the Tibesti Mountains. A sense of awe bordering on the spiritual.

Anthea takes a breath, “If the volcano were to erupt tomorrow, Leuke and the myrrh grove would still be standing.”

“Why is that?” Michael asks. His ears start picking up some noise from where Todd and Mason are sitting.

“During the Archaic period there was a temple built for Aphrodite and Adonis - more appropriately to Inanna and Tammuz as it was Phoenician traders who built it. That is on top of an older structure.”

HYDRA has demonstrated a clear interest in ancient sites that are favourites in occult circles. Fidonisi is a bit far off the map, though.

“How old are we talking about?”

Anthea looks Michael squarely in the eye. Her gaze is ancient and speaks of wisdom he cannot, and would never, fathom. 

“This grove, and Panagia Spilliani is on top of a structure far older than any other known civilization on earth. One who’s legacy includes Lt. Aubrey and -”

There’s a commotion from Mason and Todd’s direction.

“Gower! Snap out of it!” Mason shouts.

The group turns to see Emily walking. There’s something wrong with her movements. The stiffness and tripping feet. The unseeing stare.

“Where’re you going, Serg?” Todd asks, trying to slow her. Emily pushes past without notice.

Michael stands and moves towards her. “Gower, what’s going on?” 

“Should we place bets on who has secret powers?” Mason asks.

Mark and Mason are sitting in front of a fire, boiling coffee and cleaning guns. The officers are a few yards off with Miss Anthea and Lt. Aubrey, doing something of a debrief and planning session. To their backs are the little chapel where Sergeant Gower sleeps. Mark grimaces, knowing full well the other guy’s laughing his ass off at this.

“My money’s on Miss Anthea. Seems witchy if you ask me,” he answers.

Mason raises a brow, “I mean, she’s a bit odd, but a fine lass otherwise.”

“A witch don’t need to be some bent crone to be a witch, Mason. Though ol’ Mrs. McGuire could give the Wicked Witch of the West a run for her money. Nearly got hit with buckshot when Noah Jacobson, Homer Sharp and me were in the junkyard.” 

Mason smirks at that, asking, “Now why would dear Mrs. McGuire shoot at you three at the ‘junkyard’?”

“Needed parts for the truck! Had to outrun the deputy sheriffs somehow. Didn’t know that ol’ bat claimed the junkyard as part of her land.”

“Bloody yanks,” Mason laughs

“Hey! I ain’t no northerner, I’m a proud Kentucky hillbilly. There’s a difference,” Marks takes a breath, getting back on track, “Miss Anthea reminds me of someone I met once. In Barlo.”

Mark looks up and around. It’s warm despite the overcast and the wind. There’s a scent like resin in the spring and a golden glow to everything even without the sun. 

“Barlo’s like this place,” Mark says, going back in time, “I mean, lot prettier here. Barlo’s got a coal fire burning under it since ‘bout 1917. Town’s been long evacuated since it started. At least that’s the official story.”

“‘Official story’?” 

“Rumor has it that the miners of the old Number Seven dug deep enough to crack open Hell. But that’s just an old wive’s tale all because no one’s ever claimed to come from Barlo. I went up there while working on a school project.”

It’s a lie, and by the look on face, he doesn’t seem to buy it. But the truth is far stranger than that.

“So who was this ‘witchy’ lass you met?” Mason asks.

Mark explains, “There’s a story my grandma used to tell us of the two queens in the woods. And I think I met one of them. The elder. Grandma Tilly said she sits in a valley between Esau and Jacob counties so overgrown that men cannot walk there without getting torn to shreds by the briars. She is snake bite and mauled bodies. She has never known death and probably never will. And I know her as Miss Dooley.”

“How did you know that this Miss Dooley was…”

Mark leans forward, “I got turned around looking for Barlo, then suddenly Miss Dooley appears to show me the old town sign for Barlo. I spoke to her for no more than a couple minutes and she knew stuff about me my mama and daddy never knew and the good Lord willing never will. And when you encounter someone like that, you know . And Miss Anthea is just like Miss Dooley.”

He feels the other guy coming through. The side of him that knows things far beyond Mark’s ken. The part of the other guy who’s been around since time immemorial. The part that can see that Miss Anthea is far older and far more powerful than she appears.

Through Mark, the other guys says, “ This place and Miss Anthea are connected. She is myrrh and the sea and the wind. She is the things that dwell in the depths and the music in the trees. Winged maiden, daughter of the earth. ”

“You should be a poet,” Mason replies.

Mark’s brought back to earth and feels heat rise up his neck. “Kinda got away on myself didn’t I.”

“Aye. Even your eyes were…” Mason knits his brows looking past Mark into the chapel, “Everything alright, Gower? Did we wake you?”

Mark turns and sees Gower standing in the chapel’s entrance. She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are unfocused, arms limp by her side. Something’s wrong when she doesn’t respond. Just looks right through them.

“You need something, Serg?” Mark asks.

Instead of saying anything, Gower starts walking, stumbling and uncoordinated. 

“Is she sleepwalking?”

“She’s going to bloody hurt herself that’s what,” Mason says, getting up with Mark following.

Mason stands in front of Gower, hand on shoulder. “Gower! Snap out of it,” he says, snapping his fingers in her face. Gower manages to push past, shoving Mason aside with little effort. 

“Where’re you going, Serg?” Mark asks, making a grab for her. But even he was pushed off with ease.

“Gower, what’s going on?” 

Emily wakes in a dark room, lying on her side on a bed. There’s not much for sound beyond a low buzzing, like static on a wireless. She turns onto her back, finding a low ceiling and the windows shuttered with drapes closed as her eyes adjust to the darkness. Only a little light escapes the slats and curtains.

And suddenly very aware she was not alone.

“I knew you would find me.”

She practically leaps off the bed, but keeps it between herself and her new companion. In a dark corner a man sits in a club chair. His posture is restful, almost lazy. Legs crossed, right calf on left knee. Hands steepled, fingertips brushing his lips. 

“Who are you?”

He tuts with dismissive disappointment, “You should know better, Sergeant Gower. We’ve been introduced, however briefly.”

Emily’s seen the face before. She’s never met him in person, but she remembers him from a picture. And from the man she saw in the Cairo office window. He’s no longer gaunt, but the ginger hair and transfixing gold eyes were the same as they were in Cairo. All he’s done is change clothes, judging by the black jackboots and jodhpurs. 

“You’re the man in the window, aren’t you. In Cairo.”

Crichton presses a thin, knife-like smile across his face, “Yes. And I am so much more.”

She makes an attempt to run. Get out of this room, this building, and get back to the others. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he says casually. Emily feels her body stiffen just like in the nightmare. She tries fighting against the pull of her body being forcefully turned towards him. Crichton remains seated, his right arm outstretched; index and little finger extended, thumb and middle fingers tucked into the palm. He looks more amused than anything.

Crichton stands, swiftly closing the distance between them. He circles Emily, inspecting her like how one inspects a horse. She makes her inspection as well. Kenneth Crichton is not much of a specimen himself. Average height, slight build, and the swagger of a spoiled bully. The opened collar and rolled sleeves a mere pretense. She hates how a touch of his cold fingers on her neck sends her heart racing.

He plays with a lock of her hair, saying, “Such a shame you dyed this. It has such a lovely shade. Your crowning glory, really. Not the prettiest girl out there, but that isn’t important right now.”

Crichton’s fingers ghost along her jaw before tipping her chin up, forcing her to stare into his gold eyes. He leans in close, saying, “You will come to me. And you will bring them, your little saboteur team. Do not resist me, Emily.”

“I’d like to see you try, Crichton,” she spits back, ignoring the fangs in his mouth, “By the way, Edith Harker sends her regards.”

For a split second he looks surprised. Long enough for him to break whatever hold he has on her. Emily shoves Crichton hard, making a break for the door.

“Get back here!”

Emily opens the door and her surroundings disappear like smoke. At that moment, she feels herself falling, then very suddenly caught.

“Gower! Wake up!”

The world is bright and she feels someone hold her about the shoulders and waist. She looks up, finding herself caught in Carter’s arms, a worried look on his face.

“Hell is going on?” Emily asks.

“You were sleepwalking,” answers Frank, “Got up, started walking around. You weren’t responding to any of us.”

“Has this happened before?” asks Carter.

She shakes her head, looks down, and pulls away. What else is she supposed to say? 

“Does it have anything to do with that bite in Cairo?” 

“A bite?” asks Frank, “Michael, you should have said something. Has she been vaccinated?”

Emily didn’t realize that she was clutching her shoulder. 

“It seemed fine at the time. As far as I know, most infections don’t cause sleep walking,” Carter replies.

“I’m just tired is all,” Emily interrupts, spotting stares from the others, “Begging pardon, sirs. I haven’t slept in a day and I know lack of sleep does strange things to the head. I’ll be fine in a bit.”

She wants to nip this in the bud quickly. Emily won’t let herself be a burden to the team.

“Are you sure of that?” Carter asks.

“Yes!” she snaps back, then adds politely, “I am assured of this, sir. Whatever this episode was, it won’t stop me from completing this mission.”

“If you say so, Gower.”

The look on Carter’s face does not reassure her. She hopes it’s just a dream. 

She hopes she’s not losing her mind.

Chapter Text

1622 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece, 15 March 1943

The promised rain finally arrives, along with a howling wind and rolling thunder. 

It’s crowded in the little chapel between seven people and easily a thousand pounds of equipment. Anthea finds herself seated next to Robert Frank and across from Emily Gower. She takes note of the ammo boxes haphazardly placed on the trap door. 

These people do not need to know what lies beneath at the moment.

From her vantage point, Anthea can take in her new companions. Patrick Mason who on the surface seems to drift through life, but who’s path may lead him to the purpose he seeks. Robert Frank, an ordinary man of great courage who will father heroes. She looks over at Roger and the one called Michael - sometimes called Brian, or Kevin, and many more names yet to come. They sit in the uncomfortable silence of something unresolved. She knew that Roger had a lover before the war and it was clear to see that Michael was the one who broke his heart. And there they sit, brought back together by fate and uncertain of how to proceed. Achilles and Patrocus reborn once they learn how to love one another again. 

Funny about the hair colour, though.

Then there is Emily Gower and Mark Anthony Todd. They seem to be good, perfectly capable young people. Anthea has seen the quiet bravery and tremendous determination of Emily. That she holds in tension the need for control and the desire for dark passions. That she is a still surface hiding a rip current. That something is trying to claim the girl. Something that wreaks of blood and poison and the creatures of the night. 

And young Mark Anthony. Oh Mark Anthony. The man with two souls. A good young man full of ideals and poetry and a long lost love. A love ripped from him. His world shattered by the cruelty of those who strip the earth and break her people. Such a thing can turn the love of youth into righteous fury. 

Is that you, Kushiel? She asks, like how she can see and know things others hide.

A voice of smokeless fire and desert wind answers, Yeah. You still going by Venus?

A shadowed figure with a bare skull for a head and fire where the eyes should be. They sit where Mark Anthony should be sitting.

Aphrodite has yet to forgive me for that. Anthea will do. How do you find your host?

The boy is just and true in his convictions. Just needs to let loose to get the job done. This’ll be the push he needs to be a true Rider.

Spoiling for a fight as always, Kushiel.

And you must be enjoying the comely compliment. 

Anthea tuts, We have a mission to complete first and must focus. But I am very glad you are here, Kushiel. You will be needed.

It’s still raining. The intensity comes in waves; sometimes as mist, and sometimes as sheets. But Michael thinks that the worst of the storm is over. It’s risky, but they could move to Panagia Spilliani. It’s the perfect time for it, really. 

“Is everyone rested?” Michael asks, addressing the chapel.

There’s a quiet chorus of yeses, to which he announces, “Good. We’ll collect our things, clean up after ourselves, and go to Panagia Spilliani. Miss Anthea, would you mind showing us the way?”

“Not a problem.”

“Very good. Now let’s get to work.”

2236 Hours

It’s still windy and wet. Mist rolls down the volcano, sending a chill through Emily’s body. She did offer Anthea some of her extra clothes, but was politely turned down. And honestly, Anthea seemed unaffected by the cold. It’s rather admirable as she takes point next to Carter.

Emily tries her best. She scans her surroundings, searching for out of place movement and sound. But everything feels thrown off and out of balance. Every twig snap is a jackboot, every shadow a HYDRA trooper waiting to pounce. She doesn’t feel like she’s being watched. She knows it.

It’s taking everything to keep her panic at bay. To keep the scream in her throat from coming out. To not run to Carter for comfort and be told that she’s not going insane and that everything will be fine. That when everything is done, she can rest.

Damned proprietary.

You’ll sleep when I allow it.

Crichton’s voice comes from Emily’s right side like he’s whispering into her ear. Yet at the same time it’s like he’s inside her mind. She whips her head around, and finds Lt. Aubrey scowling.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Capt. Frank comes between them, throwing an arm around Aubrey’s shoulders. Despite the whisper, Emily hears Frank growl out, “Play nice. I mean it.”

“Oh, shove off Robby.”

“Look, you. If you two need some privacy to sort yourselves out once and for all, I can arrange it. But we can’t have you and Michael like this.”

Aubrey shrugs off Frank, but says nothing. 

Emily goes back to keeping her eyes ahead. The better to keep her focus. She tells herself the snap wasn’t for her. Aubrey’s frustrations are meant for Carter. It’s clear to anyone with two eyes. The stares when the other isn’t looking are full of longing, love, and sadness. When she sneaks a look at Aubrey, she sees a man practically begging Carter to just acknowledge something - anything. That the affection is returned. 

Please don’t let me burn up here.

That’s what Emily felt in the dark of the cinema when Edith’s hand brushed up against hers. Thank God the feeling was mutual and quick. Poor Todd keeps shooting those same glances at Mason. And unlike the tension between Aubrey and Carter, Mason seems oblivious.

Good lord, they all need cold showers. But it’s a welcomed distraction from the unease in Emily’s mind. From how Crichton is in her mind. From how she knows they’re being followed.

2312 Hours

The gloom clears off enough to reveal a moonscape below the crest of the volcano. The shadows of clouds race across a grey plain pitted with craters. The wind turns, carrying the scent of sulfur.

“The fastest way to the monastery is by the road,” Anthea says, pointing to a silvered outline on the crater floor.

“Rather exposed,” Michael says.

“The other route is longer - we’ll have to double back and go along the rim - but will give us some cover under the trees.”

Micheal scans the rim and spots the silhouettes of regular square shapes. 

“Is that a village?” he asks.

“That was Glauki.”

He feels the sadness in her voice. The injustice in his bones. The Germans will strip this island bare for what they’re about to do.

“Why do you help us?” Michael asks, only to feel sudden embarrassment from his impulsiveness.

Anthea answers, but doesn’t look at him, “This is my home. Or it used to be.” Her voice has shifted, lost some it’s human quality. It sounds like waves lapping on a shore and birdsong. It’s hypnotic. “This place that was my prison became my home. I protected it with all my heart. I watched over the people; their rises and falls. Life and death. I have seen invaders, pirates, slavers, killers. I have seen heroes and martyrs. I have done my best to save my home. I failed her. But I can avenge her.”

Michael hopes he understands her. Maybe it’s all for naught. Yet they make their way down the slope and into the crater.

2331 Hours

Carter singles for everyone to crouch down behind the juniper. 

At first, Pat could only hear the wind and trees. He strains to hear what the Major has heard. There’s a pause in the gusts long enough to the whine of engines. There’s two… maybe three vehicles? It doesn’t help that the vehicles are travelling with the headlamps off.

Pat prepares himself, hoping that the darkness would keep them hidden. They don’t need more attention. Attention means more patrols. Attention means getting into firefights. Attention means getting killed. Attention means mission failure.

The vehicles - there’s three - pass by quietly. But Pat doesn’t let go of his breath. He knows better. Something about this isn’t right. Ever since this morning he’s had this persistent thought that they’re being watched…

A machine gun opens up firing over their heads. 

Their response is swift. 

Carter gives orders for covering fire, probably to get back up the slope. Pat fires his Sten while Todd and Gower set up the Bren gun. Some of the Germans step out of the vehicles, using the doors and car bodies as protection.

Todd and Gower start firing the Bren and they start making their way up the crater slope.

A bullet whizzes past Pat’s ear from behind. He turns his head and is blinded by a spotlight.

“Halt! Halt!” calls a voice and the gun fire stops.

A different voice shouts, “Hände hoch!”

They drop their weapons and raise their hands. They’ve been caught. Their number’s up. It was a good run, he tries telling himself.

The world’s cruel. You have to accept that.

There’s a moment of silence before a new voice punctures through the darkness, “Well, well, you three are a sight for sore eyes!”

The man is silhouetted by the spotlight coming from above them, but his posh English accent is clear. Some of his ginger hair can be seen in the light.

“Crichton you little worm,” Aubrey spits.

“Manners, old sport!” quips the Crichton person.

“Shove it in your ear!” Frank retorts.

“Silence!” a German voice bellows, followed by a chorus of cocking weapons. An order is given and the troopers move among the party, patting them down, stripping them of their weapons. 

There’s a deathly silence. The Crichton fellow speaks quietly to one of the Germans, then turns back to them. 

“So Michael Carter, what do you have to say for yourself? Still screwing the dons?”

Pat can’t see Carter’s face, but out the corner of his eye, Aubrey’s face was an apoplectic glare.

“Charming as always Kenny. Better than being called a cock sucking poof. But I guess that’s clever for an idiot who got anywhere because mama and papa knew the right people.”

A trooper swings a rifle at Carter’s gut, letting out a gasp and dropping him to his knees.

Pat catches a smell. At first he thinks it’s sulphur, it smells like something burning after all. Except it smells strongly like bad tobacco and coal. And it’s not coming from behind them in the crater, but from…

“I can’t hold him back,” Todd mutters under his breath.

Pat shoots a nervous glance over, finding the poor boy with his eyes squeezed shut, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Steam or smoke rising from him.

Carter rises to his feet, breathing hard. Pat sees something in the Major's right hand. A rock, maybe?

“We’ll take them back to HQ. I do want the small girl with me,” Crichton says. "She's been of great assistance to us."

Did he mean…

Todd opens his eyes, revealing embers.

Carter throws the rock, hitting the spotlight and plunging the world into darkness. Pat smashes his elbow into the nose of the trooper next to him. He wrenches the gun from his hands, firing two shots into him.

There's a red glow and a hellish smell. Heat radiates on Pat’s face as sees, standing in Todd’s place, and in Todd's clothes, is a flaming skull wielding a fiery whip. 

It feels like time slows as Pat watches the whip snake around a German's torso, bursting him into flame. By its unearthly light, Anthea’s arms grow feathers and her features become more bird-like. 

A wind kicks up and the dust starts flying. Gower tosses a trooper into a boulder as if it were a sack of potatoes. She wheels around, grasping the handle of the Bren gun, shouting, “Let’s get to the lorries!”

Part of Pat thinks this is part of another trap, but they do need to disappear. And he can’t keep staring at the nightmarish scene before him. Like a piece of something from the Bible; Like Something from Revelations. On instinct, Pat crosses himself Orthodox style, like his mother does. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

So Pat fires the Karabiner, allowing Gower and Capt. Frank to get to the lorries with some of their equipment. He jumps into the box, switching to the Bren. The engine roars to life, wheels around, Pat firing at the remaining troops who are scrambling for the other vehicles while providing cover for their team. Carter and Aubrey manage to hoist themselves onto the tailgate with whatever equipment they could salvage. 

He starts to ask, “So what about Anthea and …”

A badly burned body is thrown into the lorry's box, followed by a thump on the roof and Anthea shouting to Gower, “Go south! To Glauki!” 

Gravel flies and the lorry speeds into the night across the crater. Carter flicks on his cigarette lighter, leaning over and revealing the burnt up figure turning back into Mark Anthony Todd. And once again, Pat crosses himself. 

He is in a new world.

Chapter Text

0004 Hours, Glauki, Fidonisi, 16 March 1943

They take refuge in an abandoned house. The original owners seemed to have left with whatever they could carry. There must be a broken window somewhere, for Robby feels a certain cool dampness permeates the front room. There’s a scent of salt air and mold, the furniture and remaining rugs would have been somewhat comfortable if not for how wet everything is. 

Robby and Roger had all but flung poor Todd onto a low divan while everyone else flops around the front room. Someone finds a lamp and they settle in for a meal of bully beef while Gower finds a quiet spot to transmit back to Maddie. They’re very quiet as the events of the crater sink in.

Crichton’s here. Anthea turned into a really big bird woman. Todd turned into a flaming skeleton. And Gower smashed a boulder throwing a bloke.

“So,” Robby starts, scraping the sides of the tin. “Anyone else hiding secret abilities they’d like to disclose?”

“Now’s not the time, Robby,” Michael says.

“Begging pardon, sirs, but is there going to be a good time to discuss this?”

Mason stands in the doorway between the front room and kitchen holding a bottle of what looks like questionable wine. He looks, rather understandably, uncertain. Mason’s eyes shift from person to person in the room, searching for something. Expecting a new revelation. Otherwise, Robby thinks Mason’s taking the current revelations well. At least on the surface. Robby knows he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

He takes a breath, looking at Michael, “I don’t know about you, Major, but I’m just some tosser from Glasgow with a good right hook. And I’m not afraid to admit that I feel that I’m far beyond my depth.”

“Fair enough,” Michael nods. He looks over at the still dozing Todd. “Get him up, Gower. We can rest in a bit.”

She nods and gently shakes Todd’s shoulder. He startles, blinks around, and mutters something like, “What’s going on?”

“Major want’s a briefing,” she replies

“‘Bout what?”

“Well you turned into a flaming skull, so that, among others, is on the table.”

“Oh.” 

Todd sits up awkwardly, looking around the room. Anthea takes a seat in a wooden chair, most of the blue paint chipped away. Michael elects to stand, Roger sits on a window sill, and Mason finds a heavy chest; he uncorks the bottle, planning on taking a swig. Robby flops on the divan next to Todd, whilst Gower leaned on it’s back.

“How’s the wine?” Michael asks Mason.

The latter winces from the drink and passes the bottle on, “Claret. Wee bit vinegary, but it’ll do.” 

Michael takes the bottle and swig, grimaces, and says, “Mason is correct. Before we can proceed further, we will need to explain ourselves. And I should probably go first. Break the ice and all that. And it’s probably the shortest tale: I am the product of a military experiment. We were mirroring a similar project the Yanks had that resulted in ‘Captain America’ - I’m sure some of you have seen the films. The general idea is to create a soldier who is stronger, faster, and smarter. And to see if it could be scaled up, let's say. Commando sized squads next. Part of this mission is to test me, to see if the Crown has made a good investment.”

He takes another gulp before passing it to Roger. “Bloody stuff’s vile!” he glares down at the bottle.

“Roger, could you not be a snob for five minutes?” Robby chides.

Roger sticks up two fingers. “So I’ll keep this short. Got torpedoed in the Atlantic - still surprised I didn’t die in ten minutes because it was February - and with my luck I got fished out by the Germans. Quickly found myself in Colditz and escaped. Got experimented on by an SS scientist I didn’t know at the time was also a HYDRA member. The octopus tie clip was a dead give away in hindsight. Now I can turn my skin diamond hard because I’m an Inhuman.”

“You know, you never really explained that. Either of you,” Michael says addressing Roger and Anthea.

“Touché. Anthea knows more than me about that.”

Anthea sighs, “I think given recent events we can dispense with the shocked reactions.” She gives an exhausted sweep of the room. This would be an excellent situation for a couple of Maddie’s cannabis cigarettes. “So, a very long time ago, there was this race of alien people called the Kree. They performed experiments on ancient humans to fight their mortal enemies, the Skrulls. Anyway, some humans got powers from these experiments. The Kree left for unknown reasons and let’s hope it stays that way. Most of the Inhumans disappeared to who knows where, but some stayed behind and Lt. Aubrey is one of their descendants. And no, I will not be answering follow-up questions because that’s the limit of my knowledge.”

“Thank you, Miss Anthea,” Michael replies with a bewildered look. “Your explanation was very… insightful.”

“Michael, that was the most lawyerly answer I’ve heard come out of your mouth. Anyway, Roger, pass over the swill,” Robby says, taking a swig once he gets the bottle. Maybe he owes Roger an apology because the wine is now more vinegar than wine. “My story’s simpler than the Major’s. No powers, I’m just a silver tongued devil.”

“In more ways than one,” Roger snorts.

“Oh don’t egg him on, Roger!” Michael sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Happy wife, happy life I say, old boy!” 

Michael’s head was practically in his hands, “This is talking about sex with grand-mère.”

“Wasn’t your grandmother one of Victor Hugo’s mistresses?” quips Roger.

“One, that was an aunt. And two, we are in mixed company,” Michael retorts before turning to said mixed company, “My apologies ladies.”

“It’s perfectly alright, Major. It’s only natural conversation,” replies Anthea.

Gower adds, “You wouldn’t believe some of the things said in the women’s barracks.” Which gets a few laughs.

“Anyway, who’s next?” He says, regarding Gower and Todd and noticing the shared bemused looks. 

They exchange a look and Todd shrugs his shoulders, “Sergeants first, I guess?”

Gower takes the bottle and downs a swallow without any fuss. Robby wonders if she even tasted the wine. “I don’t know what I am anymore. Never thought anything about how quickly I healed from injuries, how I rarely got sick, or how strong I am for someone my size. Then the Major and I went to Turkey to fetch a scientist for that experiment and I kicked an Italian werewolf through a wall.”

She pauses for a moment. It’s long enough for Robby to notice the twitch in Gower’s jaw and the nervous way she grips her wrist. Like she’s trying to remind herself of where she is. That the hand gripping her wrist is hers and hers alone. It reminds him of Michael when he was with Nathan Garrett. 

You too, dear? Those hazel eyes can’t hold everything back.

“I learned from Dr. Schmitt that there’s this idea predicting this new evolution of humans called Homo superior. Don’t know what that really means and Dr. Schmitt thinks it’s mostly bunk, anyway,” she finishes in a rush and a forced smile.

There’s more to this story. 

Anthea perks up, asking, “When did these abilities start manifesting?”

Gower looks a little taken aback, but answers, “Looking back I was nine when I healed being kicked by a horse rather quickly. But the big displays are recent.”

Anthea nods, then locks her eyes on Robby. “Do you have children, Captain Frank?”

Very suddenly, Robby sees himself on that grey February afternoon five years ago. Maddie laying in bed, silent and despondent - he’s never seen her like this - and the housekeeper ringing the doctor. He can still smell the blood soaked towels and bleach in the bathroom.

“No,” he answers flatly. Quietly.

“I apologize for my imprudence.”

“Here you go,” Gower says, passing the bottle to Todd. 

He gives a suspicious look to the wine before taking his swallow. “You’ve got to understand the place I come from to understand why I made my decisions, sir.” He’s addressing Michael, but Todd keeps looking at Mason for approval. Acceptance, even. “I’m from eastern Kentucky. It’s coal country and that’s all we got. Until I got a scholarship, I never dreamed I could leave Harlan alive. And even then, I specialize in mine engineering. If I survive this war, I’m going down in there like my daddy, and granddaddy, and his daddy before him. There’s something about that land that swallows you whole.”

Todd takes a breath, looking down at the floor, “I was a kid when the miners went on strike and the bosses and Sheriff Blair turned it into a war. A war we lost. My friend, Homer Sharp…” he wipes his nose, keeping his eyes down as he takes another breath. Robby senses that ‘friend’ is carrying a lot of weight. “Homer went down into the mines. Like a lot of guys I know. That’s what you do in Harlan. He, uh… There’s this thing in coal mines called damp. A blackdamp had built up. It’s when the oxygen in an area gets replaced with nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and water vapor. Can cause asphyxiation in seconds. The mine weren’t ventilated right…” He takes a breath that’s all but a sob, “Because Homer’s daddy was sick, I had to dig his grave with his brother. That poor kid was bawling his eyes out. He were just fourteen and thought Homer was the best thing since sliced bread.”

Retribution.

Robby looks over at Michael, trying to remember how old his younger brother is. He’s pretty sure Matthew’s about fifteen or sixteen. With Peggy working for the Yanks, and knowing their parents, he wouldn’t be surprised if the boy feels abandoned by the world. Poor lad. And the mask does slip ever so slightly. The crossed arms are an act of contemplation, he will lie to himself, not regret and guilt.

“So you sought out Kushiel?” Anthea asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What exactly is Kushiel?” Michael follows up.

“The haint who calls himself a ‘spirit of vengeance’.”

“So that’s why you went to Barlo and met your Miss Dooley,” Mason quietly says.

All eyes turn on Mason, who’s been rather silent this entire time. His face is hard and gaze steely. It doesn’t betray shock, or anger, or anything really. Mason is fortifying. This is his reality now and he has to accept it.

Todd nods, “I guess she thought I’d be a good fit for him.”

“And you are doing a good job, Mark Anthony,” Anthea replies, leaning over to give a gentle pat on the shoulder.

He mumbles a thanks and passes the wine bottle to Anthea. She takes her fill and starts, “I believe that we have fully established that the world is far larger and stranger than previously thought, I can probably keep my story short. My father is the river god Achelous and my mother is Terpsichore, the Muse of dance. My sisters are Thelxiepia, Molpe, and Peisinoe. I am a siren, for a time I served Phorcys, and with my sisters we lured mortal sailors to their doom. At one point my hubris grew too great and I thought myself as beautiful as Aphrodite. So I donned her Roman name and posed as Venus. For that I was bound to this island and served as guardian to the temple and grove. To say I am lucky is an understatement. The gods of Olympus are not known for their… restraint.”

“So that explains turning into a bird, I guess?” Robby says, unsure of what else to say. 

“Comes with the territory.”

“So how do you know…” Todd asks with a gesture to himself.

“Kushiel?” Anthea replies with a tilt of her head, “They have been around for a very long time. Far older than myself. One of your god’s creations, an angel meant for bringing some needed retribution when the afterlife cannot wait.”

“And there are limits on what you can do, I suppose.” Michael states.

She exchanges a cool look with him, “There is only so long I can charm three hundred men, Major. My sisters and I usually focused on the helmsman; it made the job easier. And I must think of the long term good of the island.”

“Of course.”

There is a heavy moment of silence. The dawning realization of how large the world is and how small they are in comparison. The growing disquiet of knowing how strange the universe is. 

And why did Anthea ask Robby about children? 

Intellectually, he’s come to accept that children may not be in the cards for Maddie and himself. Honestly their lifestyle, both in war and peacetime, was not the most conducive to raising offspring. Not without help and boarding school, likely.

But the silence is broken by Roger, looking about the room and asking, “Where’d the girl go?”

Robby notices, too, that Gower is conspicuously missing.

Emily knows it’s rude of her to leave without permission, but a pounding from within her skull begins during Todd’s story and she doesn’t want to make a scene. 

She finds a darkened back room that smells of sea salt mixed with desiccated flowers and herbs. Leaning against a wall facing a broken window, Emily slides down to the floor, resting her head on knees and squeezing her eyes shut as if it would help. Her monthly was never particularly regular, especially since she joined the SOE, with an hour of cramps and a splitting headache. 

Except there hadn’t been any cramps. She had a rather pathetic showing two weeks ago. And there’s that static noise again.

Emily takes deep, steadying breaths. She’s just tired, but doesn’t want to sleep. Lord knows what Crichton has waiting for her.

She's been of great assistance to us.

She’s a God damned sergeant! She can’t be this week. She can’t let this pissant win.

Someone walks by, heels clicking on a stone floor. Emily raises her head enough to catch a uniformed woman. All greenish black with HYDRA’s red skull and tentacle patch on the shoulder. The air is filled with the sound of tapping telegraph receivers and angry voices. The HYDRA girl standing in the entrance of another room. A blonde hair, blue eyed valkyrie, she holds a slip of paper in her hands and is trying to get someone’s attention. 

And the young woman is completely oblivious to Emily’s presence. She observes that the space she stands in is a void, only the slate tiled floor and door frame looks real and solid. 

“Einfach niederbrennen!” a man practically shouts.

“Mit was?” another responds, prompting Emily to remember her German. “We have barely enough petrol as it is, let alone diesel, and it’s not as if the Luftwaffe are going to waste bombs on a Greek island.”

“What is it, Behringer?” the first voice bellows. Emily winces along with the HYDRA valkyrie. Guess there’s no escaping tossers.

The valkyrie gulps then steps into the room, announcing with a click of the heels, “Sir, a message from headquarters.”

She leaves after a salute, stone faced and fading away. 

Emily peers in, seeing two HYDRA officers and a sulking Crichton. The older of the two - reading the message - has grey hair in a high and tight Prussian style and the pale features to match. The younger officer is weasel faced with slicked back brown hair sporting a deeply bored look.

The older officer slams the message onto the table, “Apparently we will have to make do with what we have on the island. Headquarters believes that we are more than capable of handling seven saboteurs.”

“Yes, seven saboteurs who have managed to kill about fifty now,” weasel face says. “And who are made up of a collection of freaks. At least we know where Aubrey is. Wonder if that girl is the same little slut from Turkey?”

“She’s with that Marlow… Carter… whatever the fuck he calls himself. What is he calling himself?” asks the older officer.

“It’s Michael Carter alright,” Crichton says, then after a moment asks. 

The comment stings, but how else would they see her? She takes a few calming breaths before turning back to the conversation. Go numb. There are more important things to worry about. And she’s starting to realize that she’s perfectly invisible. 

Emily is standing in the line of sight of the older officer and yet he says nothing. Weasel face could see her if he just turned his head slightly. Quietly, she creeps around the room. There are tacked up maps and diagrams, of course. What draws her attention is a topographical map of the island with a few locations near the crater marked with pins and string. Looking closely, she spots that the ruins at Leuke are marked.

The grove? Why would they be interested in that?

“When is von Strucker due for arrival?” Crichton asks.

“Which one?” weasel-face responds.

“Werner,” the older officer clarifies, “And he arrives tomorrow.”

“Still looking for daddy’s approval, is he,” Crichton snarks.

Emily nearly blurts out a ‘You should talk’, but schools herself. Whatever vampiric nonsense she’s gotten herself into, she wants to get as much out of it as possible. The last thing she needs is Crichton knowing she’s here.

Crichton continues, “As far as I know, Carter and his team still think the main purpose of this place is to scare the Turks. I wonder if that harpy’s told them anything about this island, if she does know anything.”

“We can’t leave that to chance,” the older officer says.

“You’ve been keeping your eye on the girl, right?” weasel-face asks.

“Of course. The first trap didn’t work,” Crichton answers, resting his cheek on a closed fist. Knitting his brows in contemplation. “You know, gentlemen, I wasn’t planning on turning Sergeant Gower so soon. But knowing Carter, Aubrey, and especially Frank, they might not be able to resist a damsel in distress. Despite their… tastes.”

The pit of Emily’s stomach drops. Her pulse raises.

This is a dream, right?

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” the older officers asks.

“I already know where she is. I just need an opportunity to get her alone.”

She feels faint. If this is a dream, she wants to wake up. She wants to scream.

Wake up.

Weasel face asks, “Would that really draw them out?” 

“Oh it will. Those three will come running for Gower like they did for the lovely Edith Harker,” Crichton speaks with such wistfulness it makes her want to pummel the bastard. “They love playing the hero.”

“Gower! Get up!”

She feels someone grasp her shoulders and gently shakes her. 

Emily looks up into Carter’s worried face. 

“I know something’s wrong,” he says.  

It’s hard to make his features out in the dark, but the tone is unmistakable. And she has trouble coming up with any answer other than an “I’m sorry, sir.”

She wants to sink into the wall. Choosing to rest her still head on her laced fingers is to alleviate her pounding head, not to avoid looking at him.

“Enough with the ‘sirs’ for now. I hope I can understand why you never told me about the homo superior situation.”

“Would it make a difference?” she asks.

“We’d at least have something to call it. And after this night, I doubt anything is going to surprise me.”

In the distance she can hear the movements and voices of the others. She’s aware that Captain Frank is organizing everyone for watches. Emily can hear snatches of conversation. The creeks of someone moving about close to the door. The now familiar way he breathes. How he shifts about restlessly since the transformation - he’s still not fully used to his new body. And she focuses on all of these little things because they’re the only things keeping her from breaking. 

“Do you know what book Crichton was so obsessed about?” Emily mutters.

She’s been thrown into the middle of an ocean and told to swim to shore.

Carter lets go of her shoulders and leans back on his heels. It feels longer than it actually takes for him to answer, “Dracula.”

“I’m a real Lucy Westenra,” Emily chokes out. “Crichton’s in my head. And he’s here.” 

I already know where she is.

Carter moves to sit next to her, facing her direction, taking her hands. She still can’t look at him, no matter what he’s trying to do. It’s still a nice gesture.

“Just breathe. Take your time,” he whispers.

Why do I want to cry? 

“He knows where I am. He’s watching us, through me. It’s probably why we’ve been ambushed,” Emily feels the tears come, and is only able to get out a barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

“You need to stop saying that. It’s not your fault.”

She continues, almost unaware of what he said, “I’m sure he’s the one who bit me. He can see what we do through me. He’s trying to trap us. He’s in my dreams. I close my eyes and I see him. And I’m too tired to fight it.”

“Emily, please,” Carter places a hand on the back of her neck and she can feel the tears run down her cheeks. “Emily please, listen to me. None of this is your fault. You’re going to fall into a trap that’s very difficult to escape from. People like Crichton find ways to worm their way into a head to hurt people. It’s a blood sport for his type.”

“He wants to use me as bait!”

“Alright, that does make a bit of difference.”

She frees a hand to wipe her face. “He’s under this impression that I’m some damsel you, Captain Frank, and Lieutenant Aubrey will try to rescue me.”

He huffs, “Clearly he’s forgotten about the time Edie beat him with a copy of Lermontov.”

Emily can’t help but laugh at that thought. “What’d she use, A Hero of Our Time?”

“How do you know about that one?”

“My grammar school had a well stocked library, I’ll have you know. And I was on good terms with the librarian.”

“Score one for the proletariat.”

She’s about to ask what they should do when a thought strikes her. “I can see him.” How did she miss this?

“I think we’ve already established that fact.”

“No. Carter. I saw Crichton talking to two HYDRA officers. I was clearly in the line of sight for two people and neither of them saw me. All this one secretary had to do was turn her head and she would have seen me. Clear as day. Crichton was completely unawares!”

“And that’s how you found out they’re planning on using you as bait?” he says.

“Yes,” she answers, emphatically, “They want us gone because they’re looking for something. The u-boat pens aren’t that important.”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Now you do realize that this vision could be…”

“... could be the trap?” Emily finishes, feeling a little deflated, “I know. It’s an idea at least. It’s not like we have any idea what we’re doing. For all we know I dreamed all of this.”

“Do you remember any names in this vision?”

She thinks for a moment, searching for what she could remember of this vision. “They mentioned someone. HYDRA member. Seemed pretty high up on the totem pole, didn’t seem to like him though. I think they were calling him Strucker. Werner von Strucker, that’s what I remember.”

“Alright, we’ve got something to test this against.” 

“Quite right, sir,” Emily mutters.

“Eh,” Carter says, using a finger to lift up her chin. She finds she’s not repulsed by the gesture like when Crichton did it. “I believe you. Do not doubt that. I’ll speak with Anthea, she’ll likely know what HYDRA’s looking for. And if Crichton is what we think he is, and we still have a u-boat pen to blow up. I want to get a good view of the place and all that.”

“And one of the officers Crichton was arguing for burning this place to the ground,” she adds.

“All the more incentive to get out of here quickly. With that said, we have guns to clean and clips to refill. We’ll sleep when we’re dead.”

“Sounds like a plan, sir.”

Carter stands, holding out a hand which she gladly takes - her legs had gotten that awful pins-and-needles feeling. For a moment it looks like he's about to say something, but bites down on that thought and says, “Do be social with your fellow non-coms, we’ve unfortunately become a bit top heavy recently.”

“It wouldn’t be the done thing to fraternize with officers too much and look like a class traitor,” she quips.

He regards Emily, responding, “Look at you, knowing your Marxist principles!”

“And I should. Learned it from my communist Aunt Winnie.”

“Ah, good to know. Anyway, I was thinking that you could help Todd get out of his funk, given that you know a lot about vehicles and he knows a lot about explosives.”

She asks, “So we’re not taking the lorry?”

“No, but I do want to leave HYDRA with something fun.”

Claps her on the shoulder before leaving. It’s gentle, friendly, and hides something. Emily watches him go, thinking about the way he said “it’s not your fault.” Like he was telling himself as much as he was reassuring her. Who hurt you? Who made you feel that your pain was your own doing?

“Anthea?” 

She’s aroused from her half-slumber by the quiet voice of Major Carter. Blinks, “Yes?”

Carter opens his mouth to say something, closes it, thinks, then after a moment asks, “Is there anything about this island that we should know?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Anything that HYDRA would be interested in finding.”

Anthea sits up to match Carter, who’s sitting next to her. She is silent as they stare in mutual silence. His gaze is as steady as her. He is strong, and brave, and clever. But he has a long way to go before he can begin to grasp the true history of this world. And the true vastness of this universe. 

“Do you truly want to know?” she asks.

“I think it’s important to know, given that our enemies have a deep interest in supposedly power artifacts.”

Her sentence is waning, she can feel it. The connection to Fidonisi is not what it used to be and Anthea has been thinking for a couple decades that she may be able to leave, finally. But still…

“I can tell that you are a man of a certain class and certain education, which leads me to suppose that you know at least a little Greek. So tell me, Major, what does ‘Fidonisi’ mean in English?”

Carter takes a moment to think, rubbing the spot between nose and upper lip. “Fídi translates to snake. So ‘snake island’. Haven’t seen many of those around. What’s important about that?”

“In due time, Major.” Anthea answers, “And it is still a bit chilly for the snakes to really come out. The ophidiophobe would find it hellish in the summer. But I believe that we will be leaving Glauki soon for a better vantage point over the u-boat pen. There are too many shades here, anyway. And I know a place where we can, as you English say, ‘kill two birds with one stone’.”

He gives a half-smile, “Did you happen to be the Sphinx of Thebes at one point?”

“No. But she was clever and very fun at parties.”

Carter looks down at the floor for a beat, then looks back up at her. “I was wondering if you could do us a favour? Do me a favour?”

“What exactly, Major?” she replies, wrapping her arms around her knees.

He looks about before answering, “Could you keep an eye on Gower? There’s something troubling her and I think it might fall into your wheelhouse, so to speak.”

Anthea nods. There’s a shadow hanging over Miss Gower and it is clear that that Crichton person they encountered is trying to claim the woman. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

0159 Hours

“It’s rather crude, but should work,” Mark says, going over their work with a flashlight.

“Turn the ignition over. Break the time pencil. Boom,” Gower says, gesturing with her hands.

“Full tank of gas will do it.”

“And we’ll be free and clear from here,” she replies. “Help me up, will you?”

He extends a hand that lets Gower crawl out from under the truck. She jumps up, wiping the grease onto her pant legs. She looks up at him as the moon peeks out from behind some clouds, giving a silvery glow to her elfin features. Mark wonders at his luck in finding strange women. 

“So are your things all in order?” she asks, nice and friendly.

“Yes ‘um.”

“And you’ve eaten and had some water?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s good,” Gower puts her hands in her pockets, but maintains her steady cat-like gaze. “Look, it’s been a pretty rough night for all of us. I don’t like talking about Turkey, and you…”

Mark gulps in air, looking away. He’s never talked about Homer to anyone since the funeral and he’d only just now realize how raw that wound still is. Even just sharing the bare bones hurt. 

“Homer was very special, wasn’t he?”

The words get tangled in his throat and he can only nod. Her words cut like a knife.

“Look, I had to have a reminder that some of the things that happened to me were out of my control. That if I stew on them too much, I’d be crushed by their weight. Still think the addendum is that we all have to figure out how to carry that weight. Can’t deny that it happened, but you do have to live at some point,” Gower lets out a heavy sigh. She does look like she’s been crying. “At least I want to believe that.”

“Me, too.”

Lord almighty does Mark want to believe that he can live. That he can have something good and true and peaceful. Not the fire of anger and vengeance in his belly. Not the desire to see the world on fire for every cruel thing done. He doesn’t want this blackness that’s settled into his heart and makes it damn near impossible to enjoy anything.

“You’re in good company, Mark,” she says, touching his arm. “I think every one of us is carrying something painful. Maybe we can find ways to help each other, you know. It’s rather lonely carrying everything so tightly.”

“Yeah,” Mark nods. “Sounds pretty nice.”

0319 Hours

They take shelter in an abandoned house of shepherd’s hut behind a rock spire and overlooking Panagia Spilliani, terraced fields, and the u-boat pen. All the better to observe to observe the comings and goings of the base.

And of course the spectacular view of the fireball resulting from the bomb. 

“Todd and the girl did a bang up job,” Roger says

Michael, sitting half hidden in the gloom of an olive tree, turns to see him. 

“It’ll keep them busy,” Michael replies. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not with that racket,” Roger looks around. “Still. Rather risky move, that. How long before they’re crawling up these hills, do you reckon?”

Michael turns back to the horizon, saying, “I find this lot over-thinks. They’ll look on the other side of the island long before they’ll look in their own backyard. And in any case, we’ll probably be long gone.”

Roger sits down next to him. Michael brings out his packet of cigarettes. He takes one, and elects to ignore how roguish with the scruff and peacoat. 

“That’s rather confident of you,” Roger replies after a puff.

“I have to be. Otherwise I’d be paralyzed with fear.”

He looks down at Michael’s hands. They’ve always given him away. He has a bad habit of letting cigarettes burn down to his fingers. Not too bad so far by Roger’s reckoning.

They’re quiet, gazing over the base and u-boat pen, beetling with activity in the dark. The water looks still. Smooth as glass with a bit of bioluminescence along the shore. Roger would love to go sailing on that. 

And it’s a nice distraction from the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Hell is going on, Michael?”

“I don’t really know anymore,” Michael says with some sharpness in his voice. Not of rebuke, just the way he sounded when agitated. “I mean the battlelines are obvious. Roughly 150 to 300 of them at any given time and seven of us. That u-boat pen is what’s standing between us and getting off this damned island.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Roger says.

Michael gives him a sidelong look, taking a drag from the cigarette, then looks back out at the slope below. All day Roger has been struggling to reconcile the two images of Michael Carter. Fundamentally different, yet fundamentally the same. He is taller, stronger, and godlike with the now brown-black hair, alabaster skin, and perfect body; the impossible Michael Carter. But the old Michael - kind, romantic, and selfless - is still there. 

“What are you asking?”

There you go, Roger, cocking it up already. 

“I’m not that concerned with mission specific objectives,” he answers. “I mean I am for survival, of course. It’s just…” Roger makes a flailing gesture, “Everything.”

Roger fears the quiet and stillness. He has become used to running, surviving, and fighting. He’s lived moment to moment for long enough that it's becoming hard to remember any other way of being. It’s a way to ignore what has happened since he was fished out of the Atlantic. Because if he has any moment of stillness, Roger fears he will shatter.

“I wonder if this is how an ant feels staring up at us,” Michael says.

“Maybe,” Roger mutters around the cigarette. What else is he supposed to say?

There’s a long silence between them, punctuated by the wind in the trees and the scent of sea salt and burning tobacco. He makes a pull of the cigarette before stubbing it out and making to leave when Michael grabs hold of Roger’s arm.

“I know you were listening in on Gower and I.”

Roger’s heart is in his throat. Michael’s voice betrays exhaustion and disappointment. So he sits back down, knowing there isn’t a way out of his worst fault. 

Jealousy comes from a lack of trust as Maddie often said.

“Your girl’s got a funny way of greeting people,” Roger says. Michael looks at him incredulously and Roger adds, “Pointed her pistol at me asking for my name. Rather ridiculous given how big that pistol is and her being such a gamine.”

Michael huffs, “You’re lucky, she’s a crack shot.”

“It was point black, Michael.”

“Gower sniped a HYDRA agent with iron sights from over 200 yards.”

“Touché.”

Still doesn’t answer the unasked question.

“That girl’s got a hold on you,” Roger says.

He seems to have hit something, “She is Sergeant Emily Gower and I’d appreciate it if you used her proper name.”

“Alright, then. Sergeant Gower has a hold on you.”

“If she does, what’s wrong with that?”

“She doesn’t fit.” 

Roger knows he’s being unfair. He doesn’t know anything about her. He met her less than twenty-four hours ago. It’s just this Gower girl is yet another star in the bizarre constellation that makes up the new Michael Carter.

Michael doesn’t glare at him, but it’s close enough, “‘Doesn’t fit’ how?”

“Maddie fits,” Roger knows he’s flailing. “And Edie fits so much that I seriously thought you’d propose… Peggy’s practically one of us -”

“So Gower doesn’t make ‘sense’ because she’s Welsh? Christ, you can be a snob, but this is just ridiculous. Wait until I tell you that she’s a grammar school girl and the daughter of sheep farmers.”

There’s a shovel with his name on it, Roger is certain. “She’s this cringing little creature I…”

“Roger, stop.” 

He’s gone too far. Him and his stupid mouth. 

Michael sounds so tired when he says, “This isn’t about Gower. She’s a good kid. She’s just shy and Crichton’s a cruel bastard doing to her what he wanted to do to Edie. And she’s clever, brave, tough, and kind. She’s saved my life, Roger. So I vouch for her. Maddie vouches for her; damn near seducing her. And more importantly Edith loves her.”

What in the world? 

“‘Edith?’ You mean Edith Harker, right?” Roger asks. 

“Yes.”

“Edith Laura Harker?”

“Yes.”

“Edie ‘Our Lady of Shalott’ Harker?”

“Good God, yes!” There’s a bit of a laugh and a wave of relief crashes over Roger.

He asks, “What’s the old girl up to?” It’s been five years since he last heard from Edith.

“Ambulance driver with FANY. She’s been in Tunisia for the past while, but was going on leave around the time we were stepping off,” Michael answers. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, saying, “I tried to move on. I really did.”

Michael is quiet and Roger takes the opportunity to continue. “There were others, but… but it wasn’t the same. I missed how you talked about things. Turning a fragment of some ancient clay pot into a Homeric epic. The way you’d tap your pen when you’re thinking to the beat of a song only you could hear. Or how you’d gush about some Byzantine historian or crusader knight. Or come up with these madcap adventures…”

He looks over not knowing what to expect, but fearing the worst. Whatever that may be. Michael’s scratching at the spot on his left hand between thumb and forefinger where the snake bit him at fifteen. 

“No one could make me feel as good as you did,” Roger adds, choking back a sob.

There was the Michael Carter who frustrated him to no end. The side with sullen moods and martyr complex. The stubbornness and pride that puts him on his cross. Knowing what’s best for people and keeping secrets. 

Roger isn’t much of a prize himself, but at least he’s willing to admit that.

“I tried as well,” Michael says, speaking little louder than a whisper. “Typical me I set myself up for failure. There was a man I worked with in France. He was everything I thought I wanted and wanted to be. So of course Fred’s got an angel for a wife and sweet little boy and I felt like such an intruder.” Roger hears a sniff and Michael wipes at his face. 

“He’s dead now because of me. Turns out I’m good at creating widows and orphans.”

Roger wants to lean over and hold Michael. Give him the comfort he needs. Bring him back. But indecision holds him still and Michael continues speaking.

“Funny thing about the dead is that they can’t disappoint you. They can’t speak. They’ll always be perfect and one can make them more so. Their idealized self is far better than reality. I think now that a lot of what I wanted Fred to be was you, Roger.”

Roger could swear that his heart just stopped at that moment. He never thought he’d hear such things come from Michael. He’s still expecting a gentle let down. But dear God can he hope.

“I want to apologize,” Michael says, finally looking at him.

“You don’t have to -”

“Roger, I never really said ‘I’m sorry’ back before the war. Just tried to pick up like nothing had happened. Even though I said things I knew hurt you.”

“So did I,” Roger replies, fighting back tears. “You know me: sharp tongue and a viper’s temper. I was so scared about losing you. And then I did and I’ve regretted it since.”

“That doesn’t make what I did and said right.”

“Michael, darling, we were both complete and utter asses to each other,” Roger says, grasping at his hand in the dark.

Somehow their fingers intwine. There’s still the familiar calluses and rough skin of old. Whatever change Michael went through couldn’t erase that.

“I miss this,” Michael says after a beat. Even in the darkness, Roger knows there’s a smile playing on Michael’s lips despite the rough note in his voice. “I miss the way your hair looks in the sun. The determined look you get while fencing. How you sing when no one’s around.”

His heart races. 

“I miss this,” Michael says, brushing a kiss on Roger’s knuckles.

His mouth goes dry. 

“And this,” he says, placing a hand on Roger’s neck and kissing his cheek.

His head is dizzy.

“And this.” 

They kiss and it feels right. It’s coming into a safe harbour from a long storm. It’s the first right thing Roger’s done in a long time.

Chapter Text

0918 Hours, 16 March, 1943, Bodrum, Turkey

“Well. This is a most interesting development,” General Halloway says.

Maddie lights up a fresh cigarette before going over her notes. Three survivors of the commando team sent to Aithinis - Woodmore, Day, and Burton - arrived before dawn yesterday after commandeering a fishing boat. This was unexpected, but Maddie can come up with plans on the fly. The commandos were spirited to a safehouse, allowed to clean themselves up, eat and rest. Halloway was promptly informed and had arrived by seaplane early the following morning. And in the meantime, she and Celia Martell conducted a preliminary debriefing.

Now they were all gathered around a table with Celia in the next room monitoring the radio. Before Halloway is the object of greatest interest and surprise: a ring.

“Still don’t understand why Jerry’s so keen on protecting a bit of finery, sir,” Woodmore says, shaking his head. “Can’t be worth more than a few bob.”

“Perhaps,” the General replies, passing the ring to Maddie. “But out of curiosity, I would like to know more about the histories of these two islands, Joyce-Frank. Specifically their ancient history, though I doubt there will be much, especially from before the Archaic period.”

“Of course, sir.”

The ring is made of gold and consists of two snakes coiled around each other with small, glittering garnets for eyes. There’s something sinister in how the gems catch the morning light. Like drops of fresh blood.

“Ulysses Bloodstone would likely know what this is,” muses Halloway.

“Yes, but Lord knows where he is. Quincy Harker, on the other hand, lives near Warwick,” replies Maddie. Though she’s not excited about the prospect of dropping old Quincy a line.

And yet, looking at the disquieting little ring, Quincy Harker may just be their man.

It’s Emily’s watch.

At least she thinks so.

She knows Carter will want to move again, and Anthea was talking about some tunnels that run under the HYDRA base. And she doesn’t remember going on watch. Nobody got her up and it appears that she is alone.

Emily calls out in a sharp whisper for Carter, for Anthea, for Captain Frank. For anyone. Anyone who could hear over what she belatedly realizes isn’t the crashing of waves and the wind. It’s the static, whispering noise.

The static turns from a hum to a roar in her ears. She covers her ears in a vain attempt to muffle the racket as she searches the gloom. And after a second sweep she sees him. Crichton. The look on his face is full of contempt.

“You astonish me, Emily,” he sneers, closing the distance between them.

“Really? Thought I was rather boring,” she retorts, going for her pistol.

“Give yourself some credit,” he says, flicking his hand into the sign that freezes her body. “I can enter your mind, I can see what you see, I can control you physically whenever I want. And yet,” gasping her chin. “And yet, you resist domination.”

So maybe what she had seen was real. Maybe Emily had wandered into his mind.

“Maybe you’re not as strong as you think you are, Crichton,” she spits back. “Bet you didn’t like having your mind invaded.”

His hand moves from her chin to the back of her head, gripping her hair. Pulling her towards him and pressing her against his chest, causing her to gasp.

“I had some thought of just killing you. Drain you and let Carter suffer. Nothing more than an ill-bred Celtic mongrel, anyway. You possess neither grace nor art. No one would call you a great beauty. Though clever country girls do have their charms. But then I thought, ‘where would the fun be in killing you?’ You’re more useful alive.” 

Her heart races. She knows she’s in a trap. Her body screams at her to resist. To fight back. And Emily is trying to break away. It’s just hard when one’s limbs feel like lead.

“I get the feeling we have very different definitions of ‘fun.’”

“Perhaps,” he muses. “But I’ve seen enough to know that you’re something of a born hunter. If you would stop resisting, and embrace what I and HYDRA have to offer, just imagine what you could become. With your inborn powers and what gifts I could give you, you would be unstoppable.”

Emily lets out a bitter laugh. This again? The same pathetic ploy? She can’t even be disgusted. 

There are whispers in the back of her head. She doesn’t know if they’re coming from Crichton or elsewhere, but right now it doesn’t matter.

Let me in.

“Why do you laugh?” he growls.

“You’re not the first to offer me riches. So just do it. You just want what you think another man has. Your type always does. It’s pathetic, really.”

He takes a fistful of her shirt, ripping it open. “You’ll see how pathetic I am when I’m through with you.” 

Let me in.

Crichton pushes the torn clothing away, exposing bare shoulder. The whispers get louder. With great strain, Emily starts pushing her arms up. 

Maybe she can free herself.

His touch is corpse-cold on her skin as he moves down her neck with caresses. She grabs hold of his shirtfront. She can feel the sweat on her brow from her effort. If there’s enough room, Emily could strike his chin and get away.

Crichton dips his head to her neck, murmuring, “You’ll come to like this, Emily. You may even come to like me.”

Let me in!

He bites down on the joint of her neck and shoulder. Fiery pain shoots through her body. She squeezes her eyes shut. Her head goes light. She opens her mouth to scream, but only a gasp comes out.

Over the noise of the whisper in her head, one voice rings out. A deep voice of brimstone and thunder.

If I’m gonna help you girl, you better let me in.

It’s a voice of power and vengeance. 

Emily opens her eyes, saying, “You have no idea what you’re about to unleash.” 

She thrusts her left arm up, striking Crichton in the chin with the heel of her hand. With a cry Emily pushes Crichton off her. Gets her fingers around his face to gouge his eyes. Pushes him to arm’s length from her. She feels fire in her blood and bones.

“What are you doing?” Crichton asks.

Emily looks into his eyes. A smirk twitches on her lips. For the first time there is fear in Crichton’s eyes. 

“What is this?” he cries.

With a voice that wasn’t hers; that is old and filled with fire, Emily says, “ And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee .”

Crichton’s face burns from the fire in her hand. He screams in agony, breaking his hold on Emily. He retreats, disappearing in a cloud of bats.

Emily crumples to the ground and the world goes dark.

0409 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece

“Don’t move,” Michael says as Emily’s eyes flutter open. She rests her head back down on a rucksack, taking shuddering breaths. In the torch light she is pale and feverish, her skin cold and clammy when Michael brushes some sweat-drenched hair from her forehead. 

He thinks back to that night in Malatya. Pallid, fever stricken, shallow breaths. He was almost afraid that his touch could kill her. And now Michael swallows back the panic rising in his throat as he unbuttons her blouse to look at the cause of the dark bloodstain on her shoulder.

The blood has started to dry, leaving a stain on shirt, brassier, and skin. Anthea presses a damp cloth to the wound. It’s not the neat pin pricks of Cairo, but a ragged gash knitting itself back together before his very eyes.

“So I guess that’s her healing ability at work,” Anthea says.

Michael nods. He’s seen bruises that should have indicated internal bleeding heal within a day.

“And now we know we’re dealing with a vrykolakas - a vampire,” Anthea continues, stroking Emily’s hair. “And one who appears to be associated with the Voivode himself.” She lets that hang in the air before looking up at Todd, “And thank you for your help. That was very quick thinking.”

Todd lowers a canteen from his mouth, panting like he’d run a hard sprint, “Nah, ma’am, that was mostly the other guy. I was just facilitating. Still didn’t have ‘taking part in a deliverance ministry ’ on my ‘43 bingo card.”

A mirthless laugh ripples through the group.

Michael announces to the group, “We will go into the caves, immediately, and make our plan of attack from there.” 

He leans down over Emily, placing a hand on her forehead. She’s still rather feverish. 

“Will you be able to walk?” 

She nods, “Just give me a moment.” 

“Of course,” Michael replies, handing a canteen to her. 

He hates seeing her like this - the emptiness, the far off look, the life drained from her. He hates the blood curdling scream, the pain that she was in, the cruelty in it. He hates the anger welling in his chest, because while it’s justified, it feels like another person’s anger. Because during this whole ordeal, Michael not only wanted Crichton to pay for the harm he’s done, he wanted to hurt Crichton. Make the bastard truly suffer. 

And he was excited at the prospect.

They descend into a sinkhole hidden behind juniper. They grope, almost blindly, until they’re deep enough into light torches and not be seen by passing patrols. The light illuminates the grey walls of a rounded tunnel.

“It’s a lava tube,” Anthea explains. “They criss-cross the island. Connecting many places. We will be able to get close to the u-boat pens by following them.”

“And that item you wanted to show me is within these tunnels?” Michael asks.

“Yes.”

“Alright. We’ll rest for now,” Michael turns to the rest of the team. “It’s been a rough night, and a rough day before that. We’ll get some proper sleep and food. Then we’ll attack.”

They nod in agreement and Robby starts organizing watches. Michael looks over at Emily, attentively listening to him, still a little ashen from earlier. Once he and Robby finish giving instructions, Michael pulls her aside into a quiet corner, sheltered from prying eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer at first, just stares at him, stony and unreadable. She’s on her guard again.

“I’m fine,” she responds after a long moment. “Given the circumstances.”

Michael sighs, more at his own helplessness in this situation. Fighting against the angry bile in back of his throat. The tightness in his chest from that new bite. The feeling that he’s failed her. He’d made a promise to protect Emily, and he’s doing a ruddy job of it.

“It’s just…” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, still unsure of what to say. “This shouldn’t be happening. It’s unfair that it’s happening to you. That you’re being hurt like this.”

“Carter, I’m not some china doll. I won’t break when dropped,” she says, looking exasperated. “None of us were prepared for this! There’s no way anyone thought we’d be going against vampires and werewolves. Or that we’d be fighting next to a man with a flaming skull for a head sometimes and a siren.”

“I just want you safe.”

“We are here because it isn’t safe. Because we can do it. Because I can do it.” Emily lets that hang in the air, letting him know exactly how he sounds. 

Michael is doubting her. And all he can offer is a meager, “I’m sorry.”

She closes the distance, wrapping her arms about him. Resting her head on his chest.

“You’re scared. So am I,” she says. “We just need some trust in each other.”

He wraps his arms around her. She’s warm and solid. Strong despite the slight frame and the knocks she’s taken. It’s close to the night in Tikrit, his mind spiraling into despair and there she was to catch him. And he’ll do the same for her. Roger’s right about her hold on Michael.

“We’ll figure something out with Anthea. And it’s almost dawn, so maybe we won’t be too bothered by Crichton.”

1234 Hours

Michael gathers everyone after a cold lunch for a briefing. Letting the rest know that he and Anthea will go to the monastery to retrieve this mysterious artifact. 

“If Anthea and I haven’t returned by 1500 hours, then you will all need to take the initiative. I do want you to split into two teams. Aubrey and Gower will be in charge of transportation...”

Michael notices Roger trying to not make a face. He can sail, Emily can drive. And maybe Michael can get Roger to see what he sees in the girl. Or at the very least, get them used to each other. Though Emily hasn’t interacted with Roger that much. Still, it’s strangely like introducing cats to each other.

But Roger gives a solemn nod and Michael continues, “We do have the fishing boat by Cape St. Demetra but it could be long gone by now; so focus on finding something closer. Frank, you’re going to take Todd and Mason and blow that u-boat pen sky high.”

“Hope to see all of you there for the fireworks,” Robby adds.

“I’m looking forward to it. In the meantime,” Michael crouches down, moving a few rocks and drawing in the dirt. “From what I observed up above, this building…” he points to roughly square one on the upper left corner of the square, “is the powder magazine and is directly above the pens.”

“Also, during the base’s construction a lot of the buildings suffered structural damage. And likely the ground itself was weakened. Most of the lava tubes and caves are on this side of the island.” Anthea says.

Todd says, “So you’re saying we could undermine the entire base?” 

“Do we have enough explosives for something that ambitious?” Mason asks.

“I mean we got some pretty powerful explosives, but if we can set charges from a couple weak spots and set the magazine off, well it’ll make the Monongah disaster look like a car crash.”

“So I’m guessing big enough they’ll have to abandon the island.”

“Pretty much.”

“Good to know, Todd,” Michael says. “We’ll rendezvous at Loutro beach, just south of the base.” There’s a beat before he adds, “In the meantime, Anthea and I are going to backtrack a bit. There’s a very important item at Leuke that HYDRA is interested in.”

“And what I was cursed to protect,” Anthea says. “We do not need HYDRA getting their hands on this object, and we do not need to bring the wrath of Olympus onto us.”

There’s a bit of a chuckle from the group.

“Yes, I don’t think that getting struck by Zeus’s thunderbolt is part of the plan,” Robby says.

“No,” Michael says. “Anyway, that’s the plan. It’s risky, but I trust all of you to do your duty.”

With that, the briefing comes to an end. Everyone goes about packing and preparing for the next leg. Michael and Anthea were ready to go. 

Despite whatever front he puts up, whatever others say to him, whatever he tries to tell himself, Michael feels uneasy. That frustrated itching feeling starts settling in, forcing him to repeat to himself that they are going to be fine.

“Carter,” Anthea says, breaking him from his reverie. “I think I have a possible solution to Sergeant Gower’s problem.”

“Really?”

“Truthfully it’s more of a precaution than preventative. But it will limit the ways Crichton can get to her.”

“She could still turn?” Michael feels his heart sink at the thought.

“Perhaps. But Crichton will have to expose himself to do it. We’ve likely closed one door thanks to Kushiel, and I may be able to close a few more.”

“Good,” he says with a nod and Anthea departs.

He won’t let Crichton win. Not now. Not ever. If they see each other again, Crichton’s his. 

Or he is Crichton’s. Only one is walking away from this.

“So, splitting the squad are we?” 

Roger walks into view, hands in pockets, and for a second contemplating leaning against the cave wall before thinking otherwise.

“We can cover more ground,” Michael points out. “And groups of twos and threes are harder to catch. You’re an escaper, you know how it works.”

Roger rolls his eyes.

“Do you have any objections, Rodge?”

“Absolutely not. It’s not like we have many choices. I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”

Roger’s tone is serious. Blue eyes solemn. The lines of his mouth are firm and set in a neutral mask hiding fear. 

Michael asks, “Is there something I should be worried about?” He’s still puzzled by what Anthea wants to fetch.

“Just be careful when handling it,” Roger replies with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s delicate. And Anthea’s got people she’s to answer to.”

“Fair enough.”

There’s a silence between them pregnant with things unsaid. The awkward hesitation despite recent intimacies. The desire for human touch. To feel something. But not knowing how to proceed when there isn’t the aid of darkness to take away inhibition.

Roger steps towards Michael, gesturing in a way to cover up nervousness, “Look, if something happens…”

“We’ll see each other again. I promise. And Maddie will be in for a surprise,” Michael says, putting a hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“Course she’s involved in this,” Roger says with a look of mischief. They were the two greatest gossips and schemers at Oxford. Is it any wonder Maddie went into intelligence?

At that moment Roger Roger stairs up at him with a look of longing mixed with sadness that it strikes Michael dumb. 

It’s the sort of look that reminds him of the immediate aftermath of their last argument. Micheal had run off to Bordeaux, staying with his grand-mère and thinking about joining the Foreign Legion. A God forsaken outpost in Morocco was better than the anguish he felt.

Roger places a hand on his elbow. The touch sends shivers up his body. So confident earlier, and now Michael feels like putty. “Say we’ll see each other again.” 

“We will.”

Roger takes a fist-full of Michael’s shirt. Now within a hair's breadth from each other. “Promise me, darling. Promise me we will.”

His breaths are ragged. His mind’s blank. And somehow Roger’s hand has found its way to Michael’s chest and good Lord his touch is frustrating and thrilling.

“I promise,” he rasps. 

There’s a huff and a smirk in his voice. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Oh how the tables turn, as Michael finds himself breathless and pushed against the cave wall. A hand in Roger’s hair, the other at his waist. Everything feels right the first time and feels right now.

“I’m not losing you,” Roger says, resting his head on Michael’s shoulder. “Not again. Not ever.”

“You won’t,” Michael promises, ignoring doubt and bloodlust. He may be making a promise he can’t keep and he doesn’t care. He can’t lose Roger again. He can’t lose Emily, either. He may as well be a dead man walking without either of them.

“This is more of a stop-gap, honestly, but it’s at least some protection,” Anthea explains.

Emily regards the silver coin fixed to a chain that hangs around her neck. The obverse side has a gorgon’s snarling head, while the reverse has the eight pointed star she’s seen around the island. Anthea explained it was Charon’s obol, given to the dead for their fare across the River Styx.

“Will Crichton still be able to turn me?” she asks, getting to the point. No point in dancing around it.

Anthea sighs, “Unfortunately, yes. But he must be physically present to do so. He cannot use any tricks or magic to do so. And the silver should hurt him.”

Emily nods; it’s a small relief. “What does this star represent, Anthea? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It is the star of Inanna. And Ishtar. When she came to Olympus, she became Aphrodite. And the Romans called her Venus.”

“And what’s so important about this island?” she asks. Emily’s caught snippets of Carter and Anthea’s conversations. There’s something on the island. The fact that Leuke was marked as a place of interest.

Anthea looks up from her satchel. It looks like she’s carefully choosing her words, before answering, “There is an artifact that I have been tasked to protect. An artifact of immense age and power. And should it fall into the wrong hands… well I shudder at the thought of what could happen.”

“Is it at Leuke?” Emily asks. Anthea gives her a raised eyebrow. “I saw it marked on a map when I wandered into Crichton’s head.”

“I guess Carter and I will have to step up the plan, then,” Anthea responds. 

If she’s worried, Emily thinks Anthea hides it very well.

“There’s one more thing I need to do,” Anthea adds, taking out a small blue bottle.

“What is that?” 

She uncorks the bottle, and the smell of fresh roses comes out. “Attar of rose .” Anthea daubs some of the oil onto a finger. She brushes some hair from Emily’s forehead and draws a pentagram, saying, “Golden-throned Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, wile-weaver, I beg you, do not crush the spirit of your servant, Emily, daughter of David.”

How does she know dad’s name? 

Anthea draws more pentagrams on her cheeks. “Come here, if ever before, hearing her cries from far away, you left your father’s golden house and came here. Fleet and fair your sparrows drew you; beating fast their wings above the dark earth from heaven. Down the pale heavens.”

At Emily’s shoulder, over the scar that had been the bite, she says, “Soon they arrived, and you, blessed one, with a smile on your immortal face, and asked her what happened now and why she had called you. She is tormented by a revenant. A servant of the impaler prince, Expelling Aphrodite .”

A final pentagram is drawn high on Emily’s chest, just below the collar bone. “Come to Emily, daughter of David, and abate her torment; take the bitter care from her mind, and give her all she longs for; Lady, in all her battles, fight as her comrade.”

Before she can ask if the incantation works, the air around them is filled with the smell of meadowsweet before fading just as quickly as it appeared.

“I believe she’s heard us,” Anthea says.

It’s strange to think that a love goddess could protect her from an undead fascist. But honestly, stranger things were unfolding.

“First we will go to Panagia Spiliani. I stored the key to the artifact there,” Anthea says when they reach the surface. 

“Do they know what this key is for?” Carter asks.

She says with a sigh, “The abbot did. I’d tell a new one about how important this key was when they were installed. They’ve also been moved to Kos. Even before the war, the monastery was down to five members, anyway. The bishop was planning on closing the monastery long before the Germans set foot on the island.”

“I see.”

I hope you do, Carter. And those who you answer to will understand. 

“If I may ask, just what is this artifact?” 

“A crown,” she replies. “An ancient crown that is said to have been created by an ancient dark god from antediluvian times. A god named Set. The danger isn’t so much the powers the crown can grant powers to the wearer - which it can - but that it could this god in.”

Carter’s look is incredulous. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Carter, than are dreamt in your philosophies.”

Carter gives a wry smile as they make their way to a goat path, “I should have known after playing Horatio, that line would be thrown back at me.”

She catches the scent of something burning on the breeze. Turning, she sees a column of smoke rising over the peak overlooking the crater. From the direction of Taxiarches. 

The feeling in Anthea’s chest and throat is beyond despair. There is a yawning emptiness in her heart. Her island is dying. She can only hope that her people will survive this.

Carter doesn’t say anything, just hands her a handkerchief, which she uses to dry her eyes when she notices the tears.

What was there to say?

Michael is able to smash open a gate door with a swift, well-placed kick, revealing white-washed buildings and an overgrown courtyard. They cautiously walk in - Michael with his revolver ready and eyeing the doors to the monks' cells. Anthea takes the lead, going up a set of stairs to one of the cells.

“By the Gods I hope it’s still here,” she says in a low voice. The low mood is understandable and he feels it, too. Imperial powers love their collective punishments.

Anthea goes about tapping the floor with her foot, listening for something. She hits on a flagstone that gives a hollow sound and her face lightens a little as she crouches down. Michael helps along, using his knife to lever up the stone, allowing Anthea to lift it out of its place. She reaches into the hollow space, producing a small muslin pouch.

With a sigh of relief, she cries, “Bless you, Brother Bessarion!” Opening the pouch she says, “It’s only right I show you what this is.”

In her palm is a gold ring of two coiling snakes with small red jewels for eyes.

“So I guess one presses the face of the ring into something to unlock the crown?” he asks.

“To get into the chamber that stores it. There’s a sister ring on Aithinis to unlock its ossuary.”

“Let’s hope that HYDRA doesn’t have the other ring, then.”

She nods, putting the ring back into its pouch. “The entrance to the tunnel is in the chapel’s sanctuary. From there, we will go to the crown.”

He nods and they leave the cell. Down another set of stairs and across the small courtyard is the chapel. Unlike the other chapels that dot the island, this one is whte washed with a deep blue dome. Inside it's dark and dusty, but covered floor to ceiling in brilliantly painted frescoes depicting the life of the Virgin Mary. Separating the nave from the sanctuary is a low wall and velvet curtains heavy with dust. 

Anthea parts the curtain, revealing the altar. She moves immediately behind it.

“Help me lift this,” indicating a large flagstone. It isn’t so much heavy as rather stuck from accumulated grime. Once open, Michael and Anthea drop in. 

“Ladies first,” he says with a gesture. 

Turning on their torches, they descend into the tunnel’s dark depths. It’s not quite the even, wide spaces of the lava tube in this part. At one time they have to move sideways through one passage. Another time it feels like they doubled back on their progress. 

Eventually, after what feels like hours - though by his watch it’s been a little over a half hour - they enter a high arched lava tube. 

“This way,” Anthea says, indicating the upward slope of the tunnel with her torch. “We have to go up a ways, then descend a bit. Shouldn’t take more than an hour from here.”

“Right, then.”

Michael cannot quite put his finger on the feeling that’s settled into him. Disquiet? Foreboding? But he wasn’t worried. He wasn’t feeling fear. It was almost a sense of unreality. At no time since they descended in the chapel had they seen the sky. They had gone through twisting, narrow passages to this wide, vaulted, uniform cavern. It was as if they’d made no progress but were still moving. And the feeling wasn’t helped by his heightened senses. What his eyes couldn’t see past the beams of their torches, his ears, nose made up for them. Michael could taste the alkali in the air and feel the subtlest breeze raise the hair on his arms. 

It is a strangely primal feeling. A feeling warning Michael of danger. Telling him to turn back. 

And yet the tunnel called. Come deeper, treasure, power, and glory await. Whatever dwells in the darkness promises it won’t bite.

The halt at a crest in the tunnel where it looks like the floor gave way, creating a sharp slope of rubble. It goes far enough down that the beams from the torches barely touch the floor.

“Are you ready?” Anthea asks.

Michael looks behind him then back down at the pit. “I see no turning back by this point.”

“Very well,” she replies, descending the rubble pile. She looks back back up at him with her sphinx smile, “Do not worry, Carter. You will see your Patroclus and Briseis soon.”

He’s stunned speechless, and the only thing he can do is follow Anthea deeper into the cave.

The desert is strewn with bones bleached by the sun. It’s impossible to tell human from animal remains. There is nothing left but him. A god of war with nothing left to fight. A god of death with nothing left to kill. The sun is setting on a charnel house that he created.

Michael comes back to himself with a sense of hypnagogic falling. He braces himself against the cave wall, panting from the shock.

“Do you want to turn back now?” Anthea asks, handing him a canteen.

“What was that?” he asks after a gulp.

“A barrier to scare off treasure hunters if they got this far. Hermes thought that a little introspection would get them to run. And lost in the tunnels because they didn’t pay attention in their fright.”

“Some sense of humour you Olympians have.”

“It’s worked so far.” With a serious tone, she repeats, “Do you want to turn back now?”

Michael shakes his head, “No.” He’s come too far.

Anthea turns, shining her torch upon the door at the of the passage. “What you are about to witness is one of the last remnants of old Atlantis.” She looks back at him, taking the ring out of its pouch. “You should consider yourself lucky, Major Carter.” 

He focuses his mind on the present, all to better accept what he was about to see. His torchlight shined on the spot on the door where Anthea pressed the ring into a seal like device. 

There is a great, earth-shaking rumble. Dust fell from the ceiling and slowly, the door opened. At first dark, the chamber became illuminated by cressets with fires from an unknown source. The walls are of malachite and gold. The carvings are of strange and wondrous things, though with a certain serpentine quality to them. To the left and right are pools of dark water, Michael assumes, below a dais and podium with an alabaster box sitting on top.

From her satchel, Anthea produces a small blue bottle, and pours a little of its contents onto her fingers. She makes a symbol on her chest and does likewise to Michael, the scent of roses filling his senses. All the while chanting, “Lady of all powers, in whom light appears, radiant one, beloved of heaven, tiara-crowned priestess of the Highest God, my Lady you are the guardian of all greatness.”

As she walks between the pools - her dirty clothes transforming into a saffron coloured peplos, her hair coiffed with gold ribbons and a lunate diadem - Anthea calls out, “In the foremost of the battle, all is struck down by you - Oh winged Lady, like a bird you savaged the lands. Like a charging storm you charge, like a roaring storm you roar, you thunder in thunder, you snort in rampaging winds. Your feet are continually restless. Carrying your harp of sighs, you breathe out music of mourning.”

At the foot of the dais, she pours out the rest of the bottle’s contents in libation, “Oh my Lady, beloved of heaven, I have told of your fury truly. Now that her priestess has returned to her place, Aphrodite’s heart is restored. The day is auspicious, the priestess is clothed in beautiful robes, in womanly beauty, as if in the light of the rising moon. The gods have appeared in their rightful places, the doorsill of Heaven cries ‘Hail!’ Praise to the destroyer endowed with power, to my Lady enfolded in beauty. Praise to Aphrodite. ”

A myrrh scented breeze moves through the chamber, and the glow from the cressets becomes a little more golden.

“We can now take the ossuary safely,” Anthea explains. “It’s a bit like a leaking oil drum.”

“Ergo, appeal for divine protection.”

“Yes. But between you and I, we should be able to get it off the island. Also, try not to fall into the pools. I won’t be able to get you out.”

“Noted,” Michael says, looking down at the oily green-black liquid and finding it rather sinister.

He follows her up to the dais with the alabaster ossuary. On closer inspection there are carvings that match carvings on the walls. There’s an aesthetic quality reminiscent of the Cycladic culture with their blank, triangular faces, but posed in ways that reminded Michael of some Polynesian art he’d seen at an exhibition once. And twisted among the humanoid carvings were serpents.

Michael opened his pack and Anthea lifted the ossuary from the pedestal. He used a flannel shirt to wrap the box, and hoped that the extra wool trousers and a first-aid kit would provide some more padding in his rucksack. Once the ossuary is packed away, he looks about the chamber, half expecting some trap to be sprung.

“Were you expecting something?”

He says with a wry smile, “I guess so. I read too many adventure stories as a boy, I guess. The temple collapses when the prized artifact is taken.”

“The fascists have ravaged my country and are burning my island right now. And you were able to get in here because of me,” Anthea sighs. “I cannot let the crown fall into their hands. I almost wish the volcano would erupt and bury this place in lava so it will never be found again.” 

The rebuke hits home and his “sorry” sounds rather inadequate. But with a sad smile she adds, “I have been on Fidonisi for over two thousand years. I think it’s about time I see the rest of the world.”

“Well our next stop is Istanbul, I think that will be quite the change.”

“I would like that very much,” she replies.

With that, Michael hoists the rucksack onto his back and they exit the chamber. The lights flicker out as Anthea seals the door once more. With a wave of her hand, the saffron peplos changes to sturdier clothes and she turns to climb the rubble pile. Michael hesitates, unsure of what awaits him when he crosses the invisible barrier.

Anthea notices and says, turning to him, “My lady is now watching over you. The crossing will not harm you.” She stretches out her arm, “Take my hand, Major Carter.

“If you say so,” he replies with a gulp and takes her hand. Cautiously, he steps forward, holding his breath and still awaiting something to happen.

“See, you’re alright,” she says, placing a free hand on his bicep; bringing him back to earth. 

“Yes,” he says with a gasp, astonished nothing happened. “Time to hope to it then. We’re not quite done with this island.”

“Not yet, indeed.”

Together, Michael and Anthea climb up the rubble to upper level, and make their way to the surface.

Chapter Text

1556 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece

“How are you holding up?” Captain Frank asks.

Pat shrugs, “Fine, sir.”

It’s well past three o’clock - practically four - the Major and Anthea have yet to return, Aubrey and Gower are off fetching transportation, and the rest of them are heading deeper underground. Not that Pat’s particularly excited for it. The place feels off, being dark and damp. But everything feels off about the island. And he’s been in places that were very off.

“It’s alright to admit that everything’s queer. In multiple ways,” Frank says.

“If I may, the situation is rather obvious and requires no comment.”

Frank regards him for a moment before saying, “I guess being something of a social creature, I’m eager for some conversation about what’s going on. One of the reasons I became a barrister, I like talking. Arguing, truthfully, but it’s still talking.”

Pat looks the Captain up and down, surprised. “Don’t take this the wrong way sir, but you don’t look like a barrister. You look like one of us after a rough night.” Despite his best efforts, Pat’s having difficulty picturing Captain Frank in a wig and court robes.

Frank lets out a snort, “Grow to 6’4” and get kicked in the face once and no one thinks you can be a barrister. Anyway, if you need help with a contract, give me a ring.”

“Duly noted.”

They fall into silence. It’s just the two of them; Todd’s scouting ahead for a route. The cave is eerily both quiet and loud. Sounds work differently underground, and it doesn’t help the unease he’s feeling. He’s trying his best to adjust to the new reality. It’s just no one told him that the monsters of myth were real and somehow he’d found himself in a gothic novel.

“And if you’re still wondering, sir, I’ve had the Jesus prayer rolling ‘round my head for the past while,” Pat adds. “Like how those Indian ascetics repeat their prayers constantly.”

“‘Jesus prayer’? Are you Catholic?’

He almost balks, but it turns into a laugh, “Me? A papist? No! Heaven forbid. I was baptised in the Kirk. Though my Greek Orthodox mam had a great influence over my Christian upbringing. Hence the Jesus prayer.”

“Well that explains that I guess. I’m an Easter and Christmas Church of England member, so what do I know? But whatever gets you through this.”

“Right that,” Pat replies, cinching up his rucksack. “You seem to be taking our situation in stride.”

“Well, Mason, that’s because I plan on getting rip roaring drunk then passing out for three days once we get back. That is, of course, after spending some quality time with the Second Officer.”

Pat nods. He understands. The second officer is fetching, he guesses. And she’s clearly intelligent and sophisticated, so she would be interesting to talk to. Sort of like how Todd seems to be a good storyteller. A poet, really. Though he wonders how much of that is other being within the boy.

“Do you have anyone waiting for you back home? Knitting you socks?” asks Frank. Then adding with a wry smile, “Or you one of those sailors with a sweetheart in every port?”

He looks at Captain Frank confused, “No. Why would I? Just because I’m a sailor?’

“So you never…?” Frank makes a gesture that Pat interprets to indicate sexual attraction.

“Never been interested. I make friends, I like good company, I can appreciate beauty and aesthetics. Just not my cup of tea.”

“Huh. That makes things interesting,” Frank says.

“‘Interesting’ how?”

“You haven’t noticed that our young Corporal Todd’s been making eyes at you since we stepped off from Cairo?”

“What?”

1624 Hours

Roger and Gower keep to the goat paths around the windward side of the crater, taking advantage of the juniper scrub. They plan to check on the boat the team had come on and likely scuttle it. Robby gave them rope and pitons to climb down the hundred foot cliff, but there’s a good chance it’s long gone by now. And walking around in the middle of the afternoon is not his ideal time for such activities, but Michael wants this done.

Though it seems like Gower’s in her element. She’s serious, her face stony and unreadable, but there’s an air of confidence. She’s not the cringing creature of last night. Bit of a cat to her; slinking along ridges with enviable grace. Something about her eyes gives that impression.

Still pointedly quiet, only speaking when spoken to and her answers curt and to the point.

"You know where you are going?" He asks.

"Yes, sir. Over that ridge," she points to the west side of the island. The crater comes up to a sharp point, silhouetted by the late afternoon sun. “We anchored in a bay below that.”

“Right-oh, then.”

They stop, hearing the whine of an engine on the wind and over the waves. Instinctively, they flatten themselves under the juniper, trying to lie as still as possible. They’re not that far from the road after all. And whatever that engine is attached to is coming closer.

Roger presses his face into the ground and starts counting. Hoping that they would escape notice.

The vehicle comes closer, becomes louder, and roars past, revealing itself to be two motorcycles.

Roger lets out a sigh of relief that he comes to regret. He lifts his head just as the motorcycle and sidecar swing back around. 

He and Gower attempt to run. There’s a crack of machine gun fire from the sidecar over their heads. They dive for the ground again, this time with a lot of shouting and manhandling. It all looks bad from a kneeling position with hands on their heads and the Germans finding weapons. Roger has a rudimentary grasp of German, but certain things are universal.

Now, as long as these two HYDRA troopers aren’t joined by anyone else they should be able to fight their way out of this pickle.

And then Gower starts sobbing.

“Helfen Sie mir!” she cries between heaving breaths and big tears.

The troopers look confused while Roger feels a swelling of irritation that was swiftly moving towards anger.

“Hell are you doing, Gower?” he growls.

She continues, ignoring him, “Hilf mir bitte!”

One of the troopers - a blocky youth who probably couldn’t grow peach fuzz to save his life - seems unable to resist an upset girl who’s mildly pretty. His companion - a hawkish looking man - is far more skeptical, keeping his rifle trained on Roger and Gower. The youth lowers his weapon and attempts to console her.

“Sie nicht dumm. Sie wissen, dass sie lügt,” the hawkish one barks at the youth.

“Du musst mir glauben!” Gower cries. “Sie haben mich dazu gebracht, schreckliche Dinge zu tun!”

“You little witch!” Roger spits back. From her gestures and the dirty look from the youth that she was spinning a heinous yarn. 

Still stung, though.

Things were getting heated between all their shouting and lack of gun discipline. Gower started clutching at the blocky youth. The hawkish one shouts, “Erschieß sie einfach!”

He’s distracted. 

Roger turns his skin to its diamond hard shell, ready to strike.

Gower, in a fit of acrobatics, grasps the HYDRA youth by the wrist, climbs up his torso, swings her leg over his head, and brings him down with a sickening swiftness. 

She pops up with his pistol. 

The youth’s neck and arm lie bent beyond where they should be. 

“Legen Sie Ihre Waffe ab!” she orders.

No wonder Michael adores her. A little spitfire this girl.

But wanting to hurry things along, Roger punches the remaining trooper in the temples. It is still odd how accustomed he’s come to this sort of violence.

“So what was that song and dance routine all about?” Roger asks, noticing the dry eyes.
“To get transportation, sir,” she answers, pointing a thumb at the motorcycles. “Get us where we need to go faster. And we get more ammo to boot.”

“True. Though I doubt they’ll be fooled by you.” Gower may be as flat as a board, but the sharp features and big eyes weren’t fooling anyone.

“Sir, with all due respect, I doubt we’ll be giving the enemy much time to inspect my appearance,” she retorts whilst she starts stripping the Germans of their webbing. She looks like she’s biting back on further comment, and tactfully choses to add, “I was a dispatch rider. Had a reputation for speed. D’you know how to ride, sir?”

Well shit.

Roger is a great admirer of the dandies of the past. Wilde, and Baudelaire, and Beau Brummell were his idols. Just as Edie seemed to model herself after Mary Shelley and Michael followed Lawrence’s shadow. He is epicurean in disposition, striving for the perfection of both the mind and aesthetics through a little hedonism and decadence. He took part in rowing and fencing in so far as to keep himself in good health, for their elegance in motion, and because they were bloody fun. Roger joined the RN for the social connections and the promised three hot meals and a bed; and by the time he’d been torpedoed, he’d come to like the work. But he could never understand Michael’s desire for the ascetic life. Life was beauty and beauty was life.  

But in any case, Roger had little interest in motor vehicles and found motorcycles particularly dirty. Now here he was being confronted by Michael’s little sergeant and absolutely caught flat-footed. And that little knowing smirk on her face, dear Lord.

“It’s fine to admit you don’t know, sir. They’re a bit hard to manage, anyway.”

Her smile is warm and voice is soft and gentle. It’s an oddly relieving statement and for that he thanks her. Though he’ll never say that outright.

“Well I trust your very capable hands and shall point you in the right direction,” he says.

“Of course, sir,” her smile falters.

Foot straight in mouth, Roger. Great job.

He figures out a different tact as they strip the troopers of their uniforms. “Where ever did you learn to do that flipping jiu jitsu business?”

“Sort of figured that one out on my own, sir. Fairbairn and Sykes liked to pair me up with the largest blokes for sparring, had to find a way to handle them. It was good fun when I managed to down this large Norwegian one time.”

Now that’s a sight he’d like to see. 

Gower goes about stripping a body of clothes and equipment with a certain perfunctory ease; like she’d done this before. Corpses and death don't phase her it seems. Or she hides it well. Roger may have gotten used to killing and death and violence, but he still can’t quite stomach the results. Part of it was his general aversion to such things as blood. He’s never liked getting dirty, he barely tolerates the outdoors, and he disappointed his father with his disgust of hunting. 

Part of it is his own cowardice. He has a tendency to make a mess and let someone else clean it up for him. 

So he hesitates over the other dead trooper with the half-crushed on the side of his head staring up at him. Roger doesn’t feel guilt. Fuck him and his cause. It’s just the blood.

It’s always the blood.

Gower hands him an ammunition belt and one of the trooper’s tunics. She’s shoved a ski cap over her milkmaid braided hair. It does give her an air of boyish charm. But it’s the look of sympathy that strikes him. Leaves him breathless.

“I can do this, sir,” is all she says. The no one needs to know is left unsaid that is actually comforting to Roger. It doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood. 

For the look in her eyes and the note in her voice is of compassion, really. Quite possibly empathy and understanding.

“Right then, and we best step off anyway. Not a lot of time left.”

“Of course, sir.”

1635 Hours

No one understands darkness until they’ve been in a cave. It has the sort of blackness that your eyes will never adjust to. Sounds work differently. Somehow the drippings from a stalactite yards away are heard with crystal clarity echoing off the rock. Yet rock can muffle noise; so much so that someone could round a corner, yell, and you’d never know. And caves are alive. Not just with the critters that find shelter in them, but a cave can breathe, eat, digest, and excrete. It can get sick and wounded and heal from it. A cave is just as much a living organism as it is an environment.

For Mark, a cave is home.

He shines his flashlight around the cavern, showing the bands of rock formation. A couple thousand years, maybe a couple million, to form these tunnels. And Mark’s gotta figure out a way to collapse them. It’s a little disappointing. He’s never been in a place like this before and who knows when he’ll be in such a place again? 

“I hope I’ve got enough firepower,” Mark says, inspecting fissures and weak points in the walls. There’s a lot of cracks that aren’t just regular wear and tear. The right amount of pressure could cause a lot of damage. He’s already weakened a few. A few more to go on the way down…

Oh trust me, boy, you will.

“Not gonna over tax you?” he asks the other guy.

Oh ye of little faith! Easy as pie. Speaking of which…

“I don’t know if there’s much pie in these parts, but as soon as we get home you’ll have as much as you can stomach.”

Excellent.

There’s a smoky chuckle. For whatever reason, old Kushiel took a shine to his mama’s cooking; especially her blackberry pie. To be fair, that pie was the best in the county and Mark would brook no argument.

He’s heading back to meet up with Mason and Capt. Frank. He’s found an entrance close enough to the pens for them to spring a trap or sneak in. The base’s walls have their fair share of blindspots on the east side that they might be able to sneak in. He’ll start making those before they leave. There’s still a bit of sunlight left.

His powers are strongest at night. And not a single one of those HYDRA goons haven’t done something to warrant swift, divine retribution.

Mark wasn’t aware of any conversation when he entered the chamber, but whatever Mason and Captain Frank were doing stops. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. He hopes his nervousness shows through.

“Right as rain here,” Capt. Frank replies, obviously covering up for something. “Anyway, what have you found for us Todd?”

Mark outlines the route he found and the possible blind spot. Mason listens attentively, but is almost trying too hard not to stare at him. 

Good God he’s been that obvious hasn’t he. Just his luck. Damn his wandering eye. But no one has commented on the officers, so maybe Mark will get lucky.

This time.

But he pushes through, “Miss Anthea wasn’t kidding when she said that the pens’ construction had caused a lot of instability on this side at least. Next earthquake, eruption, or heck, a real bad storm, and this slope’s going into the sea.”

“And a big enough explosion should have similar results?” the Captain asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“And we’ve got enough fire power for that, right?” Mason adds.

Lord almighty does Mark love that Scots accent.

“If I can set up some of the charges around the powder magazine, we can maybe collapse the fortress above onto the pens below. But the other guy’s pretty keen on helping, so…”

Captain Frank nods, clapping him on the shoulder, “Very good. And hopefully our angelic friend will stick to the target and not open up Hell.”

Mark gives an awkward shrug, “I mean, the other guy’s a little more civilized than you’d think. And I’m pretty sure the stories about Barrow and Locke are real. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re responsible for Barlow, among all the other things they’ve done.”

It’s taken him a while, but Mark’s come to realize that there was a lot more truth to his grandma’s stories. And now he’s realizing that the strange things that haunted him weren’t limited to his Appalachian home.

“Righto, then. I for one welcome our divine aid. I say we should step off,” Captain Frank says.

Mason adds an, “Aye, very good, sir.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but I’m fixing to make a couple stops on our way down to the pens.”

“What sort of stops?” asks the captain.

“You see, sir, I got a couple of places marked that are real structurally weak. Little bit of seismic activity’s all it’s gonna take to trigger a landslide. I figured I’d be able to weaken them a bit more, with the other guy’s help. Then once we’ve set and detonated the charges…”

Mason interrupts, “The shock of the explosion triggers the landslide. And between those…”

“There won’t be much left of them u-boat pens, let me tell you.”

“It’s ambitious,” Mason says, with some reservation in his voice. “But given who makes up this team, I’d say we’ve got a good shot.”

Mark wasn’t expecting that sort of reaction from Mason. 

The captain gives his approval and Mark goes about getting himself ready for the next push. Still surprising they’re both taking things so well. Especially given his other form. You don't see a flaming skull everyday.

So Mark is rather caught off guard when Capt. Frank puts one of his arms around his shoulders. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or been told, but no in this merry band are normal. Aside from the strange biology, I’ve never been assigned to a group that would be comfortable at certain types of basement nightclubs, if you follow me.”

Mark can only nod. He knows his face is beet red. He may be twenty-two, but good God is he feeling like an embarrassed fifteen year old. Like when his brother Ira showed him a girly magazine.

The captain just barrels forward, “Anyway, you’re in good company with the Major and Aubrey. Gower’s like half of the clerks and nurses you’ll find. Lord knows Anthea’s appetites, but they’re likely Olympian in scale. My darling wife and I are very generous with our affections…”

Mark feels like he’s gonna sink into the ground. 

“... And as for Mason, well, he seems to be a natural celibate.”

“What?” 

“Oh, you, someone who’d make for a decent monk back in the day. Not that that could preclude him from possible Platonic relations. But it’s best to ask him about that.”

“I think I might ask after we get through this, sir.”

“Of course, Todd. No need to jump the gun.”

In the back of his mind, the other guy’s howling with laughter.

1652 Hours

Emily has a mixed relationship with German engineering. It is, for the most part, fine. Better quality than French, more reliable than Italian. A German engine won’t start leaking oil if one looks at it the wrong way like English ones. Their vehicles weren’t as uncomfortably big as American ones. But she finds Fords and Chevys more robust and are easy to fix. When kept well and tuned just right, a German vehicle is powerful and reliable; a dream to operate. But Heaven help you if one part fails and turns the vehicle into a pile of overpriced scrap. Hope you’re near a mechanic who specializes in your BMW or Mercedes, you’re fucked otherwise.

But whoever took care of this motorcycle loved it. They kept it cleaned and tuned, oil and petrol topped up, her engine purrs, and she moves beautifully. It feels like flying. 

Emily gives a quick glance to Lt. Aubrey, who looks a little white-faced. And to be fair, she’s going fast over a rough road. Though calling it a road is generous, it’s more of a goat trail, truly. They come to a steep hill, she revs the engine and they go soaring over the top. They land with a solid thud and for a split second Emily does have to fight to maintain control over the motorcycle, but she knows the old girl wants to fly. She’s built for speed, that’s for sure.

“That’s not good!” Aubrey shouts.

There’s a dust cloud on the horizon. They’re so close to the boat and of course they’re running into trouble. There’s about three troopers, maybe four.

“Ready when you are, sir!” she shouts back.

He cocks the machine gun, says, “On the count three, I’ll open up fire, then do what I do.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Right then,” he leans into the machine gun. 

“One!” 

The troopers haven’t shot yet.

“Two!” 

They shout to halt.

“Three!”

Gun fire thunders over the mountain side. Emily swerves hard, dodging a collision with one bike and allowing Aubrey to leap into the fray. His body turns charcoal black. She takes out her pistol, fires twice into a trooper’s face, dodging the riderless motorcycle. 

Turning back around, Emily witnesses Aubrey taking one trooper by the head and smashing him into his compatriot. It’s a gruesome sight - Aubrey looks like a living shadow when transformed and the blood. 

She can smell the blood.

She has no time to gawk. Emily stops the motorcycle. The shooting stopped, but one must always be careful. Keeping her pistol drawn while running up to Aubrey. The black outer skin disappears. The troopers are dead.

Grasping him by the arm, she asks, “Are you good, sir?”

“Yes. Of course,” he replies.

“Good. I believe we’re close to the boat, as well,” she says with a nod. 

“There’s a wagon road we might be able to use to get close to shore,” he says, pointing just ahead of them towards a steep peak. “The western slope’s pretty gentle and I’m guessing your boat’s just below that peak.

“Yes sir.”

“Very good, we’ve got a plan.”

Without looking, Aubrey rubs his hands on his trousers. It isn’t the bloodshed that bothers him, but the blood itself. And with his remarkably fastidious appearance while being rather accustomed to violence, it paints an interesting nature. Yet another overly sensitive toff officer, but heaven forbid anyone sees that.

The shadows are getting long.

Something about that thought does not sit right. It doesn’t seem like hers. Like a stray thought in her own voice. It sounds like someone trying to mimic her voice. And then Emily thinks that maybe Crichton is waking up. And that he’s coming. 

1701 Hours

Robby will admit that there was a twinge of skepticism about Todd’s plan. Until the pickaxe came out.

“Ya’ll better stand back. And cover your ears, too,” he says with a ghostly echo. The boy’s eyes glow like embers. The pickaxe handle is a long, ebony rod. The ax itself glows as if freshly cast from a crucible. Todd takes a moment, likely to judge the arc of his swing. Once satisfied, he lifts up the pickaxe, adjusts his grip, and in one graceful motion, brings it down on the wall.

Robby feels the impact in his chest. Hands over his ears do little to stop the blow out and ringing in his head. Todd swings twice more before he’s satisfied.

“So how many more times are we doing this?” Robby asks.

There’s a great degree of rubble about.

“Couple more. Already weakened a few on my way back. Shouldn’t take too long. Surprised how close to the surface these tunnels are.”

And for sure, they stop about four more times, repeating the process. It takes close to two hours to get above ground. From the shelter from a rock outcropping, they observe the fortress. It’s not big, just a reinforced crusader castle. All Robby and Mason have to do is get in, cut the power and wireless, and plant a few charges.

“You see there, sir?” Todd says, pointing to a spot along the wall, “Pretty sure that’s a blind spot, and maybe a way to get down below to the pens themselves.”

“Right,” Robby says. It’s sunset, the sky streaked blood red and mauve, won’t be long before dusk. Perfect time to sneak in. “How long will you need?” he asks Todd.

“Half an hour. At most.”

“Good.” Robby gives himself some room so he can draw out a crude map of the fortress and begins outlying his plan of attack.

1729 Hours

Emily’s barely on board the boat when a headache comes. Splitting and pulsating with pain that she fights through to Aubrey set sail. There’s static, too, among the rhythm of waves and cries of gulls.

She sees him when she closes her eyes. She sees Crichton. Emily can see him in the grove at Leuke.

He has his men looking for something. For someone. She can’t hear, there’s too much noise, and she’s trying to help Aubrey, damn it.

The sun is setting. The grove is full of shadows for Crichton to sulk in with his black uniform and sunglasses. He looks sickly and his face is still scarred from where she burned him with Todd’s help. He and his men, about ten or so, are waiting for someone. They’re all focused on the chapel with Aphrodite’s star.

She grips her knife’s handle. She has no idea if it’ll do anything. Could get her killed or worse. 

Worth a shot.

A trooper voices some concern and Crichton snaps back, though she can’t make out what. There’s so much noise in her head. Gull shrieks and songbirds mix with the static until the songbirds win out. Emily’s surprised how melodic the birds are. How rhythmic. How they sound like a soothing musical movement. How they come together in a way that almost sounds like singing.

She unsheathes her knife. 

“When I give the single, open fire,” Crichton orders, ignoring his men’s yawns.

“Why?” 

He spins around.

“You little…”

Emily doesn’t let him finish. She’s too fast for him. Buries her knife in his abdomen.

“Hell are you doing, Gower?” Aubrey yells from behind.

She’s on the boat again. Her arms pinned behind her. Aubrey struggling to keep her still.

“What’s going on?” he asks when she doesn’t answer right away.

“I saw him. I saw Crichton.”

He spins her around. Aubrey looks, rather rightly, bewildered. “Bloody hell do you mean you ‘saw Crichton’?”

“You know my sleepwalking episode? That bite, sir?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I mean. It’s like a faulty wireless. That’s how we can see each other.”

He goes pale, “That’s all fine and good. But does that… Dear Lord!”

Aubrey lets go of her shoulders, practically leaping a foot away.

“That’s blood!”

Emily looks down uncertain of what he’s seeing until she looks at her knife. Her steel blade is dripping with blood.

“It worked,” she says to herself. “The bastard can bleed.” She looks up at a still shocked Aubrey. Emily’s elated, “The bloody bastard can bleed!”

“Fucking terrifying’s what you are,” he says, his eyes fixed on the knife.

Chapter Text

1725 Hours, Fidonisi, Greece, 16 March, 1943

They’re in trouble. Michael can hear it.

He and Anthea resurfaced inside the little chapel at Leuke through a trapdoor. Damn, how he didn’t notice that earlier. Didn’t need it then, though. But now it may prove useful.

Outside, through the thick stone and plaster, Michael could hear the whine of engines coming towards them.

“You hear that?” he asks.

“Yes.”

There is enough space between door and door frame for Michael to peek out. He can’t see much, but he spots the top of a dust cloud coming up the switch-back road.

He turns back to Anthea, “You can put those men to sleep?”

She nods, adding, “I can’t exactly control who hears my singing, so you’ll need these.” In her hand she conjures a pair of wax ear plugs.

“I can transform into a bird, get out there, and get a chorus going. It’ll put them sound asleep,” Anthea continues. “It will sound like birdsong to start, then become more distinct. More like human singing.”

“Right. Then slip…”

The vehicles stop. Men climb out with their equipment.

“Go,” Michael whispers. In a swift motion, Anthea transforms herself within a golden light into a sparrow. She squeezes through the gap in the door while he puts in the ear plugs. He checks the trap door; it’ll make for a good foxhole when the bullets start flying. He checks his rifle, there’s two more magazines that he moves to his pockets. He finally checks the space in the door and sees Crichton.

His heart races. Whatever Crichton is now, he can at least tolerate the shade. And there’s only an hour before dusk. Not long before Crichton can use his powers if he’s playing by what Michael assumes are the rules.

Michael has an hour. That’s a long time with no immediate help.

Just be patient, he thinks as he raises his rifle. He’s got a clear shot. With his revolver, sideways, but still. The troopers are nodding off, too. Why waste it? Finish the fucker off now. Maybe open the door a little, an even better shot then.

Crichton paces around, angry and anxious and yelling. Even with earplugs and rising birdsong, Michael can hear him cajole his men into action while they struggle staying awake. Then he gets distracted by something behind him.

So Michael readies his rifle and throws open the chapel door. He comes out shooting. Almost misses the blooming bloodstain on Crichton’s tunic. Though it is quickly lost in the shots fired into Crichton.

He sinks to his knees, sticking to the shadows. Michael advances.

Crichton rebounds. Lunges towards him. His half-burnt face a snarl with bared fangs. Eye blood red.

Michael dodges. Just enough to avoid a bite. Not enough to avoid something scraping his cheek. In any case, Michael brings down the butt of his rifle on his back. Kicks him in the stomach. He should put more bullets into Crichton and drag him into the sun. Make it fast because there’s not a lot of time to get off the island.

But that would be a mercy. And Michael does not feel merciful.

Crichton twists. Tries to bring him down. Michael counters, nearly popping out his shoulder. Crichton gets a punch into his side. He’s strong. The earplugs are knocked out and the cacophony is deafening. His blow leaves Michael stunned for a second and allows Crichton to get above and behind him. 

Positioned perfectly to break Michael’s neck.

The world erupts into screeching, singing, birds, and feathers. As if all the birds of the island and those in flight over it descended down to this one spot.

Michael takes the split second of distraction to smash the heel of his palm into Crichton’s face, breaking free. 

It was now or never. While the birds swarm, peck, and possibly consume the HYDRA troopers - there’s so many it’s impossible to see what’s going on - Michael regains control over Crichton. 

Michael strikes him some more before finally dragging Crichton into the fading evening light. He screams, cries, and begs, but Michael doesn’t hear. There’s the rush of blood in his ears that drowns the world. His actions become frenzied. It’s strangely numbing. He holds his tongue; he has nothing clever to say. Something pithy about getting vengeance for Emily and Edie is an empty gesture. It’s not enough. He’s felt it before. Out of body, but fully present. Like he is watching himself as he holds Crichton down with a boot on his chest. As Crichton’s skin burns and blisters in the setting sun as untold numbers of birds swirl around the sacred grove. 

Emily’s voice booms from the heavens. 

For God’s sake just end it!

The birds go silent. He comes back to himself. A smoldering Crichton crawls towards the shade. Maybe from a certain point of view, Micheal pulling out his revolver and emptying it into Crichton is an act of mercy. Like putting down a sick animal. 

Michael doesn’t truly feel this. A hollow feeling sets in. Like a swift comedown from an amphetamine high. A hollow feeling tinged with annoyance. Why wouldn’t he just die?

Too long it takes for Crichton to disintegrate into ash. 

Anthea stands before him, face unreadable. 

The birds are gone, like they never were here. Not a feather nor remains are left. 

“Will this be enough?” he asks.

“I hope so,” she answers. “But I suggest that we should first meet our friends.”

It’s anticlimactic, but maybe fitting.

1735 Hours

Emily saw it. Felt it in a way. Crichton’s death was not easy. Carter didn’t make it pretty. She managed to feel a little pity for the bastard. Just enough to call out to Carter. Get him to hear. To stop. To move on.

Crichton’s going to die anyway, why make it longer? And they have to get moving,

“For God’s sake just end it!”

She doesn’t know if Carter actually heard her. But he does pull out his revolver and ends Crichton like a sick dog.

Emily didn’t know what to expect. No one has told her the rules. Coming back to her body is one of the more violent experiences she’s had. Like the moment she took a corner too quickly and now half the car’s in the air and she feels weightless. Like the first time she jumped out of an airplane into the abyss, fighting against vertigo and primal fear.

And for the first time in too many days, her mind is quiet. 

1746 Hours

“Hey, what’s that?”

Roger follows where Gower’s pointing. They’re just rounding the north side of the mountain, and he has to blink against the last of the sun. But he sees a small dot against the red sky growing larger.

“Bird maybe?” he first says, then quickly changes his mind. “I think that’s Anthea.”

Her half-bird silhouette grew larger in the dying light. It’s a shape he’d grown familiar with; her arms become hawk-like wings, the cloud of black curls into feathers that extend down her neck and shoulders. All whilst her face gained the features of bird of prey, all sharp angles and large gold eyes. Even her feet became like a falcon’s talons. 

Anthea swoops low over the boat, then makes an arc around the stern before landing on the prow. Now fully human and holding a rucksack. 

“One task complete,” she announces, holding up the bag. Whatever is in it must be the artifact she guards.

“And Michael?” Roger asks

“On his way to help our friends. We’ll meet them at the beach.”

“Well we better hop to it then.”

Anthea looks up at the raised sail, and says, “I can help you get there faster.”

“How so?” asks Gower.

“Just watch.”

She walks back to the stern, stowing away the rucksack near the engine. Once in place, Anthea raised her arms, waving them slowly, as if gathering the air itself. The wind starts gusting a little, but finally, she pushes a great gust that fills the sails, and then takes off flying.

1802 Hours

Lale Andersen sings Lili Marleen over a cool twilight breeze as Pat and Captain Frank scaled over the fortress wall. Easy enough, then silently dispatch the guards, and jump down the other side. 

The walls are low, of Medieval masonry, much like the rest of the fortress. They stick to the shadows and deepening night. The area’s not large, though. Not a lot of places to hide. There’s searchlights, too. Pat and the Captain spot a post that looked to have a radio and the power lines for all the searchlights. And inside there’s a rather distracted guard listening to the radio that had just been playing Lale Andersen’s song. 

They swiftly cross the courtyard. Pat covers the guard’s mouth as he brings his knife across the exposed throat. 

The captain taps him on the shoulder, pointing to a floor plan for the fortress. Pat nods in acknowledgment. Now they truly knew where they were going. He turns back to the breaker panel and cuts through as much wiring as he could, striking gold as the courtyard is plunged into darkness.

Next stop, the magazine. And hopefully they’ll be out of there before Todd gets to work down below.

1815 Hours

As he sets his charges and the infernal heat rises through his body, Mark starts whistling. At first it’s an indistinct tune, he’s mostly making it up, but eventually becomes something like The Wayfaring Stranger. Can’t tell you why but he doesn’t mind.

There’s no sickness, no toil or danger,
In that bright land to which I go.

He senses the HYDRA troops around him. Above, below, to the sides. He senses their sins. Every one of them. Some are unrepentant; always have been, always will be. Some like to tell themselves they’ve done nothing wrong. Just following orders, right? There’s even a few who are questioning everything they’ve done. It’s too little and too late for them.

I know dark clouds will gather ‘round me,
I know my way is hard and steep,
Yet beauteous fields arise before me,
Where God’s redeemed their vigils keep. 

He’s heard the two young guards coming ‘round for a bit. Maybe it’s old Kushiel in him, but Mark’s not feeling particularly afraid right now. 

I’m just going over Jordan,

Mark rolls his shoulders and Kushiel takes over. Just as the guards round the corner.

I’m just going over home.

He doesn’t give the guards enough time to scream.

1819 Hours

Robby and Mason move fast through the fortress. 

The powder magazine is a little deeper into the structure than thought. It’s built into volcanic rock, rightfully so, but still a bugger to get to.

The HYDRA troops didn’t take kindly to losing the power to all the lights on the ground level. But it was so rude of them to open up fire on them as well. Rather un-sporting.

At least that’s what Robby thinks right as a bullet whistles past his ear, leaving it ringing. And that was followed by a spray of machine gun fire. He ducks back into the magazine, hoping that it doesn’t explode before they can get away.

“Charges set?” He shouts over to Mason.

“Just finishing up, and… “ Robby looks down at a crouched Mason with a look of concentration as he sets the timer. “And it’s set.”

“Right oh then.” Robby replies before lobbing a grenade at their opponents. “Twenty minutes. Bet we could do it in half that.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Just down the passage, up the stairs, through the courtyard, and either over a wall or through the gate. How hard could that be? Already took out that one machine gun team.

They do make it down the passage. And up the stairs, too. It’s when they get to the courtyard that they run into trouble. A lot more HYDRA troopers up top who open fire on Robby and Mason. 

They barely make it to some cover.

For the first time in a while, Robby feels some actual dread. They’re running out of time. Todd’s going to collapse this place soon.

The HYDRA guard’s attention is taken off him and Mason with a grenade. He glances up and sees a partially silhouetted figure who tosses down another grenade.

“Good God is that Michael?”

Another grenade flash alight’s his face. It is a terrible face. And a beautiful one. Like how one imagines the people of the heroic ages saw their famed warriors. Fierce, cold, godly concentration as Michael tears through HYDRA guards.

“Best get moving, sir,” Mason shouts over the noise.

“Of course.”

They take the stairs to the upper floor. Michael performed a few rather impressive leaps to join Robby and Mason. 

“So I guess Anthea gave you a lift?” Robby asks.

Michael replies, “Yes. How long before this place goes up?” 

“Ten minutes, sir,” Mason answers.

“Very good.” And with that Michael jumped down onto an outcropping of rock. 

Robby and Mason look at each other and Mason just shrugs. “I mean, after you, sir.”

It’s not that far of a drop, but Robby still has to sigh at the ridiculous showboating. He and Robby make the jump, a little more shakily than Michael, but fine.

“Anthea should have joined Aubrey and Gower by now. From there, we can get  Todd out, and head home.”

They nod and start making their way down to the beach, running as fast as they could for shelter as the powder magazines begin to explode.

1822 Hours

For the first time since leaving that Kentucky mine in the boy’s body, Kushiel feels no need to be in charge. Kid’s doing just fine ripping through these HYDRA fools. That little witch queen knew what she was doing for sure.

They felt it appropriate to give the boy the form of a miner: hardhat and headlamp, coveralls, and pickaxe. There were still the chains and whips, but this felt right. And by the throne did this boy fight when he let himself. Weren’t much these fascists could do to stop him.

Flames danced. The heat rose. Cries and screams went up to the unseen sky above that fell to those who claimed them below. Distant explosions start to rumble and shake. The shaking earth roars as if it would be split in two.

1829 Hours

First they heard the explosion, then rolled over the swell of the sea. An inky column of smoke rises into the twilight sky over the island’s ridges. 

Anthea’s heart skips a beat. 

They could be too late.

She turns to look at Aubrey and Gower. Aubrey just stared back in shock. Gower was similar, but it passes quickly.

“We’re not counting them out yet,” she declares.

“Right,” Anthea responds. “I’ll fly over and help them get to the boat.”

“We’ll stay close,” Aubrey adds.

She nods and turns to the coast. They round a cape and come into sight of Loutro Beach. Anthea sees some movement from the sand and turns to Aubrey, shouting, “That might be our friends!”

Anthea feels Aubrey turn the caïque, gathers herself, and once more takes on her falcon form. Her wings flap, catch a breeze, and the wind lifts her high in the air. She dives low, and on the beach are Carter, Frank, and Mason. 

“Aubrey and Gower are with the boat! Get to them fast!”

Anthea turns her attention to the shrouded chaos beyond. The air is choked with acrid smoke and fire. She can sense the groans of the earth as the fortress collapses in on itself. The slope will not hold for long before slipping into the sea.

She needs to find Kushiel. It would take far more than a landslide and a collapsing building to destroy them. But Mark Anthony Todd could not survive that.

Swooping down, Anthea finds the entrance to the u-boat pens still open. She flies in, calling, “Kushiel! We must go.”

Some HYDRA troops run her way and she sends them back with a concussive flap her wings. How far deep were they?

Further Anthea flew in. The spaces tighten and the explosions begin to roar.

“Kushiel! Where are you!”

“Right here, darling.”

Kushiel and Mark Anthony had finished sending a few more shades to where they belonged. And if a skull could smirk, Kushiel did.

“And are you done?” Anthea’s tone was admittedly snappish, but there was little time to lose.

Kushiel looks around the shaking u-boat pen then answers, “Yeah, everyone’s pretty dead.”

“Good.”

They shift back to Mark who absentmindedly regarded his watch. “And I think we’ve got five minutes before this whole thing comes down.”

“Do you need a lift?” she asks, sticking a taloned leg.

There wasn’t much time to respond as the u-boat pen finally started crumbling.

Mark clung to Anthea’s leg as they flew out. They dodged and weaved through falling rubble and dust. Mark used some of Kushiel’s powers to blast their way out at times.

They flew out of the pens at Anthea’s top speed; a dust cloud swallowing them for a few moments.

And then, finally, a clear star-filled sky.

1839 Hours

The final explosion is deafening. The sea rolls with such violence that Michael worried the boat might capsize. Roger and Mason manage, with difficulty, to keep the boat upright as they climb a wave.

“Keep your eyes peeled. We’re not out of this yet!” he shouts over the continuing roar behind them.

Somewhere, out there, Anthea and Todd will find their way to them. Maybe tonight everyone will come out alive.

It’s a waxing moon, not quite full, but close. And the stars shine bright tonight. It won’t be long before the Luftwaffe sends out patrols to see what’s happening. Or maybe HYDRA has an air arm now.

“I see movement!” Emily calls.

“Whereabouts?”

“To our stern, five o’clock.”

He squints and sees a bird-shaped silhouette heading towards them. Fast.

There’s a yell and a thud as Todd is dropped onto the forecastle.

“Good Lord I hate flying,” Todd says with a groan.

“And I thought you were having a good time,” Anthea retorts, sitting unruffled on one of the boat’s rails.

Michael lets out a relieved sigh, “At least you’re all back.”

Once more the air is filled with the sound of thundering earth. The sea swells once more and Roger and Mason guide their boat through it.

“So where to, sir?” Mason asks once they’re a little more settled.

“I reckon we’re probably an hour or two from Knidos, we’ll head that way.” He turns to Emily, asking, “We still have a radio, right?”

“Yes. It’s a bit wet, but I think it’ll work.”

“Good. Radio Joyce-Frank about the rendezvous.”

The wet, and cold, and exhaustion start settling into Michael. But for the first time in a while, he feels something resembling calm.

0918 Hours, 17 March 1943, Datça Peninsula, Turkey

The radio message was spotty and broken up, but they got the location: Knidos.

She’d never show it, but Maddie’s heart did rush. It was a good sign. Someone’s alive. There was still the matter of the knot in her stomach, but she would handle that later.

Maddie and Halloway, dressed in civilian clothes, had left Bodrum at dawn by a powerboat painted in civilian colours. An hour across to the ferry pier directly south of Bodrum, and then another three hugging the coast to the ruins of Knidos. Every bay and cove needed to be searched. They could be further up the coast from the ruins. Further inland maybe, but they should know by the caïque.

The round the Knidos cape, and still no sign. Just rock, scrub, and juniper. One more cape. One more cove. One more bay.

Come on Robby, where are you?

They pass another cape and an outcropping of rocks. There’s a little cove with a beach and a recognizable caïque.

She shouts in excitement, despite herself. It gets someone's attention on the caïque, and there is much shouting over the powerboat’s engine as they get closer. 

The powerboat’s crew hadn’t even tossed ropes to Michael’s team when Robby leaps over and sweeps Maddie into a passionate embrace. She missed her husband too much.

“Dear Lord, would you two get a damned room!”

“Roger, is that you?” Maddie asks, a little annoyed at the interruption.

“Who else, Duckie?”

“Well fuck off!” she retorts and she presses another kiss on Robby. Then she remembers, “Robby dear, why is Roger here?” 

The rest of the team were climbing over to the powerboat, and Maddie couldn’t help but notice the two extra people.

“Escaped from Colditz.”

“Good for him,” she replies, then pointing to the very beautiful dark-skinned woman, “Would that happen to be our contact?”

“Anthea? Yes. Lovely woman. A very interesting person as well.”

She nods. Maddie knows that debriefings are up next when everyone is cleaned up and rested.

“As for the pens?” Halloway asks Michael.

“Bottom of the sea, sir.”

“And Crichton? Where is he?” Maddie asks.

“He’s dead,” he answers, looking down at Gower. The girls looks a little pale, and very tired, but relieved.

Maddie leans against Robby, enjoying the solid warmth of him. Silently, she thanks whatever lucky stars and gods that are looking out for them. 

Everyone is back and alive. That’s all she wants right now.

Chapter Text

Report by M. Joyce-Frank to DH/Station Meridian [Halloway], copy to Station Cairo Re: Cpl. Harker, E. L.

25 March 1943

I am instructed to submit the following report.

After failure to locate Ulysses Bloodstone and logistical/security concerns re: Quincy Harker, I have managed to track down Harker’s daughter, Cpl. Edith L. Harker, FANY. For disclosure, I first met E. L. Harker at Somerville College, Oxford at the start of Michaelmas Term, 1934. The following is a brief biography. 

Edith Laura Harker was born 23 January 1916, in Exeter, in the home of her paternal grandmother (Wilhelmina Harker [W. Harker] née Murray; born 1868). She is the only child of Quincy M. Harker (Q. Harker; born 1890) and Elizabeth Harker (née Langley, 1892 - 1920). Q. Harker served with the 2nd Gloucestershire Rifle Volunteers during the previous war and was not present for the birth. The paternal grandmother was the W. Harker (AKA Mina Murray/Mina Harker) involved with both the Whitby Incident (AKA Demeter Shipwreck, 1888) and the Highgate Vampire scare, and wife of the late Jonathan Harker (1864 - 1904). The family has maintained close connections to the van Helsing family - many of whom have sadly found themselves trapped in occupied Belgium. It was under the influence of Dr. John Seward (1851 - 1915), first administrator of Carfax Asylum, and Jeremias van Helsing (son of Dr. Abraham van Helsing, 1833 - 1894), Q. Harker converted to Roman Catholicism. This also coincided with his marriage to Elizabeth Langley, who was the last of an old Warwickshire Catholic family. 

According to E. Harker, her mother took her own life in 1920. She was described as a gentle and sweet, yet sad woman, as far as her daughter remembered. Due to the nature of her death, Elizabeth was buried at Brandwood End Cemetery in Birmingham. To anyone outside the family, Elizabeth had died of influenza. It was unmarked until persuaded to erect a headstone by W. and E. Harker. From there, E. Harker described a cloistered childhood. She was educated by a governess until thirteen, at which point she was allowed to attend The Maynard School as a day student (she stayed with W. Harker). Her father was deeply religious and almost completely consumed by his study of the occult. Q. Harker is a member in good standing with the Masons (I believe Scottish Rite), and Alpha et Omega. He is said to maintain (or maintained) correspondence with Dion Fortune, Paul Foster Case, and Charles Webster Leadbeater.

When I first met E. Harker, she was both quite the sheltered ingenue and harsh cynic. She was absolutely unworldly, had never really traveled outside of England, and was rather naïve around people. On the other hand, I had never met someone who hated her Catholic upbringing so much; she often said it was nothing more than “bread and circus for the morbid” and that the church “bilked its followers for more alter gilding”. By the time she entered Somerville, her relationship with Q. Harker was tense, and before she left they were not on speaking terms. Much has to do with Elizabeth and the destruction of certain diaries and letters she had left behind.

She initially read German and Russian literature, focusing mostly on the early 19th century Romantics and she does speak fluent German and Russian. She also expressed interest in pursuing a career as a librarian or archivist. While researching the use of Oriental themes in Romantic literature, E. Harker expressed a fascination with Middle Eastern poetry, as well as some interest in Islam itself; she said that “there was less in the way between us and God.” She may have disparaged Christianity, particularly Catholicism, I always had a sense that she longs for some sort of spiritual connection.

Early on, E. Harker had briefly entertained K. Crichton, but she was not genuinely interested and politely turned down further engagements. However K. Crichton took this as an insult or invitation to stalk and intimidate her across Oxford. By this time, E. Harker, R. Frank (my husband), R. Aubrey, [REDACTED], and myself had become close friends and worked in concert to protect E. Harker. There was at one point a rumour that E. Harker and [REDACTED] were becoming an item, and knowing her sheltered nature I took it upon myself to intervene. However I was happy to learn that the rumour was false and that she was well aware of [REDACTED]’s preferences. 

In late 1937, R. Frank and I were married, and as both of us had also graduated, we were not around for Michaelmas and were on honeymoon for most of the winter. Despite E. Harker, [REDACTED], and R. Aubrey supposedly being busy with the last of their undergrad work, I was shocked to learn that E. Harker had managed to find a man she rather fancied. She did not disclose his name, but said he was a foreign student. Some weeks later I received a panicked call from R. Aubrey asking if I knew where either E. Harker had gone. I had not. I asked both Q. and W. Harker, and they had not heard from her in months. 

Through Lady Angela Hope I did manage to find a passport stamp trail that went down the Danube, but nothing to answer the “why”. A mutual friend in Hungary did track down a border patrol officer who saw a young woman matching E. Harker’s description was accompanied by a young man of Turkish origin. In late 38/early 39, we received two postcards (one from Budapest, the other from Istanbul). They had short missives expressing regrets for not saying anything and hopes of seeing us soon. 

After recent developments with information given by Sgt. E. Gower, I have gotten into contact with Lady Angela, again. She recounted a story of a young pregnant English woman of E. Harker’s description who came under the care of the British consul in Lausanne. This was after the fall of France, and the woman claimed to be recently widowed; her husband (a foreigner) was killed in the invasion. Lady Angela is currently looking further into what else happened. 

In conclusion:
I suggest that we pursue further inquest into E. Harker’s time and whereabouts from 1938 to 1940. I do not believe that she was given any debrief which is sorely needed. She could be of great intelligence value and a great aid for future endeavours. That is once we can establish her whereabouts and activities during this time. We must verify who this man was, his status, and what his motivations were/are. 

Second Officer Madeline Joyce-Frank

Cairo, Egypt, 8 April, 1943

Edith wandered through the Khan el-Khalili not truly paying attention to where she was going. A dangerous proposition, but one she strangely did not care about at the moment. A vague sense of disinterest had settled over her since returning to Cairo. She politely declined the merchant’s entreaties to enter their shops and how excellent their wares were. The silver and copper tableware, silks and perfumes, jewelry and spices held no allure. 

She spent three months in the desert. She was uncertain if she completely got the stench of blood, sand, and burning petrol off her skin. No amount of soap and perfumed oils could quite make her clean. Edith hadn’t felt like this for a long time. That sense of being flotsam pushed and battered by forces she couldn’t control.

It’ll be three years, my love. The young Egyptian soldier has a quick smile and dark eyes like Rüstem. Even his Clark Gable mustache. Edith had to look away and duck into a side passage that took her to the road. It’s the heat and dust she told herself, to explain the lump in her throat.

Alone again. Is this what God intends for her? Or maybe she was just masochistic enough to choose this path.

The sun was bright and the street was noisy. Edith didn’t really know where to go next. She didn’t really want to do anything. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty. Wasn’t time for prayers yet. And someone had moved into Emily’s old bunk.

You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

A hand slipped around her arm. A rough, scarred, familiar hand.

“I really should teach you some situational awareness.”

Emily never smiled that often, but when she did, it was like the sun coming out after a thunderstorm.

“What happened to your hair?” Edith asked dumbly. The last time she saw Emily, her strawberry blonde hair aired on the gold side; it was almost completely copper now.

“Dyed it,” Emily replied, fiddling with a lock. “It’s almost gone now. Made an alright brunette if you ask me.”

She’d look stunning with any hair colour.

“I thought you were gone for good, love.” Her voice sounded horse.

Emily’s hand reached down for hers. Gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Thought I was too, a few times. But I’m back.”

“For good?”

“We’ll see.”

That uncertain note with too many secrets.

A car horn blared at them. Edith wanted to throw a curse at the fool. And her heart stopped. Michael Carter - or someone who looked like him, being taller and far more muscular - smiled and waved as he moved to the back seat of a staff car. She remembered how Emily said she was working with him and Maddie at least.

“I suppose that’s your lift?” Edith asked.

“Our lift,” Emily corrected. “Aside from your old gang, there’s some other people who would like to meet you.”

“Others? As in your lot?” She looked down suspiciously at Emily. “Are you trying to recruit me?”

“Not necessarily. I Just think it would be a good idea to meet a couple interesting people.”

Part of Edith screamed at her to not get into that car. By doing so, He could find her. He had agents everywhere, and Emily’s world was a small one. But the other part of her is intrigued by what Emily offered. The side that knew there was safety in numbers. The one that was tired of the seemingly hopeless tasks of an ambulance driver - too many times she’d have casualties die on her. The one that missed her friends.

Something new might be in order.

“I’ll give it a shot then,” she replied, trying to put some firmness into her voice.

Emily beamed a smile and led her to the car. Edith had barely closed the door before finding herself embraced by Maddie and Michael. She felt tears prick at her eyes. 

Maddie was ever regal, even when flushed with emotions. She was in the perfectly pressed white uniform of the wrens, vivid lipstick, and the scent of Patou’s Joy on her neck. They press cheek kisses before Edith wrapped her arms around his neck and dear God she’s missed them.

“So where exactly are we going?” she asks.

“We’ve got a place in the Maadi district. A delightful little villa,” Maddie explains.

“That’s a bit of a hike.”

“And Emily will make it in fifteen minutes,” Michael says.

“Ten, Carter,” she retorts.

There wasn’t any lie to it. Edith’s been in a car with Emily, she knows about the lead foot. She remembers how she held onto Emily for dear life when they roared along the waterfront on a motorcycle. And how thrilling it was. 

“So who am I meeting?” she asks, mostly Maddie, who has always known everything and everyone.

“Well, there’s Robby and Roger, of course…”

“So the old gang’s back together?”

“Why yes, my dear, Emily of course, and we have few new friends. Pat Mason, young Mark Anthony, and Anthea.”

“And General Halloway would like to meet you, too,” Michael adds.

“‘General’? Why? What the Hell’s this all about?” Edith asks.

“Well,” Emily interrupts, “You see, we’ve run into some interesting… people. And things. And we think that you will be able to help us with your knowledge of such things.”

Edith’s eyes narrow, “What do you mean, Em?”

“Well, for one, vampires are real. And sirens. And men with flaming skulls for heads. But you’ll meet General Halloway tomorrow.”

She can’t tell if she’s lightheaded from the casual way Emily explained things. Or how she swerved to avoid a donkey cart.

And just as promised, they take a few sharp corners and speed past a dark blue Nile to a pretty villa with cream stucco, green shutters, and terra cotta roof. 

“So I guess you picked it out?” She addresses Maddie.

“Of course, dear. It’s nice, private, and quiet. Absolutely perfect for our purposes.”

“I see,” Edith says, still with a little unease.

What am I walking into?

She’s barely in the door when Roger pulls her into a hug. “It’s been too long, Cabbage.”

“I know, mon chéri. I’m so sorry,” Edith’s almost in tears.

Robby’s next with a bear hug that’s surprisingly gentle. He’s such a sweetheart despite his appearance.

She’s soon introduced to Pat Mason, the Scottish sailor. And Mark Anthony Todd, the Kentucky hillbilly, thank you very much. And finally the lovely Anthea who now goes by Victoria Starr. They’re all so kind and warm, it soon feels like they’ve known each other for years as they start swapping stories. They’re a safe crowd; there’s no dancing around what they are.

“I don’t know if anyone wants to hear my tale. It’s long and a rather unhappy one,” Edith says to Emily when they move to the pool side.

“Well I think there’s quite a few of us who are very interested in your stories,” Emily says, pressing a tea glass into Edith’s hand. “And maybe we can make us some new stories. Happy ones, you know. Get out from the shadows, finally.”

Edith kisses her for that. Emily smells lipstick, powder, and soap. Even if this little oasis is only temporary, there is hope. Everyone is together again. And more friends, too. She’s been half-sick of shadows for a long time.